Assembly Required

There were no instructions included with the free crib. That fact normally wouldn’t frustrate me because instructions are usually written in a way that makes me feel really stupid anyway. They’re either impossibly hard to follow because the words don’t match the diagrams, or they were written by someone who is comfortable with just one written language, and it’s not English.

The free crib was given to us by some friends of ours. When the word hit the street late last summer that we were going to become grandparents we started to collect stuff in anticipation of the baby’s arrival. Rhonda, my wife, had heard of this wayward crib in need of a good home; she made the necessary arrangements and I was sent to retrieve it.

I remember picking up the pile of crib bric-a-brac from our friend’s garage and thinking I sure hope it’s all here. I just walked in and threw it in the truck. I never knocked or made my presence known; it felt dangerous and illegal.  Later, when I relayed my actions to my law abiding, upstanding wife, she picked up the phone to explain what had transpired.  I think she may have called the police.

The crib was stored in the granary along with other items waiting their turn to be reused or recycled.  This week it was suggested that I pull it out of storage and bring it upstairs to the “grandchildren’s room.”  Keep in mind, we only have one grandchild, a little boy who won’t be able to handle stairs successfully on his own for a couple years.

So today, having taken the day off for Good Friday, I brought the crib upstairs in a couple trips. Various bags of unknown contents had been tied to the rails, presumably to aid assembly. I split open the bags and spilled the contents on top of a dresser; very little of it made sense to me. No surprise. The bags of nuts, bolts, weird implements, angle iron, Lincoln logs, pieces from an Erector set, and spare parts from, maybe a ’66 Chrysler, did not include assembly instructions, English or otherwise. It’s projects like these that can turn an otherwise happy, healthy, middle-aged man into an old man, bitter and brittle.

So I went to the internet to look for instructions, but instead I discovered a crib similar in appearance which had been recalled for safety reasons. Researching further, I expected to find a warning that any attempt to assemble may lead to feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem along with a link to a anti-depressant website; instead I read where the mattress will occasionally fall to the floor waking the baby, and upsetting everyone else – especially the set-up man. It seems more research is required; perhaps even a purchase from Crate, Barrel and Crib.

I set the cage aside to consult those more suited for such projects: my son, Nathan, and son-in-law, Adam. My short-comings in the area of the assembly are legendary, but by now I do know a thing or two about being a dad and raising kids. When I was a young father I remember consulting with my father on how to raise children. Dad said, “They don’t come with instructions; you just do the best you can.”  So Adam, do the best you can and I’ll be around if you need help.

Rain Gets Everyone Wet

Saturday morning I woke to the sound of thunder, but instead of wondering how far off, I lay and wondered when the last time I had seen the rain. I don’t mean a mixture of snow, sleet or freezing rain. I’m talking about one of those all day deals where it rains and rains and people happily stay indoors; Dad would refer to it as a beautiful rain.

As I lay there the needs of the day pressed in on me; I tried to relax for a few more minutes listening to the thunder. Soon the storm passed or as Eudora Welty said, “The storm had rolled away to faintness like a wagon crossing a bridge.” As it happened it rained only a little in the morning, although I stayed inside for most of the day anyway. I had to practice playing my banjo for a performance Saturday night. I’m in a band – sort of.  

It all started with my friend, Mark, who suggested that I learn to play the banjo and incorporate it into a comedy routine like Steve Martin did.  He may as well have suggested that I incorporate lying on my back with painting like Michelangelo is purported to have done while painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Another of his ideas (Mark’s an idea guy) was to have some friends of his who are in a band (No Stone Unturned) play in the loft of the barn. That night (almost three years ago) the guys in the band heard I had a banjo (which they misinterpreted as me being able to actually play the banjo). Through the use of peer pressure, they convinced me to play along with them on a couple songs.

I was pretty terrible; I produced a sound similar to that of cats fighting. Yet I liked it. I took lessons, practiced and played with the band a few more times during the next couple years. For reasons unknown to me, they kept asking me back to play with them. The most recent invitation came a couple weeks ago.

Some time last week Don, the band’s leader, sent me their play list. The unspoken understanding is that I select a few songs to practice so I can play along with them and hopefully avoid public humiliation. But I didn’t have time to practice during the week because of all the writing, rewriting and revising I was being asked to do for a couple church projects.

I can get a little annoyed when my writing is subjected to the critique of others – one of my many character flaws. I was sharing this with Mr. A at church on Sunday and my need to see the bigger picture. He listened and then summed up my perspective with these words, “It’s not all about me is it?”

As I played with the band Saturday night, I realized it’s often better to harmonize than to stand out. I played three songs with them, Take it Easy, Wagon Wheel and Have You Ever Seen the Rain?  

Procrastination

Monday mornings come around once a week no matter how many times the snooze alarm is pushed. I really do enjoy the weekends, but on Mondays I find some happiness in going to go back to my office. One of the simple pleasures of my work week is watching trains go by. When my wife, Rhonda, designed the layout of my office she wisely positioned my desk so I can look out the window (over the years she has noticed that I like doing that).

Freight trains must run on a looser schedule than a passenger train with a predictable pattern because I have not been able to find any set schedule in their comings and goings. Yet, it is the seemingly unscheduled running that makes their arrival appealing – a surprise or two in the day.

Saturday I spent the day at a rather unappealing scheduled meeting. It was long and it drained me of my energy. When I got home I parked the truck in the garage and walked to the mailbox, it was then that I noticed how sloppy the driveway was compared to the gravel road in front of our farm. The road was drying nicely as it had been cleared of the unseasonable April snow by the township’s plow driver, whereas I had elected not to move the snow from the same storm as I was certain that in a day or two it would melt. I was right, but my wet shoes and sock were the price I paid.

As I opened the mailbox it rocked back and forth threatening to spew its contents all over the road. The mailbox sits on a couple boards and one of them had become loose and was in need of repair. It was not the fault of a wayward plow; the problem with the board is one of time and weather having its way. I have every intention to repair it, just not today and probably not tomorrow.

I don’t view it as procrastination (such an ugly word), I was prioritizing. I wasn’t putting it off since the need was not immediate, so I will wait until I have either the time or the mailbox is lying on the ground.  As I slogged back to the house I thought of the writing which must be done if it is to be submitted for publication. That will be done sooner or later as well – and as I don’t have an essay topic in mind yet, it looks to be later than sooner.

There is a time in which the editor must have the essay if it is to be considered for publication. That deadline looms ever larger as it approaches, much like the horn of an approaching train. You know it’s coming but you cannot stop it; the warning lights begin to flash and the cross arms drop. You begin to feel the rumble and soon you can think of nothing else.

Deadlines are both exciting and anxiety producing. Some people work better under pressure, others get crushed. If given a choice between getting something done on one day or the next, I will usually choose the earlier one as I cannot be certain of what is coming down the tracks. I say usually, because sometimes the right time or idea just hasn’t arrived yet.

Take Saturday for instance, I would have loved to have spent the day writing and reading but there was the meeting that took all morning and the better part of an afternoon. By the time I got home I was exhausted and not thinking clearly, so much so that I didn’t notice the messiness of the driveway until I was ankle deep in it. But still in mind was the Monday morning deadline coming round the corner with no way to stop it.

Furniture

I don’t blame my grandson, but the trouble with our furniture did start soon after his arrival. My wife, Rhonda, and I were sitting in our recliners alternating between talking and reading when the conversation took a turn down a long road with no exits.

“Now that the baby is here we’re going to need more furniture,” Rhonda announced out of the blue.

“Do you mean like baby furniture?” I asked, pushing my chair back to full recline.

“No, we need more places for people to sit,” she explained.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

“Our family. Now that Micah is here we are going to need more seating.”

“I’ve seen him – he’s not that big. He’ll fit just fine, besides he sleeps most of the time anyway.”

A discussion followed about children growing up, more grandchildren, future family members etc.

“Okay,” I said, after I realized it was one of those discussions where the outcome was a foregone conclusion, and I was just being brought up to speed. She was neither looking for my approval nor consent; she was just letting me know.

Some of our furniture we picked up from antique stores (not very comfortable). A couple chairs are second-hand from a neighbor who was selling them; there are hand-me downs from parents and grandparents. Our first piece of furniture was a set of cinder blocks and one-inch thick planks. It was a perfectly matched set, but now I think it’s in the barn somewhere disassembled.

For our wedding my parents offered us a choice between a half of a bedroom set and a microwave. We chose the microwave, as we were unclear which half was being offered, and we were living in an apartment at the time and did not have room for even a third of a set. The microwave weighed about three hundred pounds – at least that’s how it seemed through the years as I carried it from apartment to house to house to house. It finally died, and we replaced it (two or three times). We still don’t have a bedroom set.

Shopping for furniture is a multi-step process. The first step is deciding you need new or additional pieces. The second step, the part I like, is going into the stores and looking at all the cool stuff: the beautiful arrangements, the decorations, the paintings, the lamps, and all the furniture. I can imagine I am entering a castle or a mansion with many rooms. Occasional chairs, odd end tables, uncustomary couches, erratic loveseats and uncommon ottomans are closely examined for both form and function.

However, shopping for furniture loses its luster once the details have to be ironed out. This is when fabrics are selected, along with the color (shade, tint, hue), pattern (plaid, solid, stripe) and whether they contrast or compliment each other. Once samples (swatches) are chosen the store requires a substantial deposit and an oath of love and loyalty to make sure you return them.   

When the swatches (samples) are home you spread them around your house like so many tea cozies so you can see if they like it in their new home. They also have to match the existing rugs, paint and the furniture that has survived the purging.

The samples are brought back to the store and you look at more stuff. Pillows are considered. Then more swamples (satches) are brought home; the existing furniture is rearranged to make matters worse. Then back to the store.

Somewhere in the process I checked out, and other than a polite nod from time to time accompanied with a blank stare, I declined to participate. I will recline, however, sometime in the near future in my new chair that has been selected through much agonizing.