Wink and a Nod

Because I am very near-sighted, I must wear corrective lenses (glasses or contacts) so I can see anything that is further than six inches from my face. In fact, if I drop my glasses I am unable to find them until a good Samaritan shows up (hopefully without stepping on them) to help me locate them.

When I want to get a closer look at something I will (depending upon my mood or situation) either take off my glasses or look over the top of them (I’ve seen people lift their’s up and look under them). If I have my contacts in I will put on a pair of strong reading glasses (or grab a magnifying glass) to get a better view. 

As I can’t do without my lenses I go to the “Eye Doctor” about once a year.  The last time I went I met with a doctor young enough to be my son, and even though I was completely comfortable in his ability to do his job, I left (as I always do) feeling like I had made some poor choices.

I sat in a chair and stared at some letters on the wall. He then put a series of lenses in front of my face and asked me to choose between one lens and another, and then that lens and another, and then two different ones. Finally, I had to admit I really wasn’t sure (as I had become distracted by trying to see how many words I could come up with using the letters). I hinted that perhaps we should start over, as I may have made a mistake. The good Doctor Young, or the young Doctor Good assured me that he had double-checked my responses and was confident he had a good understanding of my vision needs.

Next came the selection of frames for my new glasses. As with anything else, fashion dictates the choices of frames available. Despite my best efforts and the guidance of the fashion-forward man helping me, I fear I failed in my attempt to be mistaken for Stanley Tucci; instead I may bear an uncanny resemblance to Larry Fine with facial hair and glasses.

I guess it doesn’t matter though, as neither of my grandsons seem to like me wearing glasses anyway. Micah, the older one will say “Pa, glasses off,” while his brother, Jonah, will just look the other way as if I was someone unworthy of his attention and beneath him somehow.

The boys’ dislike of mine or their grandmother’s reading glasses may have less to do with the style and shape of the frame than the obstacle they see in front of our eyes.

I find it fascinating that when two people, no matter what age, come face to face they look into each other’s eyes. We seem drawn to one another’s eyes and when we do a connection is established. Indeed, the eyes have it.

My grandsons smile at me when I blink and wink at them, and when they do I am filled with love and joy. William Butler Yeats said, “…Love comes in at the eye.” I can see that.

In-flight Meal

I don’t like traveling on an empty stomach. I can make it from my house to my office, a distance of about nine miles, without something to eat or drink, but much further and my mind wanders to the next food mart. My wife, Rhonda, is keenly aware of this. I am less interested in where we are going than the availability of food and drink in the cab of the truck.

“You bring something to drink?” What have you got to eat?” are questions Rhonda hears from me in the first fifteen minutes of almost every trip. I am more than ready to stop at the next available store if she somehow forgot about my inability to travel without refreshments.

I have been to enough wedding receptions to know that feeding their guests is not the first thing on the minds of the bride and groom. Sometimes I have had to wait almost an hour to eat – and that’s if I have been fortunate enough to sit at the lucky table (the one served first after the head table).

One time we had left a wedding ceremony and were driving to the reception when it occurred to me that I was hungry. I think we ended up being late to that reception because we had to find something to eat first. After that day Rhonda learned to have a pack or two of crackers with her in case of an emergency.

Perhaps the most extensive supply of food and drink I have ever been given while traveling down the road was on a Greyhound bus trip forty years ago. The fact that I shared it with my younger brother, Terry, only made it more enjoyable.

Terry and I had traveled to Milwaukee with Mom, Dad and our younger sister to visit our older sister, Colleen, who was living there with her husband and baby boy. When it came time to head back to Minnesota, Mom and Dad left Terry and I with Colleen, who didn’t seemed to mind. I suppose this had been pre-arranged and agreed upon – but still I find it difficult to imagine why Colleen would agree to have her two youngest brothers live with her for a week. But she did – and that’s another story.

When it came time for us to leave Colleen at the bus station she handed me a grocery bag (paper – no plastic grocery bags back then) full of food for our bus trip back to Minneapolis. The bag was piled full of food – so full that it was impossible to fold the top down. Terry and I spent the next seven hours happily exploring the contents of the bag.

We set the bag on the floor and ate like kings. There were bananas and apples, cookies fresh from her kitchen, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, assorted bake goods, chips, snacks and cans of pop.

Pewaukee, Baraboo, Mauston, Tomah, Black River Falls, Eau Claire and Menomonie flew by our window as we happily emptied the bag. When we got off the bus in Minneapolis Mom asked if we were hungry. We laughed and told her about the grocery bag. 

Next week I will celebrate Thanksgiving and I will certainly have more than enough to eat that day.  While I am mindful that I don’t like to travel on an empty stomach, I never have to go to bed with one either.

Aunt Catherine

 My mother’s sister, Catherine, died last week. While it could be pointed out that I had not talked with her lately, it cannot be argued that her passing leaves me feeling sad.

Mom had four brothers and two sisters. Although I saw my uncles more frequently, it was when I was with my aunts that I would see my mother’s eyes, recognize her smile, and hear her voice. I would also learn about her as I listened to their stories.

I learned a lot about Mom from them – things that maybe Mom would not have told me herself. Mom was born in 1929, the year that saw the beginning of The Great Depression (that much I knew). As times were tough many families did not enough money or food to take care of their own children. As a little girl, my mother was sent to live with her aunt and uncle for a few months.

During World War II when their Dad and brothers were off to war, the three girls had to pick up the slack. Mom helped with the farm chores in the barn and fields, while her two sisters helped their mother keep house, prepare meals and sew.

They also had adventures on the farm. My aunts told about the time of they got chased up a tree by a bull. There was also the time when one of the girls had to be pulled out of an icy river that ran through their farm.

As Catherine got older she continued to have adventures, but now it was with her husband, John, and their three children.  They lived in the South American country of Chile, in the desert outside of Tucson, Arizona, and near the mountains in Boise, Idaho and Denver, Colorado. It wasn’t easy to see Aunt Catherine on a regular basis, as she often lived far away and kept moving.

Her husband, John, was a geologist whose work took him to many different locations. Even though he worked with rocks he never took his sense of humor for granted. He once asked my wife, Rhonda, and me when our birthdays were. When he found out that we were less than a year apart he said, “Well, geologically speaking, you’re really the same age.” I thought it was funny.

I have often wondered with all their moving (to some pretty desolate places) if Catherine didn’t get lonely. She once told me about the pioneer women who had lived by themselves, often for months at a time, when their men folk would be gone hunting and trapping. She said the women often lost their minds listening to the wind and wolves howling outside their tiny, cold cabins.

As the winter creeps in from the north and the wind and coyotes howl outside my warm farm house, I think of those pioneer women and Aunt Catherine. Catherine was sharp, witty and funny. She was a good mother, a devoted wife, a loyal sister and a loving aunt, and with her passing I feel the loss of my mother.

Monologue

There is a fine line separating genius from insanity. The perceived difference between a person talking to them self and keeping a diary (or journaling for the pseudo-sophisticated) is as far apart as the East is from the West. The written exercise can be defined as writing down one’s thoughts or recording the events of the day. It’s important to note that this activity is done alone, much like playing solitaire. But if instead one were to verbalize these thoughts to themself (thinking out loud), they would be considered as not quite right in the head.

Talking to one’s self starts early in life. A baby will often jabber and coo to no one in particular. They stare into space and carry on as if there were someone conversing with him or her. My mother used to say they were talking to their guardian angel.

Later on, as we age and lose our ability to converse with angels, some of us will create imaginary friends to talk to. Sometimes this continues well into adulthood. James Thurber illustrated this with his wonderful short story, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.”

Singing in the shower is common and well documented, but start talking to yourself about the merits of lather, rinse and repeat as you perform as instructed and people will look at you funny. I can sit with a book and read for hours without attracting attention, but the minute I start to read aloud (especially with expression) heads begin to turn.

It’s getting harder to tell if someone is engaged in a rather spirited debate with themselves or arguing with their spouse on a cell phone. If you don’t see the earpiece you may find yourself saying “poor thing” under your breath.

People with pets can get away with talking to their dog or cat. It’s when the conversation takes on the characteristics of a dialogue that they run into trouble.  I have it on good authority that farmers will talk to their cows. The cows also get yelled at quite a bit when they don’t cooperate, such as when they are being asked to get in the barn or the right stall. I don’t have any cows, but I have chickens and a cat. The cat is a good listener, but I cannot come up with a reason to talk to the chickens; they seem rather simple-minded, and we have absolutely nothing in common.

Mark, my college roommate, and I would visit a neighborhood establishment and have a beer on occasion.  On one particular occasion the door burst open and the entire bar became aware of a loud, animated argument a man was having with himself on whether he should stay or leave. After a few minutes of heated discussion, he ended up leaving. I was never able to determine whether he got his way by leaving or if he would have rather stayed.

But I think I know how he felt. A thinking man is considered intelligent; a man who talks to himself, even intelligently, is thought crazy. Sometimes I will mull something over in my mind, playing both sides of the argument until I finally decide which way to go. This is all well and good, as long as I keep quiet and toe the line.