by jphilo | Dec 8, 2014 | Family
A month long version of Camp Dorothy begins tonight, which means CD HQ is buzzing this morning. So far the camp director has:
- Moved her wardrobe, bedside reading materials, and toiletry items to the upstairs bedroom and bathroom,
- Reminded the Man of Steel to do the same,
- Changed bedding for the camp’s namesake,
- Checked to make sure the Uno, Skippo, and regular card decks are ready to go,
- Pulled a meal from the freezer for supper.
Next on the list is to:
- Make sure the TV is turned to Wheel of Fortune’s channel,
- Put extra blankets on the camper’s bed because she is always cold,
- Decide whether to be magnanimous and give the celebrity camper the good ottoman or the makeshift one for the duration of her stay,
- Create a comfy nest on the couch, complete with extra pillows, pencils, and tissues.
Once all that’s done, it will be time to:
- Drive down to where the camper lives,
- Take her for a pre-camp physical at the doctor’s office,
- Check to be sure she packed some of the new shirts and sweaters she received as Christmas gifts instead of the old, dingy ones she can’t part with,
- Load her, along with her walker, cane, suitcase, bath chair, purse, crossword puzzle books, and library books into the car,
- Be very thankful the camp provides linens so there’s no need to pack a sleeping bag, pillow, and towels, too,
- Drive to CD HQ.
Upon arrival at camp, the director will be wishing for a Wheel of Fortune marathon to occupy the camp’s namesake while:
- Unloading the car,
- Unpacking the camper’s clothes,
- Running to the store to purchase someone’s favorite snack items,
- Fixing supper,
- Sending apologetic replies to all the emailed ignored on the gala opening day of Camp Dorothy,
- Reminding herself how blessed she is to have these days with the camp’s namesake because one day, perhaps sooner than later, Camp Dorothy will be a thing of the past.
by jphilo | Oct 13, 2014 | Family, Reflections on the Past
Had I been thinking straight way back in June, when I posted a chapter from Lessons from My Father, this would have been the chapter to start with. Now that I am thinking straight and you’re scratching your head about where my parents’ story began, the answer can be found below. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to introduce the bride and groom to you: Harlan and Dorothy Stratton.
The Perfect Picture
And he said,
Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
And naked I shall return there.
The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Job 1: 21
“Hello, world, here I come!” he seems to shout from his wedding picture. His broad grin turns his cheeks into plump apples, the dress suit hanging awkwardly on his 250 pound frame. “I’m in here just to humor her,” the twinkle in his eye seems to say. “Just a few more pictures, and I’ll be knee deep in manure again.”
“How will I keep up with him?” her shy smile asks the camera. Wearing her sister’s wedding dress, she looks stylish and petite, but slightly out of place. Her hands, rendered large as a man’s by years of milking, are hidden by her bouquet, her muscular arms covered by bridal lace. “I’d rather be in the barn,” she whispers to the generations gazing at her face.
Exuberant and ready to embrace rural life in the 1950s, they faced the photographer’s camera with confidence. With a honeymoon highlighted by a Chicago Cubs game and a tour of the Chicago Stockyards, could they be anything but Midwestern farmers? A registered Shorthorn breeding business needed building when they returned. They were ready to live the dream they had planned and worked for since they had met in college three years before. They would farm in partnership with his parents, Cyril and Fern, a loving couple who doted upon their only child, my father. They would raise a family, a big family, with lots of kids to help on the farm and keep one another company. They were young, strong, talented, and willing to do all that was necessary to realize their dreams. It was June 3, 1951. Harlan and Dorothy Stratton had the pieces of their married life collected and ready to assemble into a wonderful picture. Over the next thirteen years, like a jigsaw puzzle in reverse, the pieces disappeared, snatched away until none remained.
The picture, at first, came together just as planned. My father and his father quickly built up a herd of Shorthorns. They were poised to provide quality stock to farmers all over the Midwest. My parents had their first child, Jill, in 1953, and she was the apple of her grandparents’ eyes. Then, Fern’s health took a turn for the worse, and everything changed. Her colon cancer progressed at an alarming pace, and the resulting medical bills threatened to devour the farm. Harlan and Cyril dissolved their farming partnership and sold their assets, so that both families were not ruined. That was in 1954. The first piece of the perfect picture was gone.
In 1955, the second piece was removed. Fern Stratton died of colon cancer after a long and agonizing struggle. She was fifty-five years old.
Life as farmers denied them, the couple decided to do the next best thing. Harlan would pursue a career in the Extension Service, through which he could stay close to agricultural life, rubbing elbows with the farmers who tended the fields and animals he loved. Harlan’s exuberance and skill made him a popular and effective county agent. He advanced rapidly in a career to which his personality, training, and experience were perfectly suited. He read voraciously, mostly about agriculture, his nearly photographic memory adding book knowledge to the practical experience he gained working throughout the county. He spent his days traveling the countryside, consulting with farmers about their crops and livestock, providing for them the latest research available from Iowa State University, a land grant college founded to assist the development of agriculture. His expertise with cattle brought him numerous opportunities to train farm kids in the art of showing cattle and made him a sought-after cattle judge at many county fairs.
Dorothy was a busy mother and housewife. She was content to support her husband, complementing his gregarious personality with her own shy competence. She enjoyed basking in the shadow of Harlan’s successes, dedicating herself to her family, which had grown to two when I was born in 1956. Whenever she had the chance, she took education classes at the nearby college. She wanted to complete her four-year teaching degree to become one of the first in her family to graduate from college. “Besides,” she told the housewives who questioned her drive to get her bachelors degree, “it’s a good thing to have, just in case I ever need it.”
Just as they settled into their new lives in Malvern, Iowa, where Dad was the new county extension agent, a doctor pulled away another piece of the puzzle in 1958. Harlan had ignored coordination problems and double vision that came and went for several years. When he couldn’t pass the vision screening for his driver’s license test, he finally went to the doctor. The diagnosis of multiple sclerosis and its rapid debilitating progress nearly robbed him of his will to live.
By 1960 few fragments of the picture remained. Harlan, now the father of two girls and one red-haired boy named John, couldn’t work anymore. He couldn’t show cattle. He couldn’t walk without assistance. He couldn’t drive, couldn’t write, couldn’t see well enough to read, couldn’t even tell if his bladder was full or empty. He was thirty-one years old.
By 1966 the last piece of the picture they thought would be their life together was snatched away. Harlan’s father, Cyril, died at age sixty-seven, his mind and body destroyed by diabetes.
Gone.
The whole picture was gone through no fault of their own. If any couple had a reason to be bitter, my parents did, especially my dad, one of the nicest guys you’d ever care to meet. This man did everything right…honored his parents, went to church every Sunday, played with his kids, worked hard, never said “Bah, humbug” at Christmas. Sure, he ate red meat, but he was a cattle farmer, and this was the 1950s. My mom was right up there with him in nice woman status…studied hard, was a dedicated school teacher, treated her in-laws like gold, rolled out pie crust at the county fair when she was nine months pregnant. Anybody who knew them would say, “They didn’t deserve this.”
So, did they become bitter? Did they tear up the wedding picture of the ignorant young couple so unaware of the pain awaiting them? I’m sure they wanted to, but they didn’t. Instead they looked at that wedding picture and noticed, hiding in the depths of my mother’s gaze and in the laugh lines on my father’s face, the beginnings of a second picture. This new picture was different from the one they had imagined, as tragic as the first one had been hopeful.
In my mother’s eyes glinted a determination to provide for her family, and inside her heart dwelt an extraordinary talent for teaching children, a potent combination that caused schools to snatch her up. In my father’s face were hidden laugh lines attached to invisible strings, pulling his face into a haunted grin, giving him an ability to face his family and the world with a smile, even when his mind was heavy with depression and loss. They stared at this new picture and saw themselves, not as innocent victims, but as confident victors. Over the years, they labored to piece together the new picture of their lives.
by jphilo | Sep 16, 2014 | Family, Top Ten Tuesday
10. While watching a Mad Men wannabe show, we like to critique the clothing and talk about elementary teachers who dressed like that.
9. She and her husband recommend the best books, authors, and recipes.
8. She checks the routes mapped out by her country sister, who has to drive around the big city, and recommends better ones.
7. She scopes out the best shoe store in the metro area and suggests a shopping trip.
6. She provides excellent and honest feedback about the shoes and clothes tried on.
5. We talk about our work, and then she emails ideas and websites related to what we discussed.
4. She puts life in perspective by reminding me that our kids need time to figure grown up things like buying houses and finding jobs just like we did.
3. We react the same way to certain hot button issues, and we both know why.
2. Though I was a fussy baby who upset her only child world, she still loves me.
1. We share memories of early childhood that no one else has. The older we get, the more that means. I love you, Sis. Thanks for a wonderful visit!
What do you appreciate about your siblings? Leave a comment
by jphilo | Aug 25, 2014 | Family
Camp Dorothy is creating a sweet little August tradition, which I like to call a hot mess. The tradition began last August when Camp Dorothy on the road morphed into two hot babes out on the town. With that experience seared into our memories for all time, we decided to play it safe this summer and stick close to home.
Which sounded like a good idea at the time.
Until the heat that avoided our state for all of July and most of August moseyed into town and decided to stick around for a good long spell and rain on our parade. Which it did. Literally.
The rain part, I mean. Not the parade.
Camp Dorothy’s itinerary didn’t include a parade. And that was a good thing because camp was one busy place. Thanks to the daughter, son-in-law, and their dog arrived a day early after the weather rained on their parade. Literally.
The rain part, I mean. Not the parade.
They were camping at a nearby state park, but traded a wet tent for a dry Camp Dorothy filled with rockin’ hot activities. At least the camp director thought the activities were rockin’ hot.
The camp’s namesake? Not so much.
For example, running up and down stairs to switch air conditioners off and on to avoid a Hotel from Hell situation energized the camp director. The camp namesake, on the other hand, thought attention paid to air conditioning was unnecessary. In fact, she asked for an extra afghan on her bed because she was cold with just a sheet, blanket, and quilt to keep her warm at night in her un-air conditioned bedroom.
I’m not making this up.
Here’s another example. The camp director, the man-of-steel, the daughter, the son-in-law, and even their dog thought watching one sizzling episode of Sherlock Season 3 per night was the pinnacle of each day’s activities. The camp namesake thought the theme music was her cue to go to bed. In an un-air conditioned bedroom. Under a sheet, blanket, quilt, and afghan. With the door shut so the air conditioned air from the living room couldn’t get in.
Unless there was popcorn.
Then the camp’s namesake was at the table. Literally. At least until the camp director announced it was time for physical therapy exercise. At which point the camp namesake immediately felt weak, tired, head achy, and generally sick enough to beat a hasty retreat to an un-air conditioned bedroom where she burrowed under a sheet, blanket, quilt, and afghan.
Unless one of the following dangled at the end of the exercise stick.
Uno. Skippo. Judge Judy. Wheel of Fortune. Polish sausage. Fresh peaches. BLTs. Lemon zucchini bread. Corn on the cob. Watermelon. Peach pie. Cucumber-onion salad.
Upon reflection, the camp director sees a theme developing.
Which means that before the next August session of Camp Dorothy rolls around, come rain or shine, come hell or hot weather, the camp director will schedule exercise first, food second, exercise third, food fourth, and exercise fifth. Sprinkled with liberal dashes of Judge Judy, Uno, Vanna, Skippo, and Pat. All rolled together in a sheet, blanket, quilt, and afghan served in an un-air conditioned bedroom. Because tradition matters at Camp Dorothy.
Even when it’s one hot mess.
by jphilo | Jul 25, 2014 | Family
Okay, so neither Dorothy (a.k.a. Mom) or I ate red hot chili peppers on Tuesday for lunch. But Mom reminds me often that The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew was her favorite book as a child, so I threw that in. The “red hot” bit just sounded good, so I threw it in, too. But, we did eat at Chili’s, and the weather was hot. So hot that Dorothy, in an impressive break from tradition, ordered iced tea instead of coffee.
Yes, it was that hot.
It was so hot that young moms galore, along with their young mom BFFs, and the small fry that made them moms decided to eat lunch at Chilis. As did some families with two parents accompanying their kids and a few grandparents with little shavers in tow.
That made for a plethora of children.
Beautiful children, all with summer tans and sun-streaked hair. All wearing bright sun dresses or bright, baggy shorts and tank tops, sporting flip-flops, sun glasses, colorful hair ribbons, and gap-toothed grins.
They were well-behaved, too.
I’m not kidding. Mom and I both remarked upon how well the children listened, stayed in their seats, and talked quietly. At least as quiet as kids can talk, that is. We also remarked upon how we weren’t the only ones who decided to beat the heat at Chili’s.
“And the food’s good, too,” Mom said.
Then we eavesdropped on the people in the next booth. “Keep your coupons,” the waitress told the young mom and her young mom BFF. “Today, kids eat free.” The moms tucked the coupons back into their purses while a light bulb appeared over Mom’s head.
“That’s why there are so many kids here,” she said. “KIds eat free.”
Just then the waitress came by with our bill. Mom examined the slip of paper, sighed deeply (as she does every time forking over money is required), and counted out her money. Soon after, we stood to leave. On the way out, Mom actually went a few steps out of her way to address the hostess. “Ma’am,” she said sweetly. “Do kids eat free today?” The waitress nodded. Mom pointed at me.
“She’s my kid.”
The hostess stood, open-mouthed and staring, as Mom smiled innocently. She walked slowly to the door, which I held open. She looked at me and winked. “Well,” she explained with a shrug and a twinkle. “It was my money. It was worth a try.”
Gotta love that woman.
by jphilo | Jul 18, 2014 | Family
With a book deadline breathing down my neck, this summer has required some difficult choices. The hardest was the decision not to attend the July Family Camp at Shadow Valley in Idaho. Another, not nearly so difficult, was to cut back on blogging. Today’s post combines the two decisions by taking a peek back at a historic moment at last year’s Family Camp.
Yesterday, this view was the backdrop for Sunday morning worship at family camp.
Beautiful guitar music accompanied the singing.
The beautiful guitar was made from wood cut from a tree that grew only yards away from where we gathered to worship.
The only missing link was Hiram, the man who made the guitar, unable to be present because of limited vacation time. But everyone in attendance was thinking of him and grateful for his gift to Shadow Valley Camp, the gift of music to a family who loves to sing.
To learn more about how the guitar was made, the story is online at First You Cut Down a Tree. As wife of the guitar maker I may be biased, but the process is fascinating. So take a look and if you like what you see, leave a comment at either blog or both. Both the guitar maker and his wife would love to hear what you think!
P.S. Our grandson is so fascinated by his Papoo who makes guitars that we are using the photos of the process to make a picture book for his birthday. He’s gonna love it!
