A Moving Experience

Moving is a horrible experience – it can break your back. I have lived in my current house for over twenty years, and I am more convinced than ever that I want to live here another twenty plus. A few weeks ago I helped some friends move some of their stuff out of their house; they were moving to a different place. With my truck and trailer I made a trip from their old house to their new house to drop off some stuff, another trip to a rented storage space with some stuff they had no room for, and another trip to a guy’s house to drop off some stuff that was his or was about to be.

At least once a year we should help someone move their earthly possessions from one residence to another. This simple act of kindness should convince us that we have too many things, and/or that we should rarely voluntarily move from our current home.

The boxes and trips up and down the stairs never seem to end. You wonder how you ever accumulated so much junk; you vow to get rid of it as soon as you can find the matches and gasoline.

When I was helping my parents move from the house where they had raised their five kids to a new house across town, I made a decision to lighten the load: a couple boxes of twenty-year old Ladies’ Home Journal, Better Homes and Gardens and Good Housekeeping didn’t make it past the first unattended dumpster.

You get to know someone quite intimately when you move their possessions. Under what other circumstances would you be allowed to carry around a dresser drawer full of personal property and other unmentionables? Any other time you begin examining the contents of drawers in someone else’s bedroom you are asked to leave.  Almost nothing is off limits when you are helping someone move. In fact, you are encouraged to help yourself to anything you can comfortably carry.   

Sometimes the request for help can come as a surprise and with a little creativity it can be answered in a surprising fashion. A friend of mine was over at his in-laws for Christmas dinner with his wife and adult son. Sometime during the evening his mother-in-law asked if a piano and desk could be moved. Pleas of protest from his wife to her mother regarding dress pants, a freshly laundered shirt and a new sweater were not heeded. So, undaunted by the challenge, my friend and his son removed their Christmas clothes and moved the furniture in their underwear.

Sometime, during the move (I think it was while carrying the piano) my friend’s father-in-law asked him if he had a hernia.

“No, my belly just looks that way,” he replied.

I doubt he’ll be asked to help again during the holidays.

When given notice I usually plan my outfit for moving day: something loose and durable, with matching shoes. I also try and ready myself for the event because moving means change and change can be hard

When I moved my parents into the nursing home several years apart from each other, I noticed how most of their possessions stayed behind. When I moved my kids back and forth to college most of their belongings stayed home as well, but later when I moved them to their own homes they took most everything from their rooms. While my wife has found other uses for the kids’ bedrooms, behind closed doors they are quiet, cold and void of life. 

Moving is a horrible experience – it can break your heart.

A couple hours

A few weeks ago my grandson, Micah, and I were left in the house together – just the two of us. Some people call it baby-sitting, even if it’s your grandchild. I don’t agree, because just as I don’t think you can baby-sit your own children, I don’t think you can baby-sit your own grandchildren – because I certainly can’t.

I think if you are indeed baby-sitting you should be expected to complete a variety of tasks such as feeding the child, changing diapers, selecting an outfit with matching shoes, putting them to bed (or “putting them down,” as they say in the business).

I don’t really do any of those things well, so I would never be called upon to baby-sit Micah, but I can “keep him safe,” as my daughter says. Clearly, I have not given her reason to expect much more from me in this regard.

It was a Wednesday night and my wife and daughter help out at church with a program there. My son-in-law – the baby’s father (I remember when it was unnecessary to explain the relationship) was busy, and since I wasn’t doing anything other than reading and watching TV, I was appointed night watchman

Jennifer had driven from town out to the farm where she exchanged her son for her mother. Jennifer had put Micah “down,” in the crib for the evening (or so I thought). She placed the baby monitor (viewing screen and speaker) on the table next to my chair.

“He’ll fuss for a minute or two and then he should fall asleep,” she said with the greatest confidence. I was settled in my chair when they walked out the door.

From my chair I could comfortably watch two screens. The one across the room was quite a bit larger, in color, and had access to several dozen channels. The one on the table had a grainy black and white display of a child moving about his crib, and the sound quality was rather poor, but I could still tell it was a wide-awake baby.

I turned the sound up on the monitor and down on the TV. Soon Micah began to cry. Then he started to cry harder, so I sprang from my chair, moved quickly across two rooms and vaulted up the stairs, singing seasonal words of comfort and joy along the way.

When I walked into the room by the light of the hall, he was standing up and crying. I picked him up and rubbed his back for a few seconds and then placed him sitting down in the crib. As soon as I did he dropped his head to his chest and sobbed.

Micah cannot yet talk but I heard him say, “Why, Grandpa why? I thought you loved me. Please don’t leave me here.”

I apologized, picked him up and we went downstairs. He played on the floor while I tried to figure out what to do next. After a while we went back upstairs without a well formulated plan, but this time I stood him up next to the crib railing (thinking this was somehow better). The well practiced head droop and deep sob began immediately. Again I heard his pleas of despair and anguish. And again I apologized for being so insensitive and uncaring. After I wiped his tears, we went downstairs again to regroup. It had now been over an hour of keeping him safe.

Now the clock was beginning to pick up speed. I had one last chance, so for our third act I sat in the dark bedroom with him and rocked for a few minutes. When I sensed he was getting sleepy, I set him down in the crib and slid his knees out from under him so he would lie down. Then I turned and walked out of the semi-dark room. For whatever reason, this time he let me go.

Twenty minutes later his mother and grandmother walked in the door. I was very happy to see Micah and I were no longer alone.  

New Story

Every week about this time I sit down at my desk, look at the blank screen and ponder, but then I type out a word or two because the deadline for the newspaper submission looms on the horizon. Sometimes I think I know which direction the words will flow, other times I am surprised. Always I am limited by word count, as it relates to column inches, the English language, accepted rules of grammar and good taste. I do, however, have some freedom with subject and style.

Every year at this time, with some reluctance, I say good-bye to the current year and anticipate the arrival of the new one. I am sensitive to the passage of time, so when a year comes to a close it shakes me up a bit.

The coming year will bring anniversaries and changes. In less than a month my grandson will celebrate his first birthday, this spring I will mark thirty years in my current profession, and sometime during the year all of my friends and family members will become a year older (the good Lord willing). Faster and faster it goes, where it stops nobody knows.

But with a new year we get a clean calendar. We all like a second chance, a fresh start, and a new year offers that.  Throughout the year those chances of a new beginning come often.

When the problems of the day overshadow us, we are reminded that things will look better in the morning. Monday (or Sunday) marks the beginning of a new week; the first of every month marks time, while offering opportunity and hope. When we start over we naturally want to start at the beginning. We don’t usually start our diets, a new exercise regimen or a big new adventure on a Thursday (unless that Thursday falls on the first of January, the giant among days beginning new chapters).

A new year offers us the opportunity to create a new story, begin a new theme or start the revising process of the current one. We can’t go back and rewrite the past; we can’t actually disregard last year as if it never happened. We can only repair and build, but the future is wide open. Of course, there are some limitations. Instead of a word count, we are limited by our days. We get a year of Tuesdays and Saturdays, five in the mornings and three in the afternoons, and January and June.

Naturally, there will be some of the same characters (both major and minor) from the previous year, but don’t be surprised if a new character is written into your life. I suspect some of the previous plots and themes will continue, but now would be a good time to plan for a twist or turn to improve the story line.

It is said that every good story has a conflict and resolution. Although I have rarely shied away from a conflict, I can recommend minimizing them and seeking resolution early on, for unresolved problems are not buried at the grave. Unhappy days between friends and family members quickly become weeks and months and years. I suggest striving for the happy ending.

So as this dog-eared and worn year comes to an end, I start looking for ways to make next year even better. My desk sits in front of an east facing window, and once in a while between sentences, I will look out that window and imagine I can see tomorrow just beyond the horizon.

Not Quite Everything

Wayne, my father-in-law, used to do all or most of his Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. There may have been many different reasons why he did this (scheduling, procrastination, wanting to avoid the crowds, the attractive unconventional nature of it), but whatever the reason it was efficient. He would get several of the same shirt or coveralls in various sizes for his three sons and me. I don’t remember what he got his daughters and daughters-in-law (tricky plural placement), as I was way too self-centered back then. However, I will never forget one of the gifts he gave me, because I still have it.

About twenty-five years ago Wayne got all the guys (we were young men then) identical maroon/red/wine/burgundy (some such color) sweatshirts. I don’t know what the other guys did with theirs, but I still have mine and it proudly shows its age.

The scripted “Minnesota” on the left breast has faded with the rest of the fabric, but all the letters are still there. The cuffs and high, three-button collar are tattered, but the buttons have hung on through the years; the elbows have thinned and the shirt itself has lost some of its form, while the function has improved. Even though holes have appeared out of nowhere and the seams are beginning to separate, I won’t part with it. I don’t own a more comfortable article of clothing or one I am more attached to.

I won’t throw it away, and neither would my wife, Rhonda, as she remembers who gave it to me. She washes it by hand as it still bleeds a rosy color. I have often wondered what goes through her mind when she washes that shirt. Does the need to hand-wash it annoy her? Is she secretly hoping I will forget about it and she can discard it? Does she think of her father as the water turns color? Does her heart bleed a little?

Her Dad has been gone for seventeen years. I miss him and I know Rhonda does too. I wonder if any of the gifts that I give will still linger when I’m gone. I would not guess a sweatshirt – but there it is proving me wrong.

The wrong gift is quickly discarded and forgotten, maybe even bringing some disdain with it. But even the right gift may not have the staying power to survive decades of stress and hand-wringing.

Toys break, cash is spent, and we eventually forget about most everything else. There is also the problem of what to get the person who has everything? The answer is you get them nothing – well almost nothing.  You often hear older, mature (more mature than me) adults say, “Don’t buy me anything, I have everything I need.” I remember hearing my grandmother say that.

In my mind I will never be as old as my grandparents appeared to be, but as I think about my own children and grandchild I know what I want from them – nothing that money can buy. I selfishly crave their time and love, and I freely offer mine. I have appreciated all of the gifts I have received over the years, but they are no match for the memories, time and love shared.

A friend of mine wrote me and said that he needed to find a gift for his wife soon, as he doesn’t want to be shopping at Kwik Trip on Christmas Eve. Sometimes those last-minute gifts can last a lifetime, but just to be safe better throw in some love and time.

It's a Gift

In this season of giving I try to increase what I do to help around the house. In addition to making the bed a couple times a week, placing my dishes in the dishwasher, and putting my clothes away after my wife, Rhonda, washes them, I now look for other ways to help – at least at Christmas time. I guess I should thank Miriam at the coffee shop for this.

Miriam, a pleasant woman a decade or so wiser than me, asked me a few weeks ago if I was ready for Christmas. I knew what she meant; at least I thought I did. She may have meant spiritually, emotionally, or my guess – physically.  I said I was, but then admitted that I really don’t have that much to do because my wife does most of the work preparing for the big day.

She suggested that I could volunteer. I thought she meant I should volunteer at a soup kitchen or some other charitable venture, so I told her that I would be ringing a bell with a few friends for the Salvation Army. 

“That’s nice,” Miriam said, “but I meant that you could volunteer to help your wife get ready for Christmas.”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” I said, surprised by the very idea of it.

So, motivated by my new mission, I began to look for ways to help. Normally, I clear the driveway and shovel the snow off the steps and sidewalk, but this year the warm temperatures have made that unnecessary, so I cleaned the garage instead. Rhonda never even noticed.

This year I carried several boxes of Christmas decorations upstairs from the basement after being asked only once. It’s not quite the same as volunteering – but it does have the same cooperative feel to it.  I did this in between periods of the Wild game.

I also try to keep up on the TV listings to make sure we have an opportunity to watch the Christmas shows. We have Charlie Brown, Rudolph and the other classics on DVD, VHS or 8mm but it still pays to see what else might be playing.  I also make sure to have Christmas music on in the background.  It’s those subtle touches that make the holiday special. It’s another way I help out around the house.

When Rhonda couldn’t find the barn her Grandpa had made for a nativity scene, I volunteered to find it without being asked. I found the miniature barn in our barn; it was near the one my brother-in-law and nephew had made to provide temporary shelter for the ceramic nativity scene my mother had made. My family has a long tradition of displaying the Holy Family at Christmas. I didn’t manage to find the manger however.

One night last week I peered over my newspaper and saw that Rhonda was addressing Christmas cards, so I offered to help. Considering my handwriting and wanting to make sure the addresses were legible, she suggested I help instead by buying stamps. So the next day I stood in line at the post office. There were half-a-dozen people ahead of me, and it took at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get my postage. Volunteering is hard work.

I do my share of the Christmas shopping too.  I have already purchased Rhonda’s gift, and have written checks for the two women in my office. I actually got my shopping done early this year. I’m not completely sure what gifts Rhonda has in mind for the kids – I’m sure I’ll find out though when they open them.

It has become obvious to me if it wasn’t for the unselfish nature of women, we wouldn’t have Christmas. Two thousand years ago a young woman named Mary gave birth to the King of Kings, giving us the greatest gift of all.

Annoyance

I spend too much of my time in a state of annoyance. I can do very little about some of the things that put me in a state of disturbance. The pills I get off the shelf to help me deal with my self-diagnosed hypersensitivity are not covered by insurance. But without them I go through the day (and night) quite uncomfortable as the itchiness comes with a vengeance.

Being self-aware and mindful of public perception, I am careful to not scratch and rub when others are in attendance. Other than a thoughtful beard rub, many erratic motions by a person can get that person removed from fine dining establishments and other places of importance.

I am unaware of being allergic to anything, but I am, however, keenly aware of things that throw me off balance. I don’t think loud noises, a drawer left open, or clothing that constricts qualify as allergens, yet they make me uncomfortable for instance.

Most often I am not bothered by an aroma or a fragrance. I also try not to judge a book based on its appearance. But, too often I am less patient with an acquaintance. It’s not that I feel superior or want to be perceived as having a unhealthy dose of arrogance. Rather, I find some traits and characteristics outside my current level of tolerance. I admit it’s not their fault, it’s my own petulance.

Someone who interrupts others in a conversation may be just trying to demonstrate their own significance. Certainly, if I keep that in mind I can exercise some tolerance. Even though it’s easier to change myself than others, occasionally all that is required is a little distance.

Also, I don’t like to hear another complain or speak a negative utterance. Although I pretend to be above such things, if I were to hear my own words, I couldn’t feign ignorance. It’s always easier to offer others suggestions and guidance. But with all our talking I doubt few of us would find any reflection of perfection in the mirror, not even a close resemblance.

If it isn’t obvious by now, let me point out that I have many faults and admit them with great reluctance. Along with the things that bother me I can obsess incessantly about something and get caught in a pattern of redundance. Clearly, I don’t want everyone to be like me, of that you have my assurance. Instead, I write about these things to point out my shortcomings and my need for your assistance.  

We are who we are for reasons that are not always obvious, and we need to celebrate our differences and not treat them as a poisonous substance. If being hypersensitive means that wool and people can rub me the wrong way, then I will serve it as my penance.

For those of you who somehow tolerate me and my uniqueness I offer my gratitude, albeit a small pittance. For those of you who have somehow managed to read this entire essay and have now reached the end I can hear you say, “Good Riddance!”

Santa

Santa waved at me last week, and it made me smile. I had gone to one of the malls a few days before Thanksgiving to check out a new store; I refuse to go shopping on Thanksgiving or the day after, as I can do without the mobs and mayhem. Black Friday is so unlike Santa.

It was during the early afternoon of a weekday, and I was standing by myself on one level looking down at the atrium below. Some festive folks were putting the finishing touches on the North Pole display, while Santa sat in his throne checking over his list.

Not wanting to disturb the seasonal scene, I stood there quietly watching while they worked. Santa, being a crafty old soul, must have sensed my presence. He froze, and then lifting his head he looked right at me. At first I felt a little foolish, as if I had been caught spying on him. Then Santa smiled and waved like we were old friends. He may have recognized me, although I can’t imagine how, as it has been such a long time since we sat and talked. I returned his wave.

Like other kids I had seen Santa in parades sitting in his chair on top of a float or riding on a fire truck. I saw him at malls all over the state and in small shacks in small towns. I have pictures to prove it. He didn’t always look the same though and the logistics of him being in so many places at the same time gave me reason to doubt, but Mom explained that it was his helpers or his elves filling in for him while he attended to other duties and obligations.

He would stop at our house on Church Street shortly after supper on Christmas Eve. Dad would take the kids out in the station wagon to look at the Christmas lights in town, and when we came back Santa had been there, somehow slipping past Mom and Colleen, my older sister. He even took time to eat part of a cookie, drink half a glass of milk, and scribble a quick thank-you before moving on to the next house. He also found us at our grandparents in Faribault and our cousins in Tucson.

As I got older Santa quit coming because I quit believing. But many years later he showed up again on Christmas Eve. This time it was to drop off a few things for my little girl and boy who were nestled all snug in their beds. True to form, Santa crumbled his cookie, spilled his milk and left a note.

I know there are good people who don’t want to share Christmas with Santa, but I am not one of them. I am thankful my parents had fun with me at Christmas, and I have no regrets in passing on that tradition to my children. But make no mistake; I believe that Christmas celebrates the birth of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It’s just that I feel there is room for a portly, generous elf to brighten children’s lives while they are still young enough to believe in a little magic. Let’s not wave good-bye to Santa too soon.