Stephen was the eldest of three sons. In many ways he was the favored son, but not all. At times, each of the boys was their mother's favorite. They all meant a lot to her - and their father. But I think Stephen was always his father's favorite. So it seemed to me. Probably because he was the eldest. But also, I suspect, because Stephen's father recognized in Stephen a sensitivity the other two boys lacked, at least to the degree Stephen had it.
Sean, the youngest, was significantly younger and so never a part of any of our excursions. His teenage years and early adulthood came during the time of Stephen's and my separation, which lasted about fifteen years. So I don't remember much about Sean except, like his brothers, he was spoiled. In a good way, though. I spoke with him at Stephen's funeral. I was holding Son and we were talking and both trying not to cry. Sean said Stephen was always my friend. I managed to choke out the words, "He is my best friend." As Sean and I cried, Son speaks up, "You're squishing me!" So I let him go.
Glen, the middle son, was the popular one. Everything always came up shining for Glen. He was his mother's favorite most of the time. He was the singer and the actor. Unafraid, Glen would try anything. The girls flocked to him. The boys flocked to him. Teachers flocked to him. The only thing Glen did not do was athletics, which Stephen did. And while Stephen's immense artistic talent was devoted to painting and sculpting, Glen used his in the performing arts. It was Glen who got me to put my fears behind me and actually try out for a play. It was "The Hobbit". I got a part. Two parts, actually: the Great Goblin and the voice of Smaug, the dragon. Glen was Gollum, and he hammed it up beautifully. Glen knew how to work an audience. He always played to the audience. Got him into trouble when we did "Diary of Anne Frank". He was given a smaller part and tried to ham it up. The director came backstage between the second and third acts and threatened to pull him and put in his stand-in right then and there.
Glen's lack of fear would ultimately cost him his life. I do not know if it was unprotected sex, or drug use which caused it, but Glen got AIDS. This also happened during the dark years when Stephen and I were out of touch with each other. Glen's death hit Stephen as hard as it did their mother. Probably because Glen was their mother's favorite, and Stephen was very much bound to his mother. Stephen never really recovered from this, and on more than one occassion accused me for not being at the funeral. But I hadn't known. I don't read obituaries. Oddly, a lot of people do. But Stephen had desperately wanted/needed me there. And I didn't show up. I think that may have influenced his decision to find me. Which he did.
But Glen was amazing. Self-centered as he was, he still managed to make one like him. I did. He would annoy me to no end, especially when he got away with things Stephen couldn't. I'd be angry on Stephen's behalf. Stephen seldom was. He was very proud of Glen. And jealous, I imagine, because of the extra attention Glen received from their mother. Yet Stephen never tried to emulate Glen. If anything, it was the other way around.
Still recall when Glen was at Northtown Shopping Mall. He shop-lifted a pair of dress shoes. Stuffed them in a brown paper bag and then walked the mall with his loot. Came back to the store which he had robbed and applied for work. Got interviewed and hired, all while carrying his stolen loot. Glen shoplifted all the time. He was one of those people who never got caught. Until he got AIDS. Not being careful finally caught up with him.
Stephen, on the other hand, only shoplifted once in his life. It was a cheap piece of fishing tackle he didn't even want. And he got caught.
He had gone shopping with Chris. The two were going to go fishing together. Stephen secretly admired Chris. Chris was kind of like Glen, only he treated people better. Except not Stephen. Chris took great pleasure in picking on Stephen. Sometimes I would have to run interference on Stephen's behalf.
Well, it was Chris who talked Stephen into taking the thing. They argued about it until Stephen finally agreed. Unfortunately, their arguing and general behavior had attracted the attention of store security. They didn't get five steps outside before they were apprehended.
Stephen came to my place later that day. He had been arrested. Taken to the police station. Fingerprinted. It did something to him to be labeled a criminal. It hurt.
As with everything in Stephen's life, he would quickly begin to amplify the event. Suddenly, there were S.W.A.T. teams and gun battles and news reports across the nation. "Stephen steals fishing lure. Details at ten."
It's amazing how, after a person is gone, one finds themself missing a person's annoying traits. I could use some of Stephen's ability to enlarge things right now. It would help me laugh, I think. He would, in any case. He always knew how to make me laugh. Laughter is a powerful weapon against sadness and despair.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Not a Day Off
I had been looking forward to a relaxing day today. Not the way it worked out. Too much to do. Too many things I didn't want to have to deal with.
Yesterday, Spouse, Son, and myself spent six+ hours at the Minnesota Zoo. Lots of walking. LOTS of walking. By the time we left I felt (and looked) like Walter Brennan in The Real McCoys. I could hardly walk. By the time we made the 54-mile drive home my muscles had stiffened up and I could hardly move. But you know, I wouldn't trade yesterday for anything.
Slept horribly. Muscles hurt worse than usual through the night. So I was looking forward to a nice, easy day.
Started out all right. Then Spouse and Son woke up.
With Son at my elbow I went through most of the 180+ pictures we took. Some were taken with a regular camera and we're going to have to wait on those. Meanwhile, Spouse is sending a barrage of questions my way. Eventually, I seek solace in the shower.
When I get out I learn that Son is having trouble with the computer. Oh, good! The computer problems are increasing again. Turns out Blogger had done something to his account and now he can't access it. We manage to get the password reset and he got in.
Then I had to go grocery shopping. Wasn't keen on that at all. The idea was that I pick out something I will eat. (Trying to lose weight, so I'm not eating the foods I used to eat.) Been having a run of bad luck with the so-called "fresh" fruit. After a bout of rotten strawberries, oranges, and grapes, and pineapple which made my lips bleed, I got some really fresh watermelon. It was so fresh it wasn't even ripe. The very thought of eating fruit made me want to gag. Checked out a couple of other things. Fat content way too high. So we left not buying me anything to eat. Made up for it by going to the meat market to get grill out food for the weekend. My weight may be getting ready to drop in a hurry. No food. Whatever.
Got home in time to deal with more computer problems. This time I rebooted. That's always fun because I'm never sure it's actually going to reboot. It did, but it took fifteen minutes.
So, here I am. I'm still exhausted and I haven't even done anything. Maybe I can relax tomorrow.
Whatever.
Yesterday, Spouse, Son, and myself spent six+ hours at the Minnesota Zoo. Lots of walking. LOTS of walking. By the time we left I felt (and looked) like Walter Brennan in The Real McCoys. I could hardly walk. By the time we made the 54-mile drive home my muscles had stiffened up and I could hardly move. But you know, I wouldn't trade yesterday for anything.
Slept horribly. Muscles hurt worse than usual through the night. So I was looking forward to a nice, easy day.
Started out all right. Then Spouse and Son woke up.
With Son at my elbow I went through most of the 180+ pictures we took. Some were taken with a regular camera and we're going to have to wait on those. Meanwhile, Spouse is sending a barrage of questions my way. Eventually, I seek solace in the shower.
When I get out I learn that Son is having trouble with the computer. Oh, good! The computer problems are increasing again. Turns out Blogger had done something to his account and now he can't access it. We manage to get the password reset and he got in.
Then I had to go grocery shopping. Wasn't keen on that at all. The idea was that I pick out something I will eat. (Trying to lose weight, so I'm not eating the foods I used to eat.) Been having a run of bad luck with the so-called "fresh" fruit. After a bout of rotten strawberries, oranges, and grapes, and pineapple which made my lips bleed, I got some really fresh watermelon. It was so fresh it wasn't even ripe. The very thought of eating fruit made me want to gag. Checked out a couple of other things. Fat content way too high. So we left not buying me anything to eat. Made up for it by going to the meat market to get grill out food for the weekend. My weight may be getting ready to drop in a hurry. No food. Whatever.
Got home in time to deal with more computer problems. This time I rebooted. That's always fun because I'm never sure it's actually going to reboot. It did, but it took fifteen minutes.
So, here I am. I'm still exhausted and I haven't even done anything. Maybe I can relax tomorrow.
Whatever.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Like Father Like Son
Today is Venting Day, which means I get to post about anything I want. Of course, that's the way it is every day, so I'm not sure why I have a schedule.
As usual, I don't feel like venting on Venting Day. Somehow, knowing it's all right takes some of the joy out of it. Maybe I should rename Wednesdays to "Talk Nice Day". Then you'll read some real venting, I'll wager.
Been meaning to write something for a while now, but just keep getting distracted with other things. Almost did right now, too. Only the new thought flew away as I was writing about Talk Nice Day. When the windows are open it's hard to keep the thoughts inside.
Reminds me of one of the funniest cartoons I've ever seen. Won't be funny reading about it, but I'll tell you anyway.
I believe it was one of those old Merry Melodies or Follow the Bouncing Ball cartoons. Just a series of fifteen second shorts compiled together to fill time. Some of those were hysterical.
Anyway, the skit opens with a man standing by a wall in a room. Behind him is an open window showing a beautiful spring/summer day. Before him is a table. On the table are two things: an elaborate and intricate little circus, complete with tight rope walk, ferris wheels, and merry-go-round; and a cage containing several pigeons.
The man joyfully adjusts some of the circus pieces, sighs with satisfaction, and opens the bird cage so the pigeons can play on the equipment.
The birds all fly out the window.
I love that. It is so great. It's so like my ideas. All of these expectations. And then they just fly away.
Oh, well. Back to what I wanted to write. Another short nothing.
Son has begun his saxophone lessons. They are going very well, by the way. But that is not what I wanted to write. Before his first lesson, we chanced to be driving by the college where his lessons take place. It was a Saturday, and we were on our way home from Como Park. On a whim, I decided to drive onto the Northwestern College campus to see if we could find the fine arts building. As we drove around the campus we chanced to see some people out on the veranda of one of the buildings. There were three: a beautiful bride in a flowing gown of white; a handsome groom in a shiny black tuxedo; and a photographer. Nobody else.
At this point Son speaks up.
Not exactly packing them in, are they?
That's my boy!
As usual, I don't feel like venting on Venting Day. Somehow, knowing it's all right takes some of the joy out of it. Maybe I should rename Wednesdays to "Talk Nice Day". Then you'll read some real venting, I'll wager.
Been meaning to write something for a while now, but just keep getting distracted with other things. Almost did right now, too. Only the new thought flew away as I was writing about Talk Nice Day. When the windows are open it's hard to keep the thoughts inside.
Reminds me of one of the funniest cartoons I've ever seen. Won't be funny reading about it, but I'll tell you anyway.
I believe it was one of those old Merry Melodies or Follow the Bouncing Ball cartoons. Just a series of fifteen second shorts compiled together to fill time. Some of those were hysterical.
Anyway, the skit opens with a man standing by a wall in a room. Behind him is an open window showing a beautiful spring/summer day. Before him is a table. On the table are two things: an elaborate and intricate little circus, complete with tight rope walk, ferris wheels, and merry-go-round; and a cage containing several pigeons.
The man joyfully adjusts some of the circus pieces, sighs with satisfaction, and opens the bird cage so the pigeons can play on the equipment.
The birds all fly out the window.
I love that. It is so great. It's so like my ideas. All of these expectations. And then they just fly away.
Oh, well. Back to what I wanted to write. Another short nothing.
Son has begun his saxophone lessons. They are going very well, by the way. But that is not what I wanted to write. Before his first lesson, we chanced to be driving by the college where his lessons take place. It was a Saturday, and we were on our way home from Como Park. On a whim, I decided to drive onto the Northwestern College campus to see if we could find the fine arts building. As we drove around the campus we chanced to see some people out on the veranda of one of the buildings. There were three: a beautiful bride in a flowing gown of white; a handsome groom in a shiny black tuxedo; and a photographer. Nobody else.
At this point Son speaks up.
Not exactly packing them in, are they?
That's my boy!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
June Weight Watch Page
Here is the link to my June Weight Tracking.
Starting the month out eleven pounds down from the start. Ended the month thirteen pounds down from the start. That's only a half pound per week average. At least the overall trend was still downward.
EDITED: June 30th - Updated Weight Chart available for June 28-30.
(failed to meet monthly goal)
EDITED: June 27th - Updated Weight Chart available for June 21-27.
(did not go well)
EDITED: June 20th - Updated Weight Chart available for June 14-20.
EDITED: June 13th - Updated Weight chart available for June 7-13.
EDITED: June 6th - Updated Weight chart available for June 1-6.
.
Starting the month out eleven pounds down from the start. Ended the month thirteen pounds down from the start. That's only a half pound per week average. At least the overall trend was still downward.
EDITED: June 30th - Updated Weight Chart available for June 28-30.
(failed to meet monthly goal)
EDITED: June 27th - Updated Weight Chart available for June 21-27.
(did not go well)
EDITED: June 20th - Updated Weight Chart available for June 14-20.
EDITED: June 13th - Updated Weight chart available for June 7-13.
EDITED: June 6th - Updated Weight chart available for June 1-6.
.
Making and Recalling History
Today's topic is writing assignments. I came up with it because I used to write for the Evil Editor blog a lot more than I do now. There are weekly writing assignments, generally in the 200-300 word length category. These are good exercises for learning to say something in few words. I don't submit so often anymore because there's so much going on right now I don't have time to catch the inspiration and write . How I miss the days of youth when I seemingly had time for everything I enjoyed. They days were longer or something.
I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.
Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.
Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.
The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.
I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.
It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.
The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.
Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.
I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.
I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.
For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.
Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?
What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]
I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.
Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.
Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.
The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.
I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.
It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.
The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.
Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.
I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.
I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.
For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.
Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?
What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]
Monday, June 29, 2009
Living in a Quiet Place During Storm Season
It's severe storm season here in Minnesota, and while other areas of the state have experienced tornadoes, strong wind, floods and such, nothing at all like that has happened here at our little place in the state. We've had a couple of thunderstorms, but they were mild things. The weather sirens have not gone off (except for the first Wednesday of the month at 1:00 p.m.). The poor guy across the street has only sat out in his garage once. It was before dawn to watch the latest fizzle pass through. He likes to sit in his garage and watch the truly strong storms pass through. Personally, I think he's nuts. But then I walked out last year and collected a bowl of hail to bring in and show Spouse and Son. Like they'd never seen hail before. Did you know that being struck by a piece of hail just slightly smaller in size than a Hershey's Kiss hurts like h*ll? Well, duh to me. We just recently took the bowl out of the freezer and let the ice melt. It had all kind of globbed into one giant ice cube anyway.
The Old House used to stand in the middle of Thunderstorm Alley. It seemed if there was a major storm anywhere in the state it took a straight course for The Old House. It must have been built by the finest craftsmen in the world, for rickety as it seemed, even the shingles never blew off. Trees fell all around it. Mighty oaks, standing guard, cracked off at their base, or were torn up by the roots. But The Old House always stood. It took Daddy's clumbsiness to burn it down.
There was no real safe place to go during a storm at The Old House. Unlike this house. The utility room is about as safe from a storm as one could hope for. But The Old House had no such safe havens. The basement was filled with poisonous gas. We didn't know it at the time, but it was also damp, musty, and incredibly creepy. NOBODY wanted to be down there in the dark. Fifty to one hundred yards away was the root cellar. It was a structure built into the side of a hill. It was rectangular in shape. Four cinder block walls and a wooden roof. A chimney in the center. Dirt floor. It wasn't exactly a thrill to be in there, either, but often we kids were sent there for our safety.
Still recall the time Judayl was in the bath when a major storm hit. We had no sirens back then. Everything was gauged on senses: sight, sound, smell (yes, you can smell a storm coming), and sixth. When a big oak tree in the front yard toppled Lynahr screamed for Judayl to get out so we could all rush to the root cellar. Judayl came out wrapped in a towel and clinging her clothes. I had to stand outside while she got dressed. Hail hurt just as bad back then. And Judayl wasn't one of those "get the clothes on and you're done" kind of people. Have no idea what she did, but it always took her forever to get dressed. So by the time they opened the door to let me in, the worst was over and we could return to the house. Got to see a lot of flying debris first hand.
We were often out in storms back then. Without a true safe place to be it became the stirred ants' nest every time there was a threat of tornado. Our decisions never made any sense at all. Even at the time.
The year before The Old House burned a major storm struck on Helvie's birthday. We were having a family party and Mickey and Lynahr were home with their spouses. It was night. The storm began to rage and the house began to shake. Fearing the house was about to be blown apart Mother cried that we had to get out. So everybody ran out of the house. In our added brilliance we decided that sitting in cars would be safe, so we all piled into three cars to wait out the storm.
Then Mother saw the shed which housed our chickens. The frequent lightning flashes lit up the yard better than the yard light - which seldom worked. She gave me the order. "Bevie, go nail up that rug again so the rain can't get in at the chickens."
Dutifullly, I went. I raced as fast as I could through the downpour. No hail this time, but the rain was coming down so heavy it felt like hail on my face. I got to the shed and looked inside. The chickens were huddled against the far wall. I rehung the rug and turned to run back to the car. I could see everyone waving at me. And then it happened.
One minute I had my eyes focused on the car. The next I was staring up into a black sky. Then I landed with a thud. The water was halfway up my body. That's how hard it was raining. I lay there stunned. I had run into something. Looking, I saw it was the d*amn guidewire on the utility pole. It had caught me right across my neck and down across my chest. I got up. I was one hundred percent wet now. Looking at the cars I saw everyone was laughing hysterically. No need to return to that. I went into the house.
Turns out the reason they had all been waving at me was because the rug had fallen again. They made Gayanne go out and fix it. Within minutes everyone was back in the house. The house still shook, but not so bad. The storm was passing. I became the focus of everyone's laughter for the rest of the evening.
Sometimes I miss the storms. There is something exciting about them. I know they're dangerous. People get injured and killed from storms all through the summer. But, like the neighbor who likes to sit in his garage and watch them, there is this urge which beckons us to get out and experience the storm with our skin.
It hurts, you know. Especially if there's hail.
The Old House used to stand in the middle of Thunderstorm Alley. It seemed if there was a major storm anywhere in the state it took a straight course for The Old House. It must have been built by the finest craftsmen in the world, for rickety as it seemed, even the shingles never blew off. Trees fell all around it. Mighty oaks, standing guard, cracked off at their base, or were torn up by the roots. But The Old House always stood. It took Daddy's clumbsiness to burn it down.
There was no real safe place to go during a storm at The Old House. Unlike this house. The utility room is about as safe from a storm as one could hope for. But The Old House had no such safe havens. The basement was filled with poisonous gas. We didn't know it at the time, but it was also damp, musty, and incredibly creepy. NOBODY wanted to be down there in the dark. Fifty to one hundred yards away was the root cellar. It was a structure built into the side of a hill. It was rectangular in shape. Four cinder block walls and a wooden roof. A chimney in the center. Dirt floor. It wasn't exactly a thrill to be in there, either, but often we kids were sent there for our safety.
Still recall the time Judayl was in the bath when a major storm hit. We had no sirens back then. Everything was gauged on senses: sight, sound, smell (yes, you can smell a storm coming), and sixth. When a big oak tree in the front yard toppled Lynahr screamed for Judayl to get out so we could all rush to the root cellar. Judayl came out wrapped in a towel and clinging her clothes. I had to stand outside while she got dressed. Hail hurt just as bad back then. And Judayl wasn't one of those "get the clothes on and you're done" kind of people. Have no idea what she did, but it always took her forever to get dressed. So by the time they opened the door to let me in, the worst was over and we could return to the house. Got to see a lot of flying debris first hand.
We were often out in storms back then. Without a true safe place to be it became the stirred ants' nest every time there was a threat of tornado. Our decisions never made any sense at all. Even at the time.
The year before The Old House burned a major storm struck on Helvie's birthday. We were having a family party and Mickey and Lynahr were home with their spouses. It was night. The storm began to rage and the house began to shake. Fearing the house was about to be blown apart Mother cried that we had to get out. So everybody ran out of the house. In our added brilliance we decided that sitting in cars would be safe, so we all piled into three cars to wait out the storm.
Then Mother saw the shed which housed our chickens. The frequent lightning flashes lit up the yard better than the yard light - which seldom worked. She gave me the order. "Bevie, go nail up that rug again so the rain can't get in at the chickens."
Dutifullly, I went. I raced as fast as I could through the downpour. No hail this time, but the rain was coming down so heavy it felt like hail on my face. I got to the shed and looked inside. The chickens were huddled against the far wall. I rehung the rug and turned to run back to the car. I could see everyone waving at me. And then it happened.
One minute I had my eyes focused on the car. The next I was staring up into a black sky. Then I landed with a thud. The water was halfway up my body. That's how hard it was raining. I lay there stunned. I had run into something. Looking, I saw it was the d*amn guidewire on the utility pole. It had caught me right across my neck and down across my chest. I got up. I was one hundred percent wet now. Looking at the cars I saw everyone was laughing hysterically. No need to return to that. I went into the house.
Turns out the reason they had all been waving at me was because the rug had fallen again. They made Gayanne go out and fix it. Within minutes everyone was back in the house. The house still shook, but not so bad. The storm was passing. I became the focus of everyone's laughter for the rest of the evening.
Sometimes I miss the storms. There is something exciting about them. I know they're dangerous. People get injured and killed from storms all through the summer. But, like the neighbor who likes to sit in his garage and watch them, there is this urge which beckons us to get out and experience the storm with our skin.
It hurts, you know. Especially if there's hail.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Life's Journey and Helping Someone Else Fly
An era is over. Never again will it come again. Its time has passed, and a new era has taken its place. C'este la vie. Right?
I'm talking about my son. For years whenever Spouse and I both left the house son was required to come with. He was just too young to leave home alone. Then, he reached the age where he could be left home for short periods, such as when we just had to run to the grocery store and back. Recently, he became old enough to leave home all day while Spouse and I worked. Then I lost my job and was home anyway. But in those times when Spouse and I needed to leave to go to the store Son was eager to tag along in hopes of getting something cool. Or just to be with us.
No more.
Now when we go shopping we get the question: Do I have to come along? Or: Can I stay home?
It's never going to change, is it? He's discovered the joy of personal space and personal decisions. When I'm not home he gets full and uninterrupted access to the computer. Besides, hanging out with Mom and Dad isn't always fun. Especially not in a store. Fortunately, he still likes to come with us to the zoo and to parks and to bicycle. Remembering my nieces and nephews I am guessing we only have a few years left of that.
It's a difficult time we've entered. But it's necessary. If things follow the natural order then Son is not going to have us around for the rest of his life. He needs to learn how to make his own decisions, live with the consequences, and learn what it means to have personal space.
I expect there will be a strong pulling away which will last a few years. Then, after he becomes comfortable with his new life, there will be a return - of sorts. It will never be like it was. He's only entering his teenage years now - a difficult time for everyone - but when he finally leaves them behind he will be a man, not a little boy.
It's the way it should be, of course.
Hopefully, Son's transition through these teenage years will be far less confrontational than mine were with my Mother. With Daddy I never really got to that point. He died before I left high school. There was the time he punched me in the mouth. I'm not likely to have such a confrontation with Son. In his nearly thirteen years I have only dealt with him physically four times.
Twice I cracked the top of his hand with my finger because he was hitting his mother. I used my finger because it hurts to hit something with the side of one's finger, so I knew I wouldn't hit too hard. I know those who are against corporal punishment are probably appalled, but I felt it was warranted. He was being openly defiant, daring me to do just what I did. He hit one day and then again the next. Both times he felt the side of my finger rap the top of his hand once. I told him: You hit someone and someone is going to hit you back. If that's what you want, fine. To my knowledge he has never hit anyone again. Certainly not his mother.
The other two "physical" punishments I gave were "time outs". Son was kept in his room while I sat in the doorway waiting for him to settle down. I sat in the doorway because it was inconvenient for me. It is my firm believe that punishment should cost something to dole out. Something important. That way there is a lower chance of over punishing. So I sat in time out with him.
All four of these incidents took place before Son was four. Maybe even before he was three. Believe it or not, I have never had to deal with him again. He just doesn't disobey. He doesn't argue. He doesn't whine. If he thinks I'm wrong he tells me. And he tells me why. Sometimes he's been right, and I have corrected my own behavior with apologies. When something goes wrong he comes to me and tells me what and how it happened. I don't punish accidents - or honesty. It's been wonderful. Hopefully, the past years of love and acceptance will get us successfully through these teenage years.
I have many memories of my teenage years. Some are happy. Most are not. I have warned Son ahead of time about how some things will be, and why. It is quite normal for teenagers to be ashamed of their parents. It is quite a shock to come to the realization that Mom and Dad aren't nearly so brilliant, beautiful, or successful as one used to assume. It feels like a betrayal to learn they are just regular people like everyone else. In time, the feelings of betrayal depart, to be replaced by genuine love and acceptance. But it's always disappointing to find out the truth about those we once kept on pedestals.
My goal is to avoid the mistakes of assumption my parents made. I have at least one advantage over my parents in this: I am ten years older than they were when I entered the same period as Son. While I'm not keen about everything age has brought me, there is one thing I am grateful for. I have a better perspective on others and what really matters. I no longer get upset over things that used to make me fly totally out of control. In the past ten years the only times I have ever reached that level of anger has been when Son has been threatened. Otherwise, I have learned it doesn't really matter.
So Son is getting older, even as I am. He's just forty years behind me. If I can just do my job right, it won't be nearly so stressful for him as it was for me. And maybe he can avoid some of the social pitfalls which have taken hold of me and become something far more. The potential is certainly there. My family held me down to the ground. I want Son to fly. Let him explore the heights I never knew. Let him discover who and what he is, knowing I will always welcome him back when he feels the need to visit.
But sometimes I miss the little boy.
I'm talking about my son. For years whenever Spouse and I both left the house son was required to come with. He was just too young to leave home alone. Then, he reached the age where he could be left home for short periods, such as when we just had to run to the grocery store and back. Recently, he became old enough to leave home all day while Spouse and I worked. Then I lost my job and was home anyway. But in those times when Spouse and I needed to leave to go to the store Son was eager to tag along in hopes of getting something cool. Or just to be with us.
No more.
Now when we go shopping we get the question: Do I have to come along? Or: Can I stay home?
It's never going to change, is it? He's discovered the joy of personal space and personal decisions. When I'm not home he gets full and uninterrupted access to the computer. Besides, hanging out with Mom and Dad isn't always fun. Especially not in a store. Fortunately, he still likes to come with us to the zoo and to parks and to bicycle. Remembering my nieces and nephews I am guessing we only have a few years left of that.
It's a difficult time we've entered. But it's necessary. If things follow the natural order then Son is not going to have us around for the rest of his life. He needs to learn how to make his own decisions, live with the consequences, and learn what it means to have personal space.
I expect there will be a strong pulling away which will last a few years. Then, after he becomes comfortable with his new life, there will be a return - of sorts. It will never be like it was. He's only entering his teenage years now - a difficult time for everyone - but when he finally leaves them behind he will be a man, not a little boy.
It's the way it should be, of course.
Hopefully, Son's transition through these teenage years will be far less confrontational than mine were with my Mother. With Daddy I never really got to that point. He died before I left high school. There was the time he punched me in the mouth. I'm not likely to have such a confrontation with Son. In his nearly thirteen years I have only dealt with him physically four times.
Twice I cracked the top of his hand with my finger because he was hitting his mother. I used my finger because it hurts to hit something with the side of one's finger, so I knew I wouldn't hit too hard. I know those who are against corporal punishment are probably appalled, but I felt it was warranted. He was being openly defiant, daring me to do just what I did. He hit one day and then again the next. Both times he felt the side of my finger rap the top of his hand once. I told him: You hit someone and someone is going to hit you back. If that's what you want, fine. To my knowledge he has never hit anyone again. Certainly not his mother.
The other two "physical" punishments I gave were "time outs". Son was kept in his room while I sat in the doorway waiting for him to settle down. I sat in the doorway because it was inconvenient for me. It is my firm believe that punishment should cost something to dole out. Something important. That way there is a lower chance of over punishing. So I sat in time out with him.
All four of these incidents took place before Son was four. Maybe even before he was three. Believe it or not, I have never had to deal with him again. He just doesn't disobey. He doesn't argue. He doesn't whine. If he thinks I'm wrong he tells me. And he tells me why. Sometimes he's been right, and I have corrected my own behavior with apologies. When something goes wrong he comes to me and tells me what and how it happened. I don't punish accidents - or honesty. It's been wonderful. Hopefully, the past years of love and acceptance will get us successfully through these teenage years.
I have many memories of my teenage years. Some are happy. Most are not. I have warned Son ahead of time about how some things will be, and why. It is quite normal for teenagers to be ashamed of their parents. It is quite a shock to come to the realization that Mom and Dad aren't nearly so brilliant, beautiful, or successful as one used to assume. It feels like a betrayal to learn they are just regular people like everyone else. In time, the feelings of betrayal depart, to be replaced by genuine love and acceptance. But it's always disappointing to find out the truth about those we once kept on pedestals.
My goal is to avoid the mistakes of assumption my parents made. I have at least one advantage over my parents in this: I am ten years older than they were when I entered the same period as Son. While I'm not keen about everything age has brought me, there is one thing I am grateful for. I have a better perspective on others and what really matters. I no longer get upset over things that used to make me fly totally out of control. In the past ten years the only times I have ever reached that level of anger has been when Son has been threatened. Otherwise, I have learned it doesn't really matter.
So Son is getting older, even as I am. He's just forty years behind me. If I can just do my job right, it won't be nearly so stressful for him as it was for me. And maybe he can avoid some of the social pitfalls which have taken hold of me and become something far more. The potential is certainly there. My family held me down to the ground. I want Son to fly. Let him explore the heights I never knew. Let him discover who and what he is, knowing I will always welcome him back when he feels the need to visit.
But sometimes I miss the little boy.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Literally Translated
Since I can remember I have had what the principal at my school described as, "A very different sense of humor." He told that to my mother after she had been called in for a school conference regarding my disruptive behavior in various classrooms.
It wasn't that I was assaulting people, or breaking furniture, or running around naked or anything like that. It was words. I couldn't resist them. And there is no better straight man than a teacher (male or female). Brilliant as they are (and I read a study which proved that, as a group, teachers are the smartest people in the world), teachers become so focused on what they are teaching they fail to heed alternate interpretations of their words. In my youth I was completely unable to resist pointing out these alternate (and literal) translations to anyone who may have missed them.
What made teachers such fun targets was that (in my school days) few teachers had much of a sense of humor in the classroom. That doesn't appear to be so true today. At least, my son's teachers seem to use a lot of humor in their classrooms. It releases stress and allows the students some freedom of expression. Ultimately, it gives them a tool to control the class. That wasn't the way they looked at it back in the 1960s and 70s. Back then, students who's minds worked quicker than the teachers' were considered "bad". I spent a lot of time on detention. Lynhar's husband made the joke that they actually scheduled it in at the beginning of the year.
According to Mother, what the principal told he was, "Bevie is not so much a 'bad' student as disruptive. Bevie has such a 'different' sense of humor." Mother laughed and said the whole family was like that. Of course, none of my sisters, nor Mickey, spend as much time in trouble with teachers as me. Ranlen had troubles, too, but of a different kind. He actually knew more than the teachers who taught him (Ranlen was an avid reader of college level science books) and they didn't like that at all.
Sometimes my sense of humor goes over quite well. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. Still recall sitting beside the department manager at a big department meeting. It was question and answer time. One employee, I'll call him Rufo (not his real name), was one of those people who just could not be satisfied no matter what effort was being made. His hand shot up first and the manager acknowledged him. Now this manager was not a people person, but he understood that about himself. He had been working especially hard to make life better for employees, offering what he believed were major concessions. So imagine his dismay when Rolo stands and voices this question: "What is being done to improve conditions for employees?" The manager was dumbfounded and stood not making a sound.
I couldn't resist. In a very cheery voice I blurted out for everyone to hear,
Well, I guess that answers that then, doesn't it?
Some people thought it was funny. The manager didn't.
Probably the person most victimized by my love of making fun with words is Spouse. Well, probably isn't the word. The sentence would read far more accurately simply by omitting the word "probably". But you see, Spouse is one of those unguarded people who is so serious about life and the world around them. It's a target I can't resist. The child in me surfaces all the time. Sometimes Spouse acknowledges the humor. Sometimes Spouse can get - angry.
I am reminded of this by something Spouse said yesterday. Son thought it funny, too. (Son has learned my word humor very well, which I believe is why Spouse no longer finds it so funny anymmore. There's no end to it.) We had gone out bicycling after lunch. I had eaten spaghetti while Spouse and Son had cereal and a sandwich. My lunch was telling me to go home, and so we split up. Spouse wanted to know if I would be all right getting home. I said I would be fine.
When Spouse and Son came into the house I was at the computer. Son sat down beside me. Spouse walks up to me and asks, "Did you get home?" Son and I started to laugh. We knew the real question: "Did you get home without getting sick?", but since Spouse didn't word it like that it became a comic moment.
This is what makes Spouse angry. We know the real question, but we only react to the words. It's hard not to.
When Spouse gets stressed, or extremely busy, her mind works much faster than her mouth, but her mouth always goes first. This makes for some very amusing statements. Such as when we did the garage sale a couple of weeks ago. My sister was visting to help. We were all exhausted and none of us wanted to cook a supper, so it was agreed we would order from Carbones, the best of the local pizza delivery restaurants. Spouse went into the house and came out with a pen and paper.
Now it should be pointed out that we always get the same thing, with only a couple of modifications. We get a large sausage-mushroom (and sometimes black olive) pizza for Spouse and myself, and a small cheese pizza for Son. Sometimes I will get spaghetti with meatballs and mushrooms. But now we had a fourth person sharing the meal. Spouse wanted to confirm her recommendation.
I was thinking of getting two large sausage-mushrooms and a pizza.
Judayl and I both immediately envisioned giant sausages and giant mushrooms and began to laugh. Spouse re-entered the house with a noticable slam of the door. A woman who was perusing one of the display tables commented, "You're in trouble now."
I went inside and found Spouse sitting on the stairs with the portable phone.
I'm just going to order what I want and not worry about the rest of you.
I was appropriately contrite and apologized profusely. It was only half accepted (because I was laughing at the same time). But Spouse forgives.
Good thing for me. It still makes me laugh. Kind of like a friend of mine, after he had fallen down the stairs and broke his arm. His wife stood over him in shock and horror. "Do you want me to call you an ambulance?" she asked. He started to laugh.
It wasn't that I was assaulting people, or breaking furniture, or running around naked or anything like that. It was words. I couldn't resist them. And there is no better straight man than a teacher (male or female). Brilliant as they are (and I read a study which proved that, as a group, teachers are the smartest people in the world), teachers become so focused on what they are teaching they fail to heed alternate interpretations of their words. In my youth I was completely unable to resist pointing out these alternate (and literal) translations to anyone who may have missed them.
What made teachers such fun targets was that (in my school days) few teachers had much of a sense of humor in the classroom. That doesn't appear to be so true today. At least, my son's teachers seem to use a lot of humor in their classrooms. It releases stress and allows the students some freedom of expression. Ultimately, it gives them a tool to control the class. That wasn't the way they looked at it back in the 1960s and 70s. Back then, students who's minds worked quicker than the teachers' were considered "bad". I spent a lot of time on detention. Lynhar's husband made the joke that they actually scheduled it in at the beginning of the year.
According to Mother, what the principal told he was, "Bevie is not so much a 'bad' student as disruptive. Bevie has such a 'different' sense of humor." Mother laughed and said the whole family was like that. Of course, none of my sisters, nor Mickey, spend as much time in trouble with teachers as me. Ranlen had troubles, too, but of a different kind. He actually knew more than the teachers who taught him (Ranlen was an avid reader of college level science books) and they didn't like that at all.
Sometimes my sense of humor goes over quite well. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. Still recall sitting beside the department manager at a big department meeting. It was question and answer time. One employee, I'll call him Rufo (not his real name), was one of those people who just could not be satisfied no matter what effort was being made. His hand shot up first and the manager acknowledged him. Now this manager was not a people person, but he understood that about himself. He had been working especially hard to make life better for employees, offering what he believed were major concessions. So imagine his dismay when Rolo stands and voices this question: "What is being done to improve conditions for employees?" The manager was dumbfounded and stood not making a sound.
I couldn't resist. In a very cheery voice I blurted out for everyone to hear,
Well, I guess that answers that then, doesn't it?
Some people thought it was funny. The manager didn't.
Probably the person most victimized by my love of making fun with words is Spouse. Well, probably isn't the word. The sentence would read far more accurately simply by omitting the word "probably". But you see, Spouse is one of those unguarded people who is so serious about life and the world around them. It's a target I can't resist. The child in me surfaces all the time. Sometimes Spouse acknowledges the humor. Sometimes Spouse can get - angry.
I am reminded of this by something Spouse said yesterday. Son thought it funny, too. (Son has learned my word humor very well, which I believe is why Spouse no longer finds it so funny anymmore. There's no end to it.) We had gone out bicycling after lunch. I had eaten spaghetti while Spouse and Son had cereal and a sandwich. My lunch was telling me to go home, and so we split up. Spouse wanted to know if I would be all right getting home. I said I would be fine.
When Spouse and Son came into the house I was at the computer. Son sat down beside me. Spouse walks up to me and asks, "Did you get home?" Son and I started to laugh. We knew the real question: "Did you get home without getting sick?", but since Spouse didn't word it like that it became a comic moment.
This is what makes Spouse angry. We know the real question, but we only react to the words. It's hard not to.
When Spouse gets stressed, or extremely busy, her mind works much faster than her mouth, but her mouth always goes first. This makes for some very amusing statements. Such as when we did the garage sale a couple of weeks ago. My sister was visting to help. We were all exhausted and none of us wanted to cook a supper, so it was agreed we would order from Carbones, the best of the local pizza delivery restaurants. Spouse went into the house and came out with a pen and paper.
Now it should be pointed out that we always get the same thing, with only a couple of modifications. We get a large sausage-mushroom (and sometimes black olive) pizza for Spouse and myself, and a small cheese pizza for Son. Sometimes I will get spaghetti with meatballs and mushrooms. But now we had a fourth person sharing the meal. Spouse wanted to confirm her recommendation.
I was thinking of getting two large sausage-mushrooms and a pizza.
Judayl and I both immediately envisioned giant sausages and giant mushrooms and began to laugh. Spouse re-entered the house with a noticable slam of the door. A woman who was perusing one of the display tables commented, "You're in trouble now."
I went inside and found Spouse sitting on the stairs with the portable phone.
I'm just going to order what I want and not worry about the rest of you.
I was appropriately contrite and apologized profusely. It was only half accepted (because I was laughing at the same time). But Spouse forgives.
Good thing for me. It still makes me laugh. Kind of like a friend of mine, after he had fallen down the stairs and broke his arm. His wife stood over him in shock and horror. "Do you want me to call you an ambulance?" she asked. He started to laugh.
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