by jphilo | Nov 30, 2015 | Family
Sibling rivalry isn’t a big thing in my family. We’re more into sibling teasery, as my arrival at my brother’s home on Thanksgiving demonstrated.
I should have known something was up when my brother greeted me at the door. He was the model of politeness, taking the bowls from my laden arms, helping me out of my coat, and folding it neatly before placing it on a bench by the door.
Then he took me into the kitchen and asked me to read the signs he’d posted.
On the knife block:
JOLENE ASK FOR HELP!
KNIVES ARE DANGEROUS!
On the utensil drawer:
JOLENE
KEEP OUT!
Knives Present!
As is obvious, he used his weekly quota of exclamation points post haste.
Eyes sparkling he said, “I held back all the teasing until you said the pain was gone. After that, I couldn’t resist.”
Soon my older sister joined in. “As soon as you said what happened, I could picture it. You did that kind of thing all the time when we were kids.”
My own two adult children who were eavesdropping on the conversation nodded their heads enthusiastically.
I suppose I could have taken offense. I could have felt like they were ganging up on me. Except for one thing.
They were telling the truth.
My most recent knife accident was just the latest in a long string of them. Even the hand therapist noticed the scar from a sharp encounter of the knife kind that occurred about ten years ago. Since the old one is less than two inches from the newest one, it’s hard to miss.
In light of my record, I’m keeping my mouth shut, my knives sheathed, and my wit at the ready…until one of them does something that requires some good, old-fashioned sibling teasery.
It’ll happen. And I can wait.
by jphilo | Nov 20, 2015 | Family
Today’s the last day I’m in my home town. I walked by the house where I grew up and where Dad encouraged me to play fast and loose with shellack. This Fantastic Friday post revisits that memory and one of my few bonding moments with President Obama.
shellacking: present participle of shel·lac (Verb)
1. Varnish (something) with shellac.
2. Defeat or beat (someone) decisively: “they were shellacked in the election”.
First, Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. Now he’s reviving dead language. Our president is proving to be quite the leader, at least in areas he hadn’t planned to pursue.
After his famous admission that the “Democrats took a shellacking” in the midterm elections, media groupies have used the word with the fervor of young adolescents imitating the most popular kid in middle school. According to the Christian Science Monitor, “It was Obama’s use of the word ‘shellacking’ that had the blogosphere talking.”
All I know is that every time I turn on the radio, broadcasters and talk show hosts work the word into their copy. They use it with eagerness and obvious pride, their intonation hinting at their delight and pride in using the same word the coolest guy ever in the White House uses. Pretty cool, huh? Huh?
They’re loving keeping up with the big guy, but I’ve had about had my fill of shellacking. In fact, I haven’t been this fed up with the stuff since the summer of sixth grade. Mom was gone for a week or two, taking graduate classes for her masters degree. In her absence, Dad worried that I wouldn’t have my 4-H project – refinishing an old end table – done for the county fair. So he roped our elderly neighbor into helping me glue and clamp the pieces together. Then Dad wheeled out to the garage to direct the staining, sanding, and varnishing stages.
He had me load the brush a little too heavily, coat after coat, so the shellac formed unsightly runs and ridges. My half-hearted sanding efforts between coats didn’t improve matters. The end result was less than stellar, and project only earned a red ribbon at the county fair. A real shellacking in my blue ribbon family.
To this day, every time I walk by that little end table in our upstairs hall, my shellacking debaucle comes to mind. Makes me wonder if Obama regrets his overloaded word choice as much as I regret overloading the paint brush years ago. Anyway, I think it’s pretty cool that the same word taught me and the big guy the same lesson – albeit through alternate meanings.
A little shellacking goes a long way. And don’t we both know it?
by jphilo | Nov 13, 2015 | Family
For those of you who don’t live in fly over country, this Fantastic Friday post explains what you are missing.
You know how jet setters dismiss the land between the east and west coasts as fly-over country? They scoff at what they consider a wasteland of cornfields, a vast expanse where nothing worthwhile happens, nothing of consequence is produced, no one of importance lives. Well, I love living in fly-over country, no matter what the jet setters think of it. But, the past week exposed an unexpected truth.
We live a fly-over life.
A midweek visit to my son and new daughter was void of the hoopla that characterized much of the last two years: no illness, thus no dramatic health cures; no happy announcements, thus no need to plan big celebrations; no crises, thus no anxiety-racked discussions. Instead, in our time together we talked about jobs, exchanged recipes, played with the dog, and went to bed by 9:00 PM.
Pleasant, but boring.
A perusal of our weekend activities confirms life’s fly-over status. I made cookies for upcoming church events and cleaned some drawers in the kitchen – without burning a single cookie or pinching myself with kitchen utensils. Hiram reinstalled the sink in the upstairs bathroom without cracking the porcelain or ruining the newly laid tile. We comparison shopped for a new refrigerator, washer, and dryer – and found what we needed for less than expected.
Appreciated, but boring.
A phone call to our daughter and new son was uneventful. She’s keeping up in school and making progress with her online, custom sewing business; no need for me to swoop in and chair a planning pow wow. He likes his job; no need for encouraging words to buck him up. They’re looking ahead to next year, hunting online for an apartment near the campus they’ve move to next August; no need for parental reminders to think about the future.
Reassuring, but boring.
I live a beyond-the-excitement, happily-ever-after, fly-over existence made possible by the exciting lives of others:
Pilgrims
American revolutionaries
hardy pioneers
abolitionists and Civil War soldiers
WWI doughboys
survivors of the Great Depression
Tom Brokaw’s greatest generation
war veterans
my Alaskan homesteader in-laws years
my courageous and determined parents
Because of them, Hiram I will spend a quiet, fly-over Thanksgiving with our daughter and new son in their tiny, college apartment. We’ll talk about work, exchange recipes, do a few odd jobs, and be in bed by 9:00 PM.
I am exceeding grateful for those who made possible this boring, fly-over life. You?
by jphilo | Sep 25, 2015 | Family
This Fantastic Friday pays tribute to my father’s cousins Garnett Morris and Jeanie Painter. This post was written shortly after Garnett died in September of 2009. This past July Jeanie, Dad’s last living cousin, passed away. Too late, I once again wish I’d made visiting them and learning their history a greater priority.
My IRS Agent
My IRS agent Garnett Morris (left) died last night. Up until last year she worked incognito, at Ieast from my perspective. I learned of her former occupation last October when my mother (center) and Garnett’s sister Jeannie (right) visited Garnett at the nursing home she’d recently moved into.
Garnett’s mind was sharp, and she shared stories about her life in Des Moines during and after World War II. My parents always had great respect for Garnett, who was my dad’s cousin, a career woman and mother in an era when most women stayed home with their children. But they never mentioned (or more likely I never paid attention when they did) that she worked for the IRS.
My retelling of the details may be fuzzy since Garnett’s revelation left me shell shocked. Dad’s faithful older cousin who sent him birthday cards year after year was with the Feds? This comfortable woman, whose Christmas letters were full of exceedingly average family news, was an IRS agent? How could I pay attention to what she said after a bombshell like that?
If what I remember is anything close to accurate, she started as an office worker, not as an agent. But eventually, she was promoted and in charge of a whole lot of office workers. And she traveled to be trained and to train other people, which I figure could have been her story while she did secret tax audits. So I think she really was an IRS agent, but the government doesn’t want her to blow her cover.
Ever since that day, I’ve wanted to visit her again and get the skinny on her job, under the guise of taking Mom and Jeannie to see her again. But I never got around to it, and now it’s too late.
I’m a little sad today, not because my overactive imagination didn’t get fresh fodder. I’m sad because Garnett would have enjoyed our visit. So in honor of Garnett, I’m going to conduct a time audit and straighten out my priorities. If I inherited the same accountant gene she did, it will be easy. More likely, my overactive imagination is messing with my head, and it’s going to be a chore.
Whichever it is, I know that while I’m tidying up my Day Planner, Dad and Garnett will enjoy a good talk. Because everybody in my dad’s family inherited the visiting gene. No exceptions.
by jphilo | Sep 15, 2015 | Family, Top Ten Tuesday
Last week’s post listed several lessons the Man of Steel and I learned during recent visits with our two youngest grandbabies, ages 5 months and 8 months. This week’s post is all about what we learned during those visits from our 2-year-old grandson who turns 3 in a few weeks.
10. Grandparents who want to buy a brand new car can rationalize the purchase because of the LATCH child seat feature. It’s all about keeping the little ones safe.
9. Ladders are the most important thing.
8. Grandparents can achieve rock star status by taking a 2-year-old to Home Depot and hanging out in the tool aisle.
7. While hanging out in the tool aisle, a 2-year-old can teach his grandmother to recognize ball peen, roofing, and tack hammers, as well as explain how they are used.
6. Every moment is a teachable moment.
5. The outdoors in an amazing classroom.
4. The sweetest thing in the world is holding a small child’s hand.
3. Intergenerational relationships are a precious treasure.
2. Each smile from a 2-year-old is a reason for celebration and great joy.
1. Saying good-bye to a 2-year-old grandchild is like resurrection. The next time you meet, the relationship you’ve developed will come alive again.
What have you learned from your grandchildren? Leave a comment.
by jphilo | Sep 14, 2015 | Family
Hey-ho, Camp Dorothy fans. This is your friendly camp activities director here with the promised update about the camp namesake’s 87th birthday party. First off, the camp activities director wants to give credit where credit is due. So readers should know that the birthday bash was not the brainchild of the camp activities director. Rather, the event was planned and executed to perfection by the camp director’s older sister.
Speaking of older sisters, the above photo catches older sister Dorothy and her younger sister Donna in a rare display of affection. As in they are actually touching. Only a side hug, to be sure, but still a big deal because we are not a family to engage willy-nilly in any sort of touchy-feelyness.
So the photo is quite a coup. Though the photographer had plenty of time to prepare for taking the picture. Because the sisters, one with her walker and the other on the arm of her nephew, evoked memories of Tim Conway’ Little Old Man routine as they moved into side hug range.
The camp director digresses. Back to the party, held on Labor Day Sunday, which was a rousing success. 30 people, including the camp’s namesake, four generations of family, and several friends, were in attendance. The birthday girl was the oldest party goer at age 87. The youngest was her great-grandson 5 months of age. She enjoyed an afternoon filled with conversation and, as far as the camp director could see, never stopped smiling.
Once the party was over much of the crowd–including Camp Dorothy’s namesake–went to her son and daughter-in-law’s house for supper. The birthday girl made a beeline for her favorite chair at their house, sat down, and made full use of her “queen for the day” status, expecting her children and grandchildren to wait on her hand and foot. Though we drew the line at cutting her toenails.
Queen Dorothy was worn out when her daughters took her to Vintage Hills and tucked her in bed for the night. The next morning she was smiling and ready to go when her oldest daughter picked her up for breakfast at her son and daughter-in-law’s house. She stayed through lunch, playing countless games of Uno and several rousing rounds of Catch Phrase.
Finally, smiling and sleepy, she called it a day. The camp director visited her a couple days later and found her still smiling. Then the camp director pulled out a package of thank you cards and announced it was time to get to work. Another Camp Dorothy update will be forthcoming when the cards are done, and she starts smiling again. Don’t hold your breathe. It could be a while.
