Thursday, June 23, 2011

Bookmarks

Bookmarks help me keep my life in place. These rectangular shaped reminders of where I left off have become so numerous that they would fill a book. Up until recently I have treated them rather shabbily. They clutter up the bottom of desk drawers and lay strewn among books on shelves. But I have become aware that these pieces of parchment not only show me where I was, but who I was.

Currently I have 12 (possibly more) bookmarks employed full-time holding back story-lines, staying essays, guarding style-guides, keeping classics company and chaperoning children’s literature. I need these wardens so the words don’t get away and leave me confused and alone.

I maintain a large inventory so I can choose just the right one to match a particular book. Recognizing that just out about anything can be used to mark a page (including folding a corner over) I have resisted using meaningless scraps of paper. My newest acquisition was given to me by my son Nathan. He bought this handmade artwork at a small shop in the Chinatown district of San Francisco.

One bookmark that I use from time to time was my mother’s. It was given to her by her sister who had lived in Japan as a missionary for several years. It is a thin, silk ribbon with a hand-painted mountain and some Japanese writing decorating it. I must have it translated someday soon.

Another one that belonged to my mother I found when I opened up her copy of “Angela’s Ashes,” by Frank McCourt. This book recalled the author’s unhappy childhood in Ireland. Mom had cut out a poem from a greeting card (presumably received on her and dad’s wedding anniversary):

“There must be special happiness within your hearts today
As you remember all the good things life has brought your way.”

I wonder if Mr. McCourt would appreciate the irony.

A few years ago I purchased a book from Peter Rennebohm, an author, who had a table set up at a mall. He had written a book titled “Buried Lies.” It’s a mystery set around a golf course. I gave the book to my uncle, but I kept the bookmark. I use it in my copy of “How now shall we live?” by Chuck Colson. Mr. Colson, a born-again Christian, had worked in the Nixon administration and had went to prison for his involvement with the Watergate cover-up. I guess not all lies stay buried.

I am nearly finished reading “1984,” by George Orwell. I bought this paperback at Half-priced Books in St. Paul. In the middle of the book was a tattered marker from the Hall of Cards and Books book store in Michigan City, Ind. I suppose the government will shut these stores down soon for selling propaganda.

My wife Rhonda has made me several bookmarks over the years. Some were meant to inspire my writing. More recently she and our daughter Jennifer made some for the wedding guests. They have a picture of the happy couple on one side and a Bible verse on the other. They were available in several different styles. Each of the bookmarks has a thread (handed down from Rhonda’s great-grandmother) looped through the top.

Last Saturday I got a reminder of how important a good bookmark is. Sitting inside during the rain I opened up “The Dog Says How,” a book of essays by local author Kevin Kling. This book had lain patiently waiting on the shelf for several months. But I was able to pick up right where I left off because there of a bookmark made by my daughter when she was quite young. Framed between the crayon-colored rainbow on top and the green/brown tree on the bottom “Happy father’s day” was printed in purple. On the back it was properly labeled.

To: Dad (so I could know it was meant for me).
From: Jennifer (so I would never forget who made it).

I’ll treasure these bookmarks always because they help me find my place.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Photo Sessions

Recently I was in the San Francisco area on vacation with my family (except for my newly married daughter Jennifer and her husband Adam) and I have the pictures to prove it. If you come over I could show you photographs of me riding a cable car, eating on Fisherman’s Wharf and walking on Pier 39. There are also photos of me at Yosemite National Park, China Town, Alcatraz and more than one with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

From first glance it might seem that I saw all of the sites in just one day. I did not. This is because in the pictures it appears that I was wearing the same clothes in every picture. I was not. Please notice the different colors of the T-shirt underneath the long-sleeved denim shirt, which at times is beneath a zipped up hooded sweatshirt.

When we decided to go to California I thought sun and warmth would be included. It was not. The week we were in San Francisco the temperature never rose beyond the 60s during the day, and at night it dropped to or near the 40s. You throw in a stiff breeze off the ocean, some drizzle and fog and it feels rather chilly. I typically don’t mind that kind of weather – but I had packed shorts and T-shirts. But, because I am from Minnesota and am used to dramatic changes in the weather I also brought along the denim shirt, sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans.

So there I was in California with a suitcase full of clothes suitable for the endless summer only to discover that it had not yet begun. But back in Minnesota that same week temperatures were in the 80s, 90s and even 100. Oh well – I typically find that kind of weather too hot anyway.

San Francisco does have the coldest daily temperatures for June, July and August for any major U.S. city (Liz Osborn, currentresults.com). There is a quote attributed incorrectly to Mark Twain (he never said it, but it has been repeated so often that he may as well have): “The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Midwest versions of this saying will substitute Duluth as the cold spot. I say it takes a San Francisco summer to make one long for a Minnesota winter; at least winters here make sense.

Strangely, few people in San Francisco were caught with their pants down. Once when we did wear shorts a shop keeper suggested we were being too optimistic about the weather improving, but upon learning we were from Minnesota she understood.

After a week of basking in the Frisco fog we returned to Minnesota where Jennifer and Adam picked us up at the airport. During the ride home it was revealed that the wedding pictures were done and ready to be looked at. With several hundred pictures to go through, our evening was booked.

I am not the most patient person, and I get distracted easily. I suspect that I and most of my boyhood friends would be hooked up to a Ritalin dispensing machine if we were in school today. So to sit and look at hundreds of pictures can be a challenge (even if the pictures are of your daughter’s wedding).

This activity is similar to watching other people open gifts and to know that none of them are for you (I did that the week before). I have noticed that women are generally better-suited for these activities than men. Men look at pictures quickly, women take their time. But it didn’t take me long to notice that the people in the pictures were wearing the same clothes in all the pictures. I understand how that can happen.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Buddy

Buddy is a funny dog. I don’t mean funny in that he pulls tricks on the cats. He is funny in the way he expresses himself, and he doesn’t strike me as being terribly intelligent. But I may be wrong; perhaps I just don’t understand him.
Like most labs, he likes to have things in his mouth, and like other Great Danes I have seen, he likes to catch bugs in mid-flight. So if I can stop him from catching bugs long enough for a game of tug of war he will play until I grow tired.

We got him from a family that was moving to the other side of the country. They couldn’t take him along so they gave him to us as we had no plans on moving anytime soon. Our initial plan was to keep him outside – no exceptions. Our thinking was that houses are for people and dogs aren’t people. And at 120 lbs Buddy was bigger than half the members of the household.

A dog can get in a lot of trouble in the country at night, and since it was his first night at his new home Buddy was put in a fenced area. The fence is about five feet high and surrounds an old smoke-house which provides shelter from the elements. It had been home to Max, our German shepherd and arguably the smartest dog in the world. So I thought a dog of a Great-Dane/black Labrador-mix would be happy there as well.

Fortunately Buddy walked into the makeshift kennel willingly with me. I have since learned he cannot be moved if he doesn’t want to. I bade him good-night, closed the gate, threw him a dog-biscuit and went into my own house.

The next morning I found him patiently waiting on the front step even thought the gate was still closed. How he slipped his large frame out of there without breaking the gate I have never learned, but I was the one who constructed it so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.

He has since moved from his summer home in the smoke house and winters between the attached garage and the laundry room. This arrangement allows him to be closer to people.

Buddy is happiest if he is near people, the nearer the better. It is impossible to stand next to Buddy and ignore him. He will begin by pushing his large head into the side of your thigh. His nose is at the correct height to get most everyone’s attention. His signature side push, although annoying, is preferred over the front or rear nudge. Nobody likes that.

If pushing doesn’t work he will start nibbling on clothes. Thankfully his next move is not a bite, but he will emit a low, guttural growl. To the uninitiated he sounds angry and threatening. It is the same sound he gives me when the answer to my persistent line of questioning is “no!”

When I think it’s time for him to go outside for a break I will politely ask him, “Buddy, do you want to go out?” His first response is to move away from the door and toward the wall while staring at me with his head lowered. This wall stance means “no,” but I ask again to be sure, and for the comic relief. The repeated question elicits a growl combined with the lowered head and stare. If I am stupid enough to ask a third time, he will bark so loud that I can’t possibly misinterpret his meaning.

When someone is preparing to take him for a walk he will grab the leash in his mouth and start down the driveway on his own.

He’s a funny dog all right, but he’s smart enough to know how to tug at my heart.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Father of the Bride

The house is starting to settle back into its normal state. I have reclaimed my writing desk from the manicurists but I fear it will never be the same. Saturday, through the rain, hail and a threat of tornados, friends, relatives (and some people I didn’t know), slogged tough the mud and ascended the ramp to the barn loft to wish my daughter, Jennifer, and her new husband, Adam well.

As father of the bride, owner of the barn and a guy who likes to embarrass himself in front of others I gave a little talk to the invited. I am sorry that not all 29 of you faithful readers (I am keeping count) were invited to the reception so I am including most of what I said, and some of what I didn’t (but I imagine that I did).
“Rhonda and I want you to know how wonderful it is to have you here with us to celebrate the marriage of our daughter, Jennifer, to Adam, our new son-in-law.
The barn didn’t always look like this. It was Rhonda and Jennifer who had the vision for this day, and it was through Rhonda’s direction that the barn was transformed. For six months she was in charge, but as I reminded her just yesterday, that’s going to change tomorrow.

It’s a good thing Jennifer married a guy with the skills to build this floor, because without Adam, this would not have happened. He is very talented and I was amazed with his skills. I saw him work magic with wood; I tried to help but I was often in the way. I would help him carry stuff but I always seemed to have the heavy end.

Adam and I started to work on this barn in November. Some nights we would set our water bottles next to the heater only to have them freeze solid in a few unattended minutes.

But we had fun. We listened to music, laughed and danced up here together as we fixed the floor. We had a wonderful time getting to know each other. For any of you guys in similar situations I would recommend doing projects with your future son-in-law.

Sometimes Jennifer would say “Oh no,” when she saw that Adam is a lot more like her father and brother than she wanted. Sorry about that Jenn.

Adam, I cannot replace your own father (motion to his father, Steve), or your heavenly father, but I am happy to be your father-in-law. So if you ever find that a burden becomes too much for you to carry, I will be there to help and I’ll take the heavy end.

Jennifer, the easiest thing I ever did was being your dad. I just had to show up. You never gave us any trouble; you have been such a wonderful daughter. But, tonight this may be the hardest thing I have done.

When Jennifer was little, and I mean very little, you could ask her name and she would say “Jenner,” and if you then asked, “But what do they call you,” she would say “Special.” And Jennifer, you are still special. Getting this place ready was a lot of work, but it was worth it and I would do it again 1,000 times over.

Because there is space, we have saved scraps of lumber “just in case.” When Adam needed a board of a certain length to repair the subfloor I would go downstairs and find it.

Underneath this floor is wood that came from the walls of a cabin built by Rhonda’s grandparents in the ‘40’s; that cabin was then passed down to her father, and now her brother Rick, his wife Melissa and their son Preston make their home there. There is also part of the dock from my parent’s cabin. There is wood from decks from this house as well as Rhonda’s mother’s home.

So Jennifer, it is fitting that we celebrate this day by having a party on the floor built by your new husband using materials provided by your parents, grandparents and great grandparents.

May all that this floor represents give you a good foundation to begin your life together.