I don't have the will to run for office. I just don't have the will to run for any office whatsoever. So having stated that fact, I also am not qualified for much of anything above and beyond being commander-in-chief of my household. Of course I may or may not hold that title, depending on whether you talk to my wife or not.
But, once upon a time and many years ago, I did indeed run for office. I won. I was in the seventh grade and was approached by my teacher about running for SCA president. That was an extraordinarily tough decision. "Neil, I think you'd be a wonderful SCA president. I'm throwing your hat into the ring if it's OK with you," Mr. Lasher said one day on the baseball field.
"Um, what would I have to do if I won?" I answered, unsure of myself and worried about all the things associated with running a campaign.
"Well, you would help do things that would improve the school," he said, while simultaneously scurrying off to settle a minor fight between two boys on the other side of the baseball diamond.
That evening after school, I burst through the front door or our home and announced that I was running for SCA president. "That's great," my father said, peering over the newspaper. Many of the memories of have of my dad have him peering over a newspaper.
"Wow, they must really think you'd be good at it if they thought enough to put you into the race," mom added, with her back to me. Many of the memories I have of my mother involve her back to me while stirring a bowl of something in the kitchen. "Who ya running against?" she added, still stirring.
"I don't know, but I'll win."
Finally mom turned toward me and said, "you sound pretty sure of yourself, especially since you don't even know who you're up against."
"Have you seen the other kids in my class lately? I'll win." With that, my mom stared briefly off into space and then back at me. "Good point. You'll win."
The next day, Mr. Lasher herded the candidates into the music room and proceeded to introduce us for the various offices and then gave a short summary of how the election would proceed. "Candidates for president. You will need to come up with something that you feel strongly about and present your idea to the student body. We will hold an assembly in the gym and it's at that point that you can give reasons as to why you should be elected. Each student will be given a ballot with your names on it and they can check the appropriate box beside the person they would like to vote for. Any questions?" he finished.
I had a question. "Can the SCA president call off school for a day or two if he or she desires?" I asked.
"No."
No? I thought. What kind of president doesn't even have the power to call off school if he or she wants.
Later that evening, as I lay on my bed, my older brother entered and sat down. He was in high school and was way more knowledgeable about most things than I was. "Watcha doing?" he asked. He was not overly interested, based on the fact that he was digging in a drawer for who knows what, but I did answer.
"I'm running for SCA president. I need to come up with some ideas to present to the students about why I should be elected," I said, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of me.
"Well that's easy. Just lie. Politicians do it all the time. They promise a bunch of crap that they know they can't deliver on, but get elected on the pitiful hopes of the voters," he said, still digging through the drawer. "Look, think about something that the kids would love to have, and you promise to make it happen even if you know you can't do it. You'll win by a landslide, it's a no-brainer. Of course you'll take some heat later when you don't deliver, but who cares? You'll be out of there in another six months," he finished. He did make a valid point and I really wanted to win, so that was that. I would just follow his advice and hold the highest office in our tiny school.
"What should I promise but don't deliver on then?"
For a moment he looked up at me and thought. "Well, how about chocolate milk?"
"Stop being stupid," I said, sure this would turn into another of his antics.
"Seriously. What kid doesn't like chocolate milk? What school doesn't offer chocolate milk? All kids like chocolate milk and your school doesn't have it. You'll be a hero. At least until all of you are still drinking white milk on the last day of school, then they'll hate your guts for building them up only to have their hopes and dreams crushed like a pint milk carton." With that, he stood and disappeared down the hallway.
There was absolutely no way I was going with the chocolate milk platform. I might make my speech a bit ambitious, but I was determined that I would promote things that I could at least have a ghost of a chance of getting for the school.
The next day, as we gathered onto the stage for our speeches, I could feel my nerves getting the best of me. I had never been before that many people before, let alone have to speak to them! There were easily seventy-five kids there.
One by one, the candidates for Secretary, Treasurer (I hoped that they wouldn't entrust a third grader with actual money), and Vice President talked briefly and then took their seats. Finally, it was our turn. The big dogs. The presidential candidates. By that time the voters had gotten restless and harried teachers began finger pointing and shushing the kids.
"Finally, here are the candidates for President," Mr. Lasher proclaimed as if he were Walter Cronkite moderating a debate on television. I hadn't written a single thing down as most of the other kids had. I thought that surely I could remember what I wanted to say. I couldn't. I was to be the last stumper and my mind was drawing a blank.
"Our final candidate for SCA president is Neil Fix. Neil, the podium is yours." Mr. Lasher exclaimed with arm extended at if to point the way.
I rose slowly from my chair and began to tremble. I eased my way to the edge of the stage to the rickety podium our custodian, Mr. Miller, had made for the event. I scanned the room carefully, moving only my eyeballs, leaving my head stationary. A hush fell over the gymnasium. I was at a loss for words.
Finally, I spoke. "Chocolate Milk!" I blurted out as teachers and students alike kept their eyes glued to me. "Chocolate milk!" I exclaimed again. And then the words flowed like chocolate milk. "I am sick and tired of being the only school in Augusta County without Chocolate milk! I've been drinking white milk with my lunch for almost seven years and I've had it. We deserved a choice in what we want to drink, and if you will elect me president, I promise that by the end of the year, we will be drinking chocolate milk!" With that, the students erupted in cheer. The teachers looked at me like I was nuts. The other candidates knew their fate was sealed. Losers.
I strode back to my seat with a new found confidence and wide eyes to accompany the ear to ear grin on my face. Mr. Lasher leaned over and whispered into my ear. "Chocolate milk?" and walked away shaking his head.
I did indeed win overwhelmingly. Elementary kids love their chocolate milk. As far as I can remember, the SCA never had a meeting. Once in a while, someone would ask when we were getting chocolate milk. "I'm working on it," I would answer time and time again. The other candidates stayed mad at me for the next few weeks. My chocolate milk lie was much more appealing to the voting masses that their promises of things like enhanced bulletin boards and putting the dusting of the chalkboard erasers on a rotating schedule so everyone had the chance at that little chore.
So, now you know. At one time, I did indeed hold office, and yes I truly was a fine politician, thanks to my big brother, the campaign consultant and chocolate milk.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Saturday, May 30, 2015
SKUNKED
"It's not going to work," Ryan said with a blank stare on his face while staring at my latest contraption.
"Oh it'll work alright. It's foolproof. In the morning, we'll come down here, our little furry buddy will be trapped and then... BABLOOM!" I exclaimed as a stream of sweat dripped from my nose.
My son shook his head slightly, smiled briefly, and began walking back up the hill toward our house. "Whatever you say."
In the area where we live, we are constantly dealing with a wide variety of critters. Our home sits adjacent to a farm which consists of hundreds of acres of woods, open fields and ponds. That farm borders even larger farms, so naturally, it's almost like living in a zoo.
In the early spring of this year, I couldn't help but notice a very noxious and bothersome aroma permeating my equipment shed which sits down the hill from our home and beside a patch of woods on one side and a hay field to the rear. Obviously a very arrogant and smelly skunk had decided to become the latest squatter beneath the shed. I've dealt with groundhogs, deer, opossums, raccoons, snakes, bees, and other wild land creatures that thought my shed was a wonderful place to raise a family. To be totally candid, I'v never had a deer take up residence under my building as they generally prefer the bean patch in the garden which sits adjacent to the building.
Several years ago, a pesky groundhog decided to burrow under the building and live there for all eternity. With the garden in close proximity, it would be akin to me building a house beside the Sizzler. The hog simply eats it's fill and returns to it's home next door. Of course there was always a sniper lurking high above, hanging out of the bathroom window, ready to send the 'ol woodchuck on the hog heaven. And then the skunk came.
It should be noted that my wife is an avid animal lover. She simply doesn't want to see any living thing harmed, in any way. When I say any living thing, I mean any living thing... including skunks. So, in keeping the peace, I borrowed a live trap from a friend and set out to trap the smelly, unwanted guest. In two weeks, I succeeded in catching three cats, one groundhog, one opossum and one very angry raccoon. No, I did not catch the skunk.
"That's it, if I lay eyes on that darned skunk, I'm blasting it!" I said to Kristi one day after releasing yet another cat from the cage.
"It's really not harming anything. It does stink, but at least it's not near the house," she said, while rubbing her little fuzzy dog.
"Well,you know that skunks are nocturnal, right? Have you noticed those little holes all around the house, in the mulch, and everywhere else? Well, guess who's doing that? Skunk, that's who," I quipped. "And guess who lets their little dog out at night to do it's business?" I kept on.
I could see the wheels turning inside her head, surely wondering how people would respond to her arriving at her school teaching job reeking of skunk after a late night spraying.
"Do you really think we could be sprayed?" she asked with wide eyes.
I was careful to make my facial expression as ominous and sinister as possible. "Absolutely. Most pets and people get sprayed after surprising a wayward skunk in the dark. Takes months for the smell to go away. I'm glad I'm not out there after dark! We should probably stock up on tomato juice just in case you need to bath in it."
"Kill it!" she exclaimed, while simultaneously squeezing her mutt a little tighter. Just like that, we got serious about exterminating the skunk.
"Dad, what are we going to do with all of this ammonia?" Ryan asked. He and I had our arms loaded with jugs of ammonia while we made our way toward the shed.
"Well son, we're going to fumigate the underside of the building and when the skunk is forced to come out in search of fresh air, you blast him."
"Oh," came the not so convinced reply.
"Go ahead, take a whiff. See if you could stand it under there with the place drowned in ammonia."
The boy removed the lid from one of the jugs and breathed in through his nose. Immediately his eyes rolled back in his head and he began to wheeze. "Yeah, that should do it."
I put several jugs into my garden sprayer and coated the underside of the building with the nasty smelling ammonia, and then drilled tiny holes in the floor and shot it through to be sure I didn't miss any part. Then we waited. And waited, And waited. "Dad, I don't think he's coming out."
"Patience my boy, patience."
We sat on the cool grass, staring at the burrow facing the woods, sure that the skunk would come racing to fresh air at any minute. It never did.
"How the heck could anything survive having five gallons of ammonia dumped on it?" I exclaimed as I burst into the kitchen. "I mean really! I can barely stand it and I was sitting fifty feet away!"
"Dad, we should just give up," Ryan dejectedly said, while flopping down onto the couch.
"Never! I'll think of something!"
Sure enough, I did think of something.
"Ryan!!! I need your help!" I barked as I looked up the stairs toward the boy's room.
"Let me guess. More skunk contraptions?"
I was beginning to think my son was doubting my ability to trap and potentially kill a stupid skunk. "Yeah, but I have a brilliant idea this time!"
My brilliant idea consisted of closing off all but one exit, forcing the skunk out of the only available route when it came out to feed late at night. We would take an old roll of fence with tightly woven wire and build a corral in which our furry, nasty buddy could not escape. We then would build a trap door above the hole along the wall of the building in which a trip wire would be situated that would cause the door to drop when the skunk unknowingly nudged it on the way out of the hole. Pure genius.
"Now we got him," I said, staring down at the contraption we'd just completed. "Tomorrow we'll come down to find our little buddy wandering aimlessly around inside the corral, with the door closed, unable to outsmart us this time. Then we'll send him on to that big equipment shed in the sky!"
Our corral has sat empty for over a week now. The little door still teeters above the hole. The trip wire is still firmly in it's place. The skunk is still around. Me? I'm thinking about simply burning the building to the ground.
"Oh it'll work alright. It's foolproof. In the morning, we'll come down here, our little furry buddy will be trapped and then... BABLOOM!" I exclaimed as a stream of sweat dripped from my nose.
My son shook his head slightly, smiled briefly, and began walking back up the hill toward our house. "Whatever you say."
In the area where we live, we are constantly dealing with a wide variety of critters. Our home sits adjacent to a farm which consists of hundreds of acres of woods, open fields and ponds. That farm borders even larger farms, so naturally, it's almost like living in a zoo.
In the early spring of this year, I couldn't help but notice a very noxious and bothersome aroma permeating my equipment shed which sits down the hill from our home and beside a patch of woods on one side and a hay field to the rear. Obviously a very arrogant and smelly skunk had decided to become the latest squatter beneath the shed. I've dealt with groundhogs, deer, opossums, raccoons, snakes, bees, and other wild land creatures that thought my shed was a wonderful place to raise a family. To be totally candid, I'v never had a deer take up residence under my building as they generally prefer the bean patch in the garden which sits adjacent to the building.
Several years ago, a pesky groundhog decided to burrow under the building and live there for all eternity. With the garden in close proximity, it would be akin to me building a house beside the Sizzler. The hog simply eats it's fill and returns to it's home next door. Of course there was always a sniper lurking high above, hanging out of the bathroom window, ready to send the 'ol woodchuck on the hog heaven. And then the skunk came.
It should be noted that my wife is an avid animal lover. She simply doesn't want to see any living thing harmed, in any way. When I say any living thing, I mean any living thing... including skunks. So, in keeping the peace, I borrowed a live trap from a friend and set out to trap the smelly, unwanted guest. In two weeks, I succeeded in catching three cats, one groundhog, one opossum and one very angry raccoon. No, I did not catch the skunk.
"That's it, if I lay eyes on that darned skunk, I'm blasting it!" I said to Kristi one day after releasing yet another cat from the cage.
"It's really not harming anything. It does stink, but at least it's not near the house," she said, while rubbing her little fuzzy dog.
"Well,you know that skunks are nocturnal, right? Have you noticed those little holes all around the house, in the mulch, and everywhere else? Well, guess who's doing that? Skunk, that's who," I quipped. "And guess who lets their little dog out at night to do it's business?" I kept on.
I could see the wheels turning inside her head, surely wondering how people would respond to her arriving at her school teaching job reeking of skunk after a late night spraying.
"Do you really think we could be sprayed?" she asked with wide eyes.
I was careful to make my facial expression as ominous and sinister as possible. "Absolutely. Most pets and people get sprayed after surprising a wayward skunk in the dark. Takes months for the smell to go away. I'm glad I'm not out there after dark! We should probably stock up on tomato juice just in case you need to bath in it."
"Kill it!" she exclaimed, while simultaneously squeezing her mutt a little tighter. Just like that, we got serious about exterminating the skunk.
"Dad, what are we going to do with all of this ammonia?" Ryan asked. He and I had our arms loaded with jugs of ammonia while we made our way toward the shed.
"Well son, we're going to fumigate the underside of the building and when the skunk is forced to come out in search of fresh air, you blast him."
"Oh," came the not so convinced reply.
"Go ahead, take a whiff. See if you could stand it under there with the place drowned in ammonia."
The boy removed the lid from one of the jugs and breathed in through his nose. Immediately his eyes rolled back in his head and he began to wheeze. "Yeah, that should do it."
I put several jugs into my garden sprayer and coated the underside of the building with the nasty smelling ammonia, and then drilled tiny holes in the floor and shot it through to be sure I didn't miss any part. Then we waited. And waited, And waited. "Dad, I don't think he's coming out."
"Patience my boy, patience."
We sat on the cool grass, staring at the burrow facing the woods, sure that the skunk would come racing to fresh air at any minute. It never did.
"How the heck could anything survive having five gallons of ammonia dumped on it?" I exclaimed as I burst into the kitchen. "I mean really! I can barely stand it and I was sitting fifty feet away!"
"Dad, we should just give up," Ryan dejectedly said, while flopping down onto the couch.
"Never! I'll think of something!"
Sure enough, I did think of something.
"Ryan!!! I need your help!" I barked as I looked up the stairs toward the boy's room.
"Let me guess. More skunk contraptions?"
I was beginning to think my son was doubting my ability to trap and potentially kill a stupid skunk. "Yeah, but I have a brilliant idea this time!"
My brilliant idea consisted of closing off all but one exit, forcing the skunk out of the only available route when it came out to feed late at night. We would take an old roll of fence with tightly woven wire and build a corral in which our furry, nasty buddy could not escape. We then would build a trap door above the hole along the wall of the building in which a trip wire would be situated that would cause the door to drop when the skunk unknowingly nudged it on the way out of the hole. Pure genius.
"Now we got him," I said, staring down at the contraption we'd just completed. "Tomorrow we'll come down to find our little buddy wandering aimlessly around inside the corral, with the door closed, unable to outsmart us this time. Then we'll send him on to that big equipment shed in the sky!"
Our corral has sat empty for over a week now. The little door still teeters above the hole. The trip wire is still firmly in it's place. The skunk is still around. Me? I'm thinking about simply burning the building to the ground.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
AND...HE GONE
I'm not sure why, but lately I have found myself studying the obituaries in our local paper. Well, not really studying, but skimming over each one. Sometimes I notice that the deceased person has family members that I know, or perhaps I am acquainted with a pallbearer here and there. Some obituaries are short and to the point. They simply state when the person was born, surviving family members, those who preceded the person in death. They will also list the place of employment, and maybe a few other details of the person's life and where services will be held. Other obituaries are similar in length to a thesis written by a student who's desperately trying to earn a PhD in their chosen field. Those particular obituaries contain every single snippet of the person's life. Usually, this particular account also mentions that the person touched the life of every person they ever met. Generally speaking, it's that type of obit that fails to keep my attention beyond what the dearly departed accomplished while attending a one room schoolhouse in the 1930's. Apparently some folks feel the need to give an overly detailed account of every, single, year of their lives. Me? Well, lets just say that mine will be short, to the point and truthful.
Naturally, it should begin with my birth date, which happens to be June 2, 1990. OK, Maybe that's off by about twenty years, but who's counting. The next sentence will surely explain that on June 3, 1970 I became grouchy. Grouchy? You have to remember that it will most likely be my wife that will be charged with writing my obituary. I can see it now... Mr. Fix was born in Staunton, Virginia on June 2, 1970. The next day he became extremely agitated and grouchy and stayed that way for the rest of his life. One of his most extreme cases of grouchiness came at a local ATM after waiting to use the machine for up to five minutes. He most dutifully approached the sluggish bank customer and explained that if she wanted to refinance her house, that she'd have to go INSIDE the bank to do it.
Mr. Fix's grouchiness knew no boundaries. Kristi, his loving wife of many years was always there to quell the grouchiness. Once, while at a Burger King drive thru, she calmly explained that the customer currently ordering has every right to change their mind and order something else. There would be no sense in flooring the accelerator and pushing the customer and his car through the shrubbery and into the dumpster on the other side of the parking lot. Mr. Fix was indeed a grouch to end all grouches.
Mr. Fix maintained a grouchiness that could be met by only a few worldwide. He even dragged his foul mood into the house of the Lord. When he was requested to pull nursery duty, his foul humor was grew exceedingly worse. "Nope, ain't going to do it!" As always, Kristi stepped in to help diffuse the situation. "Now, why don't you want to work in the nursery? It's noble work...for the Lord," she'd say.
"Then let the Lord change all those poopy diapers! When those kids see me coming they all seem to crap in unison. It ain't happening."
Mr. Fix is survived not only by his wife, but a son, Ryan, and a daughter, Sidney. They know all to well how grouchy their dad was. Ryan once stated that apparently someone had urinated in his father's cornflakes every single day of his life. Sidney, always a very loving child, simply stated, "I loved my dad, but I never understood how me making every doorknob in the house sticky made him so grouchy."
The story of my life will end like this. Mr. Fix served a hitch in the US Air Force where he was grouchy on two different continents. He was the longest tenured college student in the history of the world which caused a profound grouchiness. Many people compared him to John Belushi's character in Animal House. Services will be held as soon as the family can find a funeral home to take him. He was just too darned grouchy. Memorial contributions can be made to Burger King in an effort to raise funds to construct another drive thru lane.
Naturally, it should begin with my birth date, which happens to be June 2, 1990. OK, Maybe that's off by about twenty years, but who's counting. The next sentence will surely explain that on June 3, 1970 I became grouchy. Grouchy? You have to remember that it will most likely be my wife that will be charged with writing my obituary. I can see it now... Mr. Fix was born in Staunton, Virginia on June 2, 1970. The next day he became extremely agitated and grouchy and stayed that way for the rest of his life. One of his most extreme cases of grouchiness came at a local ATM after waiting to use the machine for up to five minutes. He most dutifully approached the sluggish bank customer and explained that if she wanted to refinance her house, that she'd have to go INSIDE the bank to do it.
Mr. Fix's grouchiness knew no boundaries. Kristi, his loving wife of many years was always there to quell the grouchiness. Once, while at a Burger King drive thru, she calmly explained that the customer currently ordering has every right to change their mind and order something else. There would be no sense in flooring the accelerator and pushing the customer and his car through the shrubbery and into the dumpster on the other side of the parking lot. Mr. Fix was indeed a grouch to end all grouches.
Mr. Fix maintained a grouchiness that could be met by only a few worldwide. He even dragged his foul mood into the house of the Lord. When he was requested to pull nursery duty, his foul humor was grew exceedingly worse. "Nope, ain't going to do it!" As always, Kristi stepped in to help diffuse the situation. "Now, why don't you want to work in the nursery? It's noble work...for the Lord," she'd say.
"Then let the Lord change all those poopy diapers! When those kids see me coming they all seem to crap in unison. It ain't happening."
Mr. Fix is survived not only by his wife, but a son, Ryan, and a daughter, Sidney. They know all to well how grouchy their dad was. Ryan once stated that apparently someone had urinated in his father's cornflakes every single day of his life. Sidney, always a very loving child, simply stated, "I loved my dad, but I never understood how me making every doorknob in the house sticky made him so grouchy."
The story of my life will end like this. Mr. Fix served a hitch in the US Air Force where he was grouchy on two different continents. He was the longest tenured college student in the history of the world which caused a profound grouchiness. Many people compared him to John Belushi's character in Animal House. Services will be held as soon as the family can find a funeral home to take him. He was just too darned grouchy. Memorial contributions can be made to Burger King in an effort to raise funds to construct another drive thru lane.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
WORK ETHIC...OR LACK THEREOF
"I'm telling you, they boy has no work ethic. None at all, and if I ever finish shoveling snow, I'm going to jerk a knot in his rear end! When I was his age, this was my job. As soon as I got out of bed, I knew it was shovel time!" I exclaimed, while peeking out from under the hood attached to my old Air Force jacket. My wife stood nearby, calmly waiting for her little dog to do it's business in an area that I had cleared just for that reason.
"Oh good grief! You're just like a cranky old man. Ryan is a typical teenager, besides, you're almost done. Cut the kid some slack," she said, still staring at the dog who was now humpback and straining to pass something that it shouldn't have eaten.
I turned around to see that Ryan had indeed decided to join the shoveling party. "Well, well, look who decided to help before his old man dies of a heart attack," I said. "Here blister, finish up," I said while handing over the shovel to my son.
"Blister? That makes no sense dad," the boy quipped, as he too stared at the dog, who now was whining slightly and shaking violently.
"Yeah, you're just like a blister. You show up after the work's done," I explained.
My wife stepped toward the dog surely wondering if the pitiful mutt was constipated. "I think something's wrong with the dog. I mean she appears to be in pain, poor thing," she said.
"Oh sure, I've been out here for two hours shoveling, and the dog gets plugged up and your worried about that!!?" I moaned, while Ryan rested his chin on the shovel. I too was wondering if the dog would ever do its business. The furry little creature surely had bulging veins under all that hair.
"Son, when I was your age, I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled until there was nothing left to shovel. I mean, that was my job. It was expected and I did it with a smile on my face," I said, turning my attention away from our clogged up dog.
Ryan stared at me briefly, and wiped the snow from his head. "Well, Nanny said that you were no ball of fire when you were my age. She said that you NEVER shoveled anything! Papaw did it all!"
"She said that? Well, she's getting older and she probably doesn't remember. I'll refresh her memory the next time I talk to her, that's for sure," I answered, while wondering why my mother saw fit to undermine my authority. Then again, the boy could have very easily fabricated that little snippet.
Ryan finished the three scoops worth of snow I had left him to shovel and promptly disappeared into the cozy confines of our house. The dog finally pooped and my wife and I stood, staring, amazed that a dog that size could squeeze out something to rival that of a rhinoceros dropping.
We made our way back into the house, stopping briefly on the porch to remove our shoes, coats, and gloves. As we entered the kitchen, we could see a watery trail leading to the 'man cave', which is where Ryan usually retreats to for his self described quiet time.
"Did you not think to remove your snowy, icy shoes, before coming in," I asked, as I observed the boy sitting nearly upside down in his recliner while simultaneously looking at who knows what on his phone.
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Did you make your bed?" I asked, slightly annoyed that we'd have to mop up his water trail.
"Huh? Bed? What bed? I mean, no, I didn't make it. I will though," he answered, without making eye contact.
I had begun to wonder if I surely did behave so strangely when I was 14. "Go ahead and make it up, we're going to lunch soon,"
"I don't see the point. I mean, I'm just going to get right back into the bed tonight and mess up all my hard work. Don't you agree?"
"Hard work? It's going to take you three minutes! Get on it!" I barked.
He finally moped up the steps and made the bed.
I made my way to my favorite chair beside the fireplace and decided that a cozy, although surely brief rest was in order before leaving for lunch. I slowly closed my eyes, and within an instant, I could feel the unpleasantness of being watched. As slowly as I had closed my eyes, I gently eased them open to find my wife peering down at me.
"What?" I asked. Kristi stood over me with her hands placed firmly on her hips and a scowl upon her face. I had seen that scowl many times over the years and there was only one person on Earth that could be the cause of such a pinched face...Sidney.
"That kid is driving me crazy!!! I have followed her around all day, picking up towels, shoes, hair pins, nail polish, and who knows what else. I just found a potato chip bag in the bathroom sink!"
I produced a lazy smile and spoke. "Oh for goodness sake. She's typical twelve-year-old, and you're turning into a crotchety old lady. Cut the kid some slack, besides, you're almost done cleaning the house!" I answered.
With that, she snorted and disappeared up the stairs.
.
"Oh good grief! You're just like a cranky old man. Ryan is a typical teenager, besides, you're almost done. Cut the kid some slack," she said, still staring at the dog who was now humpback and straining to pass something that it shouldn't have eaten.
I turned around to see that Ryan had indeed decided to join the shoveling party. "Well, well, look who decided to help before his old man dies of a heart attack," I said. "Here blister, finish up," I said while handing over the shovel to my son.
"Blister? That makes no sense dad," the boy quipped, as he too stared at the dog, who now was whining slightly and shaking violently.
"Yeah, you're just like a blister. You show up after the work's done," I explained.
My wife stepped toward the dog surely wondering if the pitiful mutt was constipated. "I think something's wrong with the dog. I mean she appears to be in pain, poor thing," she said.
"Oh sure, I've been out here for two hours shoveling, and the dog gets plugged up and your worried about that!!?" I moaned, while Ryan rested his chin on the shovel. I too was wondering if the dog would ever do its business. The furry little creature surely had bulging veins under all that hair.
"Son, when I was your age, I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled until there was nothing left to shovel. I mean, that was my job. It was expected and I did it with a smile on my face," I said, turning my attention away from our clogged up dog.
Ryan stared at me briefly, and wiped the snow from his head. "Well, Nanny said that you were no ball of fire when you were my age. She said that you NEVER shoveled anything! Papaw did it all!"
"She said that? Well, she's getting older and she probably doesn't remember. I'll refresh her memory the next time I talk to her, that's for sure," I answered, while wondering why my mother saw fit to undermine my authority. Then again, the boy could have very easily fabricated that little snippet.
Ryan finished the three scoops worth of snow I had left him to shovel and promptly disappeared into the cozy confines of our house. The dog finally pooped and my wife and I stood, staring, amazed that a dog that size could squeeze out something to rival that of a rhinoceros dropping.
We made our way back into the house, stopping briefly on the porch to remove our shoes, coats, and gloves. As we entered the kitchen, we could see a watery trail leading to the 'man cave', which is where Ryan usually retreats to for his self described quiet time.
"Did you not think to remove your snowy, icy shoes, before coming in," I asked, as I observed the boy sitting nearly upside down in his recliner while simultaneously looking at who knows what on his phone.
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Did you make your bed?" I asked, slightly annoyed that we'd have to mop up his water trail.
"Huh? Bed? What bed? I mean, no, I didn't make it. I will though," he answered, without making eye contact.
I had begun to wonder if I surely did behave so strangely when I was 14. "Go ahead and make it up, we're going to lunch soon,"
"I don't see the point. I mean, I'm just going to get right back into the bed tonight and mess up all my hard work. Don't you agree?"
"Hard work? It's going to take you three minutes! Get on it!" I barked.
He finally moped up the steps and made the bed.
I made my way to my favorite chair beside the fireplace and decided that a cozy, although surely brief rest was in order before leaving for lunch. I slowly closed my eyes, and within an instant, I could feel the unpleasantness of being watched. As slowly as I had closed my eyes, I gently eased them open to find my wife peering down at me.
"What?" I asked. Kristi stood over me with her hands placed firmly on her hips and a scowl upon her face. I had seen that scowl many times over the years and there was only one person on Earth that could be the cause of such a pinched face...Sidney.
"That kid is driving me crazy!!! I have followed her around all day, picking up towels, shoes, hair pins, nail polish, and who knows what else. I just found a potato chip bag in the bathroom sink!"
I produced a lazy smile and spoke. "Oh for goodness sake. She's typical twelve-year-old, and you're turning into a crotchety old lady. Cut the kid some slack, besides, you're almost done cleaning the house!" I answered.
With that, she snorted and disappeared up the stairs.
.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
SAY WHAT?
I'm sure that most people have had the unique experience of trying to carry on a conversation with a person who has a profound hearing loss. Such is the case with my eighty-one-year old father. I feel sorry for him, and I know that his quality of life has diminished due to the fact that he is unable to hear unless the person talking to him is emulating a Swiss yodeler trying to communicate with another person on the next mountain peak. My older brother put it rather eloquently, "I'm buying a bullhorn."
My earliest experience with my dad's hearing loss came several years ago in a local restaurant. My wife and I had invited my folks to a dinner out for someone's birthday, or perhaps it was father's day. Either way, it was then that I knew his hearing was about to simply give up.
We sat eagerly in the small booth, awaiting the server to take our orders. My dad and I made small talk (I doubt he heard a word I said) while my wife and mother surveyed the dining area, probably looking for the bathroom. Sure enough, a young and cheerful woman appeared with notepad in hand and began the usual rundown of drink orders, appetizers, etc. When she got around to asking my dad about his meal, the conversation went as follows:
"And what would you like to drink, sir?"
"Yes," dad replied. In an instant, my mom, my wife and I looked quizzically at each other.
"Would you prefer tea, a soft drink or maybe a glass of water?" the waitress asked again, with a bit more detail.
"Sure, that would be fine," dad answered, while glancing at my mom.
Finally, my mother leaned over and repeated the waitress' request in a somewhat louder tone.
"A glass of water would be fine," dad finally answered.
Momentarily, the server returned with a tray loaded with our beverages, and promptly placed each in front of us. "Are you ready to order?" she asked with a chipper voice.
Again, we told her what we wanted and then she got around to my dad, who was had just finished making his selection.
"I'll have the sirloin, medium well, with a baked potato," he said with the utmost confidence.
"House or Caesar salad sir?"
"Yes," dad answered. I began to giggle slightly, and my wife found it necessary to jab me in the side with her elbow. Finally, with a raised voice, my mom was able to once again communicate the choice of which type of salad he preferred. That was my first experience with my father and his waning ability to hear.
Over the years, we've suggested that maybe a hearing aid is in order for dad. "No, I hear pretty well. I don't see the need in that," he'd say, time and time again.
I first broached the subject of a hearing aid a few years ago at the request of my mother. "Maybe if you suggest a hearing aid, he'll listen to you," she said, after shouting to him from a few feet away.
"I'll try," I said, sure that even if he wanted to listen to me he probably couldn't.
The first attempt was a complete and utter failure. I had driven to my parent's home, and noticed dad sitting on the front porch reading the newspaper. Assuming that that would be a great time to broach the subject of hearing aids, I took a seat opposite him and across a little table. "Dad, do you think that maybe a hearing aid would help your quality of life some?"
He looked up from the newspaper and studied me for a few seconds and then responded. "Oh yes, I love an ice cold glass of lemon aid, especially on a day like this! We don't have any now though."
"Hearing aid!!! I said you might want to think about getting a hearing aid!!!" I barked.
"No, I hear pretty good. I don't see any need for one of those things," he answered. "I'm doing fine."
With that, I went inside to let my mom know that a hearing aid for dad is temporarily on hold or perhaps could never happen. My dad can be stubborn.
This morning my parents brought their car to a dealer close to our home for some repairs. I called my mom and suggested going to breakfast while the car was being repaired. "Sure, sounds good to me," mom said.
I picked them up and we headed toward their favorite restaurant. My mom and I were having a conversation concerning how our kids were doing in sports, school and other areas of their lives.
"Yeah, the Nats should be very good this year!" dad chimed from the passenger's seat.
"I think so," I answered, while looking at my mother's smiling face in the rear view mirror.
I began talking to my mom once again. "Sidney is starting volleyball soon, and Ryan..."
"That sky looks threatening. We might see some snow," dad said, once again and oblivious to the conversation between my mother and I.
"Yeah, we could get some snow indeed," I said, yelling, and trying to include dad in conversation.
Again, I looked at mom in the mirror and smiled. "Ryan loves football and hopefully..."
"How's your little dog doing?" dad asked, oblivious to the fact that I was trying to inform them about my son and his love of football.
The conversation went this way for the remainder of the ride, and during breakfast. People from all corners of the restaurant looked at us in amazement, surely wondering why we were talking loud enough to wake the dead, But, dad doesn't need a hearing aid. I feel for him, but one thing is for sure. He gives us something to talk about, even if he can't hear what we're saying.
My earliest experience with my dad's hearing loss came several years ago in a local restaurant. My wife and I had invited my folks to a dinner out for someone's birthday, or perhaps it was father's day. Either way, it was then that I knew his hearing was about to simply give up.
We sat eagerly in the small booth, awaiting the server to take our orders. My dad and I made small talk (I doubt he heard a word I said) while my wife and mother surveyed the dining area, probably looking for the bathroom. Sure enough, a young and cheerful woman appeared with notepad in hand and began the usual rundown of drink orders, appetizers, etc. When she got around to asking my dad about his meal, the conversation went as follows:
"And what would you like to drink, sir?"
"Yes," dad replied. In an instant, my mom, my wife and I looked quizzically at each other.
"Would you prefer tea, a soft drink or maybe a glass of water?" the waitress asked again, with a bit more detail.
"Sure, that would be fine," dad answered, while glancing at my mom.
Finally, my mother leaned over and repeated the waitress' request in a somewhat louder tone.
"A glass of water would be fine," dad finally answered.
Momentarily, the server returned with a tray loaded with our beverages, and promptly placed each in front of us. "Are you ready to order?" she asked with a chipper voice.
Again, we told her what we wanted and then she got around to my dad, who was had just finished making his selection.
"I'll have the sirloin, medium well, with a baked potato," he said with the utmost confidence.
"House or Caesar salad sir?"
"Yes," dad answered. I began to giggle slightly, and my wife found it necessary to jab me in the side with her elbow. Finally, with a raised voice, my mom was able to once again communicate the choice of which type of salad he preferred. That was my first experience with my father and his waning ability to hear.
Over the years, we've suggested that maybe a hearing aid is in order for dad. "No, I hear pretty well. I don't see the need in that," he'd say, time and time again.
I first broached the subject of a hearing aid a few years ago at the request of my mother. "Maybe if you suggest a hearing aid, he'll listen to you," she said, after shouting to him from a few feet away.
"I'll try," I said, sure that even if he wanted to listen to me he probably couldn't.
The first attempt was a complete and utter failure. I had driven to my parent's home, and noticed dad sitting on the front porch reading the newspaper. Assuming that that would be a great time to broach the subject of hearing aids, I took a seat opposite him and across a little table. "Dad, do you think that maybe a hearing aid would help your quality of life some?"
He looked up from the newspaper and studied me for a few seconds and then responded. "Oh yes, I love an ice cold glass of lemon aid, especially on a day like this! We don't have any now though."
"Hearing aid!!! I said you might want to think about getting a hearing aid!!!" I barked.
"No, I hear pretty good. I don't see any need for one of those things," he answered. "I'm doing fine."
With that, I went inside to let my mom know that a hearing aid for dad is temporarily on hold or perhaps could never happen. My dad can be stubborn.
This morning my parents brought their car to a dealer close to our home for some repairs. I called my mom and suggested going to breakfast while the car was being repaired. "Sure, sounds good to me," mom said.
I picked them up and we headed toward their favorite restaurant. My mom and I were having a conversation concerning how our kids were doing in sports, school and other areas of their lives.
"Yeah, the Nats should be very good this year!" dad chimed from the passenger's seat.
"I think so," I answered, while looking at my mother's smiling face in the rear view mirror.
I began talking to my mom once again. "Sidney is starting volleyball soon, and Ryan..."
"That sky looks threatening. We might see some snow," dad said, once again and oblivious to the conversation between my mother and I.
"Yeah, we could get some snow indeed," I said, yelling, and trying to include dad in conversation.
Again, I looked at mom in the mirror and smiled. "Ryan loves football and hopefully..."
"How's your little dog doing?" dad asked, oblivious to the fact that I was trying to inform them about my son and his love of football.
The conversation went this way for the remainder of the ride, and during breakfast. People from all corners of the restaurant looked at us in amazement, surely wondering why we were talking loud enough to wake the dead, But, dad doesn't need a hearing aid. I feel for him, but one thing is for sure. He gives us something to talk about, even if he can't hear what we're saying.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
MY FATHER, THE ANTI-TECHNOLOGIST
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.
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.
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.
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