Vernon

Well, I feel like a shithead today. My sister had to remind me that today five years ago today.. my dad died.   Normally, do people remember the day someone died?  I really don't have that day flagged as memory keeper.  It was a bad day.  But I remember his birthday.  I remember a lot of things about my dad....the epic VERNON. 

My dad was huger than life to me...my whole life. It wasn't until his last few years on earth that he seemed frail and small.   But for my whole life he was the big guy, who could do anything and wasn't afraid of anything or anyone.  I'm sure that's how it is with most daughters.  But Vernon was an incredible guy. 

He was a part time "stay at home" dad for many years-probably before anyone thought it was normal for dads to do that in the 1960's.   For many years, he worked the graveyard or overnight shift at the state school where he started as a janitor and apprentice boiler-man.  He would work the after school shift as many school janitors did; emptying trash cans, cleaning blackboards,and pushing a broom down the endless hallways of dust mopping and buffing.  There was some kitchen duty, cleaning out the walk in coolers of rotten fruit and vegetables, taking inventory of supplies, and then endlessly checking that boiler...that fire eating dragon boiler.  I was deathly afraid of that boiler.

There was two of those boilers that burst into flames every 20-25 minutes or so, to keep the  3 story dormitory and school nice and warm.  Nights when my mom had class or something going on, my dad would take us to the school during his night shift, and as long as we didn't cause any trouble; we could be there with him.  We'd happily help him with the trash, and clean the blackboards-- and maybe he would let us hang out in the wood shop room and we would play with the sawdust or go into the print shop and breathe the toxic fumes and I suppose get a little high from the ink.  I loved it.  Nights with dad at work were the best.  Especially when he would let us play on the trampoline in the gym and get us an apple from the walk in, and a bottle of coke from the coke machine. Glass bottles, $.25 cents.  But god, I hated that boiler.  I wondered silently why on earth my dad would have to be the guy working in the boiler room because it was loud and scary and a little like hell-or so I thought.

Since my dad didn't work until  4 o clock in the afternoon, he would get us breakfast in the morning and help get me to school. His one treat-that he made especially for me- in my mind-was mashed up boiled eggs and toast.   My mom never made this, it was dry cereal and toast with her. But my dad,  he would make these 3 minute eggs and butter toast and smash it all up in a bowl and he would put milk on his, but just give me the mashed up eggs and toast. It looked completely awful, but YUM.   That is my favorite memory of my dad Vernon. Mashed up 3 minute eggs and buttered toast.

As his career progressed, and we got older, he got more seniority and eventually became a supervisor. He had his own "truck" and kind of set his own hours.   But no matter, he was up at  5am and at that school by 6am...to make sure that damn fire eating dragon boiler didn't break down, that the school was warm, that the kitchen was ready to go, that the classrooms were clean, and hey-during those Montana winters-he would shovel ALL the sidewalks. When the state got some money they bought  him a tractor and plow.  I think he spent 35+ years shoveling miles of sidewalks and driveways; not counting the time he spent shoveling when he was a kid at the school.  

There's so much about Vernon that I could share. But some of that is for me.  He was an incredible athlete. He was a great basketball player, he was a tremendous baseball-softball player.  Even at almost 55+ years old; he was a catcher in a senior league and would go after foul balls like a young man.  He could out bowl most anyone.  He was honored for his bowling and named into a "Hall of Fame" for notable deaf bowlers.   He could play poker with the best of them.  He loved a dirty joke and a beer.  He was intensely proud.. Proud of his wife and daughters. He would do ANYTHING for any of them and he did; many times. He was admired for his work ethic, his devotion to his school. The school that raised him and taught him most everything about life that he didn't learn back home from his dad.   The school that was his life for almost 65 years.  

I miss my dad-and while I feel really bad that I had to think of it today -of all days- to share my story about my dad; Vernon was epic.   I just wanted you to know.  RIP Vernon.

  XOXOXO.

Schwinn Sting Rays-Remember?

It's Spring, and the bikes are out. Being a child of the 70's we had the best bikes ever. EVER.  We had these Schwinn Sting Ray bikes that had banana seats and racing tires.  My sister had one that was pink-purple and had a cute basket that she would put our cat Cocoa in. Really, if you ever want to see something hilarious; picture a Siamese male cat being hauled into a bike basket, taken for a ride, and then he would just LEAP out of the basket onto some lawn and he would tear off at breakneck speed. My sister was younger, and perhaps for a moment my mom thought or she thought she was more girl-like so she got the prettier bike with the fancy basket. 

I was older, with a stupid looking Mia Farrow haircut so I looked like a boy with glasses. Maybe that's why I got the more boyish avocado green Schwinn with the functional basket...BUT; it had the sparkly green banana seat and a rear racing tire. We loved our bikes.  We would ride our bikes for hours on our street with no traffic.  We lived practically on the edge of our city, and for the first few years we lived there, the street wasn't even paved. But then they paved it, the houses were all built, sidewalks in, and it was glorious play land for all of us kids. And wow, there was a lot of us.   Every house had kids. "Go Outside" was no problem.  Hell yes... go outside. The world was out there, all our friends were there, and everyone-almost everyone had a bike.  

Our favorite was the street with the hill.  I loved the hill.  The thrill of putting my feet up on the handlebars, speeding down the hill...maybe-even-letting go of the handlebars, hands in air. Like FLYING!! We were a perpetual circus act.  I would never let my kid do that. But back in the day, we did it.  My sister did it, my friends did it.  Some of the more daring ones would even stand on their banana seats. We would "pop a wheelie" which if you think about it; took great body strength to not only pull up on the handlebars but also the front wheel- all while coasting.   Jeezus!  I can't imagine why more of us didn't end up in the hospital. No bike helmets for us. Just speed, our bikes and our friends. Maybe a cherry Popsicle too. Of course, we tried to trick out our bikes. Flashy streamers, joker cards with clothes pins stuck on the bike frame. Click,click,clack,click, click, clack. It was like a motor. We were cool. 

By our neighborhood was a huge undeveloped tract of land. Not really farmed, and there were DIRT MOUNTAINS THERE.  I mean God, DIRT HILLS, that the really cool motor bike kids would tear up.  We decided that we were as cool as motor bikers, and we would pump up and down, exhausted, walk our bikes up these steep hills. But ah! The joy of tearing down!Gaaadggh ,,,uummmppph,,ggaaammmppp. Not the paved street hill, but certainly as exhilarating.  Just a killer to get back up.   No wonder we were exhausted at the end of the day.  We would fall asleep, sunburned, insect bitten, dirty fingernails little girls.
I hope kids today don't miss out on something like this. I know some do... but the ones who have any opportunity to really play with their bikes, not just bike around a bike path with bike helmets on; well, they're missing something.

Those bikes were soon followed by the Schwinn Varsity 10 speed bikes. Everyone ditched the fun sting-rays for these uber cool European type racing bikes.   They certainly were more functional, and going uphill was not as thigh burning as the one speed bike; but the days of "look mom- no hands" and riding-standing on your banana seat were over.

Not my bike.. but pretty close

Meat Loaf and Gramma

Making meat loaf the other day, I was reminded of one of my first experiences with meat loaf.  Meat Loaf always conjures up memories of thrift, doing more with less, taking a half a pound of hamburger (the cheapest) and putting in as much stuff in to it to feed a family of four or six; maybe more, and then having enough left over for meat loaf sandwiches.  I'm sure it came into being across kitchens in the U.S. during the Depression;  then for decades after into the 60's & 70's.  Now it's "Comfort Food" and you can purchase frozen microwave meals with Meat Loaf and Potatoes so those of the newer generation that missed out on REAL meat loaf, can have a instant prepared meat loaf meal.  Sort of.  

Yeah, I may on occasion, buy the microwave Marie Callendar Meat Loaf dinner, when I feel guilty that I didn't prepare the home cooked version.  And by the way, that one is the best.  But I do; at least a couple times a year, make the meat loaf that I remember growing up with. 

Actually, I think that Meat Loaf is a gourmet type of terrine.  In the days of Julia Child, terrines were the rage.  Salmon terrains, veal terrines,  and then there was meat loaf.  In the Good Housekeeping cookbooks from the 60's  they would use a combination of pork, veal and sirloin, and add exotic ingredients like real french bread croquettes that they had created from french bread, seared in olive oil, garlic, toasted and crushed.  In our house, we used the 3 or  4 slices of old Eddy's white bread that included the end parts that no one would eat. Same thing? N'est pas?

The meat loaf story and Gramma is a story that my sister and I shared for many years.  My grandparents on my Dad's side were our only grandparents. My mom lost her mother in high school, and  then her dad shortly after graduating from college.   Living in a deaf school dorm for most of her life, my mom's family life was distant; perhaps non-existant. There are just vague snippets of her life with her parents.  My dad's life was a little different. He too, spent most of  his time in a deaf school dormitory; but he would return home on the train to visit his parents for summer and  holidays.  He always said his Norwegian mother made the best home cooked meals. My Hoosier mom could never measure up.

We really never "knew" our grandparents that well. Compared to today, when grandparents are a phone call away, a text away, Skype, Facebook, a short visit away... we  saw Gramma and Grandpa maybe  four times before I was 6 years old.  That summer, my sister and I "got" to spend about two weeks with Gramma and Grandpa. 

We took the train; which probably was the last time the train left this town. They closed the tracks that we rode on shortly afterward. We headed 10 hours east to the far northeastern corner of Montana. Somehow I remember feeling; that for me-this modern child with polyester orange shorts and PF Flyers, was headed to a prior century.  It sort of was.   While my hometown was surging with growth and population; it seemed like that distant corner of my state was somewhat burdened by drought, population loss and just sort of lost in time. 

I remember being at Gramma's and Grandpa house. Again, we didn't know these people that well. And they really didn't know us.  We spent days trying to re-acquaint ourselves. We spent days finding the white kitty's that  hid in Grandpa's shed, walking around Grandma's garden, getting our hair washed with rainwater that Grandma collected in the rain barrel beneath her downspout. Remember I said, I felt like I went back in time about 100 years?  Yeah.  And one day, she said we would have our lunch outside. 

Gramma made these little wax paper bundles with white bread-cold meat loaf slices in them. Of course, being a child of the city, and my mom was all progressive and that, she served us Peanut Butter/Jelly, Velveeta Cheese or Oscar Mayer Bologna sandwiches on White Eddy's Bread. I had never seen a meat loaf sandwich. And this one was on stale white, huge crusty bread with crusty burnt pieces of meat loaf inside.  We tried.  I'm sure we were hungry.

So we ate the other stuff that she brought. Pickles, some fruit, but nah... that meat loaf sandwich. We couldn't do it.  So we're outside. No dog to bribe, no place to hide it, because she was out in her garden all day.  So I was wandering around trying to find a place.  I found a perfect spot.  Gramma's bird bath.  Plastic noveau decor with a dish bowl that you could lift apart from the stand.  Voila!   I stashed the un-eaten, inedible parts of our meat loaf sandwiches down the pipe of the bird bath.    Replaced... and we were all done. Literally. 

Of course, you know the rest.  We didn't get away with it. Somehow the truth was told, and tears flowed.  Something about being punished by Jesus because he was watching us, and a lip that was pouting out ready to be pecked off by a bird.  I'm sure there was a big lesson in there; like "eat what the Lord provided you", etc..etc.. So yes, meat loaf sandwiches are a traumatic memory for me. And to this day, my sister and I have never forgotten that trip to Gramma's and the meat loaf sandwich.

Post Bin Laden

Almost ten years ago, it was a different world for my family.  Today, it's a different world because of a terrorist that changed everything for everyone on earth.  

As I was watching the news last night of the shooting death of Osama Bin Laden, it struck me how many of the young people rejoicing were about my daughters age.   The Park across from the White House was filled with college students.  Time Square, Ground Zero, quickly filled up with young people and people who had experienced the events first hand.  

I watched mesmorized, and tried to count back the years.  These kids were in 3rd, 4th, 5th -middle school grades when this event took place?  What they must feel?  So many of them watched brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers, then later their school mates off to the military or guard to serve their country.  It consumed the last ten years of their young lives.  News pundits paralleled  it to the same rejoicing that occurred after WWII. 
Probably.

I remember 9/11 clearly, because I wanted so much to keep a normal face on what was happening that morning. It was school picture day, and I was desperately trying to get my 3rd grade daughter ready for school, trying to agree on an outfit of choice, hair arranging, which escalated into an argument between us in the bathroom during the whole time the third plane struck the Pentagon in Washington D.C.  I wanted to turn off the TV, but I couldn't. She was obviously affected by my freaked out state, and we could not get on the same page that morning.  I couldn't tell you about the other school picture day mornings, but that one- is as vivid a memory as something that happened yesterday.

I just kept wondering, what is today going to be like? Should I send her to school?  I wondered what her day would be like, because my day was wasted and those of us at work that day were zombies, numbly doing our tasks, which seemed important- but really was not. 

The following weeks I was numb. I tried to keep things normal, and not watch coverage. But it was hard not to be drawn into the whole thing. I think I cried every day for a week.   But I knew that that day, that man would change the lives of these young children forever. Our  kids had their innocence taken away. Our nation was changed forever. Whether the kids  knew it or not, parents everywhere had their guard up. Mail was suspect, shopping malls and big city plaza's were not as safe as they once were, even Disneyland was re-done to move cars and traffic away from the main gates.  Travel was different. The following summer, my blue eyed blonde daughter was pulled from the airport gate at Minneapolis and "wanded", as we watched horrified. For years,  they were involved in school programs and activities to commemorate patriotism and support the troops. They were in it from the get go.

No wonder these kids were screaming USA USA USA last night.  In a way, these kids won a little bit of their childhood back. 

  

Nest Building

OK, it's Spring. Or it's trying to be Spring- desperately. I came to this realization in between winter storms last week. That's right, it is still really winter-like here. Every other day another squall of semi-snow, "sn-hail", even a dumping of heavy wet snow. But it is Spring, and bits of green grass and sprouts of leaf buds  prove it.  And the robins are back.  Those who know my robin story know how this goes, but I sort of had an introspective moment recently, and I think there's more to the robin story. 

Last year, a young robin started to make her nest on the gutter pipe just 3 feet from my kitchen window. She was a newbie robin, probably her first nest ever. Somehow her inner-GPS told her that this was her homeland, and she should built her nest-HERE. On the gutter pipe.  Not in the tree where she probably was born, but on the crux of the gutter pipe.  So the whole mother nature drama played out over three to four weeks right out my window where I spent my time by my kitchen sink.

She was busy building her nest; furiously getting it all ready and it was a pretty good one...she sat on it  for hours readying herself for her eggs; when the BIG STORM hit. We always get one this time of year, but this one was a pretty severe wind and angry winter storm warning.  It blew in; typical  and slammed the fierce wind up against the front of the house-where of course her nest was.  Her nest was blown to the ground   more or less intact but yards away from where she built it. She was like "what the hell?"  I felt so sorry for her, I fixed it. And that's what I am. A fixer.

I put the nest back up on the downspout, and she returned after the storm, re-inforced it with some more twigs and dirt, and soon within a week; there were little babies.  Couldn't see them at first, but the the following week, three little yellow beaks appeared from the narrow nest. She and her partner visited, fed them grubs, and she sat on her brood. Soon it became apparent that she favored one over the other two.  Soon there was only two little hungry beaks quivering for food.  Then the weaker one was thrown out of the nest and never seen again.  So she came back to her one surviving chick-let, and he was a pig. She spent hours and hours feeding it, hovering nearby, attending to his all consuming greedy diet of worms.   In a few weeks he was brave enough to launch himself to the tree branch, then to the ground, but he couldn't fly.  She just hopped around leading it to somewhere, hopefully he made it.    I never knew. I wondered, and soon we took the hose to the nest, bird droppings and all and power washed it off the spout.

So two weeks ago, she returned.   She started building the nest again, on the downspout. She had trouble again, because just like last year, she started building in the middle of winter/spring squall season, and the wind was giving her a lot of trouble.  She started to build it and started to sit on her nest-like mess of twigs that wasn't a nest.  The wind was blowing everyday, and it was a challenge to keep her twigs anchored in the downspout. And again, I thought; well I should help her?  I went out to the bird feeder that was empty from a month of sparrows that had polished it off last month.   I filled up the bird feeder, thinking; well if she likes the suet thing she's been picking at... she'll want some food nearby.  Wrong. The sparrows honed in, and then my robin was gone.  Gone for good.  Too many treacherous other birds, too many threats, too much wind, too much of everything. Too much of my fixing. 

I learned a lesson.  The nest story had me thinking about a lot of things about my nest.  My nest that had been blown to bits by  too many traumatic things over the last few years.  My now empty nest. My nesting instincts that try to fix other nests, much to my detriment. My world-my nest that had taken a beating by employment challenges, financial challenges, family challenges.  But in all, my nest is intact-still.  I reinforce it with twigs and support, borrowed or otherwise lent from family and friends.  I was also reminded of this lesson last week when it seemed like the entire Dixie South was beat to HELL by huge tornado's and those people lives, their nests, will have to be rebuilt.   I swore I would never complain about the weather again.

So it's spring, and unlike some other years, when I think spring is just another season; I actually am seeing it for the first time as a New Year-a new start. I get to rebuild my nest. My daughter is coming home soon from her first year away at college. My husband will have a new career. We'll get an opportunity to rebuild connections, maybe restore some hard edges, even financially, and I may stop fixing things for everyone, and just focus on my nest.