It’s been a long time since I purposely lost a game to my kids. I quit doing that when they started to figure out I was letting them win. My reasoned rationale for throwing the game was I didn’t want them to get too discouraged early on. There would be plenty of time for disappointment later in life, but of course there was the other side of the dice. They needed to learn that life is not fair.
Of course I knew from experience that I was messing with their sense of reality, but they were used to that from me. Before I was old enough to play Scrabble with Grandma I had watched her and my older sister Colleen play. They were both very good and very competitive. A large dictionary was always at hand to settle differences of opinion. I still have the original Scrabble box with their high scores recorded in their own handwriting. CLASSIC (11 points, plus a 50 point bonus for using all seven tiles).
When I finally got my turn to play with Grandma I was impressed with how well I was doing. With my crafty use of three- and four- letter words, I ran away with the game. Occasionally she and I would consult over an especially tricky strategy, but when the score was tallied, I had bested my grandmother. WON (6 points).
This pattern of winning went on for some time until I finally put the pieces together: She was letting me win. I don’t remember blaming Grandma for this ruse, but it did make me more suspicious whenever she and I would sit down to play again.
About that time the cloak of mystery started to unravel in other areas of my life: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and “All-Star Wrestling” were not what they seemed. But even after all that I still like staying home and playing a game, the kind where everyone knows the rules – not the Joe South kind.
My family has a lot of games. We have letters, words, checkers, kings, queens, dice, cards, timers, clay, pencils, paper, play money, chips, houses, hotels, markers of every color, cars, thimbles, cannons, armies, ships, trains, tracks, and boards.
We also have video game systems. These plug into your TV and are operated with hand-held controllers. I like playing with these as well – I am an equal opportunity entertainer. If my grandmother was still alive I think I could beat her, but I am not as skilled in this area as my kids, however.
This last weekend I played video games well into the evening with three guys in their 20s. My son Nathan was home from school and he had invited his friend Kevin from New Jersey to spend the Easter holiday with us. Adam, my future son-in-law, was over at our house as well (as is his wont).
I am no longer in the habit of staying up past midnight. I get tired and go to bed – usually about 11 o’clock. This last Friday night (which became Saturday morning) it was past 3 a.m. before I climbed the stairs to bed. These guys are more accustomed to these early morning hours. It was a bit of stretch for me and I did pay for it the next day, but I’d do it again 100 times over. These times don’t come around that often and I want to participate when they do. But I did find out no matter how late I stay up, no matter how discouraged I get, my kids won’t let me win. They didn’t learn that from me.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
To Dye For
I’ve often wondered what it would be like to work for the PAAS Easter Egg Co. For 125years these folks have been helping people make a mess at their kitchen tables. Except for some busy weeks right before Easter, the PAAS employees seem to have it pretty easy. An attractive salary and benefit package would certainly make this a job to dye for.
While conducting extensive research I stumbled across the PAAS company website. There I learned that once upon a time a Mr. Townley of Newark, N. J.conducted experiments in his drug store. At the end of the 19th century he had created some products for use around the house. One of those creations was a recipe to color Easter eggs. People could purchase his packets of dye tablets for a nickel. With “five cheerful colors” to choose from, anyone could become a member of the House of Faberge.
Mr. Townley named his business the PAAS Dye Company. According to the company’s website, “The name PAAS comes from ‘Passen,’ the word that his Pennsylvania Dutch neighbors used for Easter.”
“Messy,” is the word that comes to mind whenever I sit down to color eggs. My mother, a former 1st grade teacher, was used to little kids making a mess, so I suspect that her five children didn’t present her with any new challenges. But even now when I get pressured to dye eggs I put on an apron and surround myself with yesterday’s news.
The smell of vinegar, the stirring sound of metal spoons scratching ceramic bowls, and the sight of white eggs waiting to be discolored put me in that “holiday mood.” My colored eggs always stand out and are usually the first ones chosen for egg salad sandwiches.
I want to remind people that I am not colorblind (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but my “signature,” color design for Easter eggs is a predictable somber look. I have taken Mr. Townley’s “five cheerful colors,” and combined them into one or two “mournful casts.” Instead of bright, pastel colors usually associated with Easter, mine, with their gray quality, may be more suitable for Good Friday.
In addition to being a teacher, Mom was also an artist, so her decorated eggs were always nice to look at, but it was Rhonda’s mother who really shined in this area. She would take a normal egg, magically empty out the insides with a couple small holes and transform it into a family heirloom.
She would use tiny brushes to paint beautiful birds and flowers on them. She even taught Rhonda and Jennifer how to do this. She did not however waste any time on me. Even when she had lost the use of her right hand she picked up the brush with her left hand and continued to create masterpieces.
Recognizing that my skills may lie elsewhere, I have concentrated my efforts on becoming an expert egg hider. I have a lot of experience in finding eggs, so naturally I would know how to hide them.
We have raised chickens for fun and no profit for almost two decades, and in all that time we have not been able to train the chickens into laying the eggs directly into the cartons. So to gather the eggs one must be smarter than the chicken.
Usually the chickens lay the eggs in the nesting boxes, which give the hens a strategic advantage for pecking your hands when you come for the eggs. But once in a while you have to go on an egg hunt. I have spent many an hour close to the ground looking for the elusive egg.
From time to time we have Araucana chickens, a breed that lays eggs with blue/green shells. I have considered substituting those eggs for my own dyed eggs, but that seems wrong, especially at Easter. For at Easter, we are reminded that God thought us worthy to die for.
While conducting extensive research I stumbled across the PAAS company website. There I learned that once upon a time a Mr. Townley of Newark, N. J.conducted experiments in his drug store. At the end of the 19th century he had created some products for use around the house. One of those creations was a recipe to color Easter eggs. People could purchase his packets of dye tablets for a nickel. With “five cheerful colors” to choose from, anyone could become a member of the House of Faberge.
Mr. Townley named his business the PAAS Dye Company. According to the company’s website, “The name PAAS comes from ‘Passen,’ the word that his Pennsylvania Dutch neighbors used for Easter.”
“Messy,” is the word that comes to mind whenever I sit down to color eggs. My mother, a former 1st grade teacher, was used to little kids making a mess, so I suspect that her five children didn’t present her with any new challenges. But even now when I get pressured to dye eggs I put on an apron and surround myself with yesterday’s news.
The smell of vinegar, the stirring sound of metal spoons scratching ceramic bowls, and the sight of white eggs waiting to be discolored put me in that “holiday mood.” My colored eggs always stand out and are usually the first ones chosen for egg salad sandwiches.
I want to remind people that I am not colorblind (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but my “signature,” color design for Easter eggs is a predictable somber look. I have taken Mr. Townley’s “five cheerful colors,” and combined them into one or two “mournful casts.” Instead of bright, pastel colors usually associated with Easter, mine, with their gray quality, may be more suitable for Good Friday.
In addition to being a teacher, Mom was also an artist, so her decorated eggs were always nice to look at, but it was Rhonda’s mother who really shined in this area. She would take a normal egg, magically empty out the insides with a couple small holes and transform it into a family heirloom.
She would use tiny brushes to paint beautiful birds and flowers on them. She even taught Rhonda and Jennifer how to do this. She did not however waste any time on me. Even when she had lost the use of her right hand she picked up the brush with her left hand and continued to create masterpieces.
Recognizing that my skills may lie elsewhere, I have concentrated my efforts on becoming an expert egg hider. I have a lot of experience in finding eggs, so naturally I would know how to hide them.
We have raised chickens for fun and no profit for almost two decades, and in all that time we have not been able to train the chickens into laying the eggs directly into the cartons. So to gather the eggs one must be smarter than the chicken.
Usually the chickens lay the eggs in the nesting boxes, which give the hens a strategic advantage for pecking your hands when you come for the eggs. But once in a while you have to go on an egg hunt. I have spent many an hour close to the ground looking for the elusive egg.
From time to time we have Araucana chickens, a breed that lays eggs with blue/green shells. I have considered substituting those eggs for my own dyed eggs, but that seems wrong, especially at Easter. For at Easter, we are reminded that God thought us worthy to die for.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Vehicle of Expression
According to some people, an automobile is just a vehicle to get from A to B. For me it’s much more than that – it’s the whole driving experience. I don’t really know for sure how many different cars and trucks I have driven. I can remember with reasonable certainty all that were titled in my name, but all those owned by employers and friends – well, I can’t be sure. It may be close to 100.
Ever since that June day in 1975 when Mom and Dad drove off in the Buick and left the keys to the ‘66 Mercury, I have been hooked on driving. I don’t quite understand all the mechanics involved, but I appreciate the feel of a steering wheel, the response of an accelerator and the sound of a powerful engine.
But I still haven’t found the perfect vehicle. I’ve been close several times, but things change, and you move on. After I got my license Dad bought a Chevette as a second car for the family. It was more of a go-kart than a car.
Mom used it for getting groceries; I used it for getting in trouble. My position prevents me from sharing all matters of mischief, but when my friends and I looked for trouble this little car took us there.
In college I had four different cars. The first was a faded ’66 Galaxie 500. The body was indestructible, but the block cracked on a cold January night. That was replaced by a brown ’73 Bel Air (I can not for the life of me remember what happened to that great car). Next was a ’73 Lesabre with a hood so large that the sky disappeared when it ascended a hill. The frame cracked on a warm July afternoon when a truck ran into it.
The fourth car, the one that became “our car,” was a dependable 1980 Skylark. Rhonda and I put a lot of miles on that car until it finally got too tired and quit. As part of her dowry, Rhonda contributed a ’74 Mustang with a standard transmission. Both our children got their very first car ride in an ‘84 Cavalier station wagon.
Some time during those early years I discovered Dad was right when he said, “you can always use a pick-up.” For the next twenty years a truck, sometimes two, was stabled in a barn or a shed. There was the yellow ‘71 Chevrolet with a bench seat where a little girl could sit next to her dad; an ’86 Ford (with two jump-seats for two kids; a ’69 F250 farm truck with a “granny” gear; “Pipes,” a short-box ’96 Ford that growls when the pedal is pushed, and two Fords with four doors each (just in case we had to haul the whole crew).
Somewhere in the middle of all this we had “Mr. Breeze.” That was a ’66 Chrysler hard-top who got its name one day when we pulled both vents open and rolled down all the windows. There was a Jeep CJ that took five little boys on an open-air birthday adventure, and a red Cherokee that was destroyed by a deer. We also had a Caprice, an affordable family-car that my brother-in-law, Rich, got for us when he worked at a car dealer.
There were others: a Chevy conversion van we sold when the color became too much for us to bear, a ’74 Dodge motor home which gave us lots of memories and settings for camper plays, and a Buick with bad shocks that turned its passengers into bobble heads.
Even when Rhonda was satisfied with her “family,” vehicles (including the Expedition she drives now) I had a couple two-seater sport cars, but the gravel road finally won out and I sold them. My brother Dan’s VW bug sits in the barn patiently waiting for attention. Some day I will work on the car, but in the meantime I will keep looking for that perfect vehicle.
I may not have driven 100 cars yet, but this is my 100th column. This may be just the vehicle to express myself from A to Z.
Ever since that June day in 1975 when Mom and Dad drove off in the Buick and left the keys to the ‘66 Mercury, I have been hooked on driving. I don’t quite understand all the mechanics involved, but I appreciate the feel of a steering wheel, the response of an accelerator and the sound of a powerful engine.
But I still haven’t found the perfect vehicle. I’ve been close several times, but things change, and you move on. After I got my license Dad bought a Chevette as a second car for the family. It was more of a go-kart than a car.
Mom used it for getting groceries; I used it for getting in trouble. My position prevents me from sharing all matters of mischief, but when my friends and I looked for trouble this little car took us there.
In college I had four different cars. The first was a faded ’66 Galaxie 500. The body was indestructible, but the block cracked on a cold January night. That was replaced by a brown ’73 Bel Air (I can not for the life of me remember what happened to that great car). Next was a ’73 Lesabre with a hood so large that the sky disappeared when it ascended a hill. The frame cracked on a warm July afternoon when a truck ran into it.
The fourth car, the one that became “our car,” was a dependable 1980 Skylark. Rhonda and I put a lot of miles on that car until it finally got too tired and quit. As part of her dowry, Rhonda contributed a ’74 Mustang with a standard transmission. Both our children got their very first car ride in an ‘84 Cavalier station wagon.
Some time during those early years I discovered Dad was right when he said, “you can always use a pick-up.” For the next twenty years a truck, sometimes two, was stabled in a barn or a shed. There was the yellow ‘71 Chevrolet with a bench seat where a little girl could sit next to her dad; an ’86 Ford (with two jump-seats for two kids; a ’69 F250 farm truck with a “granny” gear; “Pipes,” a short-box ’96 Ford that growls when the pedal is pushed, and two Fords with four doors each (just in case we had to haul the whole crew).
Somewhere in the middle of all this we had “Mr. Breeze.” That was a ’66 Chrysler hard-top who got its name one day when we pulled both vents open and rolled down all the windows. There was a Jeep CJ that took five little boys on an open-air birthday adventure, and a red Cherokee that was destroyed by a deer. We also had a Caprice, an affordable family-car that my brother-in-law, Rich, got for us when he worked at a car dealer.
There were others: a Chevy conversion van we sold when the color became too much for us to bear, a ’74 Dodge motor home which gave us lots of memories and settings for camper plays, and a Buick with bad shocks that turned its passengers into bobble heads.
Even when Rhonda was satisfied with her “family,” vehicles (including the Expedition she drives now) I had a couple two-seater sport cars, but the gravel road finally won out and I sold them. My brother Dan’s VW bug sits in the barn patiently waiting for attention. Some day I will work on the car, but in the meantime I will keep looking for that perfect vehicle.
I may not have driven 100 cars yet, but this is my 100th column. This may be just the vehicle to express myself from A to Z.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Breakfast Special
I usually have breakfast at home – toast, coffee, maybe some hot cereal (if it’s made for me). It isn’t that I don’t know how to cook cereal it’s just that I would rather not. Sometimes a situation arises that causes me to eat out.
When conditions allow I like to wake up in a leisurely manner: slumbering, drifting in and out of sleep, trying to recall dreams as they fade away. But the conditions have to be just right: no early morning appointments, reasonable levels of quiet throughout the house, and no pressing need to visit the little boy’s room. All of those have to be present in order for that wonderful 15 minutes to pass peacefully.
Last Wednesday morning nothing was as it should be. I woke to the sounds of doors being shut firmly, voices raised and too much commotion for 5:30 in the morning. I threw on a sweat shirt and jeans and hustled downstairs to see what was afoot, and that’s where it almost was - on my foot. Buddy, our dog, had made quite a mess of things in the night.
Unless the Exxon Valdez oil spill could be considered a minor mishap, you couldn’t really call what Buddy did an accident. It was more like widespread wreckage. Sometime in the night, probably during the third watch, Buddy desperately needed to go ashore.
As there are no moorings to hold him, Buddy is free to float about the house. He is however, normally content to remain berthed in one area. With no one awake to let him out, he was forced to navigate the first floor in search of a secret passage to the outside world. Finding no place where he could drop anchor, Buddy jettisoned his cargo in several ports of call.
Even though it wasn’t an oil spill (don’t blame OPEC) the mess left by Buddy was quite crude (oh ick!). I made several sincere offers to swab the deck, or at least help clean up, but as my skills in this area have proved to be less than admirable I wasn’t pressed into service.
Since the kitchen was closed that morning I chose to eat in town. I hesitate to name the restaurant for fear that my dozen or so faithful readers will forever more associate dog droppings with that establishment (who wants that kind of advertising?). Plus, I don’t want to get sued.
When I walked in the hostess offered me a booth. As I sat down I recognized the man in the booth next to me. He looked to be about my father’s age (if Dad was still alive and I could meet him for breakfast). After we exchanged polite greetings I asked if he wouldn’t mind some company. He motioned me to sit down, so I changed tables.
He was drinking coffee (with cream) and his breakfast was already on the table: Eggs (over-easy), potatoes, wheat toast (with jelly) and ham. When the waitress came by she asked if I needed a menu or a run-down of the specials.
“I am going to make it easy,” I told her. I’ll have coffee and exactly what he’s having, except I’ll have sausage instead of ham.”
“What’s the matter, you don’t like ham?” my dining partner asked.
Now I felt bit defensive. I mean wasn’t it enough that I had ordered everything else he had in front of him? “It’s not that I don’t like ham, it’s just that I like sausage better.”
“I like ham,” he said. “Always have.”
“Me too,” I said. “Come here often?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Yes,” he said. “I never learned how to cook and now that my wife is gone I eat out a lot. How about you? Do you eat out a lot?”
“Well, normally not. I usually have breakfast at home, but you see we have this dog and last night…oh never mind. How’s the ham?”
When conditions allow I like to wake up in a leisurely manner: slumbering, drifting in and out of sleep, trying to recall dreams as they fade away. But the conditions have to be just right: no early morning appointments, reasonable levels of quiet throughout the house, and no pressing need to visit the little boy’s room. All of those have to be present in order for that wonderful 15 minutes to pass peacefully.
Last Wednesday morning nothing was as it should be. I woke to the sounds of doors being shut firmly, voices raised and too much commotion for 5:30 in the morning. I threw on a sweat shirt and jeans and hustled downstairs to see what was afoot, and that’s where it almost was - on my foot. Buddy, our dog, had made quite a mess of things in the night.
Unless the Exxon Valdez oil spill could be considered a minor mishap, you couldn’t really call what Buddy did an accident. It was more like widespread wreckage. Sometime in the night, probably during the third watch, Buddy desperately needed to go ashore.
As there are no moorings to hold him, Buddy is free to float about the house. He is however, normally content to remain berthed in one area. With no one awake to let him out, he was forced to navigate the first floor in search of a secret passage to the outside world. Finding no place where he could drop anchor, Buddy jettisoned his cargo in several ports of call.
Even though it wasn’t an oil spill (don’t blame OPEC) the mess left by Buddy was quite crude (oh ick!). I made several sincere offers to swab the deck, or at least help clean up, but as my skills in this area have proved to be less than admirable I wasn’t pressed into service.
Since the kitchen was closed that morning I chose to eat in town. I hesitate to name the restaurant for fear that my dozen or so faithful readers will forever more associate dog droppings with that establishment (who wants that kind of advertising?). Plus, I don’t want to get sued.
When I walked in the hostess offered me a booth. As I sat down I recognized the man in the booth next to me. He looked to be about my father’s age (if Dad was still alive and I could meet him for breakfast). After we exchanged polite greetings I asked if he wouldn’t mind some company. He motioned me to sit down, so I changed tables.
He was drinking coffee (with cream) and his breakfast was already on the table: Eggs (over-easy), potatoes, wheat toast (with jelly) and ham. When the waitress came by she asked if I needed a menu or a run-down of the specials.
“I am going to make it easy,” I told her. I’ll have coffee and exactly what he’s having, except I’ll have sausage instead of ham.”
“What’s the matter, you don’t like ham?” my dining partner asked.
Now I felt bit defensive. I mean wasn’t it enough that I had ordered everything else he had in front of him? “It’s not that I don’t like ham, it’s just that I like sausage better.”
“I like ham,” he said. “Always have.”
“Me too,” I said. “Come here often?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Yes,” he said. “I never learned how to cook and now that my wife is gone I eat out a lot. How about you? Do you eat out a lot?”
“Well, normally not. I usually have breakfast at home, but you see we have this dog and last night…oh never mind. How’s the ham?”
Thursday, March 31, 2011
My Father's shelf
In my never ending task of shuffling contents within and between the farm buildings I came across a red metal shelf. It had been my father’s and now it was mine. Except for the thick layer of dust it was empty. Its former contents are part of my life now.
Dad thought it was important for me, a new husband, to have the same sturdy shelf he was using so he bought me one for Christmas in 1983. I still have it along with a few other things he gave to me.
Underneath the Christmas wrapping paper was an unmarked flat box. When I opened the box I realized what I had – a bunch of metal pieces that needed to be assembled to resemble a shelf. I knew this because of what Dad told me when I tore off the paper. “It’s a shelf,” he said with a smile.
When Rhonda and I got home to our garden-level apartment in St. Paul I dumped the contents of the box on the living room floor. Since we didn’t have a garage or a basement, I thought this was the best spot. I’m not sure Rhonda agreed, for what young bride doesn’t like the look of metal pieces, screws, nuts, bolts and cardboard strewn about her living room?
I had three tools for the job: A screwdriver, a pliers and a hammer (just in case things got out of control). It seemed simple enough: Attach the metal shelves to the metal brackets to make a shelf. But after I was done it looked rather odd. I remember thinking how lucky we were to live in an older building with tall ceilings, as this shelf reached way up high when I stood it up on the floor.
I wasn’t too impressed with the quality of the material used. It was quite flimsy, and why only four shelves? It had a top and bottom of course, but there seemed to be too much space in the middle to fill with only the two remaining shelves. As I was not sure what the problem was, I asked Rhonda to come into the room.
“What’s the matter with this piece of junk?” I asked.
She put her hands up to her mouth to suppress a laugh. It didn’t work.
As the daughter of a cabinet maker she recognized the problem immediately. She pointed out that the brackets, which made up the frame and supported the inner shelves, were meant for all four corners – not just two (the way I had put it together).
My completed project had two tall, lonely metal stakes that held four shelves (miles apart from each other) on just one side. Only the lowest shelf, which was resting on the floor, offered any stability for storage. With nothing holding them up from the other side, the other three shelves hung in twisted shapes to flap in the breeze. A feather wouldn’t have found support there. I couldn’t help but laugh too.
I took it apart and put it back together – kind of. I now have two shelves, one my dad put together, and one I put together (twice). Someday these family heirlooms will belong to my two kids.
But more importantly I hope I have given my kids the other things they will need: The tools to build a happy family, the knowledge that they need God in their lives, the ability to admit their mistakes, the skills to take problems apart one piece at a time, the strength to start over, and the willingness to laugh at themselves.
Dad had given these to me too.
Dad thought it was important for me, a new husband, to have the same sturdy shelf he was using so he bought me one for Christmas in 1983. I still have it along with a few other things he gave to me.
Underneath the Christmas wrapping paper was an unmarked flat box. When I opened the box I realized what I had – a bunch of metal pieces that needed to be assembled to resemble a shelf. I knew this because of what Dad told me when I tore off the paper. “It’s a shelf,” he said with a smile.
When Rhonda and I got home to our garden-level apartment in St. Paul I dumped the contents of the box on the living room floor. Since we didn’t have a garage or a basement, I thought this was the best spot. I’m not sure Rhonda agreed, for what young bride doesn’t like the look of metal pieces, screws, nuts, bolts and cardboard strewn about her living room?
I had three tools for the job: A screwdriver, a pliers and a hammer (just in case things got out of control). It seemed simple enough: Attach the metal shelves to the metal brackets to make a shelf. But after I was done it looked rather odd. I remember thinking how lucky we were to live in an older building with tall ceilings, as this shelf reached way up high when I stood it up on the floor.
I wasn’t too impressed with the quality of the material used. It was quite flimsy, and why only four shelves? It had a top and bottom of course, but there seemed to be too much space in the middle to fill with only the two remaining shelves. As I was not sure what the problem was, I asked Rhonda to come into the room.
“What’s the matter with this piece of junk?” I asked.
She put her hands up to her mouth to suppress a laugh. It didn’t work.
As the daughter of a cabinet maker she recognized the problem immediately. She pointed out that the brackets, which made up the frame and supported the inner shelves, were meant for all four corners – not just two (the way I had put it together).
My completed project had two tall, lonely metal stakes that held four shelves (miles apart from each other) on just one side. Only the lowest shelf, which was resting on the floor, offered any stability for storage. With nothing holding them up from the other side, the other three shelves hung in twisted shapes to flap in the breeze. A feather wouldn’t have found support there. I couldn’t help but laugh too.
I took it apart and put it back together – kind of. I now have two shelves, one my dad put together, and one I put together (twice). Someday these family heirlooms will belong to my two kids.
But more importantly I hope I have given my kids the other things they will need: The tools to build a happy family, the knowledge that they need God in their lives, the ability to admit their mistakes, the skills to take problems apart one piece at a time, the strength to start over, and the willingness to laugh at themselves.
Dad had given these to me too.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Try it
Alka-Seltzer had a TV commercial in the 70’s of a waiter persuading a man in a restaurant to choose a particular menu item, “Try it – you’ll like it,” he said. Next we see the restaurant patron at home dropping two tablets into a glass of water to settle his upset stomach. He may have tried it once, but he won’t again.
I approach many things in life this way (naturally within reason). I am not opposed to trying new things. I don’t always think it through completely – well because it’s hard to know if you’re going to like something until you try it.
You need only to look at my list of occupations to verify that. I have tried many different jobs with the hope or belief that I might like it. I’m sure there are those cynics who would call me a job-hopper, or worse. I would remind them that I have held the same job for the last 26 years, so there.
I won’t list all the tasks I did for payment before my 25th birthday as space really doesn’t allow for a proper treatment (it was less than 30 if you’re wondering).
In many ways I am like the cat that lands on a hot stove. He won’t make that mistake again, but he won’t touch a cold one either. If I tried something and it didn’t agree with me, well I probably won’t attempt it or anything like it again.
One of the hobbies I have toyed with is refinishing furniture, usually done without the aid of power tools. This is because of an experience I had one summer working in a furniture factory. Wood was sawed, sanded and glued to resemble furniture.
At one of the stations was a belt-sander mounted on a table where the sandpaper flew by doing about 80. The person pressing the board against the sandpaper was supposed to pay attention to what they were doing so the wood would be sanded and not their finger tips. I didn’t and they were. Nobody likes that, and I sure didn’t. Although my thumbs were spared, my bloody finger-tips gave me eight good reasons to not try that again.
After college, where my fingertips pressed a keyboard, I worked at two jobs while I waited for Rhonda to graduate. At night I tended bar in downtown St. Cloud at The Red Carpet. That job I liked, and probably for all the wrong reasons.
During the day I was a garbage man, another job I liked. I drove the truck, “Hermie,” who threw the cans, would hang on the back for dear life between stops, and would step off on a street where covered cans waited patiently at the end of their driveways. I would get out from time to time when the trash was piled high. This was usually the week following an unsuccessful garage sale. “Everything Must Go.” It did.
Having that experience on my resume’ came in handy several years later when I would need a job: Rhonda and I had been married a little over a year and I had just left law school after a year. I tried it. After a day or two of picking up the pieces of a dashed dream I picked up the phone and got a job as a trash man. Except this time I was the guy hanging on the back. Rain or shine I emptied garbage cans into the back of a truck. Some of the things I saw would upset most people’s stomachs.
It was a good experience – it made me stronger in many ways, but after six months of coming home and plopping down dead tired I needed some relief. So I tried something else.
I approach many things in life this way (naturally within reason). I am not opposed to trying new things. I don’t always think it through completely – well because it’s hard to know if you’re going to like something until you try it.
You need only to look at my list of occupations to verify that. I have tried many different jobs with the hope or belief that I might like it. I’m sure there are those cynics who would call me a job-hopper, or worse. I would remind them that I have held the same job for the last 26 years, so there.
I won’t list all the tasks I did for payment before my 25th birthday as space really doesn’t allow for a proper treatment (it was less than 30 if you’re wondering).
In many ways I am like the cat that lands on a hot stove. He won’t make that mistake again, but he won’t touch a cold one either. If I tried something and it didn’t agree with me, well I probably won’t attempt it or anything like it again.
One of the hobbies I have toyed with is refinishing furniture, usually done without the aid of power tools. This is because of an experience I had one summer working in a furniture factory. Wood was sawed, sanded and glued to resemble furniture.
At one of the stations was a belt-sander mounted on a table where the sandpaper flew by doing about 80. The person pressing the board against the sandpaper was supposed to pay attention to what they were doing so the wood would be sanded and not their finger tips. I didn’t and they were. Nobody likes that, and I sure didn’t. Although my thumbs were spared, my bloody finger-tips gave me eight good reasons to not try that again.
After college, where my fingertips pressed a keyboard, I worked at two jobs while I waited for Rhonda to graduate. At night I tended bar in downtown St. Cloud at The Red Carpet. That job I liked, and probably for all the wrong reasons.
During the day I was a garbage man, another job I liked. I drove the truck, “Hermie,” who threw the cans, would hang on the back for dear life between stops, and would step off on a street where covered cans waited patiently at the end of their driveways. I would get out from time to time when the trash was piled high. This was usually the week following an unsuccessful garage sale. “Everything Must Go.” It did.
Having that experience on my resume’ came in handy several years later when I would need a job: Rhonda and I had been married a little over a year and I had just left law school after a year. I tried it. After a day or two of picking up the pieces of a dashed dream I picked up the phone and got a job as a trash man. Except this time I was the guy hanging on the back. Rain or shine I emptied garbage cans into the back of a truck. Some of the things I saw would upset most people’s stomachs.
It was a good experience – it made me stronger in many ways, but after six months of coming home and plopping down dead tired I needed some relief. So I tried something else.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Hello, My Name Is ____
When I am offered a “Hello My Name Is ___” label I will often politely decline. I don’t live under any delusion that everyone knows who I am – I actually prefer anonymity to recognition – but I just don’t like that whole labeling thing.
I have been told I am “supposed” to stick the label on my left lapel (or maybe it’s my right) so people can read it easily when they shake my hand. It seems rather forced and artificial. Plus, I think I can do a better job on my own without the promptings of a mass-produced, throwaway badge. So I usually put it in my pocket which of course means I will be labeled anyway (non-conformist, trouble-maker, and rebel).
But I think labels are more than just a good idea when it comes to photographs. It is an odd thing – you take a picture to capture the moment, or secure the memory, but what if your memory fades, or the people on both sides of the lens are no longer living?
Rhonda has been sorting through old photographs for our daughter’s upcoming wedding. Normally I look through pictures as if I were dealing cards – but when it comes to old family photos I slow down a bit. While she looks through hundreds of pictures for wedding photos of parents and grandparents (I think we are having a wedding theme for the wedding day) I dutifully sit there and try to answer her questions.
“Is this your Mom’s dad, or your Dad’s dad?”
“No, I think it’s my Mom’s mom’s mom’s dad.” I answer correctly, if not annoyingly.
These are some old pictures. Fortunately, through some careful, albeit amateurish, detective work I am able to name many of the people in the pictures. This is because some of the photos were labeled many years ago by someone who recognized that time fades memories.
“Grandma’s mother remarried after her father died, so I think this is her mother’s second husband’s nieces or nephews, or maybe her half-brothers or sisters. Then again maybe they’re just neighbors or friends.”
“Are you talking about your Mom’s mom or your Dad’s mom?”
“Try and keep up OK?”
But for others their stories may be lost. There are several pictures of a wedding reception held outdoors. Judging from the military uniforms it appears to be take sometime in the mid-1940’s. The happy couple is standing next to a wooden chair. Seated in the center is the wedding cake which is about to be ceremoniously cut. Apparently all the tables were used in the war effort and the chair crop was very good that year. Judging from the pictures, the newlyweds seem very nice, and I would like to claim them as my cousins (removed or distant), but for now they will remain lost – and yet frozen in time.
I have no idea who some of the people in the photos are, so I am taking some liberties and coming up with my own ideas.
“Isn’t that William Strunk and E.B. White looking very stylish in their element?”
“I’m sure that must be Ingrid Bergman behind those sunglasses.”
Rhonda and I have many unlabeled pictures lying around. We know all the people in them (well most of them) so why would we bother to record their names?
Just ask us – we’ll tell you who they are. But hurry up as I’m not as sure as I used to be.
Many photos are recorded digitally and I imagine that there is some way to label them digitally as well. But just to be sure, on the day of the wedding I think it would be a good idea to have people wear some kind of label – not for introductions, but rather for photo identification purposes.
I have been told I am “supposed” to stick the label on my left lapel (or maybe it’s my right) so people can read it easily when they shake my hand. It seems rather forced and artificial. Plus, I think I can do a better job on my own without the promptings of a mass-produced, throwaway badge. So I usually put it in my pocket which of course means I will be labeled anyway (non-conformist, trouble-maker, and rebel).
But I think labels are more than just a good idea when it comes to photographs. It is an odd thing – you take a picture to capture the moment, or secure the memory, but what if your memory fades, or the people on both sides of the lens are no longer living?
Rhonda has been sorting through old photographs for our daughter’s upcoming wedding. Normally I look through pictures as if I were dealing cards – but when it comes to old family photos I slow down a bit. While she looks through hundreds of pictures for wedding photos of parents and grandparents (I think we are having a wedding theme for the wedding day) I dutifully sit there and try to answer her questions.
“Is this your Mom’s dad, or your Dad’s dad?”
“No, I think it’s my Mom’s mom’s mom’s dad.” I answer correctly, if not annoyingly.
These are some old pictures. Fortunately, through some careful, albeit amateurish, detective work I am able to name many of the people in the pictures. This is because some of the photos were labeled many years ago by someone who recognized that time fades memories.
“Grandma’s mother remarried after her father died, so I think this is her mother’s second husband’s nieces or nephews, or maybe her half-brothers or sisters. Then again maybe they’re just neighbors or friends.”
“Are you talking about your Mom’s mom or your Dad’s mom?”
“Try and keep up OK?”
But for others their stories may be lost. There are several pictures of a wedding reception held outdoors. Judging from the military uniforms it appears to be take sometime in the mid-1940’s. The happy couple is standing next to a wooden chair. Seated in the center is the wedding cake which is about to be ceremoniously cut. Apparently all the tables were used in the war effort and the chair crop was very good that year. Judging from the pictures, the newlyweds seem very nice, and I would like to claim them as my cousins (removed or distant), but for now they will remain lost – and yet frozen in time.
I have no idea who some of the people in the photos are, so I am taking some liberties and coming up with my own ideas.
“Isn’t that William Strunk and E.B. White looking very stylish in their element?”
“I’m sure that must be Ingrid Bergman behind those sunglasses.”
Rhonda and I have many unlabeled pictures lying around. We know all the people in them (well most of them) so why would we bother to record their names?
Just ask us – we’ll tell you who they are. But hurry up as I’m not as sure as I used to be.
Many photos are recorded digitally and I imagine that there is some way to label them digitally as well. But just to be sure, on the day of the wedding I think it would be a good idea to have people wear some kind of label – not for introductions, but rather for photo identification purposes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)