I should have added to my last post that my father made more things than just my furniture treasures. He built the kitchen cabinets at my grandparents' farmhouse when they remodeled a garage into a house after a fire that destroyed the homestead. He made picture frames as needed for paintings. (Shari, take note that Dad made the frame for the Hawaiian seascape painting hanging on your stairs and the "Christina's World" print that Lynn has.) He also made wooden boards for my sister Shari's decoupage projects many years ago. He was also frequently working on projects for friends, using his wood shop at Elmwood Park High School, to the point that my mother used to complain. She had been requesting that he make end tables for years, but he was always doing other projects. (You know--the cobbler's kids don't have shoes!) Finally, Dad got around to making those end tables. They were modeled after cobbler's benches and were quite big and sturdy. Don't know what happened to those...
In my days, I have refinished many a piece of furniture, stripping off the old finish, staining, and varnishing. Dad always claimed that he would rather build furniture from scratch than have to refinish it. I don't blame him! He jokingly called himself a "wood butcher", but he was good at what he did. He was a great athlete, a good Navy officer, an admirable wood butcher, an excellent provider for his family, a Commander at the Streator, IL, American Legion and VFW for many years, a fantastic gardener and farm hand for my grandparents, and PROBABLY a good teacher.
There are stories about his teaching. He used to tell his classes that he beat his wife and children on a regular basis to keep them in line. Once in awhile as a teenager, I would attend a football game that he was coaching or a basketball game that he was refereeing, and a student or two would ask, "Does he really beat you?" I'd just laugh. "He's never touched me in anger." Those poor duped students! There was also a time when a parent called the administration because Dad had called their son a "punk". When Dad was asked to explain himself, he told the principal that yes, he had...and would again...because the kid was behaving like a punk! And I vaguely remember a story in which he grabbed a kid by the collar and shoved him up against some lockers. I didn't get the details, but you can bet the kid was fighting with someone or being disrespectful. My father had no patience for disrespect! Nothing ever came of that. Today, there would be a law suit.
The football team that Dad coached consisted of big Italian kids. He called them "jelly bellies". If one of them came up with a bloody nose, he'd tell the kid, "Wipe it on your shirt. It'll make you look tough." That probably wouldn't fly in today's schools. Then there was the day that one of his students cut off parts of three fingers in a saw. Dad said he had his back to the kid but could tell by the sound of the saw that something had happened. He grabbed the kid's bleeding hand to apply pressure and hold it up in the air so he could escort the student out, but first had to deal with another student who fainted at the sight of blood. He said he picked the faint-hearted one up and laid him on one of the work tables, admonishing the others to watch him until an adult could be there. Then he took the injured student out for medical assistance. Not sure how I would have reacted in the same situation!
Still, when my father retired, he got an engraved scroll plaque that said, "With Deepest Respect, Your Homeroom Class of 1975". Dad treasured that more than anything else he could have gotten as a good-bye gift. It went on the wall at the farm and stayed there until we sold the place after he died.
There was also an incident at Elmwood Park High School back in 1973, during which a male student shot and killed a female student during a passing period, then ran out into an alley and took his own life. Dad wasn't witness to that because his shop was on the back side of the building, but it did cause him to say, "I've been teaching too long." He never talked about it to us. (He came from The Greatest Generation--the group of our beloved care-givers who believed in protecting innocents from the ugly side of life. I wish we had more of that now!!) After my grandmother died, he took advantage of a new deal going around back then that allowed for early retirement so he and Mom could move to the farm to take care of my grandfather. By that time, his arthritic knees had become so bad that he had given up coaching and could barely stand long enough to teach. It was time.
When my dad the wood butcher retired, he had a full military pension from the Navy, a negotiated teacher's pension for early retirees, Social Security Disability, and crop income from the farm. This man, even in retirement in the 1970s on up, brought in more money per month than I do so many years later! His legacy? Lots of memories. But here we are, already in a generation of children who never knew him. What he leaves behind for future generations are the wooden things that he made, with his signature, somewhere. Tangible evidence that this man existed, did what he did, and loved. I need to figure out what I can leave as tangible evidence of MY existence when my time comes!
Whew! I didn't intend for these last two posts to be a shrine to my father. He was no saint, for sure, but, in my old age, I have come to understand the man that was my dad. A long time coming!
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Things My Daddy Made
I was cleaning up my kitchen a few minutes ago and sprayed a bleach solution on my cutting board to let it sit for ten minutes, as recommended, to sanitize before I propped it back up at the back of my stovetop. This is not your average, run-of-the-mill cutting board. This is a cutting board made of laminated plywood layers with brown Formica as the top layer. This cutting board is in the shape of a pig. And my father made it.
My dad graduated from college in 1941--the first and only of his huge family to do so--with a degree in Industrial Arts and (probably) a minor in Physical Education. He started his career as a woods teacher and coach, with a wife and one baby. Then, World War II happened. I wasn't around for the conversations, but he (and Mom, I guess) decided that he should take a commission in the US Naval Reserve for the duration of the war. After a little training in the Navy, he went off to war, spending some time on an LST, then as Navigator on a troop transport, the USS Henrico, APA 45. When the war was over, he was put on inactive duty just long enough to take on another teaching career and have me....then the conflict in Korea started, and he was off to war again. This time, he was kept on active duty for quite a long time. Lt. JG Floyd D. Covill eventually became Commander Floyd D. Covill, and his little family followed him all over the place. My brother was born while we lived in Coronado, CA, at one of his stations. When we were in Japan, in 1958, Dad got orders that the USNR was cutting back on active duty personnel, so we became civilians again, although he was still on reserve duty. Back to teaching again, this time in the Chicago area--Elmwood Park High School. Industrial Arts, and coaching.
Dad was always on the lookout for easy little projects for his Beginning Woods students to do. The piggy cutting board was one of them. About the time I was graduating from college and planning my wedding, he brought one home. I snatched it up immediately. Thus, the pig became a part of my kitchen from 1969, onward. I've never had another cutting board. I've never found one with the same character!
For decades, I only used the wooden side to cut. Didn't want to scratch up the Formica side. But eventually--not so very long ago--I figured that all of my sanitizing attempts probably weren't good enough due to the porousness of the wood. I made the mistake of putting Piggy in the dishwasher. Not good! It came out dry...cracked...and very, very sad. Thereafter, I decided that if I wanted to keep it longer, I was going to have to use the Formica side. That has worked. 'Tis much easier to sanitize with the Clorox Clean-Up, and no one has died from germ exposure. Whew!
I have three other treasures that my dad created for me as a result of my requests at wedding time. One is a wagon seat that I commissioned to stay at the foot of the bed to hold bed linens. That silly thing has seen a lot of use over the years. Then there is the bookcase with three adjustable shelves. OMG! Whatever would I have done without that through the years??! It wasn't always easy to find a place for it, but it holds a multitude of treasured books. Once, very early in my first marriage, I saw a picture in a catalog of a rack to hold cook books, with two index-card-sized drawers underneath. I asked Dad if he could make one for me. He requested a picture and dimensions, so I cut out the catalog pic and gave it to him. Voila! In short order, I had a place to stash my cook books and recipe cards. Most years, it has been on top of the refrigerator. Love that thing!
Oh...I have one more treasure, mostly not seen. It is in a box of my souvenirs. I think I've written about it before: a gold-painted wooden star on a square wooden plaque background, which was nailed to my bedroom door right after I got the lead role in the Fall Play during my senior year of high school. I didn't see that one coming! I went on to get the leads in the other two school drama productions that year, so it stayed up until my parents moved out of that house after I graduated from college. I don't know who commissioned that star--whether my mom asked Dad to make it, or if Dad did it on his own. I only know that it thrilled me to know how much my parents valued my achievement at that point in my life. (Note to my daughter: Don't throw that away after I'm gone!!)
When Dad made furniture, he signed and dated it somewhere out of sight. The piggy cutting board doesn't have a Floyd signature, but you can be sure the rest of the stuff does. Treasures, all!
My dad graduated from college in 1941--the first and only of his huge family to do so--with a degree in Industrial Arts and (probably) a minor in Physical Education. He started his career as a woods teacher and coach, with a wife and one baby. Then, World War II happened. I wasn't around for the conversations, but he (and Mom, I guess) decided that he should take a commission in the US Naval Reserve for the duration of the war. After a little training in the Navy, he went off to war, spending some time on an LST, then as Navigator on a troop transport, the USS Henrico, APA 45. When the war was over, he was put on inactive duty just long enough to take on another teaching career and have me....then the conflict in Korea started, and he was off to war again. This time, he was kept on active duty for quite a long time. Lt. JG Floyd D. Covill eventually became Commander Floyd D. Covill, and his little family followed him all over the place. My brother was born while we lived in Coronado, CA, at one of his stations. When we were in Japan, in 1958, Dad got orders that the USNR was cutting back on active duty personnel, so we became civilians again, although he was still on reserve duty. Back to teaching again, this time in the Chicago area--Elmwood Park High School. Industrial Arts, and coaching.
Dad was always on the lookout for easy little projects for his Beginning Woods students to do. The piggy cutting board was one of them. About the time I was graduating from college and planning my wedding, he brought one home. I snatched it up immediately. Thus, the pig became a part of my kitchen from 1969, onward. I've never had another cutting board. I've never found one with the same character!
For decades, I only used the wooden side to cut. Didn't want to scratch up the Formica side. But eventually--not so very long ago--I figured that all of my sanitizing attempts probably weren't good enough due to the porousness of the wood. I made the mistake of putting Piggy in the dishwasher. Not good! It came out dry...cracked...and very, very sad. Thereafter, I decided that if I wanted to keep it longer, I was going to have to use the Formica side. That has worked. 'Tis much easier to sanitize with the Clorox Clean-Up, and no one has died from germ exposure. Whew!
I have three other treasures that my dad created for me as a result of my requests at wedding time. One is a wagon seat that I commissioned to stay at the foot of the bed to hold bed linens. That silly thing has seen a lot of use over the years. Then there is the bookcase with three adjustable shelves. OMG! Whatever would I have done without that through the years??! It wasn't always easy to find a place for it, but it holds a multitude of treasured books. Once, very early in my first marriage, I saw a picture in a catalog of a rack to hold cook books, with two index-card-sized drawers underneath. I asked Dad if he could make one for me. He requested a picture and dimensions, so I cut out the catalog pic and gave it to him. Voila! In short order, I had a place to stash my cook books and recipe cards. Most years, it has been on top of the refrigerator. Love that thing!
Oh...I have one more treasure, mostly not seen. It is in a box of my souvenirs. I think I've written about it before: a gold-painted wooden star on a square wooden plaque background, which was nailed to my bedroom door right after I got the lead role in the Fall Play during my senior year of high school. I didn't see that one coming! I went on to get the leads in the other two school drama productions that year, so it stayed up until my parents moved out of that house after I graduated from college. I don't know who commissioned that star--whether my mom asked Dad to make it, or if Dad did it on his own. I only know that it thrilled me to know how much my parents valued my achievement at that point in my life. (Note to my daughter: Don't throw that away after I'm gone!!)
When Dad made furniture, he signed and dated it somewhere out of sight. The piggy cutting board doesn't have a Floyd signature, but you can be sure the rest of the stuff does. Treasures, all!
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Eye Dislocation
Are you aware that you can dislocate an eye out of its socket by coughing? Yep, you can. It happened to me this morning in the wee hours in bed. It wasn't even a particularly violent cough. I just felt something weird in my eye. Reached up to touch my lower lid. It didn't feel right. I pressed on it just a tiny bit and felt it pop back into place. It wasn't horribly dislocated. Just a bit. So there you are. No repercussions. No need to go to a doctor. No harm; no foul. But now I know the possibilities and will be more vigilant. Weird!
My attempts to diet have been unsuccessful. Haven't weighed myself in a few days, but I have been up and down the same 2-3 pounds for several weeks now. It isn't funny anymore!
I'm still doing battle with the Dayton Hamvention people for SATERN booth privileges. This should be a whole lot easier than it is. I am going to go this year and pray that I can make it through three days. I will be using a rollator--a rolling walker with a built-in seat that I have purchased for emergency use. I'm afraid it will shock a lot of people, but life goes on.
Keep praying for better weather. Spring hasn't really shown up consistently yet!
My attempts to diet have been unsuccessful. Haven't weighed myself in a few days, but I have been up and down the same 2-3 pounds for several weeks now. It isn't funny anymore!
I'm still doing battle with the Dayton Hamvention people for SATERN booth privileges. This should be a whole lot easier than it is. I am going to go this year and pray that I can make it through three days. I will be using a rollator--a rolling walker with a built-in seat that I have purchased for emergency use. I'm afraid it will shock a lot of people, but life goes on.
Keep praying for better weather. Spring hasn't really shown up consistently yet!
Monday, April 22, 2013
Gearing Up
Starting at the end of this week, my schedule will heat up. I'll be attending a seminar at DePauw on Saturday with my friend and co-grandma Judy, for a church history project. Then I have a doctor's appointment, long overdue, which requires a blood test just prior. Then I will head up to my daughter's for a week to assist getting some stuff done in prep for her guests-to-come. Immediately thereafter, I will go to Dayton for the radio Hamvention. Just a few days after that, I will have houseguests for Race weekend. While I sit on my butt and do nothing around here, I realize that I need to get the posterior moving in order not to embarrass myself!! Busy month! I don't mind. It's just a bit challenging because, normally, if I can just accomplish one thing a day, I consider myself lucky.
Yesterday, my lawn was mowed by my friend James. James is a young man (40-ish) with multiple health problems but has a work ethic out the roof. He and his wife--my former student Amy--are struggling to support four kids (two his; two hers). They are never out of my heart. It hasn't been easy for them. One of the young-uns has an anger problem and has caused no end of concerns, but I pray for him/them and hope for the best. It isn't because he isn't loved...
When May is over, I may fall into a dead heap. Not sure what my grandchildren's summer schedules are, but I hope to have them here some this summer without parents. Grandma isn't as much fun as everyone else, but I have other grandparents to help! Only God knows how much more time we will have together!
Yesterday, my lawn was mowed by my friend James. James is a young man (40-ish) with multiple health problems but has a work ethic out the roof. He and his wife--my former student Amy--are struggling to support four kids (two his; two hers). They are never out of my heart. It hasn't been easy for them. One of the young-uns has an anger problem and has caused no end of concerns, but I pray for him/them and hope for the best. It isn't because he isn't loved...
When May is over, I may fall into a dead heap. Not sure what my grandchildren's summer schedules are, but I hope to have them here some this summer without parents. Grandma isn't as much fun as everyone else, but I have other grandparents to help! Only God knows how much more time we will have together!
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Boston
A week ago, I was alerted to the terrorist bombings at the legendary Boston Marathon by a phone call from a friend. By the time I got the news, the whole thing was over. The pictures being shown were old and replayed many times over. I was a little impressed by the fact that NBC--the network I was watching--was being very judicious in what they aired, both in pictures and in speculation of casualties. (I'll talk more about that later.) I did, however, internally declare that finding the culprits that caused that mayhem could only happen as an act of God. I mean, all those people! The trite phrase "trying to find a needle in a haystack" came to mind.
I was wrong. I had already determined for myself that the bombing was domestic terrorism. (Like I would know!) What I failed to understand is that, in this world of surveillance cameras and cameras on every cell phone, a series of dots are created that, when connected, paint a picture. Authorities were asking for images from any source, and apparently many showed up. Within a day or two of the bombing, there was a manhunt for two suspects whose pictures appeared everywhere on the news. The hunt was on.
Then, the actual bombers got desperate and revealed themselves in a carjacking and a shootout. One was killed. The other was on the loose, but people in Boston and certain suburbs were advised to stay at home behind locked doors while the search went on. Last night, it was over. The second suspect, brother to the first, was wounded and hiding in a boat in someone's back yard. The boat's owner noticed that the tarp was flapping and that the strap holding it down had been cut...and there was blood. He called authorities. In short order, the word went out. "Suspect in custody." All of Massachusetts and the entire rest of the country let out a collective cheer.
The bombers were kids. The dead one was 24; the one in custody is 19. Nineteen??? What does anyone know about life at age 19--or even 24? The human brain doesn't even become fully mature until about age 25. But this CHILD decided that he was old enough and brave enough to kill and maim innocent Americans, because....uh...because of what? The story will unfold in the coming weeks and months, but this good-looking young man has ruined his life--and the lives of hundreds of others--senselessly. I don't get it.
Slowly, I have come to realize that there are a lot of malcontents in this country, some of whom are my "friends". The conspiracists among us have already decided that the whole bombing thing was an inside government job. Sorry. I don't believe that for a second. Just like I don't believe those who say 9/11 was an inside government job during President Bush's administration or that President Obama set this one up. (Oops! I just saw Elvis!) So, some of these malcontents have also foist upon us the notion that some news networks were filtering information for some kind of cover-up. (See first paragraph, above.) Not at all! Responsible networks have begun to react to the backlash that would-be felons are going for the glory of notoriety that comes from media coverage. Networks are becoming sensitive to that. They also comprehend that, with social media abounding, sometimes people see images on TV before they have been alerted to the condition of their loved ones. (Happens over and over these days.) MOST networks did not publish the picture of the man being rushed down the street in a wheelchair with only exposed bones for legs. Guess where that one came from? Right-wing networks. It wasn't pleasant to see. It occurred to me that my father--and countless tens of thousands of others--fought wars to protect their loved ones from having to see the realities of this sort of stuff. I don't hide my head in the sand about it. I just don't need to see it to understand how bad it is. I saw the picture because it just appeared on Facebook. I hope to God my grandchildren didn't see it. I'm not a fragile person, but I am thankful for those who consider my mental well-being in deciding what they will publish...and what they won't.
I am both amazed and proud of how quickly the whole Boston Marathon bombing thing was resolved. I fear that this is only the beginning. I have heard from several sources with overseas information that America has been spared what Europe already endures on a regular basis. I think it's time for us to wake up. The time has come to unite, in fact and in theory. Otherwise, we are doomed.
I was wrong. I had already determined for myself that the bombing was domestic terrorism. (Like I would know!) What I failed to understand is that, in this world of surveillance cameras and cameras on every cell phone, a series of dots are created that, when connected, paint a picture. Authorities were asking for images from any source, and apparently many showed up. Within a day or two of the bombing, there was a manhunt for two suspects whose pictures appeared everywhere on the news. The hunt was on.
Then, the actual bombers got desperate and revealed themselves in a carjacking and a shootout. One was killed. The other was on the loose, but people in Boston and certain suburbs were advised to stay at home behind locked doors while the search went on. Last night, it was over. The second suspect, brother to the first, was wounded and hiding in a boat in someone's back yard. The boat's owner noticed that the tarp was flapping and that the strap holding it down had been cut...and there was blood. He called authorities. In short order, the word went out. "Suspect in custody." All of Massachusetts and the entire rest of the country let out a collective cheer.
The bombers were kids. The dead one was 24; the one in custody is 19. Nineteen??? What does anyone know about life at age 19--or even 24? The human brain doesn't even become fully mature until about age 25. But this CHILD decided that he was old enough and brave enough to kill and maim innocent Americans, because....uh...because of what? The story will unfold in the coming weeks and months, but this good-looking young man has ruined his life--and the lives of hundreds of others--senselessly. I don't get it.
Slowly, I have come to realize that there are a lot of malcontents in this country, some of whom are my "friends". The conspiracists among us have already decided that the whole bombing thing was an inside government job. Sorry. I don't believe that for a second. Just like I don't believe those who say 9/11 was an inside government job during President Bush's administration or that President Obama set this one up. (Oops! I just saw Elvis!) So, some of these malcontents have also foist upon us the notion that some news networks were filtering information for some kind of cover-up. (See first paragraph, above.) Not at all! Responsible networks have begun to react to the backlash that would-be felons are going for the glory of notoriety that comes from media coverage. Networks are becoming sensitive to that. They also comprehend that, with social media abounding, sometimes people see images on TV before they have been alerted to the condition of their loved ones. (Happens over and over these days.) MOST networks did not publish the picture of the man being rushed down the street in a wheelchair with only exposed bones for legs. Guess where that one came from? Right-wing networks. It wasn't pleasant to see. It occurred to me that my father--and countless tens of thousands of others--fought wars to protect their loved ones from having to see the realities of this sort of stuff. I don't hide my head in the sand about it. I just don't need to see it to understand how bad it is. I saw the picture because it just appeared on Facebook. I hope to God my grandchildren didn't see it. I'm not a fragile person, but I am thankful for those who consider my mental well-being in deciding what they will publish...and what they won't.
I am both amazed and proud of how quickly the whole Boston Marathon bombing thing was resolved. I fear that this is only the beginning. I have heard from several sources with overseas information that America has been spared what Europe already endures on a regular basis. I think it's time for us to wake up. The time has come to unite, in fact and in theory. Otherwise, we are doomed.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
A Man Named Fisher
I usually don't write about people outside the family...at least not by name...but I had the opportunity to talk to one of my fellow church members this morning in the narthex between services, and I just need to talk about Bill Fisher.
Bill was the principal of Hall Elementary School near Monrovia, IN. I was a relatively new Indiana resident. (My then-husband had accepted a principalship in Cloverdale, just a few miles east of Hall, on country roads that almost proved the statement, "You can't get there from here.") I had spent some months and some $$ updating my coursework via Indiana State University in Terre Haute in an effort to get Indiana certification in order to teach in our new state of residence. Joe and I were going through some marriage-threatening experiences. In July of 1990, it hit me that school would be starting soon and I had no job...and would soon have no husband/support. I got busy and started applying everywhere close. It was pretty late in the process. Most jobs would already be filled.
One of my daughter's classmates had a mother who taught in the Monrovia District, of which Hall Elementary was a part. She told me that there was a 4th grade opening, so I applied. I got an interview with Mr. Fisher, and for reasons known only to God, I got the job! (The only local references were with districts for which I had substituted. I knew there were "known" people on the interview lists. I felt blessed!)
Mr. Fisher was very close to retirement. He had done-it-all in the district and was ready to enjoy some free time. New teachers on board require, by contract, a certain number of evaluations per year. That particular year, I was his only new teacher. I think he was supposed to observe me twice.
The first observation didn't go well. I had moved a student and his desk up by the blackboard (and this really WAS a blackboard--slate--and rough) for disciplinary reasons. When Mr. Fisher showed up to observe, he sat at my desk, to my right and slightly to my back. The errant student was also behind me but knew the principal was there. The whole class knew he was there. But, while I was teaching, the kid couldn't resist his temptations and pretended to stab me in the rear with a pencil. I didn't see it. Mr. Fisher did. The man came unglued! He practically climbed over my desk to get at the kid. He grabbed the student by the shoulders, yanked him out of his seat (scratching his neck in the process), and quickly escorted him to the office where he was suspended for a few days. So much for that observation. After they departed in a whirlwind, the rest of my class was very quiet. One young'un asked, almost in a whisper, "Ms. McNary, don't you think that was a bit harsh?" Yeah, it probably was. But you know what? I felt vindicated and supported. That counts for a lot.
The next observation had been scheduled and cancelled at least three times. Every time Mr. Fisher planned to come to my classroom, something came up to thwart it. It was becoming crunch time. I was aware that this professional evaluation was the last one he would have to make in his education career. I finally told him, "You have seen me teach. You don't have to be in my classroom to validate your opinions about my abilities. Write a fair evaluation, and I will sign it." He did...and I did. Then he retired.
End of story. Or is it? Mr. Fisher's son, Jeff, was also a teacher in the district, and Jeff's wife, Wilma, was a secretary. They were good people. Jeff was a bit of a renegade...nothing like his father...but a good guy. In time, both Jeff and Wilma became victims of politics in the district and were eased out. Jeff retired to his farm, and Wilma went on to work as a manager at Walmart here in Plainfield. She was a little slip of a woman. I ran into her often there. And Jeff's father and mother moved into a free-standing condo just down the road from me. God bless Bill...he showed up on my doorstep one day just after my return home after the brain aneurysm. I looked awful, but I think he understood!
Somewhere along the way, Jeff had a stroke. He walked and talked like a drunken man, but he held on. Then, one day, Wilma had a massive heart attack. For a month, she was kept on life support while her body just slipped away...and finally, they pulled the plug.
Thanks to Mr. Fisher, I had Jeff's phone number. We talked quite a few times about Wilma. When the awful time came, he was okay with it. We were planning a trip to have lunch with another retired teacher but were waiting for the right time. And then, out of nowhere, Jeff died. I think it was his heart. I had already provided a prayer blanket for Bill and his wife through our church, knowing how much they worried about their son after Wilma's death. When I handed it to him, he just cried. I cried with him. Then Jeff died. What to do??
Jeff's memorial service was scheduled for a time when I could not attend. We had to be on our way to Illinois for a 50th Anniversary celebration for my sister and brother-in-law--something that had been planned for many months. Still, I wrote a eulogy about Jeff and delivered it to his father's house, hoping that someone would read it in my stead at the service. (Delivering that silly eulogy was more complicated than I am making it sound, but it happened.) The minister got it and read it. And thereafter, Bill Fisher and wife said it was right on target about their son. They asked me for a copy because the minister had kept the one I had provided. Since I hadn't been there, I felt better.
Which brings me back to today. In the narthex at church, Bill mentioned that another school year was drawing to a close. I mentioned that this year's graduates are the last of the kids I would know. He confessed that he didn't miss Commencement exercises and hadn't known the graduates for years. Then he talked about the kid in my class so many years ago that pretended to stab me in the rear with a pencil. I wasn't sure he remembered!!
Bill Fisher is well into his 80s. Has been retired since 1991, although I think he stood in as an interim superintendent in our district for awhile. He doesn't look any different today than he did so many years ago! I know he doesn't do computers, so he will never see this. I haven't said anything I haven't already said to him, but I am eternally grateful to him for taking a chance on me. My years in the Monroe-Gregg District were not all easy, but had he not hired me in the first place, I'm not sure where I would be now.
God Bless Bill Fisher, forever.
Bill was the principal of Hall Elementary School near Monrovia, IN. I was a relatively new Indiana resident. (My then-husband had accepted a principalship in Cloverdale, just a few miles east of Hall, on country roads that almost proved the statement, "You can't get there from here.") I had spent some months and some $$ updating my coursework via Indiana State University in Terre Haute in an effort to get Indiana certification in order to teach in our new state of residence. Joe and I were going through some marriage-threatening experiences. In July of 1990, it hit me that school would be starting soon and I had no job...and would soon have no husband/support. I got busy and started applying everywhere close. It was pretty late in the process. Most jobs would already be filled.
One of my daughter's classmates had a mother who taught in the Monrovia District, of which Hall Elementary was a part. She told me that there was a 4th grade opening, so I applied. I got an interview with Mr. Fisher, and for reasons known only to God, I got the job! (The only local references were with districts for which I had substituted. I knew there were "known" people on the interview lists. I felt blessed!)
Mr. Fisher was very close to retirement. He had done-it-all in the district and was ready to enjoy some free time. New teachers on board require, by contract, a certain number of evaluations per year. That particular year, I was his only new teacher. I think he was supposed to observe me twice.
The first observation didn't go well. I had moved a student and his desk up by the blackboard (and this really WAS a blackboard--slate--and rough) for disciplinary reasons. When Mr. Fisher showed up to observe, he sat at my desk, to my right and slightly to my back. The errant student was also behind me but knew the principal was there. The whole class knew he was there. But, while I was teaching, the kid couldn't resist his temptations and pretended to stab me in the rear with a pencil. I didn't see it. Mr. Fisher did. The man came unglued! He practically climbed over my desk to get at the kid. He grabbed the student by the shoulders, yanked him out of his seat (scratching his neck in the process), and quickly escorted him to the office where he was suspended for a few days. So much for that observation. After they departed in a whirlwind, the rest of my class was very quiet. One young'un asked, almost in a whisper, "Ms. McNary, don't you think that was a bit harsh?" Yeah, it probably was. But you know what? I felt vindicated and supported. That counts for a lot.
The next observation had been scheduled and cancelled at least three times. Every time Mr. Fisher planned to come to my classroom, something came up to thwart it. It was becoming crunch time. I was aware that this professional evaluation was the last one he would have to make in his education career. I finally told him, "You have seen me teach. You don't have to be in my classroom to validate your opinions about my abilities. Write a fair evaluation, and I will sign it." He did...and I did. Then he retired.
End of story. Or is it? Mr. Fisher's son, Jeff, was also a teacher in the district, and Jeff's wife, Wilma, was a secretary. They were good people. Jeff was a bit of a renegade...nothing like his father...but a good guy. In time, both Jeff and Wilma became victims of politics in the district and were eased out. Jeff retired to his farm, and Wilma went on to work as a manager at Walmart here in Plainfield. She was a little slip of a woman. I ran into her often there. And Jeff's father and mother moved into a free-standing condo just down the road from me. God bless Bill...he showed up on my doorstep one day just after my return home after the brain aneurysm. I looked awful, but I think he understood!
Somewhere along the way, Jeff had a stroke. He walked and talked like a drunken man, but he held on. Then, one day, Wilma had a massive heart attack. For a month, she was kept on life support while her body just slipped away...and finally, they pulled the plug.
Thanks to Mr. Fisher, I had Jeff's phone number. We talked quite a few times about Wilma. When the awful time came, he was okay with it. We were planning a trip to have lunch with another retired teacher but were waiting for the right time. And then, out of nowhere, Jeff died. I think it was his heart. I had already provided a prayer blanket for Bill and his wife through our church, knowing how much they worried about their son after Wilma's death. When I handed it to him, he just cried. I cried with him. Then Jeff died. What to do??
Jeff's memorial service was scheduled for a time when I could not attend. We had to be on our way to Illinois for a 50th Anniversary celebration for my sister and brother-in-law--something that had been planned for many months. Still, I wrote a eulogy about Jeff and delivered it to his father's house, hoping that someone would read it in my stead at the service. (Delivering that silly eulogy was more complicated than I am making it sound, but it happened.) The minister got it and read it. And thereafter, Bill Fisher and wife said it was right on target about their son. They asked me for a copy because the minister had kept the one I had provided. Since I hadn't been there, I felt better.
Which brings me back to today. In the narthex at church, Bill mentioned that another school year was drawing to a close. I mentioned that this year's graduates are the last of the kids I would know. He confessed that he didn't miss Commencement exercises and hadn't known the graduates for years. Then he talked about the kid in my class so many years ago that pretended to stab me in the rear with a pencil. I wasn't sure he remembered!!
Bill Fisher is well into his 80s. Has been retired since 1991, although I think he stood in as an interim superintendent in our district for awhile. He doesn't look any different today than he did so many years ago! I know he doesn't do computers, so he will never see this. I haven't said anything I haven't already said to him, but I am eternally grateful to him for taking a chance on me. My years in the Monroe-Gregg District were not all easy, but had he not hired me in the first place, I'm not sure where I would be now.
God Bless Bill Fisher, forever.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Kids Say the Darnedest Things
The title of this post goes back to a program that a man named Art Linkletter used to host on TV. There was a part of his show where he had a panel of four children--probably 4 or 5-year-olds--who would answer his questions. Pretty funny stuff!
Well...anyone with young children in the family can get lots of chuckles from the verbal exploits of their babes. I really, really wish I had kept a log of all of the cute things I heard as a result of family young'uns...starting with my brother who, at the age of about 3...yelled "Happy New Year!" as the rest of us were waving good-bye to our grandparents as they left after a visit during the summer.
Unfortunately, I was too busy being a mom during my daughter's childhood to remember too much...but I do know that she coined two phrases all on her own. The first was "knee pit". That is the space at the back of the knees. You have an armpit, right? Then why not a knee pit? The second was truly original. Megan was used to giving her father "Eskimo kisses"--rubbing noses--and "high fives"--slapping palms in victory. Well...one day, she smacked her father on the nose with her hand. I said, "Poor Daddy!" Her response was, "I was just giving him an Eskimo Five." It made perfect sense to her, and after I thought about it, it made sense to me, too!
Grandchildren can be a rich source of cute things. Robin was slower to speak than I thought she should be, but she used an economy of words. Sharp as a tack, she ruled the roost before her brother was born. They came for a visit one day when she was merely a toddler. I asked if she wanted something to eat. She didn't really respond and continued on about her toddler busy-ness...but I kept hearing her say "Pea butt swence." Over and over. "Pea butt swence." In a moment of clarity it hit me. Stupid Grandma! The child is asking for a peanut butter sandwich!
Ryan was very verbal, very early in life. He had a huge vocabulary--and still does. At the ripe old age of two or less, he was asked what he thought of how my early-morning hair looked. He said, "Noodly!" What was fascinating about that to me, a teacher of language, was that this child--very new to language development--knew how to make a noun into an adjective. My gray hair looked like noodles to him. (It did.) But he already knew how to make it fit into sentence structure. My big boy!
Ry has also offered some other moments of amusement. I took him to do some shopping with me once when he was probably two. He told me I needed to buy new jelly because what I had was "misgusting". And once, he asked for a tool. He needed a "goofdryer". (Screwdriver to the rest of us.) And then there was the time that we were going to Illinois, just the two of us, to visit his great-aunt Shari and family. As we pulled out of the drive, he said, "Hit the road, Toad!" Such good memories!
Ry still extends his vocab, but now that he can read, he gets confused. A few months ago, he was talking about something he had read about a boat that had been hit with a "rouge wave". I had to explain that he had read it wrong. It was a ROGUE wave. But still, how many third graders would even recognize the difference in those two words??
Oh how I love the little moments of understanding that come from listening to kids...saying the darnedest things!
Well...anyone with young children in the family can get lots of chuckles from the verbal exploits of their babes. I really, really wish I had kept a log of all of the cute things I heard as a result of family young'uns...starting with my brother who, at the age of about 3...yelled "Happy New Year!" as the rest of us were waving good-bye to our grandparents as they left after a visit during the summer.
Unfortunately, I was too busy being a mom during my daughter's childhood to remember too much...but I do know that she coined two phrases all on her own. The first was "knee pit". That is the space at the back of the knees. You have an armpit, right? Then why not a knee pit? The second was truly original. Megan was used to giving her father "Eskimo kisses"--rubbing noses--and "high fives"--slapping palms in victory. Well...one day, she smacked her father on the nose with her hand. I said, "Poor Daddy!" Her response was, "I was just giving him an Eskimo Five." It made perfect sense to her, and after I thought about it, it made sense to me, too!
Grandchildren can be a rich source of cute things. Robin was slower to speak than I thought she should be, but she used an economy of words. Sharp as a tack, she ruled the roost before her brother was born. They came for a visit one day when she was merely a toddler. I asked if she wanted something to eat. She didn't really respond and continued on about her toddler busy-ness...but I kept hearing her say "Pea butt swence." Over and over. "Pea butt swence." In a moment of clarity it hit me. Stupid Grandma! The child is asking for a peanut butter sandwich!
Ryan was very verbal, very early in life. He had a huge vocabulary--and still does. At the ripe old age of two or less, he was asked what he thought of how my early-morning hair looked. He said, "Noodly!" What was fascinating about that to me, a teacher of language, was that this child--very new to language development--knew how to make a noun into an adjective. My gray hair looked like noodles to him. (It did.) But he already knew how to make it fit into sentence structure. My big boy!
Ry has also offered some other moments of amusement. I took him to do some shopping with me once when he was probably two. He told me I needed to buy new jelly because what I had was "misgusting". And once, he asked for a tool. He needed a "goofdryer". (Screwdriver to the rest of us.) And then there was the time that we were going to Illinois, just the two of us, to visit his great-aunt Shari and family. As we pulled out of the drive, he said, "Hit the road, Toad!" Such good memories!
Ry still extends his vocab, but now that he can read, he gets confused. A few months ago, he was talking about something he had read about a boat that had been hit with a "rouge wave". I had to explain that he had read it wrong. It was a ROGUE wave. But still, how many third graders would even recognize the difference in those two words??
Oh how I love the little moments of understanding that come from listening to kids...saying the darnedest things!
Friday, April 12, 2013
I Need an Editor!
Every once in awhile, I sit down and go through blog posts from the past. Every stinkin' time, I find typos, grammatical errors, and stuff that just drives an old English teacher nuts. In my last post, I said that a bag on my patio was full of condensated water. Condensated? Huh??? I should have said "condensed" but I was thinking the word "condensate" at the time, so guess what my fingers typed? I usually don't go back and correct that stuff, although I can. Unless it just makes me look like a total idiot, I let it ride. Hey...I'm too busy in The Slow Lane to be bothered, but you'd better bet that red pen in my brain is constantly at work.
Okay...so, just as I need an editor for my blogs, I need an editor in my life. On Monday of this week, I ate out of control. Actually, I was trying to use up food leftovers so I wouldn't waste things, but the upshot was that I ate mucho carbohydrates and fats and...well...let's just say that I didn't consume anything that was particularly healthy. And guess what one of my main complaints in life is? I'm too fat. (Duh!) It affects everything I feel about myself. Eating out of control is not just Monday's event. It has been going on for years, but since I no longer get ANY exercise, the only outcome I can expect is to get fatter and more infirm. Thus, on Tuesday morning, I weighed myself and decided that I was just going to have to take control and make better choices.
Here I am, three days later and four pounds thinner. I'm encouraged, but I'm also aware that I am on a tightrope, walking a line that could jiggle and throw me off at any given moment. AND, four pounds is a mere drop in the bucket. Couple that with the fact that I just like to eat, and I can be undermined by myself in a tiny weak moment.
In the last three days, sometimes I just have to go to bed because I think I should be done eating but a lot of the day is left. My Editor-in-Chief gives me strength, but even He can't stop my hands from reaching for things I shouldn't eat. God helps those that help themselves, right? (BTW--Benjamin Franklin said that...NOT the Bible.)
Just for today, I'm hanging in there. Just for today, I'm trying to keep my perspective and focus on goals. Just for today, I want things to be different, so I have to do different things. Please pray for me, just for today. Bring me an editor!
Okay...so, just as I need an editor for my blogs, I need an editor in my life. On Monday of this week, I ate out of control. Actually, I was trying to use up food leftovers so I wouldn't waste things, but the upshot was that I ate mucho carbohydrates and fats and...well...let's just say that I didn't consume anything that was particularly healthy. And guess what one of my main complaints in life is? I'm too fat. (Duh!) It affects everything I feel about myself. Eating out of control is not just Monday's event. It has been going on for years, but since I no longer get ANY exercise, the only outcome I can expect is to get fatter and more infirm. Thus, on Tuesday morning, I weighed myself and decided that I was just going to have to take control and make better choices.
Here I am, three days later and four pounds thinner. I'm encouraged, but I'm also aware that I am on a tightrope, walking a line that could jiggle and throw me off at any given moment. AND, four pounds is a mere drop in the bucket. Couple that with the fact that I just like to eat, and I can be undermined by myself in a tiny weak moment.
In the last three days, sometimes I just have to go to bed because I think I should be done eating but a lot of the day is left. My Editor-in-Chief gives me strength, but even He can't stop my hands from reaching for things I shouldn't eat. God helps those that help themselves, right? (BTW--Benjamin Franklin said that...NOT the Bible.)
Just for today, I'm hanging in there. Just for today, I'm trying to keep my perspective and focus on goals. Just for today, I want things to be different, so I have to do different things. Please pray for me, just for today. Bring me an editor!
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Weeping...
I'm going to cry as I write this, which is why it is fitting that I write about it.
I've never been a "crier". In other posts, I've already covered how I can't get through church without weeping at least once these days--usually caused by the music--and it has made me wonder how/why I do now when I never used to.
Looking back at my life, I realize that weeping wasn't really acceptable to my mother or grandmother. (I've written about that, too. I think they lived in fear that if they gave in to those kinds of emotions in moments of stress, they would fall apart, yet didn't have the luxury to do that.) When I was very young--like 4 or 5--I would cry every time I threw up. My mother would complain, "What are you crying for??" And once, I managed to clonk myself on the nose with a wire hanger and my nose bled. (That was the only real nose-bleed I ever really had, btw.) I cried, and again I was asked why. Well...I was scared. Doesn't everyone cry when they're scared?? And then, of course, there was the mom-ism: "If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about!" I got the message. Crying was to be reserved for moments of great grief/pain...not little annoyances.
The one valuable thing I learned from that was that crying changes nothing. Weep all you want, but when the weeping is done, the problems that caused it are still there to be dealt with. For many, many years, I just chose to skip the weeping part and move on to "What do I need to do now??" It has been a blessing...and a curse. I think it has made me look hard-boiled and uncaring when nothing could be further from the truth.
When my baby was born, I fell in love. I rocked her and sang to her and tended to her. Then, slowly, I began to realize that I was the only parent she had. Her father was on his own selfish track in life. I did everything I could to make up for her not having the father that I had hoped she'd have...and that made me all the harder in appearances. I covered up my loneliness. I made every holiday tradition seem glorious even though it wasn't. When her father and I split up, I did that all the more. I wasn't happy, but I didn't cry where anyone could see me. Ugh!
Many years later, my grandbabies were born. When Nathan and Megan sat in my living room and told me they were expecting, my first thoughts were of doom. Holy cow! Two weeks ago, they told me they didn't want to have kids! They are too young! They are practically newlyweds...need to establish themselves better before they have children! And then, before the conversation even ended, I was rolling up my sleeves to determine what "we" needed to do next. Robin arrived, followed by Ryan just 15 months later. They changed everything. The new focus of my life was those children. OMG, how I love them! They had me wrapped around their fingers! (Still do!)
Then, one day, Meg and Nate's marriage deteriorated. Megan and the children came to live with me, without prior notice. My focus changed again to provide space for us all. Megan took over and did her thing...and, in time, our circumstances got better. We had some rough spots, but we were working together to make things work. And then the bottom fell out.
Megan fell in love with her now-husband. She gave custody of the children to their father in a surprise move that left me reeling so she could follow him to California for his job. It wasn't handled well. I felt bad enough but felt horrible for my grandchildren who didn't have a clue what had hit them. Somehow, it was all to be my fault. Without a doubt, this was the worst time of my life--beyond my mother's death--beyond my ugly divorce. And THIS is where the crying started with me. The facade, the paper-thin veneer of strength, is only good as long as everything is going well. Cry? I have wept a river...and still can in any given situation.
Which is what brings me to what caused me to write on this topic today. There is a commercial on TV that I think is a plea for funds for a children's hospital. It shows children with cancer, looking pale and pathetic, and the music...oh, the music...is a wordless lullabye. It reminds me of the lullabye in the movie "Dumbo" as the mother elephant rocks her baby outside of the train car where she is unfairly imprisoned...so near, yet so far. I can't take it! I hit the "mute" button on the remote as soon as I hear the first strains, but it doesn't stop the tears. I think of my grandchildren. I think of my daughter. I think of me. And the only one in the whole equation that seems unworthy of being hugged and loved is me because I am old and infirm. I can't ask for love. I don't know how. Probably wouldn't know what to do with it if I had it. So what do I do now? I cry!
Megan and I were talking about loneliness today. I'm not lonely. I have a life and things to do that keep me going, but I sure wish they would take the commercial off the TV. For the first time in my existence, I have roots in Plainfield. I just wish the rest of the world would conform to my little picture of how things should be.
I think I finally understand how my mother-in-law---a hard-boiled soul, for sure--could weep for a few seconds in the midst of a normal conversation about things that happened a zillion years ago. I think I'm beginning to understand...
I've never been a "crier". In other posts, I've already covered how I can't get through church without weeping at least once these days--usually caused by the music--and it has made me wonder how/why I do now when I never used to.
Looking back at my life, I realize that weeping wasn't really acceptable to my mother or grandmother. (I've written about that, too. I think they lived in fear that if they gave in to those kinds of emotions in moments of stress, they would fall apart, yet didn't have the luxury to do that.) When I was very young--like 4 or 5--I would cry every time I threw up. My mother would complain, "What are you crying for??" And once, I managed to clonk myself on the nose with a wire hanger and my nose bled. (That was the only real nose-bleed I ever really had, btw.) I cried, and again I was asked why. Well...I was scared. Doesn't everyone cry when they're scared?? And then, of course, there was the mom-ism: "If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about!" I got the message. Crying was to be reserved for moments of great grief/pain...not little annoyances.
The one valuable thing I learned from that was that crying changes nothing. Weep all you want, but when the weeping is done, the problems that caused it are still there to be dealt with. For many, many years, I just chose to skip the weeping part and move on to "What do I need to do now??" It has been a blessing...and a curse. I think it has made me look hard-boiled and uncaring when nothing could be further from the truth.
When my baby was born, I fell in love. I rocked her and sang to her and tended to her. Then, slowly, I began to realize that I was the only parent she had. Her father was on his own selfish track in life. I did everything I could to make up for her not having the father that I had hoped she'd have...and that made me all the harder in appearances. I covered up my loneliness. I made every holiday tradition seem glorious even though it wasn't. When her father and I split up, I did that all the more. I wasn't happy, but I didn't cry where anyone could see me. Ugh!
Many years later, my grandbabies were born. When Nathan and Megan sat in my living room and told me they were expecting, my first thoughts were of doom. Holy cow! Two weeks ago, they told me they didn't want to have kids! They are too young! They are practically newlyweds...need to establish themselves better before they have children! And then, before the conversation even ended, I was rolling up my sleeves to determine what "we" needed to do next. Robin arrived, followed by Ryan just 15 months later. They changed everything. The new focus of my life was those children. OMG, how I love them! They had me wrapped around their fingers! (Still do!)
Then, one day, Meg and Nate's marriage deteriorated. Megan and the children came to live with me, without prior notice. My focus changed again to provide space for us all. Megan took over and did her thing...and, in time, our circumstances got better. We had some rough spots, but we were working together to make things work. And then the bottom fell out.
Megan fell in love with her now-husband. She gave custody of the children to their father in a surprise move that left me reeling so she could follow him to California for his job. It wasn't handled well. I felt bad enough but felt horrible for my grandchildren who didn't have a clue what had hit them. Somehow, it was all to be my fault. Without a doubt, this was the worst time of my life--beyond my mother's death--beyond my ugly divorce. And THIS is where the crying started with me. The facade, the paper-thin veneer of strength, is only good as long as everything is going well. Cry? I have wept a river...and still can in any given situation.
Which is what brings me to what caused me to write on this topic today. There is a commercial on TV that I think is a plea for funds for a children's hospital. It shows children with cancer, looking pale and pathetic, and the music...oh, the music...is a wordless lullabye. It reminds me of the lullabye in the movie "Dumbo" as the mother elephant rocks her baby outside of the train car where she is unfairly imprisoned...so near, yet so far. I can't take it! I hit the "mute" button on the remote as soon as I hear the first strains, but it doesn't stop the tears. I think of my grandchildren. I think of my daughter. I think of me. And the only one in the whole equation that seems unworthy of being hugged and loved is me because I am old and infirm. I can't ask for love. I don't know how. Probably wouldn't know what to do with it if I had it. So what do I do now? I cry!
Megan and I were talking about loneliness today. I'm not lonely. I have a life and things to do that keep me going, but I sure wish they would take the commercial off the TV. For the first time in my existence, I have roots in Plainfield. I just wish the rest of the world would conform to my little picture of how things should be.
I think I finally understand how my mother-in-law---a hard-boiled soul, for sure--could weep for a few seconds in the midst of a normal conversation about things that happened a zillion years ago. I think I'm beginning to understand...
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Baby Steps
In tiny increments--baby steps--spring is returning to Indiana. It is 70 degrees outside right now, and the sun is shining. The grass, such as is left of it after last summer's drought, is greening. The perennials are coming up--although they've been TRYING to come up for a month.
Also in baby steps, I am getting the house back to the normal condition of messiness that it was before the family was here. The towels have all been washed, folded, and put away. I have clean sheets on my bed. I have swept up the cat litter. Cleaned out the refrigerator of foods that should have been eaten but weren't. (I tried!) I mailed Ryan's soccer Easter bunny that he accidentally left behind, and have found some pictures of my late former stepson that I need to mail to his wife.
And, as is my yearly quest, I have purchased a couple of patio table covers, which means (I hope) that I will actually get the patio livable for the first time in many years. Woo-hoo!
But you know what I consider a happenstance victory?? I had two baby things in a plastic blanket bag that had somehow found its way to the patio. One is a flower thingie that my grandmother made for a cousin's baby...a wrap, of sorts. It's made of yarn in semi-crocheted flowers--not even really safe for a baby because there are too many ways for finger and toes to get trapped and strangled--but my Baba made it. (She passed on in 1975.) The other was the one remaining receiving blanket that my mother made for my baby Megan. Okay...so both of these treasures were in a pastic bag out on the patio. (Don't ask why. I don't know!) For months, I have looked at that bag that had big drops of condensated water on the inside, thinking that it surely must be full of mold and mildew. The outside of the bag was filthy with yard dirt. I just put off doing anything with it, fearing the worst. Yesterday, I took the bull by the horns and opened the bag. Both items were predictably sopped, but there was no mildew on either, even after months of being in that condition!! I brought them in. They are dry now and will be treated better. Hallelujah!
I keep walking into Robin's room to look at it because it is now the cutest room in the house. Need to get busy to finish the furniture painting, but it still looks good. Other rooms need attention. Will get to them...in baby steps.
Also in baby steps, I am getting the house back to the normal condition of messiness that it was before the family was here. The towels have all been washed, folded, and put away. I have clean sheets on my bed. I have swept up the cat litter. Cleaned out the refrigerator of foods that should have been eaten but weren't. (I tried!) I mailed Ryan's soccer Easter bunny that he accidentally left behind, and have found some pictures of my late former stepson that I need to mail to his wife.
And, as is my yearly quest, I have purchased a couple of patio table covers, which means (I hope) that I will actually get the patio livable for the first time in many years. Woo-hoo!
But you know what I consider a happenstance victory?? I had two baby things in a plastic blanket bag that had somehow found its way to the patio. One is a flower thingie that my grandmother made for a cousin's baby...a wrap, of sorts. It's made of yarn in semi-crocheted flowers--not even really safe for a baby because there are too many ways for finger and toes to get trapped and strangled--but my Baba made it. (She passed on in 1975.) The other was the one remaining receiving blanket that my mother made for my baby Megan. Okay...so both of these treasures were in a pastic bag out on the patio. (Don't ask why. I don't know!) For months, I have looked at that bag that had big drops of condensated water on the inside, thinking that it surely must be full of mold and mildew. The outside of the bag was filthy with yard dirt. I just put off doing anything with it, fearing the worst. Yesterday, I took the bull by the horns and opened the bag. Both items were predictably sopped, but there was no mildew on either, even after months of being in that condition!! I brought them in. They are dry now and will be treated better. Hallelujah!
I keep walking into Robin's room to look at it because it is now the cutest room in the house. Need to get busy to finish the furniture painting, but it still looks good. Other rooms need attention. Will get to them...in baby steps.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Getting There...
Take one little house-on-a-slab. Tear it up for two weeks by dragging things out of a bedroom and closet to redecorate it...then try to put it all back together and clean the rest of the house before four welcome family members plus cat (also welcome) come to spend eight days. Make the days cold and snowy so no one can play outside. Make things as comfortable as possible for everyone...and hope that they can't see the dust and cobwebs.
How to make things comfortable? Clean sheets all around. Clean towels (of which there are only six and need to be laundered every couple of days). Bring out the coffee maker and put the water distiller outside because it normally sits where the coffee maker goes. Bring the litter box in and put the distiller where the litter box is stored. Find a place to hide the blender because it takes up counter space where the additional snacks and cereals must go. Put a leaf in the table. Decorate for Easter. Swish out the toilets. Vacuum the floors. Make a feeding station for the feline. Hide the house plant because the cat likes to eat it. Try to plan and shop for meals that you know they like. Hurry, hurry, rush, rush...
Was everything done in time? No. Not even a little. Robin's room wasn't done. I still had some furniture painting to finish, and the ordered desk was delayed in getting in. The garage bedroom bed wasn't made and the room wasn't properly dusted. The house was NOT as clean as I would have liked, but I knew it wouldn't get any cleaner after they got here, so I just did what I could and begged forgiveness.
I'm not sure how my family would have rated their experience here last week, but **I** considered it a success. Robin really seemed to like her "new" bedroom. Grandson Ryan got to play with his buddy, Jack (although only once). Robin went shopping with Grandma Judy for a couple of hours. Both children went swimming twice--once with Grandma Judy and once for the Underwater Easter Egg Hunt at the Rec Center. We watched two movies at home as a family, and Grandma Judy and I took the grandkids to the theater to see "Oz, the Great and Powerful" in 3D at The Rave (now called Carmike). Megan and Denis got treated to Beef and Boards for a dinner theater in celebration of Meg's 34th birthday and M and D's third anniversary, complete with balloons, champagne, and cake. Denis and Megan took the children to the park to play a couple of times. We played Pictionary quite a few times as a family. Robin made a birthday cake for her mother. We had home made lemon bars. Made egg nests out of butterscotch chips, chow mein noodles, and little egg candies. Colored Easter eggs. Tested the frozen yogurt sundaes at Orange Leaf in Avon. Both children got their very own laptop computers from their mother/stepfather (no small expense). And we all went to church together--twice!!!
About church... Most of my life, I have attended services alone. I never forced it on my spouse or my daughter (although now I think I should have done more to draw her in). In any case, since they were all here, I specifically requested that they attend the Maundy Thursday service with me on that Thursday evening...and Easter was a given. Maundy Thursday is a somber service, in commemoration of the night that Christ had his last supper with his disciples and was betrayed to one of them to be arrrested. We were invited to leave the sanctuary in silence. Fitting. Megan said is was depressing. (It was.) BUT...Resurrection Day is a different mood. We had a brass quintet and a wonderful message/presence. Glorious!
Before the benediction, the choir and brass (with organ) were to sing "The Hallelujah Chorus", and members of the congregation were invited to come forward and join them. I knew it was coming. Had talked to Megan about it. She was reluctant. When the time came, I was going up without her (or so I thought) but Robin asked if she could go up with me. Wow! This 10-year-old child had never sung the song before. Probably had no idea how difficult it is..but was willing to put herself in front of the whole congregation to sing it, along with her Heffelman grandparents and me, to sing to the glory of God. Proud grandmother? You betcha! And I only realized an hour later that Megan has also come forward, but she was standing with the sopranos (where I should have been, although I can't sing soprano anymore). Hallelujah!
The real Easter Hero was Grandma Judy who volunteered to host Easter dinner at her house. I could have. I intended to. But as the week wore on, my house became more and more a victim of "livedness". We contributed food, but Judy and Phil supplied most of the vittles and the venue for an egg hunt and nice presents for the kiddos. The sun had come out and the temps warmed enough for a wonderful Easter day!
The family departed on Monday, later than intended. I'm just now getting around to getting things back to "normal". The coffee maker is put away so the distiller can come back and the litter box go back out. The leaf has been removed from the table. The towels have been washed. The Easter decorations have been put away. The kitchen floor has been swept. (Don't even ask about how much stuff showed up under the broom!!) Lots more still to do to get back to "normal"...but I have to say that I would rather have the chaos than the normal. Having my grandbabies here is the light of my life. It was a great week with them all here!
How to make things comfortable? Clean sheets all around. Clean towels (of which there are only six and need to be laundered every couple of days). Bring out the coffee maker and put the water distiller outside because it normally sits where the coffee maker goes. Bring the litter box in and put the distiller where the litter box is stored. Find a place to hide the blender because it takes up counter space where the additional snacks and cereals must go. Put a leaf in the table. Decorate for Easter. Swish out the toilets. Vacuum the floors. Make a feeding station for the feline. Hide the house plant because the cat likes to eat it. Try to plan and shop for meals that you know they like. Hurry, hurry, rush, rush...
Was everything done in time? No. Not even a little. Robin's room wasn't done. I still had some furniture painting to finish, and the ordered desk was delayed in getting in. The garage bedroom bed wasn't made and the room wasn't properly dusted. The house was NOT as clean as I would have liked, but I knew it wouldn't get any cleaner after they got here, so I just did what I could and begged forgiveness.
I'm not sure how my family would have rated their experience here last week, but **I** considered it a success. Robin really seemed to like her "new" bedroom. Grandson Ryan got to play with his buddy, Jack (although only once). Robin went shopping with Grandma Judy for a couple of hours. Both children went swimming twice--once with Grandma Judy and once for the Underwater Easter Egg Hunt at the Rec Center. We watched two movies at home as a family, and Grandma Judy and I took the grandkids to the theater to see "Oz, the Great and Powerful" in 3D at The Rave (now called Carmike). Megan and Denis got treated to Beef and Boards for a dinner theater in celebration of Meg's 34th birthday and M and D's third anniversary, complete with balloons, champagne, and cake. Denis and Megan took the children to the park to play a couple of times. We played Pictionary quite a few times as a family. Robin made a birthday cake for her mother. We had home made lemon bars. Made egg nests out of butterscotch chips, chow mein noodles, and little egg candies. Colored Easter eggs. Tested the frozen yogurt sundaes at Orange Leaf in Avon. Both children got their very own laptop computers from their mother/stepfather (no small expense). And we all went to church together--twice!!!
About church... Most of my life, I have attended services alone. I never forced it on my spouse or my daughter (although now I think I should have done more to draw her in). In any case, since they were all here, I specifically requested that they attend the Maundy Thursday service with me on that Thursday evening...and Easter was a given. Maundy Thursday is a somber service, in commemoration of the night that Christ had his last supper with his disciples and was betrayed to one of them to be arrrested. We were invited to leave the sanctuary in silence. Fitting. Megan said is was depressing. (It was.) BUT...Resurrection Day is a different mood. We had a brass quintet and a wonderful message/presence. Glorious!
Before the benediction, the choir and brass (with organ) were to sing "The Hallelujah Chorus", and members of the congregation were invited to come forward and join them. I knew it was coming. Had talked to Megan about it. She was reluctant. When the time came, I was going up without her (or so I thought) but Robin asked if she could go up with me. Wow! This 10-year-old child had never sung the song before. Probably had no idea how difficult it is..but was willing to put herself in front of the whole congregation to sing it, along with her Heffelman grandparents and me, to sing to the glory of God. Proud grandmother? You betcha! And I only realized an hour later that Megan has also come forward, but she was standing with the sopranos (where I should have been, although I can't sing soprano anymore). Hallelujah!
The real Easter Hero was Grandma Judy who volunteered to host Easter dinner at her house. I could have. I intended to. But as the week wore on, my house became more and more a victim of "livedness". We contributed food, but Judy and Phil supplied most of the vittles and the venue for an egg hunt and nice presents for the kiddos. The sun had come out and the temps warmed enough for a wonderful Easter day!
The family departed on Monday, later than intended. I'm just now getting around to getting things back to "normal". The coffee maker is put away so the distiller can come back and the litter box go back out. The leaf has been removed from the table. The towels have been washed. The Easter decorations have been put away. The kitchen floor has been swept. (Don't even ask about how much stuff showed up under the broom!!) Lots more still to do to get back to "normal"...but I have to say that I would rather have the chaos than the normal. Having my grandbabies here is the light of my life. It was a great week with them all here!
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