The Bug got it
There is a system to home ownership. It is : there’s just too doggone much to do. Full time jobs seem to interfere. Babies’ schedules just don’t always fit in with the weekend ToDo list. I know. We were there, too.
When the kitchen needed papering, when the 3 x 3 square step needed expanding to a 10 x 10 deck, when the stairs needed a railing because I ripped out the old one (that’s another story), we would call my mom and dad. Dad and Stan would do what needed doing, Mom would take care of kids and meals while I papered or painted, whatever. Not every time. We were fairly independent. We would just save stuff for their visits.
Now we are paying it forward. There’s always something for Stan to do. And I get to play with The Bug. One time this system gave Julie a chance to plant the garden. Randy and Stan fixed the back door. This time the same door is being painted, the window frames are being scraped, repaired, and painted. Green. Great color. And I am chasing the baby, playing in the plastic pool–rough duty, until……………….
The Bug got it. Let’s see. The parents explained for a week that Nana and Poppy were coming to visit —- Yay! Applause, applause. Then, after a day or two into it, Nana comes in the room and Mommy disappears. Baby is not the happiest camper this morning. So today the plans changed a little. This morning while Mommy painted the door, both Daddy and Nana took the Schnook’ms to his favorite play park, Daddy went to work, and both Mommy and Nana got in the car and went to MacDonald’s and Target. One nap time later, and we’ll see. During said nap time, Mommy is painting the dining room. So what do I do with a freshly painted room in the middle of the house? This could be good.
I told you he was intelligent.
Toddler Heaven
We arrived about 5:30 pm Saturday to be greeted by some tired people. There had been a fever in the house and when baby’s not happy, nobody’s happy. Scrambled sleep cycles, insomnia, just the general grumps.
We got the standard who-are-you glare but the dammed up smiles broke through with a silly Poppy playing peek-a-boo.
The poor child needed new toys so we introduced him to a brightly colored workbench — the hammer is the most popular piece — and a Radio Flyer red trike — a real steel one, not the plastic stuff.
Drew is the entertainment of the day. Everything he does and says is just so —- intelligent!! We are charmed.
Currently the big men are out fishing. It’s 90 plus degrees and maximum muggy so that tells me showers are in order when they return, but first we eat. Ooo-gah.
Today Julie and I babysat a friend, Rose, 4 days older than Drew. It was wonderful watching them relate, and "trade" toys. This was a new experience for Drew to have someone come to his territory and express interest in his very own toys all of which are called "mine." They did manage to share and have great fun, but not as much fun as I had watching. Of course Duncan freaked out Rose at first but she eventually slowly reached out and touched him before she scooted away.
Like I said, we are charmed.
Buttoned Down
Hey, Hon, this is the best job of packing the car we’ve done yet. That’s because there’s not a major piece of furniture in the back seat. However, there were 3 or 4 bags of garbage in the car and yes, we did drop them off first instead of letting them sit in the car any length of time.
The plan is to leave from work and book it, no stops. That was the plan.
Remember the post Blankets and Babies? I commented that Tracey had, I mean, sneezed out, her baby. I finished the blanket and wanted to drop it off with the minister on our way out of town. Nope nope. She can wait another week. It’ll be fine. We don’t need to be stopping, we’ll spend time talking, it’s suppertime, let’s just drive. Button down and go, y’know?
As the morning wears on we work through the standard litany of DidYouRememberThe…..yes, yes, yes, uh–no, I forgot the tackle box. Well, then. No biggie, the house is sort of on the way out, and the tackle box is important enough not to stress over going to get it. So, while we’re there…. I have a short list. Stan and I seem to be cut from the same cloth and the longer we live, the more it frays.
And, something was wrong with the antenna system on the top of the car. For one thing, it looks like we won’t make it through any underpasses but that could be an optical illusion. Mmmmm…. I’m pretty sure it’s ok. It does … sway. Then, I heard outside my office door the word, "grounded" or was that "not grounded" as Stan has spent the last two hours in and out the door. Even cut his thumb. Oooo, bandaids. Need to add that to my short list. It could happen again.
Finally, I want you to know that in honor of my mother, I am presentable for proper travel in a dress, nylons, heels (easily kicked off), and my diamond earrings. Luckily I’m as comfortable as I would be in sweats (which I don’t own).
Can you tell I’m just a teeny bit ansy to see my kids? I’m gonna hug ‘em and kiss ‘em and squeeze ‘em and hug ‘em and kiss ‘em and squeeze ‘em and………
I’m working on it!
Are you packed yet? No, I’m still choosing. Where’s the whatchajingy? I don’t know. Are you planting the flower boxes tonight? Haven’t decided. We have to be buttoned down tomorrow morning. Don’t forget….. Are we taking…. Should we stop at……….. Did you……… Oh! We need to…….. What do you need that for?
Would you just write it down, please.
Where’s a pen?
One of us packs verbally first. One of us………doesn’t.
I am verrrrry delllicately balanced today. Just in case something a little "edgy" happens, I don’t think I would serve a single day of jail time as long as I had 12 unorganized peers on the jury. I might even be awarded damages.
I do too have a list. It’s pink. Some entries are blue ink, some are black ink. It includes but is not limited to two birthday gifts, hobby material, the tool box, and other various comforts and necessities as well as warnings e.g. check the stove, the faucets, the iron, the AC, the front door, and unplug the computer. Sure could use some gooood medication.
Most important is the bathrooms. They must be clean in case we kill each other and someone has to come in and sort our stuff.
This is a very comprehensive list. We shouldn’t have to turn around more than twice.
One 24 hour cycle plus 2 hours and 11 minutes and we are free to run. Next stop, your guess is as good as mine. We’re allowed one wrong turn.
Domino Effect
I loved my Gramma Murphy. She would rock me in her wicker rocking chair. I remember looking down and noticing nervously that we tipped way, waaaay back, held breathlessly in one of those forever moments on the very tippy tip tip of the runner. No way was she rocking me to sleep in that thing.
She didn’t have a TV but she had a radio and couldn’t miss The Arthur Godfrey Show every day. When reception was a little static which was often, she would hit it until it came in better. Lots of tape later, the thing still operated, still produced static, and she’d hit again.
She liked to fix me snacks like any good grandmother would. She would ask what I wanted probably thinking I would say cookies, or cake, or pie, but I said peas. Peas? Yes. With butter, please. Peas. Salt, too. Coming right up. (this kid is weird)
And we would play dominos. Sometimes I would just line them up and tip the first one delighting in the inevitable tumble and she and I would marvel and laugh.
Gramma was born in 1879 or 1880. Her brothers were the farm hands, she and her mother were the house slaves. At 18 she married Butler. She lost her first child at 4 months to measles, her preemy boy/girl twins, born at home died after 4 hours, and a daughter was stillborn. Herman and Dad lived, her only surviving babies. Wanting a daughter so very desperately, she put Dad in dresses until he was 6. Fortunately, this did not scar him. When Dad was about 11, Butler was told his gum disease would move to his brain, causing insanity, and he would kill his family. He prevented this by hanging himself. I don’t think Dad fully recovered. Ethel didn’t get completely past it. She didn’t become totally bitter. But some hurts did transfer…. selectively. My heart aches for her, her hurt and those she hurt.
It’s important to me not only to understand my own hurts but to understand the hurts that are handed down. Somebody stop the dominos.
I have a friend in our church family who shares a common memory with me. As all little girls do, she asked her mama if she was pretty. Like my mother, one of her mother’s biggest fears was that her pretty little girl would get the dreaded Big Head. Her answers were something like “Pretty is as pretty does” or “Beauty is only skin deep.” (Sigh). I guess I’m not pretty.
I don’t know if Ethel ever asked her mother that question. I don’t know what her overworked mother would have said to such foolishness while her own hair dragged in her eyes, and her calloused hands were busy with one more endless chore with no end in sight.
Generally, hurting people hurt people, not only their own children but anyone else that crosses their path. But, sometimes the first domino is the person who’s been led to believe he or she is the center of the universe; someone who hasn’t been taught the essential people skills like compassion or respect; someone who must be in control and on top at all times.
Parents, tell your children they are beautiful creations in the likeness of God. Hug them. Kiss them. Praise their ‘fridg art. Give them practical people skills. Show them how to have joy in the midst of sadness and hurt. Tell them how to repel the inevitable cruelties of the world and how to seek healing on their knees. Balance that with a healthy humility in God’s presence, gratitude, obedience, and the ability to give and forgive.
Somebody needs to set up new dominos.
Mama’s Baby
There I am. 4. They let me have my picture taken with the real students as long as my two sisters were standing in line anyway. Our school system didn’t have kindergarten, to my mother’s patient dismay, because she had to wait until I reached six and a half to drive me to a strange room and abandon me to Mrs. Turpening (later nicknamed Mrs. Turpentine. I think I accidentally called her that once). Nice lady. Wore her hair up and braided. Played the piano too. Anyway…..I imagine Mom half dreaded the scene and planned on sitting on one of those teeny chairs at the back of the room for at least 3 months because I was ………… a Mama’s Baby.
If you think my eyes in this picture look shiny it may be because a stranger was separating me from my mother’s side, maybe all of 5 feet, and I was crying. Who is this kid anyway? Did you say she wasn’t even in school yet? We’re losing daylight here. I think I remember Mom encouraging me to stay seated and please smile, making the "go-sit-stay"" signals with her hands. This was not helping and could have been interpreted as rejection. Somehow somebody convinced me not to screw my face up bawling and the photographer snapped this. I was more than likely getting my breath between wails. Yes, this is smiling compared to the recent blubbering. You want grinning? Find another kid.
Look at that dress, would you? I should have been on the Lassie series—no doubt, as the kid in the well. Just remove my mother from the set and I wouldn’t need to be told to cry.
Back to the story. The Mama’s Baby Syndrome lasted until the very first day of first grade. Up to about age 3, I was scared of Dad until Mom told me I was hurting his feelings at which point I ran up to him because I felt sorry for him. I was a very sensitive child! I understood tears. From then on, I couldn’t get enough of Daddy, but off the homestead, I was still connected to Mom. Poor Mom. Nearer to 50 than 40 and the (hopefully) last child was still attached.
I remember one time she was going to the church for something and told me that Grandma Murphy was going to stay with me. I must have misunderstood when she left to go get her. Why, in the name of common sense, did she not take me in the car? I ran for the back of the sofa and hid behind it, terrified, thinking I was all alone in the world forever. In comes Grandma and the memory ends there. I thought she was pretty ok. She did sit me several times both at home and at her house. Memories are rushing back; I will get to Grandma Murphy in another post.
First grade. First day. Mom, anticipating the teeny chair and leg cramps. She walked me to the door and here came Carolyn Leath running toward me. "I like your zumper, Zanie!" I turned to Mom and instructed her she could go home now. I can only imagine Mom’s lower jaw dragging. I wonder if she cried when she got home. She’d better have.
PWW
Perfectly Wonderful Weather.
This week has been a seesaw of weather, scheduling, waiting, emotions. It started off oppressively humid, even though humidity is irrelevent. I’m still confusing that with dewpoint. All I know is , sweat is wet and I am pooped out. Holding wood for measuring, walking to the back for cutting, and repeating the process over and over until everything fit was gruelling.
We have been remodeling the front deck. I would treat you to pictures if I had remembered to get a flippin’ battery for the camera the last umpteen times I’ve been in a WalMart.
Tonight perfect for finishing the last railing length, the spindles, and the banister. If those isolated thundershowers skip our house tomorrow and Saturday, we should have the touch-up painting done this weekend.
We are hustling to get this front yard project out of our faces so we can look at our vacation ToDo lists—yes, that’s plural, sorted by type and purchase location. I think I have a camera battery on one of the lists, somewhere. On my desk at work I have a list with a list attached to it.
We will share our pride in our home improvement achievements with snapshots soon. In the meantime, that deck is assembled and cute as it can be. The little lavendar flowers are going gangbusters in the planters. However, the one window box plants are just sitting there like slugs. I told them they had until yesterday and oh, well, I guess they are out’o'there as of this weekend.
Anyone have any suggestions on the next window box victim?
High Class
88.3 on the dial. EZ Listening. Don’t fall asleep on me yet, people. Most of its content is high class, old, cool jazz, plus some. Some of it stinks, but, hey, I don’t choose the programming. Ok?
Honey and I have a routine. Drive time, mornings, 100.3 fm talk, Hallerin Hilton Hill, cool dude, educated, classy. Google him up and check him out. We used to listen to the Oldies, but after a while, they got………old. We won’t rule them out if we’re in the mood, but for now, it’s Hallerin. After work, 5pm, the button is still on 100.3, we listen to the news and switch to EZ. At rush hour drive time, this selection plays what I not so fondly refer to as "Lounge Lizard" stuff. Reception is limited on Hwy.66. By the time 106.9 comes in within 5 miles of the house I feel the need for a shower and switch stations.
We now have a tuner, CD player, and More-Than-We-Need SPEAKAH POWAH in the computer/radio room and are capable of pulling in Saturday night Big Band on the EZ channel. Those who know me know I have a crush on Glenn Miller. I have the CD collection, a gift from the kiddles one Christmas. I also have Benny Goodman’s Carnegie Hall performance. Favorite is Sing, Sing, Sing. There is NOTHING like the Big Bands! But Saturday night, 8-10pm, 88.3 the broadcast is tuned in. So if I have my favorites on CD, why …………… ?
Edna. Check her out. 
My classy mother-in-law, whom I miss more and more every day. Oh, that the clock could be turned back and I could sit and visit with her again!! Just one more game of canasta. Every now and then, she would start up singing some outdated, forgotten something from the 30’s or 40’s. The nice thing to say is that her voice wasn’t choir material, a little tinny too, but it didn’t have to be good. We listen to 88.3 on Saturdays and smile from the soul. "Mom used to sing that!" And we sing along. She didn’t limit herself to the days of her youth. One of her favorites, probably because she thought it sounded silly, was "Elvira" by the Oak Ridge Boys sung with gusto Edna style. Cracked us up every time. That was her intent.
That 30’s-40’s stuff isn’t geezer music because we like it. It’s before our time too! We grew up in the 60’s for pity’s sake!! Rock ‘n’ Roll, The Stones, The Beatles, all that. It’s now classic. You live long enough and the music your parents hated becomes oldies, elevator Musak, then classic. 30’s and 40’s stuff is better than classIC, it’s classy, romantic, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancy, swingy, swaying stuff. Glenn Miller swoon stuff. Edna and HD saw these guys in person in Denver at the time this photo was taken.
They were married shortly after The Great Depression hit. She went from The Daughter of an Englishman to the wife of a furniture salesman in the process of losing his shirt. Despite all the ups and downs she kept her joy. She was smiley, loving, friendly, funny. And she sang. Somewhat bady, but……Thank you, Edna. I love you.
Bad Hair Trip
One more thing. This happened only once. I was 5. Packing is a multi-tasking challenge as it is. Do not attempt to include the administration of a perm on a 5 year old simultaneously with packing the house into suitcases and bags. Even if you and the child survive, don’t be surprised if her frowny-face shows up in all the pictures.
Shoestring Tours
I have set foot in, driven through, filled a gas tank in, observed at 70 mph + / – 10 depending on the driver (Speed Limit Russell vs. Lead Foot Doris), slept in, or actually stayed more than 24 hours in 38 of our 50 states. Some of the above occurred when we had only 48 states. I have flown over an additional four. The New England states, Alaska, and Hawaii are on my ToDo list.
Trouble is, I will have to pay significantly more to see the last 12 than it cost to experience the entire first 38. We traveled on a really thin shoestring. Had it not been for distant cousins strategically scattered across the midwest and willing to take in a family of 5 on short notice at all hours, we would have slept through more states than we did. But…that’s the kind of kin Dad had in those days.
Packing the 4 door sedan for these epic journeys was a marvel. It was training for the travel I do now. See previous blog on packing. Whether we found a cousin, a dent-in-the-ditch motel, or chose to drive straight through, we knew we were sleeping in the car part of the time anyway. Keep in mind there was one 6′2″ long legged dad, one full figured mom, and three wiggly, warring girls, small, medium, and tall. Add to that 3 pillows, 3 blankets, bags of sandwiches, snacks, and drinks, comic books, dolls and/or stuffed pets, various personal items such as hair spray (yes, IN the car), sunglasses (breakable), just about all our clothes, and whatever else pre-school to teen girls think they need in a moving vehicle. If you’re sweltering in central Illinois in July and you are going to the upper peninsula of Michigan and you take only shorts and sleeveless tops you WILL encounter 60’s and drizzle and wish you packed pants and sweaters–trust me.
Mom had to dress up for travel. Sweats did not exist in the 50’s especially for mature, properly reared women. She wore during travel a dress, hat, gloves (in the purse), nylons (in two pieces, seamed), and dress shoes. Dad wore his Indiana Jones fedora and slacks. At times we were coerced into dresses . That’s Sharon’s knee on the left. 
Later in life the parental unit costumes would be replaced with poly-sewn-seam floodwater-height pants and a Stetson with a blue work shirt work pants, respectively. Aging is not always graceful.
Peace was defined as “all 3 asleep”, Sharon on the seat, Margaret on the floor, Janie in the back window. But when the war in the back seat threatened to go nuclear we were split up. One of us was in the front seat (YAY!) and assigned the map. There were no interstates and only random sections of 4 lane toll roads, hence the word freeway as interstates grew. So at age 9 I could pull out a road map, get you where you needed to go, read the Burma Shave signs enroute, play alphabet — a “quiet” game, and refold the map properly. That last one took practice. Maps were free at gas stations, too, in case it died of hopeless folding. A good reason to stop besides potty breaks at fill-ups only, please, (but, Daddy, I have to goooo baaaaad) was to switch drivers so that Dad & Mom’s other arms could sunburn too. No AC.
Notable highlights: Dad smoking to stay awake and growling about it. Yeah, right. I think he liked it. Mom halfway into the back seat running on one foot because Dad was rolling onto the highway and couldn’t hear her yelling RUSSEL!! RUSS-ELLLL!!!. A blowout on New Mexico hot asphalt –no power steering and parts scattered back a mile or so I was told, 1954. Desert vistas photographed with a Brownie in black and white. White out all the way to The Soo at Christmas and picking up the cutest soldier hitchhiking his way home. Popping a balloon behind Dad’s head–not a good idea. Driving past historic and other sites of interest– we’re “making time” here. Buying a different car enroute when the ‘52 Hudson that I loved broke down. Dang. I could sit on the armrest and see out for once.
I haven’t touched on the destinations. Maybe I’ll have to write a How Not to Travel Guide. No regrets, I wouldn’t want to trade these stories. But if we’d flown every time, how dull would that have been? Oh, but trains! Now, that would have rocked. I’ll put that on my ToDo list.
