Grandma's House

The other day my wife, Rhonda, and I invited some friends to our house. Some of them brought their kids with them, which was fine – I told them they could. I just wasn’t prepared for the all of the “touching my stuff,” that little kids do.

They were quite cute and reasonably well-behaved, but I became ruffled and restless as the evening wore on. I closed cabinet doors after they opened them, put things down when they had picked them up, asked them not to do this and please don’t do that. I just couldn’t enjoy myself, and I couldn’t help myself.

After they finally got tired and went back home to trash their own house, one of my friends told me I had been acting like “an old lady.” In my experience old men are generally pricklier than old women, so perhaps he was being kind in his criticism.

The two old ladies I knew best were my grandmothers. They wore glasses and had gray hair. Both of them sported the layered look in their kitchen – aprons over dresses. When they went out they usually wore hats decorated with netting, ribbons and jewelry. At the time it was considered fashionable.

Grandma O’Meara had a coat with two dead animals on the collar. They may have been foxes, or they could have been weasels, but whatever they were they always gave me quite a start when I bumped into them while playing in her large hall closet. I imagine C.S. Lewis might have had a grandmother who allowed him to play in her wardrobe.

Grandma O’Meara was a sturdy woman who had taught children their lessons in a one-room school house. Katie, as she was known to her friends, laughed, played games, enjoyed baseball, and always had time for her grandchildren.

Her home was like a giant playhouse. There I was free to use my imagination. Sometimes the second floor would become a ship, with the ground floor playing the part of the ocean; other times the upper floor was used along with the rest of the house in a game of hide and seek. The only rooms that were off limits were Grandma’s bedroom and her sewing room. But you were welcome to walk in if she was there.

Grandma Kucera’s home was not a playhouse, it was more like a rest home. Children were not allowed to roam freely. They were to sit quietly on the plastic covered couch and listen to the adult conversation.

After an eternity of sitting still a choice of activities was offered – escape to play in the yard, or entertain yourself with the box of worn-out, lifeless toys stored upstairs. But children weren’t allowed upstairs; not even just to get the box. That wasn’t permitted; the box would be brought down for them.

Grandma Kucera was known as the best cook in Le Sueur County. Emma, a name I learned after her death, was much more at home in her kitchen than playing house with her grandchildren.

My own children may, Lord willing, have children of their own someday, and I hope they bring them over to play house with me. I could read to them, maybe play a game of hide and seek.

Everyone’s got a favorite grandmother or grandfather, whether they are on your aunt or uncle’s side. Grandma O’Meara got older, but she never acted like an old lady. I have a lot to learn – I’m aging everyday, I just don’t want to become a crabby old man, and certainly not a cranky old lady. That would be weird.

Christmas Gifts

Do kids still ask Santa to bring them a puppy or kitten for Christmas? Or has the age of electronics replaced that Christmas wish?

One year my older brother, Dan, got a puppy as either a Christmas gift or an Easter present. It must have been Easter because Santa wears glasses to correct short-sightedness.

Soon the puppy grew into a large collie. Apparently this eventuality was not considered prior to the presentation of the Easter gift basket. Before the dog was one year old it was decided that a big dog didn’t belong in town. What a surprise - who saw that coming? Stupid Easter Bunny - what was he (or she) thinking? The dog was given to a family that lived on a farm. Perhaps the dog was presented as a gift.

Return lines that stretch from December 26th into the next year provide plenty of proof that many gifts are neither perfect nor loved. I once received a gift of food that was so ancient the expiration date was printed on papyrus. As I carefully handled the thoughtful and expensive gift the giver explained her reasoning. “I was going to throw it out and then I thought why not give it to you.” Without a gift receipt I could only share my good fortune with my two chickens, Sam and Ella.

However, this was not the first time that I was given food as a gift. I have happily received cashews, peanuts (both blanched and unblanched), and fruit. I also got a potato for Christmas one year.

The uncooked potato was placed under the tree for me by Santa when I was about eight years old. I have not trusted that corpulent Kris Kringle since then.

The year leading up to that Christmas had been a difficult one for me and my parents. I, being the middle child, took the brunt of their wrath. I am more than willing to shoulder my share of that burden – but let’s look at the facts.

Elevators have buttons to push when you want to summon one. Why shouldn’t the same logic apply to escalators? Mom and Dad, along with my two brothers and two sisters were Christmas shopping at Southdale. Having lost interest in hiding under the dress racks, and no longer able to find cigarette butts to drop on the heads of unsuspecting shoppers, I did a little exploring.
Just slightly underneath the curve of the railing at the base of an escalator (1967 model year) was a button that if pressed would stop the machine. On some of the later models it is labeled EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON.

I pushed it and the escalator stopped moving. A second panicked push did not restart it. Immediately my father was at my side.

“What happened?” he growled.

“I don’t know, I just pushed this button,” I explained as I crouched down to show him. My crouching had a two-fold purpose. I could more comfortably point to the button, and from this position it was impossible to spank me.

Now that the escalator had been magically transformed into stairs the stranded shoppers looked to my father for guidance.

“Now what are we supposed to do?” whined one lady.

“Walk,” Dad replied.

Now that I’m 50 I take the stairs whenever I can. I will also go on walks with Buddy, our Black Lab/Great Dane mix. When we got him a year ago he was already full-grown at over one-hundred pounds with his head at kitchen table height. We live in the country, where there is plenty of room for a dog of any size.

Christmas Trees

I was doing some shopping the other day when a Christmas tree grabbed my attention. It wasn’t particularly large, but it was quite striking in its radiance. It was blue – not a blue spruce – but a blue aluminum tree.

There is nothing like an aluminum tree to brighten up a room. With the advent of ... well, Advent, people are rearranging their homes to accommodate a tree in the corner. This time of year you see mini-vans driving home from a successful hunt with a tree tied to their roof.

Forty years ago phony Christmas trees looked phony – there was no pretense. Some people even “flocked” their trees (which doesn’t sound very religious at all) to make them look like they just dragged them through a blizzard. I could be talked out of this, but I think we had a real Christmas tree when I was a kid.

Every year Dad would get into the spirit of the season by wrestling with a tree. He would lug the tree through the rarely used front door, knocking over lamps and spreading needles as he went. I have warm memories of him throwing his glasses across the room after they had been bent by a contrary conifer.

For the first few years of our marriage my wife and I had joined the artificial tree class. I think it was because we were given someone’s rejected artificial tree. Charlie Brown would have taken it because he felt it needed him. We took it because it was free. But all the while we tried to convince ourselves that “it looks real doesn’t it?” We eventually decided the tree was too ugly and gave it to the Browns.

We usually buy a tree from the Boy Scouts here in town; I then lay it in the back of the truck. I try to avoid tying things down because my knot tying skills are not what they should be. But some years we have cut down our own – not at a tree farm – but on our own place. Unless you live on a tree farm, this practice doesn’t last very long.

I will drag the real tree through the house and purposely bump into a lamp to honor an old family tradition. My kids usually wait for the ceremonial throwing of the glasses before they retreat upstairs. A good year is measured by the amount of cuss words (or magic words as my father-in-law, Wayne, called them) I use in my fight with the tree.

My Christmas tree cage match costume is a hooded sweatshirt to protect against needles jumping down my back, gloves to ward off the stickiness of the sap, and lopping shears to attack the tree.

Over the years I have put up many Christmas trees. It’s easier to put them up before they are decorated with heirloom ornaments, garland and light – but I’ve done that as well, sometimes two or three times with the same tree.

Some people find aluminum loathsome, but I think it can be quite handsome. Mixed in with a drum and a dancing sugarplum, aluminum in the atrium can give a warm welcome.

Occasionally I like to mix things up, and I think something new, something blue might do the trick. You know what I’m talking about - even Elvis promoted a “Blue Christmas.” I realize a blue tree might be closer to creating an image found in a Warhol pop print than an American classic Christmas found in a Rockwell painting, but just once I would like to put up a tree that shines like a star.

Coast to Coast Christmas

This Friday morning before the sun rise, shoppers will stand outside in the dark. They do this so they can spend money they don’t have on things no one needs. But it is the biggest shopping day of the year.

The process begins with studying the ads to see if the item on somebody’s wish list is on sale, or if an item is priced so low you can’t pass it up. The stores open earlier than normal and they discount their prices (sometimes to ridiculous levels) to draw people inside.

I’ve done this. I read the newspapers, and occasionally the ads, but this time of year I like to get in the Christmas mood, so I survey the ads to see what I want (need has very little to do with it). One year my daughter, Jennifer, and I got up early - like 5:00 a.m. - to participate in the madness. If you have ever thought about going to Palermo to run with the bulls may I suggest day-after-Thanksgiving shopping as a warm-up?

Having waited in the cold outside the store, we were shoved through the chute when it opened. Propelled along with the rest of the herd, we stampeded through the store. Carefully avoiding the china I managed to find the luggage set that was on sale. Resisting the temptation to use it as a battering ram I hoisted it above my head.

Jennifer and I then made our way to the kitchen gadget section and picked up a large electric grill (the six-pancake model). Armed with our oversized gifts, we were shielded from the aggressive advances by the other shoppers. We paid for our items and left the madhouse. By now the coffee shop had opened, so we sat in there and had some caffeine to unwind.

Not all my Christmas shopping experiences were like this. When I was young downtown Belle Plaine was brightly decorated with lights, bells and candy canes. In the middle of the main intersection a large bell hung suspended by large swags of garland covered cable. Snow would gather on this centerpiece and then blow off as the bell swayed in the wind.

The Coast to Coast hardware store would open its second floor to the public a couple weeks before Christmas. In that hardware store attic - 30 stair steps above hammers and nails, brushes and paint - children would see what Santa’s elves had been making in his workshop. There were toy guns, games, rockets to Mars, cars, dolls, dishes, trains and trucks.

One year, Mom took Terry, my little brother (who now stands two inches taller than me), and me to that magical world. Like most families with several children, we drew names for gift buying (which were then posted on the refrigerator for all to see). Terry picked my name so Mom helped him choose a gift for me.

On the way home, Terry, who was about four or five, had me guess what he had bought me for Christmas. At first I declined to guess, but he persisted.

“A truck,” I suggested.

“Nope,” he said

“A game,” I asked.

“Nope,” he said with a grin.

“A gun,” I offered.

Immediately tears welled up in his eyes. He leaned over the front seat and announced “Mom, he guessed.”

I got a toy gun that year for Christmas, and so did Terry (from Santa). We played with those guns together for many years. I no longer play guessing games when it comes to gifts; I prefer to be left in the dark with the rest of the shoppers.

What you don't know can kill you

Steve, one of the guys that will still talk to me after forty-five years, was in my garage the other day. Inclining his head toward the gas-guzzling, non-clunked SUV he said,

“It looks like those tires could use some air Jer,”

They did look a little low, but am I supposed to keep track of that? Steve’s family was in the car business for many years, so he has that over me. I’m not a mechanic. I have people for this kind of thing. Must I add psi to my list of things to be mindful of?

The amount of things that I need to be aware of, to think of, to know is becoming a bit too much for me to handle, but you already knew that didn’t you? I tell you it’s enough to drive a man to drink, except I am not even sure what to drink anymore. Whether it’s coffee, red wine, water, or milk, you can find opposing views advancing arguments for the merits of consuming more or less of each of these.

I have given up on having a working knowledge of all the areas of my life. For example: I have chosen to not become an expert in the kitchen. If I had to, I could be very comfortable eating cereal three times a day. It has that rich, tasty goodness that kids love and mothers trust. I stick with cereal because of the whole balanced diet thing that I am supposed to know about. The milk covers the dairy end of the spectrum, for fruit you can eat Raisin Bran, or Fruit Loops. The added sugar will keep you going all day. The required dietary grain element is in all cereals (don’t take my word for it – like I said, I’m no expert). For the vegetable part I recommend Corn Puffs.

The older I get, the less I know, and what I don’t know about the day to day stuff can fill whole libraries. It’s likely there is an update for my computer, it’s possible the windows in my house need to be replaced, perhaps a warranty is about to expire, or maybe someone I know expired and I missed their obituary.

Sometimes I find myself in situations where I feel alone in my ignorance. The first time I was on a plane with an in-flight movie “A Fish called Wanda,” was the feature. When I put on the headphones I was surprised that they were playing the French language version. Wishing I had tried a little bit harder in my high school French class I was only able to pick-up a few of the words. The guy seated next to me seemed to be enjoying the movie so I asked him if he understood French. He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

“You have to turn that dial to English,” he explained as if he were talking to a child.

“I knew that,” I said with a laugh. “Of course, I was kidding.”

Humorist Will Rogers said “All I know is just what I read in the papers.” Communist Karl Marx said “All I know is that I am not a Marxist.”

Kenneth Grahame wrote in “The Wind in the Willows,”

“The clever men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed.
But they none of them know one half as much
As intelligent Mr. Toad!

Even someone as smart as Mr. Toad probably didn’t check the air pressure in his tires either. But then we may have missed out on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Christopher Robin

Dropping sticks in a river with your children is more fun than it sounds. This summer Rhonda and I, along with Jennifer and Nathan, our two adult children, went down to Lanesboro and biked on the trails. If you like riding bikes and you get along with your family I can recommend Lanesboro for a family vacation. Otherwise stay home and watch TV.

The bike trail crosses over the Root River. Stopping on the bridge, Nathan grabbed fours sticks and invited us to play a round of Pooh-sticks. This game, straight out of Winnie-the-Pooh, involves dropping the sticks on one side of the bridge and peering over the other side to see which stick floats by first. There is not much strategy needed, just the right current, but win or lose you won’t forget the moment.

I want to write a children’s book. It’s just that I am having a little trouble getting started. It’s not writer’s block, which I define as the inability to fill the blank page. It’s much bigger than that – it’s writer’s mock. I can’t decide which children’s classic I want to use as my spring board to fame and fortune.

The “Wicked,” series is being referred to as a parallel to Frank L. Baum’s “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.” Seems to me someone just stole Baum’s characters and used them as their own.

Frank Beddor has written “The Looking Glass Wars,” which the “Minneapolis Star Tribune” calls a reimagining of “Alice in Wonderland.” Has originality fallen out of favor? Go ask Alice - I think she’ll know.

The one that bothers me the most is “Return to the Hundred Acre Wood,” by David Benedictus. It tries to continue the story of Christopher Robin and friends. Unlike the way some childhoods end abruptly, Milne had ended that childhood story elegantly.

In the final pages of “The House at Pooh Corner,” Milne wrote how Christopher Robin tries to prepare his friend, the stuffed bear, for the unavoidable change they will experience when Christopher Robin grows up.

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”

“How old shall I be then?”

“Ninety-nine.”

Pooh nodded. “I promise,” he said.

Why try and improve on a masterpiece? The copying of classics is a disturbing trend, but I may want to cash in on this plagiaristic party. So with that in mind I am toying with a couple ideas myself.

“No longer Velveteen, this rabbit is mean,” is a story of how the Velveteen Rabbit, joins up with a gang of rabbits from Watership Down. Hopping a train they travel to Pottersville where they bake Old man McGregor in a pie. The little rabbit then marries Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail. After all, why should marriage be confined to just one man and one woman?

“Green Scales,” finds Jackie Paper and Puff “The Magic Dragon,” reunited again in Honah Lee. Having lost all of his money supporting his drug habit, Jackie searches for his life-long friend along the Cherry Lane. There they join up with a band of pirates, and using the autumn mist as cover, they raid the yachts of noble kings and princes.

To try and add pages to a classic children’s book and call it your own seems wrong. But to borrow pages from the same book to make a memory with your children on a summer afternoon seems about right. Someday my children may have fun with their children dropping sticks in a river and watching them float away. Or maybe, they may borrow a page from their dad’s writing to make a memory.

Favorite Time of Year

Mom used to warn me about wishing my life away. Whenever I would look past the present and concentrate on some future event she would remind me that each day has its own blessings and should be appreciated. I don’t think her reasoning applies to the long winter months though.

Abraham Lincoln said “It is true that you may fool all the people some of the time; you can even fool some of the people all the time; but you can’t fool all of the people all the time.” To this I would add – but you can fool yourself most of the time.

This is a good time of year to engage in such an exercise. We have not had an exceptionally beautiful fall this year – rather below average actually, but with the proper perspective this time of year seems to fly by.

The autumn days can be very labile. I chose labile, which means liable to change because my smart aleck sister, Colleen, used it in a sentence the other day and I didn’t know what it meant – so I looked it up.

We are enjoying less sunlight, the days are getting shorter and the pumpkin is rotting on the step. I know it won’t last; the good things never do. There is nothing like wind, rain and snow to push a guy indoors where he can relax.

November and December just don’t last long enough. Thanksgiving and Christmas dominate the months with one long holiday season. Thanksgiving is only three weeks away, and then bam – the biggest shopping day of the year.

Only a heretic could ignore the hectic, chaotic Christmas season. I haven’t even started my shopping yet (my very wise father-in-law always did his on December 24th). The calendar is already filling up with parties and events. I just don’t know when I’ll have the time to get all of those Christmas cards addressed.

We all know about January – it just rushes past. You are just getting through Christmas with the gifts, the comings and goings of all the relatives, and then wham – Happy New Year. There are more parties to attend, and you have to find time to stand in line to secretly return the gift that you had gazed at with glee declaring “I love it.”

Where does the time go? Why it seems like just last year ... of course it was just last year wasn’t it? (Feel free to use that joke early in January.) I barely have time to get all of my thank-you notes written before I flip the page and say hello to February – the shortest month of the year.

There is not a lot of pre-scheduled activity in February, which is a good thing as it gives you plenty of time for all of those indoor winter activities you have been looking forward to: playing board games, doing cross-word puzzles, latch-hooking rugs, putting together jig-saw puzzles, finding the jumper cables and drinking hot-chocolate.

Before you know it, March comes roaring in. Unfortunately, March has a reputation for becoming a bit sheepish at the end of the month. This month simply cannot be relied on for consistent good old-fashioned winter weather. Oh sure, people say “March can be your snowiest month,” but that’s just wishful thinking because with spring around the corner the snow just doesn’t have any staying power. But for now let’s live it up, for soon enough winter will be gone.

I am not fooling myself. It’s going to be a long winter, and I won’t wish it away. There are many things to enjoy right now.