by jphilo | Nov 20, 2009 | Reflections on the Past
With Christmas creeping ever closer, it’s time for Christmas lists, but I’m having a hard time starting mine.
I could say life’s too busy, which it has been.
Or I could plead ignorance, saying I don’t know what I want, which isn’t true.
Or I could say my tastes are expensive this year, and having been raised in a thrifty family, embarrassment keeps me from showing anyone such a pricey list. Now this last reason is closer to the truth, so I’ve developed a few suggestions to help my potential gift givers stretch their shopping dollars. Maybe they could find the Pampered Chef baking stone and chopper I’m hankering for. Come to think of it, ebay might also have some of the remaining serving pieces needed to complete my good set of Lenox china.
But all those reasons are smoke screens created to obscure the real reason my Christmas list isn’t ready. See, the only thing I yearn for is, according to my research, a figment of my childhood imagination. All I want for Christmas, and all I’ve ever wanted since it was first advertised on TV when I was about seven, is a little cardboard princess vanity and stool, complete with play cosmetics and a real mirror.
The memory of the ad is fresh in my mind, as is my ancient childhood certainty that my thrifty parents would never, never buy such an expensive gift. And the memory of my joy one Christmas morning when I found the vanity assembled and ready for use in the bedroom I shared with my sister, has never left me. Neither has the disappointment I experienced upon waking from the most vivid dream of my entire life.
Since the night of that dream, a cardboard princess vanity is all I’ve ever wanted for Christmas. But after scouring the internet and finding no mention of them anywhere, I’m convinced they were a figment of my overactive imagination. Either that or they were so chintzy, they all fell apart and are no longer in existence.
If any of you remember seeing those TV ads and were captivated by them, too, would you leave a comment? And if you received one as a gift, please lie through your teeth. Even if it’s not true, tell me the fake cosmetics didn’t work, the furniture was a piece of junk, and the gift was the most disappointing one you ever received.
At age fifty-three, it’s time to put this dream behind me and get on with life. There’s a world of Pampered Chef and Lenox out there, and it’s time I stepped into it.
by jphilo | Nov 10, 2009 | Reflections on the Past
When I was a kid in northwest Iowa, Sioux City was big. Really big. Really, really big. It was the center of civilization and all things phantasmagorical, a legendary place we visited a few times a year for gala events such as the Shrine Circus and the debuts of wholesome movie debuts including Jungle Book, The Sound of Music, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, and Mary Poppins.
Every childhood trip to Sioux City commenced with Dad singing his rendition of the old song, Sioux City Sue and the rest of us chiming in. He only knew the first few lines – “Five foot two; eyes of blue; she’s my sweet Sioux City Sue; Has anybody seen my gal?” – so the concert didn’t last long.
Before the last note died away, he launched into his standard commentary about Sioux City being a rough town, like river towns tend to be. “So you kids stay close when we go shopping.” Dad would wink. “Don’t wander off. Got that?”
All those memories came flooding back last weekend when I drove to Sioux City to leave complimentary copies of my book at hospital chaplains’ offices. On the way, I passed the McDonald’s where I tasted my first hamburger. I drove by Stone Park, where we used to picnic with my uncle and aunt’s family.
To be honest, the town seemed a whole lot smaller than I remembered it. The streets weren’t hard to navigate, and I wondered why my mom always got so tense driving around the tiny city.
Only the hills were as big as I remembered them, maybe even a little bigger. The walk from my car in the parking lot to the hospital’s main entrance was quite vertical. Good exercise, but it’s hard to make a good impression on strangers when huffing and puffing, all red-faced and sweaty. Still, it was good to visit Sioux City again, the exciting Mecca of my childhood.
I drove back to Le Mars, humming Sioux City Sue and thinking about my dad. What I wouldn’t give to sing with him one more time.
by jphilo | Nov 2, 2009 | Reflections on the Past
A few days ago, I addressed the culture shock caused by my recent return from California. But I have to tell you, that discombobulation pales compared to the culture shock I experienced in 1978 when my new hubby and I moved to South Dakota. Being very young and totally self-centered, sure that the entire United States was exactly like my small Iowa town, I had no idea we were moving into the heart of cowboy country until we got there.
I landed with thud, and it took the better part of two years before I recovered. But eventually I grew to love the vast, wild prairie and the independent, hardy ranchers who inhabited it, though I drew the line at snuggling in and making myself at home with trail rides, rodeos, rattlesnakes, sheep shearing, lambing, calving, and branding. Home was always Iowa, and after seven years on the prairie, we moved back to the state where I immediately felt comfortable.
But a little bit of tall grass prairie took root in me during our seven South Dakota years. I still wait eagerly for the county newspaper, the Nation’s Center News, to arrive. Just this week I greedily read about friends and former students, weddings and funerals, church suppers and Extension Club meetings.
The advertisement on the last page of the paper made me smile. It was devoted to an upcoming Sheep Shearing School to be held across the border in Hettinger, North Dakota. Topics to be covered include:
- Professional shearing patterns
- Tagging and eyeing
- Equipment maintenance and repair
- Wood handling and preparation
For those looking for a little bit more, the ad mentioned a Wool Science and Wool Handling Program being held in conjunction with the shearing school. Topics covered are:
- Wool fiber growth, development and production
- Objective measurement of wool
- Genetic selection programs
- Wool contamination and handling practices
- Wool classing, packaging, labeling and marking
- Hands-on wool grading
I thought of the ranchers I knew who would be looking forward to the Sheep Shearing School. I heard them talking about the friends they would see in Hettinger and imagined them fussing over the weather. I smelled the dusty wind and their chewing tobacco, manure-caked boots and diesel fuel.
Then I looked around my living room: neat, comfortable and very, very Iowa. Sudden tears came to my eyes.
That darn culture shock. It nailed me again.
by jphilo | Oct 29, 2009 | Reflections on the Past
On Tuesday, I posted an entry about Denzel Washington along with a plea for help. I asked readers if they could find the link to an interview I’d heard last week between him and the host of Fresh Air, Terry Gross. Well, one of my former students, now a post-grad studying library science, came through and located the interview link.
Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you, Miss Cara. I wanted the link, not only so people who hadn’t heard it before could listen in, but so I could again listen to Denzel share his faith story with grace and humility.
Believe me, the second go-around was even better than the first. You see, during last week’s broadcast, which turned out to be a rebroadcast of an earlier show, the station had sound problems, and they had to break away before the interview ended. When I listened this time, I discovered Denzel and I share a common 1960s television legacy:
- We both looked forward to the annual Sunday night broadcast of The Wizard of Oz with great excitement.
- He thought Danny Kaye’s annual introduction to the annual broadcast of The Wizard of Oz was the best thing since sliced bread.
- On the other 51 Sunday nights of the year, he watched Bonanza and Ed Sullivan, just like we did.
- He watched The Red Skelton Show on Tuesday nights, just like we did. In fact, when he signs autographs, he always writes “God Bless” and then his name, because that’s what Red Skelton said at the end of every show.
So if you listen to the interview, be sure to hang on until the very end. You won’t want to miss Denzel Washington singing Follow the Yellow Brick Road in a munchkin voice.
Thank you, Miss Cara. And thank you, Denzel. The two of you made my day.
by jphilo | Oct 14, 2009 | Reflections on the Past
Today was not as productive as I hoped it would be. A speaking engagement in Des Moines went longer than expected, so my departure for the Council Bluffs/Omaha area was delayed. Combine that with faulty Map Quest directions to Children’s Hospital, and I didn’t get there in time to meet Sheila, the cordial hospital chaplain who I had contacted by phone about dropping of complimentary copies of A Different Dream for My Child.
Oh well, I thought after calling Sheila and explaining why I wouldn’t make it and offering to mail books to her after this business trip, there’s still time to get to the University of Nebraska Hospital with their complimentary copies.
Rain began to fall as I drove east toward the corner of Dodge and 42nd. Though twenty-seven years have passed since Allen’s three week stay in the U of Nebraska Hospital’s NICU, and evidence of new construction was evident, the area around the hospital felt familiar. About two blocks west of the hospital intersection, a faded orange sign on the north side of the road caught my eye.
Village Inn. It was still there, looking tired and unkept. The sight of it brought back memories of hurried breakfasts after nights of fitful, worried sleep. I thought of meals eaten but not tasted, of food bolted down in the rush to return to Allen’s side in the NICU. Then I thought of Susan, our baby’s primary nurse – was her last name Bristol? – who greeted us each time we returned and lovingly told us every little thing Allen had done in our absence.
Unexpected tears blurred my vision. I turned south on 42nd Street, blinking them away in time with the windshield wipers. Somehow, I managed to locate the main entrance to the hospital. It had changed, but the chaplains’ receptionist had given good directions. I parked and located the office, but the door was locked, the room was dark. I sat on a bench and scrawled a quick note, explaining my delay. For the second time in an hour, I promised to mail their books once I arrive home.
And, I optimistically and unrealistically asked, have you ever heard of a nurse named Susan who worked in the NICU in 1982? Her last name might be Bristol, though I’m not sure. She left NICU a number of years ago to manage a different unit, though I don’t know which one. I want to contact her, I explained, because she loved our son so much. Then I wrapped the note around a few business cards and slipped the little bundle under the door.
I walked back to my car, knowing the likelihood of locating Susan in a hospital as vast as this one was. But that didn’t matter. And neither did the missed appointments. All that mattered was the love Susan gave our baby, the tender care she lavished on him in our absence. Her love is a part of him, and I hope they meet some day.
I did what I could to make that happen. My day was not wasted at all.
by jphilo | Sep 18, 2009 | Reflections on the Past
The news of Mary Travers death yesterday was bad enough, but when Henry Gibson’s death was announced on the radio, I wondered who would be next. Carol Burnett? Lily Tomlin? Andy Griffith? James Garner? Mary Tyler Moore? Julie Andrews? Tim Conway?
Feeling like a sitting duck, I grabbed the remote and turned off the radio.
The image of my father, his wheel chair facing the TV from its position between the recliner and the couch, came to mind. It was Monday night, and time for Laugh In. The show’s double entendres went right over my head, but they nailed Dad in the funny bone every time. How did he talk Mom, who sniffed out the tiniest whiff of sexual innuendo and banished it from the house, into letting the whole family watch the show? I have no idea, but thanks to my dad, Henry Gibson and the rest of the gang were part of our Monday night routine for Laugh In’s entire run.
To this day, I hear one bar of the show’s theme song, and I’m a kid again. Mom’s in the recliner, Dad’s in his wheelchair, I’m on the couch with my sister. My little brother lays on my stomach on the floor with Missy, our intrepid dachshund, laying in the indentation where his legs meet, her head resting on his butt.
“Jo-Jo, get your father a hankie,” Mom orders.
“Thanks, Joely.” Dad gasps. He grabs it with shaking fingers, mops up his tears, and honks into the white cloth. “I’ll keep it until the show’s over. You sit down and watch.”
I sit down, but I don’t watch TV. Instead, I watch my father, ancient at forty, but still too young to have spent ten years in the wheelchair. Dad’s not feeling sorry for himself, though. He’s smiling at the Sock-It-to-Me girls, enjoying himself immensely, laughing until the hankie is soaked.
There’s always a reason to laugh, I thought, and looked at the screen. Henry Gibson appeared again, doing a sad-sack routine. But when a tiny smile flits across his lips, he echos my father’s attitude. There’s always a reason to laugh.
I pick up the remote and turn on the radio. No matter how bad the news is, I can hear laughter.
