The Red Bench
My husband just picked up his new tools the other night. I call them his big boy toys, to which he replies with the sound made popular by Tim Allen, the “Home Improvement” sitcom guy. My husband is gifted with the ability to make some pretty cool things with his toys. One of the most memorable is a park bench that he made for our daughter and son-in-law a few years ago. As he played with his “toys” yesterday, it reminded me of my grandpa, and one very special red bench.
My grandpa was a man of many talents, and his hands were always busy. You would find him tinkering here and there, fixing this or that, and always looking for ways to make something better. Every screw, nut, and bolt that ever lay upon the ground would have a purpose, and likewise, every scrap piece of rope, wood, and metal. It may have been because of his farm upbringing, or living through the depression era, but whatever the reason nothing went to waste. In today’s society of recycling and green living, his creations would be given top credit for his use of materials, ingenuity, and resourcefulness. From his spinning baby food jars – nuts and bolts caddy, to the coffee can Christmas trees decorations, Grandpa was a master. His master creations were not only useful, but also provided a lifetime of memories for our family.
One of my fondest memories growing up in the warm weather of San Diego, was going to parades. Parades for Easter, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Day, were highly anticipated celebrations. On parade day, Nana and mom would send grandpa out on parade route reconnaissance at 0’dark early to ensure that we would have a prime location. After completing his mission and roping off our area, he would head back home to help haul our load of ice chests, picnic baskets, blankets, and lawn chairs, out to the parade route. He would drop our supplies off at 6 AM curb side, park the car, then set everything up and wait for us to arrive. One Easter though, when grandpa arrived, they had already blocked off the street. He had to trek everything from the parking lot down the street to our spot by himself, barely finishing before we arrived. He knew he had to find a better way to consolidate our load and yet accommodate the family’s needs.
Several days later he began his secret mission to successful parade enjoyment. I don’t think anyone had a clue as to what he was doing, except maybe Nana. I remember watching him as he sorted boards, carefully choosing just the right ones. To cut the wood with perfection, he selected the best of his hand saws from up high on the work bench. I can still see the worn brown finish on the grip, where his gentle, but firm hand held tight while guiding the long, wide blade. Several times I asked him what he was making, and who it was for, but he would only say “you’ll see soon enough.” I thought I could get the answer by helping, and pestered him until I had a part in the secret mission. Grandpa found a screw, nut, bolt, hinge and nail, and tasked me with sorting through the jars and boxes at his workbench to find several of the matches. I was excited, that is until I realized how many of the screws, nails, and nuts looked alike. I quickly decided that I had enough and went inside to play, leaving my thoughts of the “secret” with grandpa.
Over the course of the next several weeks, grandpa worked on his project. I had moved on to other things, namely the anticipation of the Memorial Day parade. I hadn’t even realized that grandpa’s project was missing, until I was sent to get something from the garage and saw the neatly organized work bench. No wood waiting to be assembled. No nails or tools set out. No “secret project.” Just an old can of red paint, and a long rectangular red wooden box with a handle. Grandpa said I would see his project “soon enough,” but it wasn’t even here. The “secret” was gone, and now I would never know what it was. I stomped back in the house hoping it would cause someone to ask me what was wrong, at which time I would let them all know that grandpa didn’t let me see the “secret.” Instead of asking though, everyone went about their business of final preparations for the parade, and I headed to my room to sulk.
Monday came quickly, and I had recovered fully from my “secret” pity party. Grandpa had already staked out our spot, been home, and left again with the supplies. I was confused though when I saw the lawn chairs were still on the back porch. When I asked why, I was quickly ushered to the car without explanation. As we made our way to the parade, I was a little dismayed. After all, where were we going to sit? Didn’t anyone else wonder the same thing?
Arriving at the parking lot I finally got up the courage to ask what everyone was surely thinking – “where are we going to sit?” the response was unexpected “you’ll see soon enough!” When we arrived at our spot, grandpa was standing there beaming. Several people had gathered around, some were trying to shake his hand, others were asking him questions. I didn’t understand at first what was going on, as I was still worried about where we were going to sit – then I saw it – the most beautiful red bench you would ever see at a parade! The dark red bench had a high back with a handle on top, and had arms and legs just like a chair. It could even seat three people! We all got to take turns sitting in it. It made me feel so proud to know that my grandpa made such a special bench just for us. Many people came by that day and spoke with grandpa. Some slapped his back in congratulations, while others asked how he made it. I wasn’t paying attention, because all the while I was wondering how come I didn’t see it in the garage. I would soon have my answer.
When the parade ended, we all began to organize everything for the ride home. I was wondering how grandpa was going to carry the big bench back to the car, and more importantly, how we were going to get it in! And then I had the answer. Grandpa bent over the bench and began loosening wing nuts. He removed the arms and legs, and collapsed the bench. He then put the arms and legs into the backside of the bench back, placed the seat on the back to form a box, and retightened the wing nuts. Five minutes and he was done, and it was then I finally realized what I was looking at. It was the box from the workbench! His “secret project” had been right before my eyes and I didn’t even know it. Grandpa had created a box that with the spin of some wing nuts, created a bench, and a lifetime of memories!
Over the years that bench went to many parades, picnics, and camping trips. Grandpa added a shoulder carry strap, but did little else to change our beloved red bench. Now, I think about the red bench every time my husband creates something new. I wonder if it will mean as much to the one who uses it, as the one who made it. Will they too have red bench memories?
The Itsy Bitsy Spider
Many years ago a local newspaper carried a cartoon of a woman and a little spider. The woman was about to make the spider null and void with a long trail of paper towels. My husband clipped the cartoon and presented it to me because I have been that woman with the trail of paper towels! After all, has it ever been proven how many paper towels they can bite through? That itsy bitsy spider is never as itsy bitsy as one may think! Haven’t they been known to carry away babies and children? Aren’t their fangs able to bend around corners? Maybe only in the movies, but one can never be too sure.
My first memorable spider sighting was a daddy longlegs when I was about four years old, and I have had a fear of spiders in my house since. Now I don’t mind watching them at the zoo or outside eating the other bugs that I dislike, but certainly not cohabitating with my family watching TV. I am convinced that they should have to ring the door bell like any other guest coming to visit. I will go to great lengths to assure they are not repeat visitors. Growing up, revoking the rights of pesky home intruders was taken care of by grandpa. Smooshing, swatting, spraying, it was all his territory. If you saw a spider you called grandpa, but if he was not around, Nana would get into the fray with her fly swatter. For me the result of the creepy crawly on the wall meant I hid in my room until the culprit was properly eliminated. With all of the spiders I encountered growing up, you would think I could take care of a simple spider on a wall. Somewhere though, I must have missed the course in no fear pest extermination.
My husband soon learned that I forgot to mention this fear of spiders before we said “I do.” He would dutifully come to rescue his fair damsel, who was about to be eaten by the dot on the wall. Laughing as he took care of “spot,” he would want to show me the deceased for verification purposes. I would shrink back not appreciating his humor. Working close to home for a while, he was at my beck-n-call for spider patrol. If I saw a spider in the morning, I’d call him then monitor the spider’s movements until he arrived home at lunch. If the spider moved, I would provide up to the minute intelligence. Little did I know that my “beck-n-call” days were about to be squashed just like the spiders. My husband was going to be transferred an hour north of our house. There would be no quick lunch trips to exterminate the creatures. I was going to have to buck up.
When my nemesis next appeared I had my plan ready. I pulled out the vacuum and attached the long tubes for distance, and to ensure accuracy, I added the crevice tool. Carefully I approached my target and switched on the vacuum. The creature was sucked into oblivion, or at least that is what I thought! When my husband returned home that evening, I shared my day’s achievement with him. He gently schooled me in the way of the spider, telling me that he was certain it was not dead, and that it was sure to crawl back out! This couldn’t be! I was so confident that my method would work, and now I was going to have to come up with another plan. Since the idea was to eradicate, I would need a more concrete plan. My husband used a paper towel to take care of them, so how hard could it be?
The next Saturday was a day of cleaning, with my husband was outside mowing the lawn, I began my day pulling out the vacuum cleaner. I had just moved the vacuum into the living room, when the hairy beast scurried out of the tube. Mortified, but working to overcome the need to call my husband, I grabbed several sheets of paper toweling (because you never know what a spider can bite through!). I pounced on the spider just as my husband came into the room. What a sight I must have been with a wad of paper towels, and one itsy bitsy spider squished in the center!
For many years I kept the fading cartoon posted, garnering laughs from those who have seen it. Today when I see a spider, I am still inclined to call on my husband. After all, you never know how many paper towels a spider can bite through!
The Pixie Sassoon
What’s the difference between a bad haircut and a good one? My husband says about 3 days! I was thinking about that today as I sat in the chair at the beauty salon. As my stylist began snipping my locks, I looked in the mirror and felt like I was being transported through time, and one decidedly “bad” haircut.
My mom worked for May Company of California in the 60’s. Considered cutting edge and fashion forward for their time, May Co. was one of the upscale places to shop. Working in the accounting/receiving department, mom was savvy to what was trendy, and what was happening in the fashion world. She was able to participate in special events before they were presented to the general public. One such event was the 1967 unveiling of hair stylist Vidal Sassoon’s Pixie haircut. The employees were offered the opportunity to have one member of their family receive Vidal’s personal service, and space was limited. Mom signed up right away knowing immediately who the lucky recipient would be.
Mom came home with the good news that a famous British beauty operator was going to do my hair. Now up until that time hair trims were the most I had received, and my hair was waist length, so I was a little hesitant. But even at 6 years old, fashion and vanity were calling my name. The next day I told all of my friends, and began to anticipate the great event. I imagined the likes of Brigette Bardot, with her hair flowing in the wind, or maybe Annette Funicello’s beach party flip. I was going to look fabulous!
The day arrived and I was whisked off to May Company’s specially created event salon. Crowds of people were gathered to watch the transformations of those who were lucky enough to have an audience with the Great Vidal, hairstylist to stars, and promoter of V05 hair products. I was escorted to the chair, and my mom, grandma and I, were introduced to Mr. Sassoon. I was wide eyed in wonder at this man with the funny accent. He said a few things to my mom, and then began to pump up the chair. Without a hint of what was going to happen next, he grabbed a chunk of hair. SNIP! The sound resonated in my ear like an axe falling on a log. I began to cry, but he kept going. In just a matter of minutes my long golden brown hair lay in piles on the floor. Mr. Sassoon had another fashion victory, and I had a Pixie Sassoon, whatever that was. I was turned to face the mirror (which was conveniently out of vision before), but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see. I was staring back at my brother’s twin, only with shorter hair! Several of the assistants came over to insure me that I looked just like Mia Farrow. The only problem with that was I had no idea who she was at the time. As we left, my mom and grandma kept telling me how cute I looked. I wasn’t so sure though.
The next morning I was reluctant to go to school, but there was no excuse that could be created to get out of it. As I walked to meet my friends, several of my brother’s friends began to tease me. When my friends saw me, I could see the uneasy look in their eyes. One of them let me know how much I looked like my brother, which was not what I needed to hear. I was crying once again by the time I reached the playground. Once inside the classroom my teacher realized what trauma I was enduring. She pulled me aside and let me know that it would be better in a few days when I got used to it. She said that in a few days most of the girls at school would have the Pixie Sassoon also. I couldn’t believe that it could be true. No one would want to look like a boy! Little did I know that she would be right, and Hollywood would make it happen!
Years have passed since that haircut. I often think about my encounter with the Sassoon scissors when I am inclined to get a “trim.” One thing I do know, no matter how bad it may seem at the time, there was one haircut that was worse…and only a matter of days before it gets better!
Toad Frisbee
We have a small retention pond in the back of our house. Twice a year it is host to a travelling band of frogs that croak out a melody long, loud, and very clear! When their singing begins, I am transported back to Guam, and a game my brother and I loved to play ~ Toad Frisbee!
Cane toads were a year round resident of Guam. Their antics were notorious, and made for great stories, although most people who had not encountered them found the stories hard to believe. They were huge, weighing in at up to four pounds they made a full grown stateside toad look like a tadpole. Of course, being on a tropical island gave them a hearty meal most anytime of the day or night. There were reported to be seen eating dog and cat food, which later was embellished to them eating the dog or cat. They were however seen eating lizards, bugs, and anything else that their stomachs so desired. These ravenous colossal toads were highly toxic to most animals. Family pets had a high mortality rate if they caught one in their mouth. At twilight they would hop out from their hiding place and revel in the release of the day’s heat. The toads would be so thick in some areas, that they would obscure areas of the road. There was no avoiding them as you drove, so subsequently by morning’s light there were toad carcasses dotting the roads. When the sun started to rise, their once plump bodies were dried by the sun’s rays, reducing them to an eighth of an inch in thickness. By noon they were dried to perfection, and the games could begin!
No one knows when it was created or by whom, but toad Frisbee was not just a past-time, it was a sport all its own. Two parts of the competition were critical, overall visual appeal, and distance obtained. We’d hunt for toads that looked the most aerodynamically sound, with consideration to shape, size, and color. After selecting the appropriate toad, the game could commence. Boundaries were set and toads were flung high into the air. It was quite a site to see. Strangely enough their dried skin provided a smooth surface for air flow and you could gain considerable distance. While this may seem a little unkind to some of you, I can assure you that we did not bring harm to the critters until well after their toady souls were in toad heaven.
Today I just listen to the toads and frogs melodious croaking, and smile. I think back to the time when a brother and sister found joy in simple things right in front of them. I am reminded that no matter how far apart we live, toad Frisbee will always make us both smile ~ love ya Gregg!
Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out!
Nana and mom always said “Be sure your sins will find you out!”~ As an adult I am fully aware of its meaning. As a child, a single event would drive home the point.
For a few years, we lived on the island of Guam, courtesy of the US Navy. It was a fanciful place of lush vegetation, and vivid blue water. When my brother and I weren’t in school, we were exploring the jungle, and hanging out with friends. Most days were spent in the sun, swimming and riding bikes. During football season, our Friday nights were filled with intramural football games, provided by the various military units on the island. They were such great games, that during the week the boys in the neighborhood would gather outback on the vast green belt to play, avoiding the banyan tree roots crossing our front lawns. My friends and I always played the cheerleaders role, rooting on both teams. But as much as I was a girly girl, I longed to be part of the team. Running the ball to the goal and scoring the game winning touchdown. When I said I wanted to be part of the team, my mom quickly reminded me that the boys were rough, and I was a lady. A girl could dream though!
One afternoon the boys gathered to play some touch football. They were short a man and were trying to figure out how to make the team complete. Excitedly I pulled my brother to the side and told him I could play. He was sure we would get in trouble, but I convinced him that if we played out front, mom wouldn’t see us, as she was at the back of the house making dinner. It was a win-win situation. My brother went back to the guys and talked it over with them, and they agreed that I could play.
After a few rounds of throwing the ball, the teams were chosen. I had a pretty good arm, and had done well in the warm up, so I was chosen to be the quarterback. I was ecstatic! We huddled, and decided that I would drop back until I had an open shot at the receiver. We broke our huddle and the adrenaline started pumping. The exhilaration was thick as the count was made and the ball was snapped into my waiting hands. I raised and began stepping backwards, when out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the guys came charging right at me. I turned to gain some distance, but he caught me by the waist and tackled me! I hit the root of the banyan tree with a crack, and immediately felt a warm sensation in my shoulder. I couldn’t push up off of the ground, and my brother was soon at my side to help me. Tears filled my eyes as I saw the panicked look on his face. This was supposed to be a simple game of touch, and now we would have to explain why I had grass stains all over my new clothes, which would lead to the explanation of why I was playing football with the boys, which would lead to my brother getting in trouble also because he said I could play. As he started to pull me up, I felt a wave of nausea creep over me. I was telling myself that it wasn’t as bad as it felt, and I had a plan to avoid getting in trouble. If I could make it into the house and head right to the bathroom, I could change and no one would be the wiser. It may take a couple of days to heal, but I would get over it just like other bumps and bruises. So the new play was put into motion.
My brother headed into the house and straight for the kitchen to keep mom’s attention from the front door. I went to my room for fresh clothes, and then to the bathroom. I shut the bathroom door and started to take off my t-shirt, but my arm wouldn’t cooperate. Tears once again streamed down my face, and a wave of panic crept over me. If I couldn’t get my shirt off I was in real trouble. Just about that time my dad arrived home, and mom called us to help set the table. I was going to have to face the music! I arrived at the table with grass stained clothes, and a tear streaked face. I was a mess, and mom was not happy! She kept asking me what happened, trying to keep her frustration with me to a minimum, but I just stood there sobbing with tears streaming down my face. My brother finally spoke up about the football game, me being tackled, and I knew we had had it. Mom marched me into the bathroom fully expecting for me to get cleaned up. When she tried to take off my shirt, my arm hung like a limp doll – she realized I was really hurt! Mom called to dad, and he whisked me off to the emergency room. Adding insult to injury, I would be required to repeat the “sin” story to the doctor and numerous medical staff. The diagnosis – a broken collar bone, and a cast was required.
As I sat next to my dad waiting for the cast, he asked me if I had fun playing with the boys. I thought for a moment and quietly said “no.” Then, in his gentle manner, he asked “Didn’t you think your mom would find out?” His tone struck me with more then just a twinge of guilt. My pain was nothing compared to the hurt I caused the very people who were trying to prevent me from being hurt! Little was ever said about the episode again. I think mom and dad knew that my punishment was complete without needing to add anything.
When the weather gets cold and more often now that age has settled in, I have a gentle piercing in my collar bone. A reminder that no matter how clever I think I may be, trying to cover my tracks, I will be found out. No matter what “sin” you may think you have hidden, you can be assured that someday when you least expect it, “your sins will find you out!”
Nort of Expected!
When you are on the motorcycle you have a lot of time to think to yourself. I thought of more things to write about and how amazingly peaceful the countryside is. I was lost in a whirlwind of thought when it struck me like bug hitting the windshield – I didn’t know where we were. We were “Nort” and that wasn’t expected!
Growing up, we did our fair share of lazy afternoon jaunts in the countryside. Sometimes it was to look at houses we would never buy, and others to explore somewhere we had yet to experience. As I grew older my sense of direction grew. I could figure out which way we needed to head to get back to the interstate, or remembered where the next pit stop would be. Nana on the other hand wasn’t so blessed with this ability. Although she had traveled all over the Western Washington countryside, she would still ask where we were. Dad would dutifully reply, no matter how many times we had passed the spot before. But one day dad’s sense of humor got the better of him.
Dad decided a Saturday jaunt was just what we needed, so we piled into the car. We headed out to look at some houses, driving through our city of Redmond and then headed north toward Woodinville. We had lunch, jumped back in the car, and started to head back home. Dad followed an alternate street that eventually met up with our normal route. As we turned onto the main street, Nana looked puzzled and asked ”Where are we?” Without missing a beat dad piped up “Nort!” We all knew Dad was pulling her leg, but she was pondering this new location, Nort. Dad explained that it had a bank and post office, pointing them out without going to slow for her to recognize the names. We all played along giving her a hard time. Nana was saying how we needed to come back to visit some of the stores, and we assured her that we would bring her back. Nort was an unexpected find in Nana’s Day. We were almost home when it dawned on her how much the streets looked like those in our neighborhood. Suddenly she blurted out with a hint of ire, “this is our street!” I don’t know how we managed to get away with it for so long, but we all had a great time playing along and laughing in the end.
From that day forward, when anyone asked where we were, the answer would be “Nort!” ~ Of course that is just this side of expected!
Count Your Chicken Legs!
We’re going to have chicken! OK – not life shattering news, and quite common nowadays for us. I think that it must be announced with certainty though. For if it is not stated clearly, you could be eating the other white meat, and I’m not talking pork!
Growing up, there were some things that could be counted on for dinner. Saturday night tacos, Sunday roast, turkey for Thanksgiving, and ham for Christmas. Meals were like a celebration. Easter meant more than just finding our eggs. It meant that another feast was on the horizon. One Easter dinner though, has been forever seared into the recesses of my mind.
We had our traditional morning of finding eggs, Easter photos in our Sunday best, and setting the table for the Easter feast. As we gathered at the table that afternoon, I noticed that we were having chicken for dinner, and it smelled so nummy I couldn’t wait. It reclined in its resting place on the plate in the center of the table. A golden brown crust glowed on the carcass, and I could imagine it melting in my mouth. But something wasn’t right with its repose. I realized that there were four chicken legs. When I asked, I was told that it was a special chicken! As we finished dinner and prepared for dessert, my mom started asking how I liked the chicken. Snickers went around the table, and finally the secret of the 4 legged chicken came forth…it was rabbit! Yes my family had done the dastardly deed, and they served their little girl, who loved soft fuzzy bunnies, RABBIT for dinner - ON EASTER!!! I was mortified, devastated, and yet somehow through the tears, I realized that the fuzzy wuzzy rabbit tasted pretty good. Still, I mourned for the fluffy Easter cotton tail.
It did take a while to get over the thought of the Easter bunny massacre of ‘66. I must admit that I have had rabbit since then, but I can guarantee that since the incident, I always count the chicken legs. Maybe you should too!
Cable Counting
As I write tonight, I am watching “An American Tail.” Not that I am really paying attention. It is providing background noise to help ease the silence, a silence that has become all too familiar as the years rush past. I started thinking about how enthralled our children were with TV and the VCR. It brought me back to the addition of cable to our lives, and another great memory.
Our children loved to visit my parents. Nana & Grandpa lived with them, and they always had special treats. But something was added to make the visits even better - Grandma and Grandpa installed cable! Nothing like our cable today, with sleek boxes the allowed you to channel surf hundreds of exciting channels with the click of a button. Quite the opposite was the case. A simple brown plastic box was installed, with a slide bar arrow that helped you select the channel. You had to go to the box and move the slide to the appropriate channel. Our kids not only thought it was great, but grandma and grandpa had a box with every TV, which meant 5 boxes. They could watch cartoons without interrupting Nana’s stories, great grandpa’s baseball, or the news. All they had to do was pick a room. Because of the “new” technology, upper channels were not written on the boxes, so you were supplied with numbered stickers to place on the face plate. Our family could figure it out, so mom decided that the number stickers were not necessary, and placed the stickers in her sewing machine cabinet, which also doubled as a TV stand.
One afternoon when we were visiting, our daughter asked to watch TV in grandma’s room. Permission was granted, and off she went into her little bit of kid heaven. You could hear her laughing, and the channel switching to the next favorite show. Soon the laughter stopped and we could only hear the TV. My mom thought that maybe she fell asleep and went to make sure she was covered up. To her shock, Cassie was knelling on the floor in front of the open sewing cabinet fully awake. But it wasn’t the cabinet being open that was the problem. As I entered the room I heard my mom ask her “what do you think you are doing?” to which Cassie replied in all innocence “I was counting”. She was counting alright, with the stickers from the cable box. She had placed them on the carpet, the cabinet, the bed cover, the wall, night stand, light, and even in her hair. Her sticker counting days were done!
Cassie is a big girl now. These days she counts with grace instead of stickers, leaving her mark on friends and family~ and I am blessed with great memories to enjoy in the silence of my house.
So You Think You Can Dance?
We were watching an episode of a British Sitcom “One Foot in the Grave”. It’s the story of a retired husband and wife, who are the recipients of a series of ongoing humorous mishaps, and have their own moments of mutual irritation. The episode begins with the house being robbed, and you soon learn that an important item has been taken…their TV. Like all of us, they are soon left to ponder what they did before TV came into their lives. He begins to pace, puttering here and there in the house, and you can see that she is becoming increasingly irritated at his obsessive behavior. Finally she yells at him to stop, and charges him with having St. Vitus Dance -a term that upon occasion Nana would diagnose us with, and a term I hadn’t heard for years.
For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it is a real ailment that affects children. Sydenham’s chorea, the clinical name, is presented with jerky, clonic movements of the extremities, and face. But used in the familiar setting, St. Vitus Dance was like “ants in your pants” or nervous energy, but with a little more significance.
As a drummer, my brother had the beat in his hands, and on his mind. He always was tapping on something to get the beat out. What many people don’t know~ before he was a drummer, he was a dancer! He learned tap dance from The Art Linkletter School of Dance. I really did love to watch him dance. He was in command of the audience with his boyish charm. There was a stark contrast between the guy who played “Wipeout” on the drums, and the guy who so gracefully tapped with his feet. Our family would watch The Lawrence Welk Hour on Sunday nights, and my brother and I would merrily dance together just like Bobby Burgess and Barbara Boylan.
I was born to dance! I couldn’t wait to get my turn to show everyone my talent. I always had a beat in my legs and feet. I would dance my way through the day finding it hard to keep my feet still. Always thinking about what step would come next, and making up my own choreography to whatever was playing on the record player or radio. I too was provided lessons by a professional dancer, and I lived to perform just like her. Her grace and elegance was what I strived for. Practice would only make me ~ perfect!
On most outings that required a stop at Sears, we were the lucky beneficiaries of new clothes. This occasion though, we were just along for the ride. My dad was returning home in a few days from a long overseas deployment, and according to Nana, he needed some new clothes. As we waited with grandpa for Nana and mom to complete the shopping, we noticed grandpa looking as miserable as we were. We decided grandpa needed some entertainment. So after a minute or two of whispered conspiracy, we provided the much need entertainment. My brother and I began to dance our best dance, giving our grandpa a much needed smile. Little did we realize though, he was smiling at the crowd we were creating! We were having so much fun we hadn’t noticed the cluster of people forming behind us. Customers and clerks stopped what they were doing, and our private audience of one grew to ten. When we realized what had happened, we stopped embarrassed and red faced. People clapped for our performance, which then alerted Nana to the commotion we had created.
Nana calmly walked over to grandpa with a disapproving look, and exclaimed that we were possessed with the “St. Vitus Dance”, and I thought at that moment I was truly talented! After all it sounded like a very technical dance, maybe with Celtic origins. At that point I could picture the fair maidens in flowing blue and green gowns of organza. Their curly long flowing locks of hair bouncing as they gracefully made their way across the field. Knowing that I had some Irish heritage from a time gone by, I just knew this meant I was graceful. I soon learned that this was not a compliment, and my future dreams of dancing the St. Vitus Dance before a live audience would be short lived. The impression of well behaved children was to be presented at all times, so no fidgeting, wiggling, and no tapping of the feet or hands. Nana made sure that we were aware of the implications of presenting the dance in public again, especially if she found out.
This memory got me to thinking about my young passion for dancing, and my other passions in life, like writing. For me dancing was living. Writing was exhilarating, and at times therapeutic. Those passions, like that of dancing the St. Vitus Dance before an audience, became buried under the demands of everyday life. I had forgotten how to dance, how to write, how to live as God had intended – in joy! So 45 years later, I am writing a new chapter in my life book, and taking the stage to dance once again with childlike joy.
And, I’ll leave you with this ~ Do you really know how to dance, or are you just fidgeting in an acceptable way? So tell me ~Do you think you can dance?
The Healing Power of Dog Cookies!
Sometimes I wonder why specific memories seem so fresh in my mind. How a simple task or action can take me to a Kodachromatic kaleidoscope of epic cinemagraphic proportions. To put it plainly ~ I see memories like movies replaying across the screen of time. Today it was dog cookies! I know that sounds odd, but you will soon see how this all fits together. As I pulled the Old Mother Hubbard® cookies from the container, I was transported to life as a 7 year old dreamer, kneeling at Grandpa Frank’s bedside.
Grandpa had worked nights as a janitor. You could set your watch by his coming and going, so when he hadn’t come home on time the adults began to worry. The next moments seemed like a fast forward of life. I can’t remember who found him, but when he was found on the cold linoleum floor at work, the sun had risen with a golden glow above the dew covered California ground. The ambulance was called, Grandpa was whisked off to the hospital, conversations were hushed for the sake of the children, and everyone wondered what would happen next. Grandpa had suffered a stroke. Although I didn’t know what that meant at the time, I knew it wasn’t good.
They brought him home from the hospital unable to talk, and barely able to move, trapped in a body that wanted to fight back in a manner worthy of his German ancestry. I watched him lay there helplessly each day, having to be fed, bathed, and turned. I went to his room when I got up, and when I came home from school, watching his frail body struggle to make his needs known from locked lips. As I knelt by grandpa’s bed this particular afternoon, my young heartfelt deep sorrow for him. No one knew how long he had lay there that night, on that cold linoleum that he so carefully polished. No one knew what pain and frustration was trapped inside his thin frame. The smile was missing from his face, and the twinkle from his eyes. I needed to help. To do something that would breathe life into him, bring a smile to his face, and restore the twinkle of his blue eyes. As I sat there watching him, our poodles Suzy and Gigi, bounded into the room and the epiphany was born. Dog cookies!
I raced out of the bedroom and made a beeline to the kitchen, where I asked for the Milk-Bone® treats. Suzy and Gigi had been taught to sit pretty, and that was what was going to happen. As I reached the end of the hall I came to a screeching halt landing on my knees. I couldn’t give up all of the treats at once, so I placed several of them in my pocket, and one in my mouth. I proceeded to crawl on all fours into the room and up to grandpa’s side of the bed. Then I did what I had intended to do ~ I sat pretty! With the unusual dry mealy taste in my mouth, I did my best to imitate the doggy duo with a smile, and mimicked the pawing motion with my hands. And then it happened – The most beautiful, amazing, and wonderful thing happened - I could see the twinkle in his eyes, and Grandpa Frank smiled! I was so ecstatic that I bit the dog cookie in half, leaving crumbs of the bland, dry, bone meal in my mouth. I couldn’t spit it out, risking getting it all over the floor, and I didn’t want to leave that happy moment, so I bucked up and ate the cookie. I could see that this amused Grandpa greatly, and not wanting the moment to end, I reached into my pocket and produced another bit of happiness. Munching the tasteless treats, I couldn’t imagine why dogs loved them so much. But right then, at that moment, it did not matter. The world would be OK because Grandpa regained his twinkle.
I can’t tell you how the next weeks and months progressed, but Grandpa made a full recovery. I don’t know if it had anything to do with that afternoon, but I can only hope that it did. The old saying, “laughter is the best medicine”, holds a lot of truth to it. So I leave you tonight with something to ponder ~ what would you do to help someone you love heal?
