My father, who was born in the early years of the Great Depression, was never able to truly keep up with the times. I always thought that he yearned for the simpler, less complicated days of yesteryear. He simply had no use for any of the electronic gadgets of the 1970's and 80's. His philosophy was very basic. "The more crap like that they put on a car these days, the more headaches you have," he would say time and time again. He uttered those words after looking at the neighbor's new car or perhaps after an ad that bragged about the new technology offered on the latest Ford sedan. We were the last humans to own a car with automatic windows as far as I know. In fact, we were the last humans to own ANYTHING automatic as far as I know.
Vehicles weren't the only advances my dad shied away from. In 1976, my parents took the huge leap and bought a parcel of land and built a new home. I still remember the first night in our new abode. My dad was exceedingly anxious to try out one of the two new showers. The old home they had rented prior to our move was equipped with only one claw foot bathtub, which offered nothing resembling a shower. "I can't wait to try out the new shower!" dad said, after coming in from raking the rock filled area around our new home. "I'm filthy and a good, hot shower is going to really hit the spot," he continued, while digging through a box looking for a towel.
It should be noted that my father was accustomed to the typical faucet, which consisted of one valve for hot water, and one valve for cold water. The faucets in the new house consisted of the more modern water mixer, which only required one lever. This apparatus required the user to turn the handle clockwise with the water becoming warmer as the lever continued it's journey around the little dial which was color coded blue for cold to red for hot. Dad didn't get it. In his excitement, he neglected to close the hall bathroom door, and as we passed by, we could see our nude father attempting to master the new faucet. Apparently, he wasn't aware that the user must also flip a little level on the spigot to reroute the water to the overhead shower head. I'd never seen my dad dance, but 140 degree water up to his ankles made him look like a very awkward and very naked Fred Astaire. So, the water came on, the water went off. The water went on, the water went off. He still didn't realize that he was in complete control of the water temperature based on how far he turned the handle. Finally, in his frustration, he yelled for my mom. "Carolyn, this shower ain't working right. I can't get anything but boiling water! I knew they screwed the plumbing up in this house!" he barked, as my mom scurried to the rescue.
"I think if you just turn the handle to the halfway mark, it will be fine," she said, as my father surveyed his reddened feet and ankles.
"I hate this modern junk. Why can't they just leave well enough alone?!!" he answered, with a towel wrapped around his waist.
Once again the shower commenced. Almost immediately, a cloud of steam and a barrage of language unfit for this story filled the hallway. Apparently, my mother's instructions on how to operate the shower had gone unheeded and my dad was proceeding to cook himself once again. He had somehow managed to reroute the water to the shower head, but had repeated his mistake from earlier and blasted himself with boiling hot water. At some point in his very brief shower, he had managed to lather himself with a bar of soap.
In my seven years I had never seen a more pitiful, yet hilarious sight. Dad had excited the still running shower, with soap suds slowly sliding off his body, while slipping and sliding across the ceramic tile floor. Finally, he steadied himself by grabbing the towel bar with one hand and holding firmly to the sink vanity. By that time, he had created such a spectacle, that the whole family stood, snickering in the hallway just out of his sight. I'm not sure if he ever finished his shower, but he did eventually learn to operate the new mixer.
Another technological advance my dad didn't immediately warm up to is the remote control. When our old and worn out dial television finally went on the electronics heaven, my mother arrived home one evening with a brand new model from Montgomery Ward. "Now, this is a very expensive TV, so lets be careful," she said to my older brother and I. We were in charge of carrying everything and to my amazement, she let us carry our latest purchase into the house.
We removed the television from the box, and noticed that sure enough, there was a remote control. "Why are you putting the remote in your pocket?" I asked Jarrett, who surely had some sinister plan up his sleeve.
"We're going to have a little fun with dad later," he answered, with a twinkle in his eye.
With the new TV in it's place and the cable hooked up, we plugged it in and pushed the power button. A beautiful and colorful picture appeared on the screen. Promptly, dad switched the channel to the evening news, which was our cue to disappear for at least a half an hour.
We allowed dad to spend a few blissful minutes with his new TV when my older brother's plan was hatched. "Watch this," he said, as he aimed the shiny remote toward the television from the safety of the hallway, which kept us out of sight. He squeezed the volume button and in an instant, it sounded as if dad was making an effort to let the rest of our town enjoy the news with him. We could barely hear his old rocking chair creak as he rose to lower the volume. Once again, he eased back into the comfort of his rocker.
We gave him a minute or so and switched the channel. One minute he was watching Walter Cronkite deliver the news, and the next, he was watching a rerun of Gun Smoke. "What the he..." he said, rising once again to switch the channel back to the news.
Again, we let him enjoy the news for a few minutes and then we simply switched the television off. Silence dominated the house for a few seconds and then he spoke, "Carolyn!!! Come in here! This blasted TV is already on the blink! It keeps going to a different channel and the volume changes by itself! Now, it's cut off and I haven't even toughed it! I knew we should have taken the old one to Mr. Fitzgerald!"
Mr. Fitzgerald was an older fellow who operated a small television repair shop out of his basement. He generally would take a customer's television and keep it for a month, and then call to tell them there was nothing he could do and they should buy a new one.
"What on Earth is wrong with the TV? It's brand new!" mom answered, while wondering why her two mischievous sons were snickering in the hallway.
Mom let dad in on our little secret, but not before allowing us a few more minutes of fun. Dad came to actually appreciate the remote control, but a new microwave was on the horizon.
For the sake of keeping this story fairly brief, let me just say that dad had a rather rocky start with the joys of microwave cooking. Three strips of bacon will surely turn into tiny, rectangular charcoal briquettes if allowed to cook for say, fifteen minutes.
My father continues to loathe modern advances, but now he's heading for eighty-one-years-old. I guess it doesn't matter, and I often wonder if it is he who is living the better life.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Monday, January 19, 2015
YES SON, YOU ARE AN ALIEN
My brother-in-law and I have been having a recurring conversation lately that involves his 11-year-old son and my daughter of nearly the same age. "I'm going to kill him," he stated, while staring at me like Clint Eastwood during his Dirty Harry days.
"Why?!! What's up?" I answered with a fake surprised tone to my voice. I knew what was up. I had endured the change that children go through around that age with my own son, who was now safely on the other side of that particular stage of puberty at fourteen years old. My wife and I were also deeply entrenched in the wild mood swings of our own daughter.
"He's like he's Jekyll and Hyde! One minute he's our sweet, mannerly son, and the next he's ready to rip someone's head from their shoulders! I can't take much more," he said with wide eyes.
"Oh, he'll be back. His hormones are raging, and he's developing both mentally and physically. He'll be fine, you'll see," I finished. I had just recited my wife's latest speech to me verbatim. There's no way I could have come up with that wisdom on my own. My solution was to threaten severe discipline. But, I too, was ready to move to an asylum after dealing with my son a couple years before, and am currently in the throws of various highs and lows concerning my own daughter.
The very knowledgeable and experienced pediatrician had warned us years before. "Your kids are only two years apart in age. That means that it's very likely that they'll begin puberty around the same time. So, you'll need nerves of steel and the patience of Job. Good luck," he said, like a prophet, and then promptly exited the room.
Once, while trout fishing, I glanced over at my son, who was watching his little, fuzzy lure dangle from an overhead tree branch. This would be the first of many instances that made me consider having his head examined to be sure that he was surely alright. "Oh man, I hate when that happens," I said, with a grin on my face.
"Well, if you'd take me someplace that wasn't so brushy and thorny, maybe I wouldn't keep losing lures in the trees!!!"
I wasn't quite sure how to properly address that particular outburst, but honestly at that point I would have been willing to spend the night in jail for throwing my son into the freezing river. "We've fished here many times, and you've never said anything about the brush and thorns. It's not my fault you can't cast," I barked. Immediately, I felt bad about the comment.
"Let's go. I always knew you were disappointed in me. I've always known," he finished with his head hanging low.
We walked the short distance to my truck in silence, he with tears in his eyes, and me wondering what had just happened. I climbed into the cab of the truck and he slid into the passenger's side and we sat without uttering a word. Finally, I spoke. "Son, I've always been proud of you and you've never let me down."
"It's not you dad, it's just that I'm ugly," he said, while staring at the floor of the truck. I wasn't sure how to handle that little oddity that had flown in from left field, and I chuckled under my breath, so I decided to lighten the mood a bit.
"Well, you are a tad on the ugly side. Your mom and I haven't told you, but yes son, you are an alien. A strange looking young fellow. The Discovery Channel wanted to run a feature on you because they thought that you were proof of extraterrestrial life, but we wouldn't have it," I quipped.
Immediately, I knew that my humor had hit the proverbial brick wall.
We dealt with this and other very strange behavior for at least two years. I even asked a friend who had raised three sons what the heck was happening to our once sweet son. "Well, kids don't come with owners manuals," he replied. I stared at him in wonderment, and surmised that he'd either forgotten, or simply didn't want to relive those unsettling years. Either way, he didn't offer much to chew on. Thankfully, before long, it was as if God himself decided that we had endured enough and simply cut if off. Now, our son has returned to normal.
Sidney, our daughter, seems to have decided to carry the torch, whether by choice or not. She has begun to make the transition from little girl into young woman, by way of turning us into raving lunatics. "I'm a vegetarian, I'm not eating this," she stated plainly one recent evening at the dinner table. "If you guys want to eat this stuff, then go ahead. But I'm not," she said, while staring at a finely cooked pork chop.
"This isn't a restaurant, you eat what I cook, if not, then go hungry," Kristi barked at the child, who had taken to searching the refrigerator for vegetarian fare. The kid loved pork chops as far as I knew.
Occasionally, our loving little daughter peeks out from the dark cloud that seems to hover over her most of the time. We have experience now, which doesn't make the transition easier, but we do understand it. I guess we'll have to buckle up and brace for the ride. It will also come to an abrupt end for my sister and brother-in-law, but alas, they have another, younger son. So, they will surely get another dose of hormonitis. If I have learned anything, it's that during this difficult time in a child's life, it's imperative to never, ever call them an alien.
"Why?!! What's up?" I answered with a fake surprised tone to my voice. I knew what was up. I had endured the change that children go through around that age with my own son, who was now safely on the other side of that particular stage of puberty at fourteen years old. My wife and I were also deeply entrenched in the wild mood swings of our own daughter.
"He's like he's Jekyll and Hyde! One minute he's our sweet, mannerly son, and the next he's ready to rip someone's head from their shoulders! I can't take much more," he said with wide eyes.
"Oh, he'll be back. His hormones are raging, and he's developing both mentally and physically. He'll be fine, you'll see," I finished. I had just recited my wife's latest speech to me verbatim. There's no way I could have come up with that wisdom on my own. My solution was to threaten severe discipline. But, I too, was ready to move to an asylum after dealing with my son a couple years before, and am currently in the throws of various highs and lows concerning my own daughter.
The very knowledgeable and experienced pediatrician had warned us years before. "Your kids are only two years apart in age. That means that it's very likely that they'll begin puberty around the same time. So, you'll need nerves of steel and the patience of Job. Good luck," he said, like a prophet, and then promptly exited the room.
Once, while trout fishing, I glanced over at my son, who was watching his little, fuzzy lure dangle from an overhead tree branch. This would be the first of many instances that made me consider having his head examined to be sure that he was surely alright. "Oh man, I hate when that happens," I said, with a grin on my face.
"Well, if you'd take me someplace that wasn't so brushy and thorny, maybe I wouldn't keep losing lures in the trees!!!"
I wasn't quite sure how to properly address that particular outburst, but honestly at that point I would have been willing to spend the night in jail for throwing my son into the freezing river. "We've fished here many times, and you've never said anything about the brush and thorns. It's not my fault you can't cast," I barked. Immediately, I felt bad about the comment.
"Let's go. I always knew you were disappointed in me. I've always known," he finished with his head hanging low.
We walked the short distance to my truck in silence, he with tears in his eyes, and me wondering what had just happened. I climbed into the cab of the truck and he slid into the passenger's side and we sat without uttering a word. Finally, I spoke. "Son, I've always been proud of you and you've never let me down."
"It's not you dad, it's just that I'm ugly," he said, while staring at the floor of the truck. I wasn't sure how to handle that little oddity that had flown in from left field, and I chuckled under my breath, so I decided to lighten the mood a bit.
"Well, you are a tad on the ugly side. Your mom and I haven't told you, but yes son, you are an alien. A strange looking young fellow. The Discovery Channel wanted to run a feature on you because they thought that you were proof of extraterrestrial life, but we wouldn't have it," I quipped.
Immediately, I knew that my humor had hit the proverbial brick wall.
We dealt with this and other very strange behavior for at least two years. I even asked a friend who had raised three sons what the heck was happening to our once sweet son. "Well, kids don't come with owners manuals," he replied. I stared at him in wonderment, and surmised that he'd either forgotten, or simply didn't want to relive those unsettling years. Either way, he didn't offer much to chew on. Thankfully, before long, it was as if God himself decided that we had endured enough and simply cut if off. Now, our son has returned to normal.
Sidney, our daughter, seems to have decided to carry the torch, whether by choice or not. She has begun to make the transition from little girl into young woman, by way of turning us into raving lunatics. "I'm a vegetarian, I'm not eating this," she stated plainly one recent evening at the dinner table. "If you guys want to eat this stuff, then go ahead. But I'm not," she said, while staring at a finely cooked pork chop.
"This isn't a restaurant, you eat what I cook, if not, then go hungry," Kristi barked at the child, who had taken to searching the refrigerator for vegetarian fare. The kid loved pork chops as far as I knew.
Occasionally, our loving little daughter peeks out from the dark cloud that seems to hover over her most of the time. We have experience now, which doesn't make the transition easier, but we do understand it. I guess we'll have to buckle up and brace for the ride. It will also come to an abrupt end for my sister and brother-in-law, but alas, they have another, younger son. So, they will surely get another dose of hormonitis. If I have learned anything, it's that during this difficult time in a child's life, it's imperative to never, ever call them an alien.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
OLD TIMES
Oh how I love the internet. I love the fact that so much information is right at my fingertips and I really love that I can still remember how to type. I also love the fact that the internet provides me with the opportunity to reconnect with people I haven't laid eyes on, let alone spoken to, in many years. Thus is the case with good 'ol Wes Johnson.
A few days ago, I decided to delve into the world of Facebook and check out who was eating what for dinner, whose kid made the honor roll, or perhaps even be enlightened to the fact that it's cold outside. I'm always mildly annoyed by those little red numbers at the top of the screen as I get an inordinate amount of game requests, etc. and most of the time I simply ignore them. As usual, I noticed the red numbers, but this time, someone wanted to be my friend. Stop laughing, what's so funny about that? I moved the the mouse as to place the arrow over the number to find out who the mystery person was and clicked. To say that I was blown away would be somewhat of an understatement. I had gotten a friend request from none other than Wesley Johnson.
Wes and I entered the US Air Force in May of 1989 together. Well, almost together. He was from Florida and I was from Virginia of course. But, we arrived at Lackland Air Force Base on the same miserable night. Actually, miserable doesn't properly describe what we going through at the time, but I do know that it was just shy of torture. Nothing is fun when you're wearing the same underwear for the second straight day, your deodorant gave out in Atlanta, and a very large and menacing fellow is yelling profanities in your face at two o'clock in the morning. Strangling my recruiter was at the very top of my list if I ever got out of Basic Training. "Oh, it's not very rough. In fact, lots of people enjoy it, you'll see," he said with a sarcastic grin creeping across his face. Yep, he was definitely in for a strangulation upon my arrival back in Virginia.
We were herded onto an old bus and driven to a cavernous dining hall across the base. "Get your asses in there, eat, and get back out here in five minutes!" sergeant Hodge screamed as we hurried off the bus. For some strange reason, we were required to guzzle three glasses of warm water before we could begin eating. Maybe they were trying to keep us hydrated, or perhaps we looked so pitiful they figured they'd go ahead and poison us and put us out of our misery and theirs. Either way, after the guzzling, I wasn't hungry for the mess of pork and beans that had been splattered onto my tray. I ate anyway.
After we returned to our barracks, we were assigned a bunk, wall locker and told to go to sleep. By then in was early. Really early. Like three-thirty in the morning early. I was never so glad to lie down in all of my eighteen years. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep. "Get up numb nuts!!! I'm your mama now!!! This ain't the Holiday Inn, get moving you pieces of s**t!!!" Sergeant Hodge bellowed from the center isle of the barracks. I still had my watch on, and carefully glanced down and took note of the time. Five o'clock. Strangulation was way to lenient for my recruiter. I would most certainly insert bamboo shoots under his fingernails instead.
In the days to follow, we began to develop a routine, had our heads shaved, which made us look like round lollipops that had been dropped on shag carpet, given uniforms and instructed on how to properly shave. It was then that I first became friends with Wes Johnson. "Now that you no count piss ants know how to shave, I don't EVER want to catch you with as much as a strand of hair on your face! Got it?!!! the overgrown drill instructor growled.
"Sir, yes sir!" we screamed in unison.
It should be noted that even during the so called down times, we were a collection of nervous wrecks. Thankfully, we were able to keep our nerves in check, and function well enough to carry out most of the tasks required by the Air Force. Shaving would prove to be a time of utmost necessity in keeping calm. On our first 'official' attempt at shaving our tender faces, I found myself staring into a latrine mirror and the guy staring back appeared to be a bald headed shell of my former self. To my right was Airman Heigle. To his right stood Wesley Johnson. I didn't know either of their names, but would soon know them very well. Quickly and without hesitation, we lathered our faces and began the shaving sequence that Sgt. Hodge had demonstrated earlier that day. "Ouch, oh..." came a series of sounds emanating from my immediate right side. Heigle had apparently removed a pimple or had simply cut himself as a stream of blood slowly ran down his cheek and splashed into the sink. Apparently, the other side of his face hadn't fared much better based on the look on Wesley's face as I could see him occasionally grimace at the sight of poor Heigle. By the time we'd finished shaving, the pitiful soul looked as though he had the lead role in the latest Friday the 13th installment. He was a bloody mess. "Man, did you see that guy's face?" I asked the guy to Heigle's right as we exited the latrine.
"Yeah, he's all tore up. I feel sorry for him honestly. I'm Wes Johnson by the way," he answered as we headed back to the bunk area to don our uniforms.
"I'm Neil Fix, glad to meet you."
When we were satisfied that our uniforms were on correctly, we scurried down the steps, and out the door to line up in formation. Suddenly, everyone began chuckling, although they were trying their level best not to. I wondered what was so funny. Then I saw him. Heigle.
Poor Heigle had tiny, blood soaked squares of toilet paper dotting almost every square inch of his face. I had only been in the Air Force for a few days, but I was sure that toilet paper stuck to your face simply wasn't going to please Sgt. Hodge. It didn't. Before that day, I had heard of a human conniption, but had never seen one. Honestly, I don't ever want so see another one. Sgt. Hodge went into a complete and utter rampage. Poor Heigle had been reduced to a puddle of mush
on the concrete drill pad. Our bloody comrade disappeared from our flight a short while later, never to be seen again. I had hoped that they mercifully sent him home, but part of me wondered if Sgt. Hodge and all his anger had killed the poor soul.
The shaving incident was my first encounter with Wes. We became fast friends and to be honest, I think the fact that we became such good friends made life a little easier and tolerable. We finally graduated from basic training and he went to Texas, and I went north to Illinois. We kept in touch briefly after that, but as most people do, we lost touch. I looked for him several times over the years, but never had any luck. Do you know how many Wesley Johnsons there are in the world? Plenty. Thankfully, good 'ol Wes found me on Facebook and I'm truly happy about that. It's a wonderful feeling to be in touch with my friend after nearly twenty-six years. Maybe I'll call him and find out if he's been addressed as numb nuts lately.
But first, I wonder if I can find my recruiter? I've got a little unfinished business with him.
A few days ago, I decided to delve into the world of Facebook and check out who was eating what for dinner, whose kid made the honor roll, or perhaps even be enlightened to the fact that it's cold outside. I'm always mildly annoyed by those little red numbers at the top of the screen as I get an inordinate amount of game requests, etc. and most of the time I simply ignore them. As usual, I noticed the red numbers, but this time, someone wanted to be my friend. Stop laughing, what's so funny about that? I moved the the mouse as to place the arrow over the number to find out who the mystery person was and clicked. To say that I was blown away would be somewhat of an understatement. I had gotten a friend request from none other than Wesley Johnson.
Wes and I entered the US Air Force in May of 1989 together. Well, almost together. He was from Florida and I was from Virginia of course. But, we arrived at Lackland Air Force Base on the same miserable night. Actually, miserable doesn't properly describe what we going through at the time, but I do know that it was just shy of torture. Nothing is fun when you're wearing the same underwear for the second straight day, your deodorant gave out in Atlanta, and a very large and menacing fellow is yelling profanities in your face at two o'clock in the morning. Strangling my recruiter was at the very top of my list if I ever got out of Basic Training. "Oh, it's not very rough. In fact, lots of people enjoy it, you'll see," he said with a sarcastic grin creeping across his face. Yep, he was definitely in for a strangulation upon my arrival back in Virginia.
We were herded onto an old bus and driven to a cavernous dining hall across the base. "Get your asses in there, eat, and get back out here in five minutes!" sergeant Hodge screamed as we hurried off the bus. For some strange reason, we were required to guzzle three glasses of warm water before we could begin eating. Maybe they were trying to keep us hydrated, or perhaps we looked so pitiful they figured they'd go ahead and poison us and put us out of our misery and theirs. Either way, after the guzzling, I wasn't hungry for the mess of pork and beans that had been splattered onto my tray. I ate anyway.
After we returned to our barracks, we were assigned a bunk, wall locker and told to go to sleep. By then in was early. Really early. Like three-thirty in the morning early. I was never so glad to lie down in all of my eighteen years. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep. "Get up numb nuts!!! I'm your mama now!!! This ain't the Holiday Inn, get moving you pieces of s**t!!!" Sergeant Hodge bellowed from the center isle of the barracks. I still had my watch on, and carefully glanced down and took note of the time. Five o'clock. Strangulation was way to lenient for my recruiter. I would most certainly insert bamboo shoots under his fingernails instead.
In the days to follow, we began to develop a routine, had our heads shaved, which made us look like round lollipops that had been dropped on shag carpet, given uniforms and instructed on how to properly shave. It was then that I first became friends with Wes Johnson. "Now that you no count piss ants know how to shave, I don't EVER want to catch you with as much as a strand of hair on your face! Got it?!!! the overgrown drill instructor growled.
"Sir, yes sir!" we screamed in unison.
It should be noted that even during the so called down times, we were a collection of nervous wrecks. Thankfully, we were able to keep our nerves in check, and function well enough to carry out most of the tasks required by the Air Force. Shaving would prove to be a time of utmost necessity in keeping calm. On our first 'official' attempt at shaving our tender faces, I found myself staring into a latrine mirror and the guy staring back appeared to be a bald headed shell of my former self. To my right was Airman Heigle. To his right stood Wesley Johnson. I didn't know either of their names, but would soon know them very well. Quickly and without hesitation, we lathered our faces and began the shaving sequence that Sgt. Hodge had demonstrated earlier that day. "Ouch, oh..." came a series of sounds emanating from my immediate right side. Heigle had apparently removed a pimple or had simply cut himself as a stream of blood slowly ran down his cheek and splashed into the sink. Apparently, the other side of his face hadn't fared much better based on the look on Wesley's face as I could see him occasionally grimace at the sight of poor Heigle. By the time we'd finished shaving, the pitiful soul looked as though he had the lead role in the latest Friday the 13th installment. He was a bloody mess. "Man, did you see that guy's face?" I asked the guy to Heigle's right as we exited the latrine.
"Yeah, he's all tore up. I feel sorry for him honestly. I'm Wes Johnson by the way," he answered as we headed back to the bunk area to don our uniforms.
"I'm Neil Fix, glad to meet you."
When we were satisfied that our uniforms were on correctly, we scurried down the steps, and out the door to line up in formation. Suddenly, everyone began chuckling, although they were trying their level best not to. I wondered what was so funny. Then I saw him. Heigle.
Poor Heigle had tiny, blood soaked squares of toilet paper dotting almost every square inch of his face. I had only been in the Air Force for a few days, but I was sure that toilet paper stuck to your face simply wasn't going to please Sgt. Hodge. It didn't. Before that day, I had heard of a human conniption, but had never seen one. Honestly, I don't ever want so see another one. Sgt. Hodge went into a complete and utter rampage. Poor Heigle had been reduced to a puddle of mush
on the concrete drill pad. Our bloody comrade disappeared from our flight a short while later, never to be seen again. I had hoped that they mercifully sent him home, but part of me wondered if Sgt. Hodge and all his anger had killed the poor soul.
The shaving incident was my first encounter with Wes. We became fast friends and to be honest, I think the fact that we became such good friends made life a little easier and tolerable. We finally graduated from basic training and he went to Texas, and I went north to Illinois. We kept in touch briefly after that, but as most people do, we lost touch. I looked for him several times over the years, but never had any luck. Do you know how many Wesley Johnsons there are in the world? Plenty. Thankfully, good 'ol Wes found me on Facebook and I'm truly happy about that. It's a wonderful feeling to be in touch with my friend after nearly twenty-six years. Maybe I'll call him and find out if he's been addressed as numb nuts lately.
But first, I wonder if I can find my recruiter? I've got a little unfinished business with him.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
SPOONS
Well folks, it's Christmas Eve. We finally finished up our shopping and just completed the monumental task of cleaning the house. Ryan is content in his 'man cave' and Sidney is quietly reading an online book. Kristi is scurrying around finishing up a few final touches to the gifts she will soon set under the tree, and I'm writing this blog while simultaneously eating a steaming bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup with a fork.
Two years or so ago, a strange and unsettling phenomenon crept over our house in the form of disappearing spoons. To say that this oddity is a tad on the strange side would be somewhat of an understatement. The problem began a couple of years ago when I noticed the little slot in the silverware drawer was devoid of teaspoons. I had taken note of their dwindling numbers weeks before, but I always assumed that they would eventually 'turn up'. They didn't. Soon after, the table spoons began to suffer the same fate. Eventually we were reduced to being forced slurp any liquid foods while stabbing what morsels we could with a fork.
"Dad, I'm telling you, I have NO idea where all the spoons have gone! Besides, why are you blaming me?" Ryan asked, after I had grilled him for ten minutes concerning the whereabouts of our missing silverware. "Ask Sidney, maybe she knows," he continued.
Sidney also gave the standard answer...she didn't have a clue.
On at least three different occasions in the last two years I have watched my wife tear open a new set of spoons, wash them and place them safely in their respective slots in the drawer. As usual, it only took a few months and 'poof', no spoons. We have searched the garbage, under furniture cushions and under everything in the house to no avail. This is an oddity of epic proportions.
I can only imagine that they are in this home somewhere. I can also imagine that years into the future a team of archaeologists will excavate in this area long after this house has succumbed to age and decay and will find a cache of spoons of various sizes and excitedly exclaim that they've unearthed something of true historical significance. The press conference that I envision would go something like this...
A harried and unkempt older fellow with wispy graying hair ambles to the microphone and begins to speak. "Good morning. I'm Dr. Digsalot, chairman of antiquities of the University of Finds a Bunch of Useless Stuff. What we have unearthed on New Hope Road just outside of Staunton is of what we feel is of tremendous historical significance."
"What is it that you've uncovered Doctor?" an eager young reporter asked with a smiling face and wide eyes.
"Well, we found a crapload of spoons. Now, it should be noted that these aren't just ordinary spoons, but spoons of all shapes and sizes. There's small spoons, large spoons, spoons with bent handles, spoons which appear to have been used as tools, possibly to open paint cans and others with strange markings that we've yet to decipher," the good doctor says. "We feel that given the sheer volume of spoons found in this one site, there must be some significance that we don't yet understand. But, what we have begun to conclude is that there must have been some sort of religious offering of spoons to appease the gods. Or, perhaps aliens visited this site and it's some sort of code letting us know that they too use spoons. We've even considered that the inscription found on several of the spoons could mean something prophetic," he continued.
"What was the inscription?" another reported asked.
The old Prof reaches onto the table beside the lectern and holds a tablespoon high for all to see. "It's barely legible, but it appears to have the letters 'O-N-E-I-D-A' etched into the underside of it. We're thinking this is some sort of alien code possibly." The crowd is hushed except for the occasional ohh, and ahh. "There's also a very strange emblem etched there as well. We're thinking it's a sketch of a star cluster in the Andromeda Galaxy. Yep, probably of alien origin. We are not alone. This is the smoking gun. Forget the religious stuff, this is pure alien."
For now, we will continue to watch our spoons vanish without a trace. We surely live in a Bermuda Triangle of sorts, except instead of vanishing ships and aircraft, we experience vanishing teaspoons and tablespoons. I'll keep on looking in vain trying to locate our lost utensils, and my wife will keep right on buying more.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to stab the last remaining carrot in my soup bowl. Then I will slurp the broth and continue to wonder what the heck is happening to our spoons.
Two years or so ago, a strange and unsettling phenomenon crept over our house in the form of disappearing spoons. To say that this oddity is a tad on the strange side would be somewhat of an understatement. The problem began a couple of years ago when I noticed the little slot in the silverware drawer was devoid of teaspoons. I had taken note of their dwindling numbers weeks before, but I always assumed that they would eventually 'turn up'. They didn't. Soon after, the table spoons began to suffer the same fate. Eventually we were reduced to being forced slurp any liquid foods while stabbing what morsels we could with a fork.
"Dad, I'm telling you, I have NO idea where all the spoons have gone! Besides, why are you blaming me?" Ryan asked, after I had grilled him for ten minutes concerning the whereabouts of our missing silverware. "Ask Sidney, maybe she knows," he continued.
Sidney also gave the standard answer...she didn't have a clue.
On at least three different occasions in the last two years I have watched my wife tear open a new set of spoons, wash them and place them safely in their respective slots in the drawer. As usual, it only took a few months and 'poof', no spoons. We have searched the garbage, under furniture cushions and under everything in the house to no avail. This is an oddity of epic proportions.
I can only imagine that they are in this home somewhere. I can also imagine that years into the future a team of archaeologists will excavate in this area long after this house has succumbed to age and decay and will find a cache of spoons of various sizes and excitedly exclaim that they've unearthed something of true historical significance. The press conference that I envision would go something like this...
A harried and unkempt older fellow with wispy graying hair ambles to the microphone and begins to speak. "Good morning. I'm Dr. Digsalot, chairman of antiquities of the University of Finds a Bunch of Useless Stuff. What we have unearthed on New Hope Road just outside of Staunton is of what we feel is of tremendous historical significance."
"What is it that you've uncovered Doctor?" an eager young reporter asked with a smiling face and wide eyes.
"Well, we found a crapload of spoons. Now, it should be noted that these aren't just ordinary spoons, but spoons of all shapes and sizes. There's small spoons, large spoons, spoons with bent handles, spoons which appear to have been used as tools, possibly to open paint cans and others with strange markings that we've yet to decipher," the good doctor says. "We feel that given the sheer volume of spoons found in this one site, there must be some significance that we don't yet understand. But, what we have begun to conclude is that there must have been some sort of religious offering of spoons to appease the gods. Or, perhaps aliens visited this site and it's some sort of code letting us know that they too use spoons. We've even considered that the inscription found on several of the spoons could mean something prophetic," he continued.
"What was the inscription?" another reported asked.
The old Prof reaches onto the table beside the lectern and holds a tablespoon high for all to see. "It's barely legible, but it appears to have the letters 'O-N-E-I-D-A' etched into the underside of it. We're thinking this is some sort of alien code possibly." The crowd is hushed except for the occasional ohh, and ahh. "There's also a very strange emblem etched there as well. We're thinking it's a sketch of a star cluster in the Andromeda Galaxy. Yep, probably of alien origin. We are not alone. This is the smoking gun. Forget the religious stuff, this is pure alien."
For now, we will continue to watch our spoons vanish without a trace. We surely live in a Bermuda Triangle of sorts, except instead of vanishing ships and aircraft, we experience vanishing teaspoons and tablespoons. I'll keep on looking in vain trying to locate our lost utensils, and my wife will keep right on buying more.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to stab the last remaining carrot in my soup bowl. Then I will slurp the broth and continue to wonder what the heck is happening to our spoons.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
BELL RINGERS, LITTLE OLD LADIES AND GRUMPY MIDDLE AGED MEN
"Oh my gosh! They ARE NOT staring at you, and they don't give you a second thought when you walk past them. I swear, you're the grumpiest forty-four year old I've ever seen!" my wife said while unloading the dishwasher yesterday evening, "and those little old ladies would probably help you if you weren't so prideful and ask for their assistance."
I had just walked into the kitchen upon my return from the grocery store. Usually, during the Christmas season, I am tasked with running a few errands for Kristi which usually involves a mile long list of things needed to begin and complete her baking needs. As always the dreaded bell ringers are posted at every entrance to every store. When I say every, I mean every. Heck, I think I saw one standing outside the bathroom door the other day. It should be noted that the ringers provide a necessary service to their organization, but I feel a twinge of guilt every time I walk past and don't deposit a few dollars into their kettle. Anyway, immediately after Thanksgiving, the ringers begin to do their thing. As always, when I pass them, I dig into my wallet or pockets for a few dollars to deposit into their kettle. By mid-December I always feel like I've given my fair share and should be done. So, by that point I simply walk past, smile and give a cheery greeting, usually "Merry Christmas". It's then that the ominous stares begin.
"Dad, aren't you going to put some money into the kettle?" Sidney asked while looking up at me and speaking loudly enough for most of the county to hear.
"Not today. I've given plenty already."
"I think he's staring you down," she continued as the automatic doors to the store slid open.
"Oh, I doubt it. Maybe he likes my jacket or perhaps the way I've creatively combed what's left of my hair. Well, maybe he's staring a little bit," I said as we continued toward the baking isle.
We stood silently and studied the list which resembled a bill of materials for building an aircraft carrier. "How does she expect me to find all this stuff?" I asked, still slightly concerned about the staring bell ringer outside in the cold.
"Heck if I know, but maybe if you give me half the list and you take the other half we can finish faster," Sidney surmised while eyeballing a pack of Hershey's chocolate morsels.
"Good idea," I answered, as I ripped the list into two pieces. "You take this part and I'll take this one and with any luck we'll be out of here in no time." With that, my daughter disappeared into another section of the huge building.
I decided that I would most assuredly need a cart to haul all of the items on the list around the store. Marching with purpose back toward the front to where the carts were lined up, I could see the shivering bell ringer standing just outside of the automatic doors. With steam coming from his nostrils, he turned and stared at me, surely thinking, "there's el cheapo again getting ready to load up his cart and yet he can't even spare a dime for the needy!" I gave him a halfhearted smile and quickly galloped out of his sight.
Standing and staring at the seemingly endless varieties of sugar, I became suddenly aware of a little old lady standing directly behind me. "Oh no," I thought. "As if it's not enough that I've made the bell ringer mad, I'm holding up a militant old lady from getting her groceries." I began to sweat, and the more I perspired, the more irritated she became. My philosophy concerning little old ladies in the grocery store was formed years ago. Occasionally my wife would make a list and send me to the grocery store just as she had that day. There was always something on that list that I'd never heard of and would go from isle to isle looking in vain for the item. Invariably, some old lady would cross paths with me on each isle. The look was always the same. A scowl as if to say, "Beat it novice. You've got no business in my store. Get out of my way and quit holding me up. I ain't getting any younger you know?"
I gave up on the confectioner's sugar and headed for the pie crust section. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of Sidney speeding past with her cart almost half full. I still didn't have a single item. Still nervous about having to cross paths with the bell ringer upon our exit from the store, I stood once again studying the various pie crusts. Again, I became acutely aware of the eerie feeling that I was being watched. Directly behind me and breathing heavy, was the same little old lady from the sugar isle AND a friend. "Oh great, not only am I being followed by Granny Clampett, but now she's formed a coalition!," I thought, while becoming increasingly nervous. I cut and ran, speeding for distant isles and the safety that a hasty retreat would afford me.
Luckily, I didn't have anymore close encounters of the elderly kind, but we did pass on several occasions. Sidney finally found me and was able to complete my part of the list. We then ambled toward the checkout line.
"Dad, the bell ringer is staring at you," she said, while studying a candy bar that would surely wind up on the conveyor.
"No he's not. In fact there's someone totally different there now," I said while unloading our cart.
A slight smirk crept across the child's face and then she spoke once more, "Just kidding."
I was able to dodge the newest bell ringer and make a mad dash to the car. I wasn't about to look back and suffer the wrath of being stared at by two scorned bell ringers. Finally we made it home.
I bolted through the back door into the kitchen where I found my wife emptying the dishwasher. "Don't bother sending me to the grocery store again. I can't take the pressure of being stared down by a wayward bell ringer, and don't get me started with the militant old ladies who think I've invaded THEIR store,"...
I had just walked into the kitchen upon my return from the grocery store. Usually, during the Christmas season, I am tasked with running a few errands for Kristi which usually involves a mile long list of things needed to begin and complete her baking needs. As always the dreaded bell ringers are posted at every entrance to every store. When I say every, I mean every. Heck, I think I saw one standing outside the bathroom door the other day. It should be noted that the ringers provide a necessary service to their organization, but I feel a twinge of guilt every time I walk past and don't deposit a few dollars into their kettle. Anyway, immediately after Thanksgiving, the ringers begin to do their thing. As always, when I pass them, I dig into my wallet or pockets for a few dollars to deposit into their kettle. By mid-December I always feel like I've given my fair share and should be done. So, by that point I simply walk past, smile and give a cheery greeting, usually "Merry Christmas". It's then that the ominous stares begin.
"Dad, aren't you going to put some money into the kettle?" Sidney asked while looking up at me and speaking loudly enough for most of the county to hear.
"Not today. I've given plenty already."
"I think he's staring you down," she continued as the automatic doors to the store slid open.
"Oh, I doubt it. Maybe he likes my jacket or perhaps the way I've creatively combed what's left of my hair. Well, maybe he's staring a little bit," I said as we continued toward the baking isle.
We stood silently and studied the list which resembled a bill of materials for building an aircraft carrier. "How does she expect me to find all this stuff?" I asked, still slightly concerned about the staring bell ringer outside in the cold.
"Heck if I know, but maybe if you give me half the list and you take the other half we can finish faster," Sidney surmised while eyeballing a pack of Hershey's chocolate morsels.
"Good idea," I answered, as I ripped the list into two pieces. "You take this part and I'll take this one and with any luck we'll be out of here in no time." With that, my daughter disappeared into another section of the huge building.
I decided that I would most assuredly need a cart to haul all of the items on the list around the store. Marching with purpose back toward the front to where the carts were lined up, I could see the shivering bell ringer standing just outside of the automatic doors. With steam coming from his nostrils, he turned and stared at me, surely thinking, "there's el cheapo again getting ready to load up his cart and yet he can't even spare a dime for the needy!" I gave him a halfhearted smile and quickly galloped out of his sight.
Standing and staring at the seemingly endless varieties of sugar, I became suddenly aware of a little old lady standing directly behind me. "Oh no," I thought. "As if it's not enough that I've made the bell ringer mad, I'm holding up a militant old lady from getting her groceries." I began to sweat, and the more I perspired, the more irritated she became. My philosophy concerning little old ladies in the grocery store was formed years ago. Occasionally my wife would make a list and send me to the grocery store just as she had that day. There was always something on that list that I'd never heard of and would go from isle to isle looking in vain for the item. Invariably, some old lady would cross paths with me on each isle. The look was always the same. A scowl as if to say, "Beat it novice. You've got no business in my store. Get out of my way and quit holding me up. I ain't getting any younger you know?"
I gave up on the confectioner's sugar and headed for the pie crust section. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of Sidney speeding past with her cart almost half full. I still didn't have a single item. Still nervous about having to cross paths with the bell ringer upon our exit from the store, I stood once again studying the various pie crusts. Again, I became acutely aware of the eerie feeling that I was being watched. Directly behind me and breathing heavy, was the same little old lady from the sugar isle AND a friend. "Oh great, not only am I being followed by Granny Clampett, but now she's formed a coalition!," I thought, while becoming increasingly nervous. I cut and ran, speeding for distant isles and the safety that a hasty retreat would afford me.
Luckily, I didn't have anymore close encounters of the elderly kind, but we did pass on several occasions. Sidney finally found me and was able to complete my part of the list. We then ambled toward the checkout line.
"Dad, the bell ringer is staring at you," she said, while studying a candy bar that would surely wind up on the conveyor.
"No he's not. In fact there's someone totally different there now," I said while unloading our cart.
A slight smirk crept across the child's face and then she spoke once more, "Just kidding."
I was able to dodge the newest bell ringer and make a mad dash to the car. I wasn't about to look back and suffer the wrath of being stared at by two scorned bell ringers. Finally we made it home.
I bolted through the back door into the kitchen where I found my wife emptying the dishwasher. "Don't bother sending me to the grocery store again. I can't take the pressure of being stared down by a wayward bell ringer, and don't get me started with the militant old ladies who think I've invaded THEIR store,"...
Friday, November 28, 2014
CHRISTMAS IS FOR THE BIRDS...UP HOME
The days and weeks leading up to Christmas at my house during my childhood years pretty much consisted of the same routine. We'd always be involved in the church play, we would be busy trying to be on our best behavior for fear that Santa wouldn't bring us anything, my mother would be busy baking various goodies, and my father would make the trek to the woods in search of the perfect cedar Christmas tree. On Christmas eve, we would make the short drive to my grandma's house for a breif visit and then promptly return home.
My father always referred to Grandma's house as, "up home", which was much to my mother's chagrin. She always thought that dad's home was where he, she, and us kids resided. Grandma's house is where he grew up, which was no longer his home. I think he sensed that those two little words irked her, so he threw them around often.
"I'm taking the kids up home for a bit to see mom," dad would say to our mother, who was busy in the kitchen scurrying around trying to finish up whatever tasty treat she was creating at that moment.
"Ok. Fine. I'll be here when you get back," she would answer with an ominous scowl on her face.
Dad, Jarrett, Carla and I would pile into our old 1962 Ford Falcon and make the short drive to "up home." Grandma would greet us at the door with a huge smile and a gentle hug. We usually arrived at her house in the vicinity of four o'clock or so, due to the fact that she went to bed in the vicinity of five o'clock or so. "Oh, my. Just look at how these kids have grown! Jarrett is almost as big as you, and Neil isn't far behind. Carla's hair is so beautiful!" she'd say, as she had done every single year since my birth.
We would then take a seat in her living room and I would survey the place, always amazed at how CLEAN everything was. When I say clean, I mean you could eat a meal off the commode seat and never think another thing about it. She would enter soon after with a jug of cranberry juice and a pack of cookies. When everyone had a cookie and a cup of juice, the generic conversation would ensue.
"Yeah, the kids are really growing," dad would say.
"Yes they are," grandma would answer.
"Yep, they're growing up," dad would say.
"They sure are. Really growing," grandma would answer.
"It's amazing how much they've grown," dad would say.
"Truly amazing, they're growing like weeds," grandma would again answer.
"Do you think we'll get a while Christmas?" grandma would ask, changing the subject.
"Oh, you never know what this weather is going to do," dad would answer. They would continue for at least another ten minutes about the chances of a white Christmas. Finally, after grandma noticed that the time was getting dangerously close to her bedtime, she would scurry to the next room and return with a brown grocery bag which contained our gifts.
"Jarrett, I got you and Neil the same thing, only a different color," she said, handing each of us a trinket wrapped in white tissue paper. "Carla, this is yours. It's not like the boy's gifts. It's something special just for you. I just can't get over how you've grown, and maybe we'll have a white Christmas," she finished.
We sat quietly with our tissue paper wrapped gifts in our laps when dad spoke. "Well? aren't you going to open your gifts? Go on, what are you waiting for?"
We carefully removed the tissue paper from our gifts and to be honest, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Eleven and eight-year-old boys don't sit around dreaming of getting ceramic birds for Christmas. But, that's what we received that year. I got a fire engine red ceramic cardinal, and Jarrett got a rather frail looking ceramic blue jay. Jarrett turned and looked at me with a face that only God himself could love. He was hoping for a gun, or knife, or maybe something that pertained to the outdoors. But a ceramic blue jay? No way. I wasn't especially enthused with my ceramic cardinal either, but I was a bit more successful at hiding my disappointment. I observed that our father sensed our disapproval based on the ominous slits his eyes had become. "Carla, why don't you unwrap your gift?" dad said, while taking a sip of his cranberry juice and a bite of his cookie. Apparently he didn't like the cookie because he would nibble on the thing and then stare at it briefly while shaking his head. Carla was only five years old, so she hadn't been alive long enough to understand true disappointment. "Oh grandma, I just love it! What is it?!" the child chirped with bright eyes.
"Why it's an Elvis Pressley plate! Isn't is lovely?" grandma asked excitedly. It was an Elvis Pressley plate indeed. The edges of the plate were made up of words from his recent hit songs, while the middle of it was comprised of a huge Elvis head complete with gold rimmed sunglasses. I began to chuckle slightly, thinking of Carla eating Christmas dinner while having "the king" himself staring up at her through the mashed potatoes.
Jarrett had begun to squirm, surely ready to go. I was too, and finally we set off for home so grandma could get to bed before the sun set.
We arrived at our house to find mom still baking and scurrying around the kitchen. "Well!? How'd it go at grandma's house? Did you get something nice?" mom asked, with a slight grin creeping onto her face.
"A damn ceramic bird. I'm going to shoot mine with my bb gun," Jarrett said, while slumping low on the coach and trying to remove his bird from his coat pocket. "Wow, I broke his leg off," he continued. My mom suddenly went into some sort of fit. She began coughing and shaking violently and had to use a tissue to wipe tears from her cheeks. Jarrett and I stared at each other unsure of what was happening. I was shocked that mom had let my older brother's profanity pass, but she was in no shape to hand up discipline. I hoped she wasn't getting sick on Christmas eve.
Suddenly Carla burst into the kitchen with her Elvis plate and proudly held it up for mom to see. "Look mommy! I got a plate with some guy on it. Jarrett said he was a hound dog," the pitiful little girl squealed. Mom's tremors got worse. This time she covered her entire face with a dish rag and the convulsions continued. Yep, I was sure that she was having a medical emergency of some sort.
Dad entered with a block of wood for the fire and he too wondered if my mother was having a life altering problem. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, while discovering that Jarrett's bird was now a one legged blue jay. "I see that you've already torn your bird up. Fine with me, but don't think you're going to play with Neil's bird. You broke yours, so live with it."
I noticed that my mom was still facing away from us and shaking violently. "I'm not sure what's wrong with her. She's been doing that ever since she saw our birds and Carla's Elvis plate. Heck if I know," I said.
My mom finally regained her composure. She wasn't sick at all. We later surmised that the woman simply found it incredibly funny that two rambunctious boys received ceramic birds for Christmas and a five-year-old girl had received a plate dedicated to Elvis Pressley. We continued to go "up home" on Christmas eve, and we continued to receive gifts my grandma had found lying around her house. We also drank lots of cranberry juice and ate a few less than fresh cookies. To my knowledge, the birds disappeared shortly after Christmas and the Elvis plate also went the way of the birds.
My father always referred to Grandma's house as, "up home", which was much to my mother's chagrin. She always thought that dad's home was where he, she, and us kids resided. Grandma's house is where he grew up, which was no longer his home. I think he sensed that those two little words irked her, so he threw them around often.
"I'm taking the kids up home for a bit to see mom," dad would say to our mother, who was busy in the kitchen scurrying around trying to finish up whatever tasty treat she was creating at that moment.
"Ok. Fine. I'll be here when you get back," she would answer with an ominous scowl on her face.
Dad, Jarrett, Carla and I would pile into our old 1962 Ford Falcon and make the short drive to "up home." Grandma would greet us at the door with a huge smile and a gentle hug. We usually arrived at her house in the vicinity of four o'clock or so, due to the fact that she went to bed in the vicinity of five o'clock or so. "Oh, my. Just look at how these kids have grown! Jarrett is almost as big as you, and Neil isn't far behind. Carla's hair is so beautiful!" she'd say, as she had done every single year since my birth.
We would then take a seat in her living room and I would survey the place, always amazed at how CLEAN everything was. When I say clean, I mean you could eat a meal off the commode seat and never think another thing about it. She would enter soon after with a jug of cranberry juice and a pack of cookies. When everyone had a cookie and a cup of juice, the generic conversation would ensue.
"Yeah, the kids are really growing," dad would say.
"Yes they are," grandma would answer.
"Yep, they're growing up," dad would say.
"They sure are. Really growing," grandma would answer.
"It's amazing how much they've grown," dad would say.
"Truly amazing, they're growing like weeds," grandma would again answer.
"Do you think we'll get a while Christmas?" grandma would ask, changing the subject.
"Oh, you never know what this weather is going to do," dad would answer. They would continue for at least another ten minutes about the chances of a white Christmas. Finally, after grandma noticed that the time was getting dangerously close to her bedtime, she would scurry to the next room and return with a brown grocery bag which contained our gifts.
"Jarrett, I got you and Neil the same thing, only a different color," she said, handing each of us a trinket wrapped in white tissue paper. "Carla, this is yours. It's not like the boy's gifts. It's something special just for you. I just can't get over how you've grown, and maybe we'll have a white Christmas," she finished.
We sat quietly with our tissue paper wrapped gifts in our laps when dad spoke. "Well? aren't you going to open your gifts? Go on, what are you waiting for?"
We carefully removed the tissue paper from our gifts and to be honest, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Eleven and eight-year-old boys don't sit around dreaming of getting ceramic birds for Christmas. But, that's what we received that year. I got a fire engine red ceramic cardinal, and Jarrett got a rather frail looking ceramic blue jay. Jarrett turned and looked at me with a face that only God himself could love. He was hoping for a gun, or knife, or maybe something that pertained to the outdoors. But a ceramic blue jay? No way. I wasn't especially enthused with my ceramic cardinal either, but I was a bit more successful at hiding my disappointment. I observed that our father sensed our disapproval based on the ominous slits his eyes had become. "Carla, why don't you unwrap your gift?" dad said, while taking a sip of his cranberry juice and a bite of his cookie. Apparently he didn't like the cookie because he would nibble on the thing and then stare at it briefly while shaking his head. Carla was only five years old, so she hadn't been alive long enough to understand true disappointment. "Oh grandma, I just love it! What is it?!" the child chirped with bright eyes.
"Why it's an Elvis Pressley plate! Isn't is lovely?" grandma asked excitedly. It was an Elvis Pressley plate indeed. The edges of the plate were made up of words from his recent hit songs, while the middle of it was comprised of a huge Elvis head complete with gold rimmed sunglasses. I began to chuckle slightly, thinking of Carla eating Christmas dinner while having "the king" himself staring up at her through the mashed potatoes.
Jarrett had begun to squirm, surely ready to go. I was too, and finally we set off for home so grandma could get to bed before the sun set.
We arrived at our house to find mom still baking and scurrying around the kitchen. "Well!? How'd it go at grandma's house? Did you get something nice?" mom asked, with a slight grin creeping onto her face.
"A damn ceramic bird. I'm going to shoot mine with my bb gun," Jarrett said, while slumping low on the coach and trying to remove his bird from his coat pocket. "Wow, I broke his leg off," he continued. My mom suddenly went into some sort of fit. She began coughing and shaking violently and had to use a tissue to wipe tears from her cheeks. Jarrett and I stared at each other unsure of what was happening. I was shocked that mom had let my older brother's profanity pass, but she was in no shape to hand up discipline. I hoped she wasn't getting sick on Christmas eve.
Suddenly Carla burst into the kitchen with her Elvis plate and proudly held it up for mom to see. "Look mommy! I got a plate with some guy on it. Jarrett said he was a hound dog," the pitiful little girl squealed. Mom's tremors got worse. This time she covered her entire face with a dish rag and the convulsions continued. Yep, I was sure that she was having a medical emergency of some sort.
Dad entered with a block of wood for the fire and he too wondered if my mother was having a life altering problem. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, while discovering that Jarrett's bird was now a one legged blue jay. "I see that you've already torn your bird up. Fine with me, but don't think you're going to play with Neil's bird. You broke yours, so live with it."
I noticed that my mom was still facing away from us and shaking violently. "I'm not sure what's wrong with her. She's been doing that ever since she saw our birds and Carla's Elvis plate. Heck if I know," I said.
My mom finally regained her composure. She wasn't sick at all. We later surmised that the woman simply found it incredibly funny that two rambunctious boys received ceramic birds for Christmas and a five-year-old girl had received a plate dedicated to Elvis Pressley. We continued to go "up home" on Christmas eve, and we continued to receive gifts my grandma had found lying around her house. We also drank lots of cranberry juice and ate a few less than fresh cookies. To my knowledge, the birds disappeared shortly after Christmas and the Elvis plate also went the way of the birds.
Friday, November 21, 2014
COMPETITION MOMS
Usually, it's us dads that take the heat for being just a bit overly competitive when it comes to our kids. We get the icy stares from concerned mothers for questioning why our sons watched a third strike drift carelessly into the catcher's mitt. "Geez, why didn't he just swing the bat? It was right down the middle. He could have hit it with a curtain rod!" I've said many times since our son began playing baseball. Perhaps it was our daughter and basketball that caused the competitive flair to bubble to the surface. "She had an open lane to the basket and she passed it off! That would have been an EASY layup," I'd exclaim time and time again. My wife, who was always ready to pounce and take to defending her offspring, never failed to have a calm and collected reply.
"Oh, I guess you were Cal Ripken and Michael Jordan all rolled up into one!? Give 'em a break. Good Lord they're only kids! Now pipe down!" I piped down.
Despite all our shortcomings as fathers, mothers have us beat in the competition department when it comes to the important things in life.
Years ago, when I worked the evening shift, I was "lucky" enough to be Mr. Mom during the day with two toddlers in tow. Often, I would load the rambunctious children into the car and drive them to the playground at a nearby park. Without fail, there would be a myriad of moms chasing overly energetic children around, and then there would be the talkers who would sit for hours on end blabbering about their children and how advanced, athletic, smart, beautiful, funny, etc. they were.
I felt comfortable letting my kids play without me hovering over them, so one day I took a seat on an old wooden bench beside three of the blabbering mothers. "Hi, I'm Cheryl, this is Kim and this is Jennifer. Our kids are already potty trained. How about yours?" the blabberer nearest me said excitedly.
"Uh, no my daughter isn't even close and my son is more of a free ranger," I said without looking at the woman and keeping an eye on my kids.
"Tee, hee, you mean a free spirit, or a free thinker," she replied.
"No, a free ranger. Sort of like a chicken. He usually walks around the yard, then digs a hole and poops in it. He covers it up very nicely though. Thank goodness for that or else it'd be a little slippery when I mow," I continued. The women looked at me like I had just stepped off the mother ship and was surely going to reboard with my alien children soon. They stared for awhile longer and continued their conversation as though I wasn't there.
"Alexander is ALMOST reading. It's amazing! I mean the kid is only two and a half! We're thinking of getting him tested," Jennifer said with pride oozing from smiling face. "I mean seriously, how many kids that age can almost read?" I was puzzled. How do you almost read? I felt that would be akin to almost breathing. Either you were or you weren't.
"Oh that's nothing. My Tommy is nearly swimming, you should see him! We're already thinking Olympics possibly," Kim shot back with a more serious look on her face than I was comfortable with.
"Can your kids do anything extraordinary?" Jennifer said, gazing at me and sure that they couldn't. After all I had a free range chicken for a son.
"Well, they both love books, that's for sure. They can't read, or almost read for that matter, but they sure love books. Sidney, my daughter, seems to like ripping the pages out mostly. Heck, the other day, she ate part of one. She's kind of a human/silverfish hybrid I guess."
Once again, the women turned away surely agitated with my lack of pride in my children. It wasn't that I lacked pride in my kids, I just lacked the knowhow to compete with these blabbering, competition mothers.
We continued to sit, watching our kids play. I was silent and uncomfortable, and they blabbered, and blabbered, and blabbered. Finally, I broke my silence. "You know, I'm just happy that my kids are healthy. The rest will come, I'm sure of it," I said, hoping for a slice of sympathy from the mothers. My hopes were quickly dashed.
"Well, we're thankful for healthy kids too, but we're not going to celebrate mediocrity. I mean the world is full of middle of the road types," Kim said, having obviously formed the opinion that I was an unfit father and a true middle of the roader. No sooner that our exchange ended, Sidney ambled up to me and spit out a mouth full of pea gravel and promptly ran away.
The expression on the women's faces demanded a response. "Uh, I guess paper just isn't doing it for her. Pea, pea gravel. At least she's got a healthy appetite," I said, trying to invoke some humor into the unsettling situation. I got an icy stare.
"Did I tell you guys that Harold suggested that we take the youngest for violin lessons? The kid is musical, you can just see it. I played and so did Harold. It's a natural fit," Cheryl said proudly. The conversation continued and I suddenly realized that I was sitting in a park watching nearly half of the next generation of the Boston Symphony play on the sliding board. The closest my kids had come to making a musical sound was the incessant banging of pots and pans they'd ripped from the kitchen cabinets.
I gathered my two filthy, talent lacking children into the car and headed for home. I was thankful to leave and return to the safe confines of our home away and from the competition moms.
We continued to frequent the park and the playground. But, I was always careful to bring my own chair so I could sit alone, quietly observing my lackluster children play.
Ryan sure enough did learn to use the indoor plumbing, and Sidney hasn't eaten paper for years (or pea gravel that I know of). Both are fine athletes, and successful students. Occasionally, I'll ride past that playground and see a new crop of competition moms occupying the bench. Rarely, there will be the pitiful dad also. I smile when I think he's WAY overmatched and how sorry I feel for him. But alas, he will learn just as I did. There is no competing with the competition moms.
"
"Oh, I guess you were Cal Ripken and Michael Jordan all rolled up into one!? Give 'em a break. Good Lord they're only kids! Now pipe down!" I piped down.
Despite all our shortcomings as fathers, mothers have us beat in the competition department when it comes to the important things in life.
Years ago, when I worked the evening shift, I was "lucky" enough to be Mr. Mom during the day with two toddlers in tow. Often, I would load the rambunctious children into the car and drive them to the playground at a nearby park. Without fail, there would be a myriad of moms chasing overly energetic children around, and then there would be the talkers who would sit for hours on end blabbering about their children and how advanced, athletic, smart, beautiful, funny, etc. they were.
I felt comfortable letting my kids play without me hovering over them, so one day I took a seat on an old wooden bench beside three of the blabbering mothers. "Hi, I'm Cheryl, this is Kim and this is Jennifer. Our kids are already potty trained. How about yours?" the blabberer nearest me said excitedly.
"Uh, no my daughter isn't even close and my son is more of a free ranger," I said without looking at the woman and keeping an eye on my kids.
"Tee, hee, you mean a free spirit, or a free thinker," she replied.
"No, a free ranger. Sort of like a chicken. He usually walks around the yard, then digs a hole and poops in it. He covers it up very nicely though. Thank goodness for that or else it'd be a little slippery when I mow," I continued. The women looked at me like I had just stepped off the mother ship and was surely going to reboard with my alien children soon. They stared for awhile longer and continued their conversation as though I wasn't there.
"Alexander is ALMOST reading. It's amazing! I mean the kid is only two and a half! We're thinking of getting him tested," Jennifer said with pride oozing from smiling face. "I mean seriously, how many kids that age can almost read?" I was puzzled. How do you almost read? I felt that would be akin to almost breathing. Either you were or you weren't.
"Oh that's nothing. My Tommy is nearly swimming, you should see him! We're already thinking Olympics possibly," Kim shot back with a more serious look on her face than I was comfortable with.
"Can your kids do anything extraordinary?" Jennifer said, gazing at me and sure that they couldn't. After all I had a free range chicken for a son.
"Well, they both love books, that's for sure. They can't read, or almost read for that matter, but they sure love books. Sidney, my daughter, seems to like ripping the pages out mostly. Heck, the other day, she ate part of one. She's kind of a human/silverfish hybrid I guess."
Once again, the women turned away surely agitated with my lack of pride in my children. It wasn't that I lacked pride in my kids, I just lacked the knowhow to compete with these blabbering, competition mothers.
We continued to sit, watching our kids play. I was silent and uncomfortable, and they blabbered, and blabbered, and blabbered. Finally, I broke my silence. "You know, I'm just happy that my kids are healthy. The rest will come, I'm sure of it," I said, hoping for a slice of sympathy from the mothers. My hopes were quickly dashed.
"Well, we're thankful for healthy kids too, but we're not going to celebrate mediocrity. I mean the world is full of middle of the road types," Kim said, having obviously formed the opinion that I was an unfit father and a true middle of the roader. No sooner that our exchange ended, Sidney ambled up to me and spit out a mouth full of pea gravel and promptly ran away.
The expression on the women's faces demanded a response. "Uh, I guess paper just isn't doing it for her. Pea, pea gravel. At least she's got a healthy appetite," I said, trying to invoke some humor into the unsettling situation. I got an icy stare.
"Did I tell you guys that Harold suggested that we take the youngest for violin lessons? The kid is musical, you can just see it. I played and so did Harold. It's a natural fit," Cheryl said proudly. The conversation continued and I suddenly realized that I was sitting in a park watching nearly half of the next generation of the Boston Symphony play on the sliding board. The closest my kids had come to making a musical sound was the incessant banging of pots and pans they'd ripped from the kitchen cabinets.
I gathered my two filthy, talent lacking children into the car and headed for home. I was thankful to leave and return to the safe confines of our home away and from the competition moms.
We continued to frequent the park and the playground. But, I was always careful to bring my own chair so I could sit alone, quietly observing my lackluster children play.
Ryan sure enough did learn to use the indoor plumbing, and Sidney hasn't eaten paper for years (or pea gravel that I know of). Both are fine athletes, and successful students. Occasionally, I'll ride past that playground and see a new crop of competition moms occupying the bench. Rarely, there will be the pitiful dad also. I smile when I think he's WAY overmatched and how sorry I feel for him. But alas, he will learn just as I did. There is no competing with the competition moms.
"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)