Christmas in Tucson

No need to dream this year as it is most assuredly a white Christmas. It’s hard not to hear Bing sing - just turn on the radio, but there are a lot of other choices for Christmas music; everything from the old classics like Harry Simeone and Lawrence Welk to every other musician putting out a Christmas album. Lately, I have been listening to some Christmas blues with a Vince Guaraldi and Ray Charles bent.

I remember in 1971 listening to Top 40 AM radio in the family station wagon during the Christmas season. We were not going to have a white Christmas that year; we were going to a part of the world where Christmas is a different color - brown (Chicago’s “Color My World,” was the 56^th most popular song in1971). Dad was driving the family down to my cousin’s home in Tucson, Arizona, and occasionally Mom would persuade him to have the radio tuned to something the kids would like.  

Other than a portable transistor radio, there were no other options for music - no smart phones (the uneducated one was still on the counter in the kitchen), no mp3 players, no CD’s – just the radio. So we talked, played games, looked out the window and asked Dad to turn up the radio. Please.

One of the games we played had us in teams counting cattle on each side of the car. When a cemetery came up on your side you had to bury all your cattle and start over. Another game involved filling in the alphabet (A-Z) with street signs and billboards. “Signs” by The Five Man Electrical Band was popular that year (#24)

My cousins, The Delaney’s, (not be too confused with Delaney and Bonnie and Friends whose song “Never Ending Song of Love”  was #67 that year) lived south of Tucson in the middle of the desert. Since there was no snow and it was warm, we shed our cold weather clothes and played outside in shorts and tee-shirts because as Jerry Reed sang, “When you’re hot, you’re hot” (#74). During the day we played football in the stone-fenced yard (to keep out rattlesnakes), rode mini bikes in the desert, and at night we listened to the coyotes howl.

On Christmas Eve my parents, along with my aunt and uncle, went outside to look at the stars. Then they asked the kids come out to see the bright star in the eastern sky. It reminded them of the one that foretold the birth of Jesus. I said I saw it, but I think it was “Just My Imagination Running Away with Me,” (that song by The Temptations was the 9^th most popular in 1971).

                       

After about a week it was time to go home; Mom, Dad and their five children piled back into the station wagon and headed back to Minnesota (John Denver’s song “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” was #8).

On the way back we ran into a snowstorm, the kind of storm where most everyone pulls off the highway, everyone except my dad. There were two things that kept Dad from pulling off the road: He had experience - he had logged hundreds of thousands of miles as a former Greyhound bus and over-the-road semi-truck driver, plus he was too stubborn to be beat by a snowstorm.

So we drove past the dozens of cars waiting out the storm along the shoulder. But soon, one by one they pulled in behind the station wagon with the Minnesota plates and followed Dad as he led them out of the storm (“Riders on the Storm,” The Doors, #99).

The life savers I received as a Christmas gift in the desert lasted the whole way home. I remember savoring each and every one of those round-candies wrapped in 6 rolls and packaged in a book like box. Of all the Christmas’s I had as a kid, the one in Arizona stands out.  I guess it doesn't matter whether it’s a sandy brown or snowy white Christmas; Jesus was born for the whole world (“Joy to The World,” by Three Dog Night, #1, 1971).

Box of Rocks

I heard a story awhile ago about a young man who was cleaning out his grandfather’s garage.  Having lived through the depression the old man had saved most everything just in case…  One box stood out: “Too Short to Save,” was written in big letters on the side. The box was filled with small pieces of wood that were too small to hang onto, and yet…

Clearly, there are some things worth saving. But what do you hang onto? Most home workbenches have a jar or bin filled with miscellaneous nails, nuts, bolts, etc. One time when my son, Nathan, was still living at home he walked in on me sorting a shiny heap of mismanaged metal fasteners. When I explained what I was doing, he asked if he could help. When I consented, he grabbed the bucket used to hold small metal odds and ends for recycling and swept the entire assemblage into it. He then suggested it would be much easier to start over with a trip or two to the hardware store when I need something. I couldn’t disagree.

Most things we hang onto eventually end up as refuse or recycled. There’s an old story about a man who was startled in the middle of the night by a voice telling him to go outside and fill his pockets with stones and in the morning he would be both happy and sad. He did as instructed and went back to sleep (how I can’t imagine with rocks in his pockets). In the morning he found that the stones had turned to diamonds. He was happy that he had taken as much as he had, but sad he had not taken more.

The other day I was going through some boxes of folders and files expecting to find rocks and refuse, but instead I found some real treasure. When my two kids were little, about five and three, I started to keep a journal of our family life. I wrote down what we did, who we saw and what those funny little kids said. For a brief period of time I had recorded the early years of my childrens’ lives.

As I read through my scribbling, I, like the man with the rocks, was both glad and glum. I was happy that I had written down as much as I did for as long as I did, but I was so disappointed in myself for not doing it earlier and more regularly. But worst of all, I had completely stopped doing it after a few years.  That is a regret I will carry to my grave.

When I read my notes I was reminded when I had given my son and daughter horsey-rides up the stairs after having their teeth brushed by their mother. There was a sentence or two describing when I carried my sleeping son back to bed because he had once again fallen asleep on the floor at the top of the stairs where he could hear his mother and my voice. I was happy to read about when I had given my daughter math problems over the phone because she had called my office excited to tell me she now “got multiplication.”

The writing was rough and unedited. Many of the sentences of our early family life were short and choppy, but all are worth saving.  I typed out seven pages from these notes and this year for Christmas I am going to give them to my wife, daughter and son. I’m sorry I don’t have more; I must have had rocks in my head.

There is an old Chinese proverb that states, “The faintest ink is better than the best memory.” Uh-huh.

Company's Coming

Last Saturday morning I got up around 6:00 am, but not because I wanted to. It was still dark and cold (around 10 below) but my wife, Rhonda, was having some neighbor ladies (and a few others) over for coffee, and she had work for me to do. Rhonda doesn’t even drink coffee. Since the first group was scheduled for 7:00, my assigned task was to start a fire in the wood stove so the kitchen would be comfortable and Rhonda could make breakfast on it.

Even though we added some insulation and replaced some windows, the kitchen remains colder than the rest of the house. Maybe it’s because when the kitchen was built they didn’t dig out a basement, above it there is no second floor, it’s exposed to the Northwest, and there are too many windows. But I’m just guessing.

For most of its one-hundred and twenty years this house has had a wood-fired cook stove to prepare meals and provide heat. When we bought the place the old stove in the kitchen didn’t look like it could contain a fire within its walls any more, so we replaced it with a new model (we still have the old one stored in the coop).

Even with a new stove, there is more to it than just striking a match. If everything goes right I can get the stove lit and ready in about 15-20 minutes, but that morning I was a little sleepy and just a bit crabby so it took longer. First, I had to make myself some coffee; the ladies would have to get their own.

The stove’s ash drawer was in need of emptying, for I planned on keeping the stove going throughout the chilly day. I opened the grate and guided yesterday’s remains into the drawer below to top it off. Then I carried the ashes to the garden and cast them to the wind.

Back in the house I hurried to the garage for kindling and newspaper – time was running short and soon I would have to field questions from curious onlookers. A quiet, still stove and a snappy winter night makes for a cold chimney. If the chimney is warm it will draw the smoke up and out, but if it is cold the smoke will take a seat in the kitchen and nobody likes that.

For years I fought with the smoke trying to persuade it to go up the chimney, but too often I was opening windows and running for fans. Until one day Rhonda had an idea (she hates the smell of smoke in the house even though I tell her to pretend she is camping). Through the smoke she handed me an old hair dryer and suggested I use it to blow warm air into the chimney prior to lighting the stove. It worked so well that sometimes I will add a curling iron to give the smoke a subtle swirl as it leaves the chimney. Rhonda declined my offer to give the hair dryer back.

Even though the hair dryer adds five minutes to my task, it saves time and trouble later on. With some newspapers rolled up and some kindling on hand, I am almost ready to go.  I find it to be therapeutic to burn bad news. First, I light a small piece of paper to test the draw of the chimney.  When that is done and the results are promising, I lay newspaper and kindling in the firebox and light a second match.

Just then the ladies hit the room, and I had to dance around them for the next few critical minutes. With the kindling burning, I knew I didn’t have much time to add larger pieces of wood with more staying power.  With the stove warming, I turned the responsibility of feeding the fire over to Rhonda and retreated upstairs.

Having ladies over for coffee sure is a lot of work. I remember my mother used to have ladies over for coffee, but I never remember that Dad had any chores to do. Mom even drank coffee. Things have sure changed.

Letters to my grandson

My wife, Rhonda, went to a baby shower for our daughter and brought home something that has my head and heart leaping years into the future. At the party Rhonda’s sister had given out blank cards to be given as birthday cards to this yet-unborn baby boy. The idea being that you would write something to the boy or (man) not yet here. Not all the cards were filled by the shower guests, so I agreed to take a couple. I chose ages 15 and 20 because I believe I have something to tell him when’s he those ages, whether I am here or not.

To think that I may not even be here is a bit unsettling – but that’s true for tomorrow as well, I guess. So believing that there will be no such thing as privacy in the future, I share these letters with you now.

Dear Pal,

Happy 15^th birthday! I hope you don’t mind that I still call you my pal. One day when your mother was still carrying you she asked what I would call you.  I knew right away: Pal, because I hoped you and I would be close someday.

I wrote this before you were even born, which probably seems kind of crazy to you; it seems crazy to me. So what do I say to my fifteen-year old grandson who isn’t even born yet? I can’t be too specific or I may miss the mark completely; too general and my words are empty of meaning. You see my dilemma. Plus, when you are fifteen you think you know everything; at fifty-four you realize you never will.

I don’t have all the answers, no one but God does – and sometimes he doesn’t tell you right away. But here is what I regard and recommend: Read. Appreciate music. Be a good listener. The Ten Commandments were not just good ideas. Being kind to your neighbor and your enemy will go a long way in making both of them your friends. But, even with that, people will take advantage of you. That’s okay – that’s their sin, not yours.

Have fun, but don’t cross the line. Be strong in your faith, in your convictions, and in your purpose. But allow for some flexibility and spontaneity. Look for options and when possible, compromise and move a little towards the middle. Be true to your word and be on time so people can depend on you. Help others when the opportunity presents itself and always look for those opportunities.

Love your mother – she once was my little girl. If you hurt her you will answer to me. Always remember I love you and nothing can change that. If you need anything, just call.

Your pal,

Grandpa

Dear Pal,

Happy 20^th birthday, same thing applies when you were fifteen – this letter was written before you were born, so I may miss something. You are a man now – maybe you don’t always act like it – but a certain amount of silliness is okay. I hope we are still pals, even though that may seem a bit childish – but the little boy in me still lives – may he live long in you as well.  

  

Go back and read the letter I wrote to you for your fifteenth birthday. That stuff should still apply. I also wrote some essays that you may want to slog through if you ever want to figure out who I was/am.

I hope you still find time to read and listen to music. Find an artistic outlet. Try and do work that allows you to be yourself and someone you can be proud of. When you have to decide between money and time, always choose time because you can never get it back. You can always make more money; and it is true money does not buy happiness.

Find a woman who is your true companion and is kind to others. Everything else should follow. Someday if you have children you will learn what unconditional love is. Your mother and your uncle knew that I would do anything for them. I hope you felt the same. 

Love,

Grandpa  

Dear Dan

November 30th would have been my brother’s 58^th birthday.  When I first learned of his illness, I wrote this letter intending to send it to him, but instead, I read it to him in the hospital. He asked me to share it.  I condensed it for the newspaper and Facebook

Dear Dan,

I could send you a Facebook message – but what I have to say seems more fitting for a personal letter. I am bothered by the brevity of life.  We have lost friends, grandparents and Mom and Dad. And one day we will say good-bye to each other. Since you’re older, I’ll let you go first.

Recently, I was told I look like Uncle Rich. But often I see you in the mirror, sometimes I see Dad. I’d love to talk to him. 

Much of my musical appreciation I owe to you. You amassed a large music album collection. You taught yourself to play piano, guitar and harmonica, which still impress me. 

We had our pretend band in the basement on Church Street. We played along with Mom and Dad’s Fats Domino record. The A side was “When My Dreamboat Comes Home”, but the B side was our favorite. Dad said he heard “So Long” so often he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.   You played the piano, and I played the drums on a stool.  Badminton rackets became guitars, and we played along with “Sugar, Sugar”.  I think we got that record from a cereal box. 

Then you started buying records. Derek and the Dominoes, The Beach Boys, The Doobie Brothers, Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airman, Jefferson Airplane, The Mamas and Papas, Abba, etc.   On your stereo was “Hangman,” “Venus,” “In the Year 2525,” B.J. Thomas, Sly and the Family Stone and “Hair” by The Cowsills. Anything from 1969 will always remind me of you.   You would send me tapes of songs from college. I remember “Long May You Run,” “Wish You Were Here” and “Burning Bridges”.

I learned to love animals from you.  I remember our crazy black cat, Smokey, Lady, our Collie, and a fat, black puppy you snuck into the house one night.  Joe, Barney, Patrick (and your other dogs) were all special because the way you treated them.  Instead of commands, you conversed with them.  “Edgar Sawtelle” was you in so many ways.

You taught me how to play Frisbee. We played with pink rubber curlers that became alien creatures. We played with tile samples (probably asbestos); in the winter we built forts in the basement using blankets, books, and tables.  Mom made us take them down in the spring.

You protected me from bullies at school, even if it meant you would get hurt. You and your friends, John and Dan gave me my first beer. We went to parties together – well maybe not together, but we were both there.

When I hear a thunderstorm, I think of calling you and Terry to share the excitement like we used to when we shared a bedroom. When we stretched out our hands we could touch both walls – maybe even beyond.

You were the first one I knew who wore jeans to church – my kids do now, but you dared to do it first.  When you were tired of clothes you had worn for months, you would hand them down to me, and I would destroy them in a few days. 

We learned to read by reading comic books. “Where the Wild Things Are,” “Big Red”, or anything by James Kjellard makes me think of you.

Dan, you see the world through the eyes of an artist – you see all the beauty God created. You taught me many things, and I learned from you. Now, please learn from me.

As a boy I followed you; Jesus asks you to follow Him. You may not have long to decide.  I plan on going to heaven, and I want you there. Pray to Jesus. He may not heal you in this life, but he can give you eternal life in the next.  You just have to admit that you need Him as your savior. See you later.

I love you Dan,

Jerry

Dan died three days after I read him this letter.

Thanksgiving Eve

I don’t feel that I obsess about food, but often I will call home to inquire about the menu for the evening meal. Sometimes options are given, and I get my choice. Usually though, I am expected to eat what is served, and I usually do. However, it is nice to know ahead of time whether it’s one of my favorites or not. And if not, I can ready myself for the coming culinary experience.

When we are invited over for dinner I will ask my wife, Rhonda, what we will be having.

She rarely knows and yet will never ask.  The closest she gets is asking if she can bring anything. A few questions wouldn't hurt.

On one level, I am merely wondering (but not obsessing). Secondly, I need to know if I should starve myself and go there hungry (or not “spoil my appetite,” as my mother used to say), or should I pack a lunch as I may not like what is offered for dinner. I think it’s just nice to know.

This is true during the holidays as well.  There are some traditional holiday meals where you know with certainty what will be on the table: hors d’oeuvres are a good way to end the year and start a new one; ham is served at Easter; Independence Day is celebrated with a picnic or a barbeque; Christmas and Christmas Eve is anyone’s guess and usually left up to the host and family traditions; Thanksgiving is perhaps the most predictable meal of the year.

For many years, when we were first married and the kids were little we would travel to the middle of Wisconsin to celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister and her family. For a meal away from home you could not do better. Julia Child and M.F.K.

Fisher would have begged for her recipes. I feel like Pavlov’s dog as I salivate at just the thought of sitting at her table.

But, eventually other obligations arose and traditions changed.  Even though we no longer go to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving I am still well fed in Minnesota.  And from what I hear even the traditional turkey dinner is no longer a sure thing at the meal of giving thanks.  There are tales where cold soup and lentils are served instead of the big bird trimmed with cranberries (can ridges still imprinted), dressing, smashed potatoes, breads, pumpkin pie (Festal or fresh) and so on.

My friend, Jeff, has developed a means to manage the risk of not getting a proper meal at Thanksgiving, and perhaps the best part of his plan is that no embarrassing situations need arise.  He never makes a fuss by asking the host ahead of time and he’s not disappointed when an eggplant soufflé is set before him.

This is because he celebrates the night before. That’s right – Thanksgiving Eve. I gathered from our phone conversation that his wife is a willing partner in this trend-setting activity. Having the whole meal the night before was born from his desire to guarantee a generous helping of proper leftovers for the following day or two. A wonderful arrangement it seems.

All this talk about food has made me hungry, even at midnight when I am trying to put this column and me to bed.  I am blessed to never have to go to bed hungry. I am aware of how much I have to be thankful for – my family and friends, my health, my home, my job, peace in my own country and peace in my home. But tomorrow I am going to ask Rhonda about her menu plans for our Thanksgiving dinner. Just to be sure.

Take Two

I am in a play that will open in a few weeks, and I usually have a nightmare at this point in the rehearsal schedule. I am standing behind the curtain and just about to walk on stage when I realize I don’t know my lines. I never find out if I suddenly remember them, as I always wake up at that point.

Plays require numerous practices for the actors to get ready. Sometimes I get impatient and begin to question the necessity of such repetition, but then I remember my bad dream and am thankful for all the practice experience. I have to know my part because there is no second chance.

For a play to be successful practice, practice, practice is required. When everything comes together you know what you and the other actors are going say, when they should say it and to whom. You know when you are supposed to come on stage, where you should stand, who else is going to be with you and what they are going to do.  To the audience, all this should come across as smooth and natural, with no bumps and a dialog that doesn’t sound rehearsed. To the actors on stage and those waiting in the wings there should be no surprises. If there are, the director may pull her hair out.

With my own loss of hair, I have noticed that the parts normally offered to me are going to younger men. A woman in the play who is about my age said to me during rehearsal the other day, “What happened?  We used to get the younger parts – now we play the older folks.”  And then she answered her own question. “We got older, Jerry.”

Well, maybe we did. I have been told I will be a grandfather sometime next year and all signs seem to be pointing in that direction. In fact, it becomes more obvious each time I see my daughter.

But, I’m not sure if I’m right for the part of grandfather. My own grandfathers were  elderly. They wore sensible shoes and suspenders. Their long sleeved shirts were buttoned-up tight at the neck. I suppose I could make that work with the right costume and make-up.

Certainly, playing the part of a grandfather would provide me with certain advantages that are otherwise unavailable to a younger man. Having witnessed similar scenes unfold before, a grandfather knows when to laugh, when to be serious, and what to expect in the next act.

Having learned from my mistakes I will, as a grandfather, have the opportunity to do better this time around. I will have more to give and less to demand. I won’t lose my temper with a young child, I will be a better listener, I will be a better story teller and have more time to use four letter words like play, pray, talk, walk, hold and love.

A young father has many things to learn and there are so many other demands on his time and energy, but a grandfather is positioned to give back – to share his life with his grandchild.

When it came to raising kids my dad used to tell me, “You do the best you can, but you go only get one chance.”

But the way I see it with grandchildren, it’s kind of like a second chance.  And this time I think I know my lines.