Pieces of Home

Before I begin, I have to apologize to all my Southern friends and friends with Southern friends. Last week's post about my social awkwardness offended more people than anything else I've written, including thoughts about race, sexuality and religion. That's saying something! Those of you who know me best know that I was aiming for humor when I commented on the geographic differences between women. It should go without saying that there are millions of intelligent and accomplished women across the country. When it comes to a sense of humor, however, well, that's another story. KIDDING! Let us stand united in our awesomeness! And now, let us give thanks for Thanksgiving ...

I enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner last week the same way I have enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner for all but one of my past 40+ years -- at my parents' house. There was one year in which I temporarily lost my mind and decided to host the meal myself. Thankfully, I regained my senses and that never happened again.

My mom and dad have lived in the same house on Old Orchard Drive practically since the day I was born. There was something about being there this year that felt different, however. It wasn't just the newly refinished hardwood floor and a new look for the old coffee table. It wasn't the fact that my mom didn't make her traditional lettuce with bacon dressing (which I never liked anyway), or that I discovered there have always been onions in the filling (not to be confused with stuffing). No, this year was different in the way I saw my childhood home. It was as if I was looking at it from outside myself. Like I was seeing it through the many stages of my life and my parents' lives. Alright, I can't put it into words. Just work with me.

I'm sure the loss we experienced in 2013 was a major contributor to the "visions" I had on Thursday. Most of you know that two of my aunts, my mom's sisters and best friends, passed away within six months of each other. And other older relatives dealt with their share of health-related issues. These experiences were an unwelcome reminder of my parents' age, a fact of life that many of my friends are also facing. While I generally prefer to ignore all the signs that tell me they won't live forever, my parents are pretty matter of fact about their stage of life. For years, my dad has had a hand-written letter prepared with his "wishes," along with a "guest list" of names of those who are to be invited to his funeral (you better not piss him off if you want to make the cut). He's currently working on handcrafted wooden boxes for the cremated ashes of my mom's two living sisters, and I think my mom has put in a request for hers as well. Yes, it's definitely becoming harder to ignore.

In light of this new reality I'm being forced to acknowledge, everything at "home" came with layers of meaning and memories this year. I didn't just pull a glass from the cupboard. Instead I opened the cupboard and noticed the variety of glasses and recalled them being in those very same locations 30 years ago. It meant trying to remember if those Philadelphia Eagles glasses were a collector set from the supermarket or the gas station. It meant looking at the characters on those colorful kiddie cups and having no clue who they are. This year, there was more than a touch of nostalgia in the selection of serving dishes and trivets.

This year, playing Monopoly with Ian and my sister wasn't just about beating her as payback for more than a decade of Monopoly abuse. This year there was something sentimental about how worn the board and the money had become from years of use. There were memories of painting the little green houses and gluing them to a poster board for a school project. There was the annual reminder from my mom that she hates playing board games because I never gave her a break from them when I was a kid.

Though every room on the main floor of my parents' ranch home has been redecorated since I moved out
nearly 20 years ago, the basement is exactly as I left it. The same wood paneling and the bar that my dad built. The old fashioned ice cream table and chairs that had been my grandparents'. The same archery trophies on the shelves. The same muzzle loader and deer antlers on the wall, albeit with a couple new deer and fox skins. The same furniture, including the couch that Rob and I destroyed with a few years worth of premarital snuggling. The same gazillion-page Volume Library from 1977. It was like stepping back in time.

More than just the flashback of memories, I found myself wondering, "What will we do with all of this when the time comes?" My ever-prepared dad has given me directions for a number of things, but what about the rest of it? Will I ever be able to get rid of that dish, this game, those photos, that table, this bed, those records? I'm fairly confident that I'll be able to toss the plastic floor plant and that useless downstairs couch, but what about the hundreds of other little things that each hold some kind of meaning? I was both nostalgic and miserable just thinking about it.

Hopefully I'll have my parents for another 20 years and I won't have to deal with any of this for a very long time. For now, I'm just thankful to have a childhood home filled with countless good memories.

Scientists Identify Painful Maternal Condition

Scientists have made a not-so-astonishing discovery that they have termed "maternitis." For purposes of this blog, however, we will call it the mom-factor. Or "MF" for short (go ahead, add the "er" on there; you know you want to). Every mom has experienced this maddening condition. It starts out innocently enough, usually in the familiar setting of the home. It often looks something like this:

Mom and dad are in the house at the same time. They may even be in the same room. It's possible they are actually sitting next to each on the couch. 

Enter offspring in need.

And MF kicks in. When afflicted with maternitis, a child will lose sight of their father. Some sort of paternal eclipse occurs, a temporary blinding that leaves the child unable to recognize the man in the house as one of the individuals responsible for their very existence.

What transpires next is mysterious and upsetting and not for the faint of heart.

The child in need, like a heat-seeking missile, will always seek out mom.

Mom may be sitting at the table with Dad. She's surrounded by a dozen large books and furiously working on her doctoral dissertation. Dad is reading the sports section. As a result of maternitis, the child will immediately throw him/herself at mom with a request for help studying for a spelling quiz. Or he/she may ask why there are no clean cereal bowls. And apparently clean underwear are also in short supply. And only Mom can handle any of these requests.

Disturbingly, maternitis has also been known to attack when Mom is not at home. Say, for example, that she has been out  for the evening drinking with friends at a PTA meeting or charity function. Upon returning home around 10:00 p.m., one or more of her offspring announces he/she is "starving." It appears that, while blinded with MF, the child did not consider asking Dad for food. Had Mom not returned home in time, said child may have starved to death.

Unfortunately, maternitis does not only occur in the home. Consider these documented cases:

• At the beach, Mom and Dad will both be catching up on their reading. Mom reading the latest guide to world peace; dad reading Calvin & Hobbes. Child will request Mom's assistance with sunscreen, castle building, and boogie boarding. Visions of dad have again been mysteriously blocked, not by the sun, but by MF.
• While dad is driving during a 12-hour trip to a vacation destination, the children will require Mom's full attention and assistance in playing Travel Bingo, watching for state license plates, and finding the lost DS game, pencil, and friendship bracelet material. When Mom takes her turn behind the wheel, however, the children will rest/read/play nicely in the back seat allowing Dad to sleep or read in peace. 
• At a sporting event, Mom is busy keeping score and evaluating player performance for her scouting report while Dad is drinking a beer and checking out the ball girl. Children will request that Mom purchases them a soda and cotton candy, and will then require mom to get them to the bathroom so they can be sick from too much sugar. Dad will request another beer.

While maternitis affects only children, scientists are researching the possibility that this condition is closely related to OMSE---Only Mom Sees It. This condition, which has been known to afflict both men (husbands, fathers, living partners) and children, results in vision problems that can persist indefinitely if not immediately treated. Testing for OMSE includes placing a dead body in the center of a room in the home and asking family members to walk through this space. If they step over the deceased, perhaps complaining of the stench, then there is a high probability of an OMSE diagnosis.

If you or someone you know appears to be the victim of a child or spouse with MF or OMSE, please consider seeking immediate medical attention. Doctors familiar with these conditions will immediately prescribe Mom with Xanax or other mind-numbing pharmaceutical.

Good luck, and God bless.

Simple Pleasures

Technology and electronic gadgets are the bane of my existence. If I'm not fighting with Dell over my now officially dead laptop, or trying to figure out the case of the missing internet connection on the desktop, I'm bemoaning the countless dollars we've spent to have the latest "toys" for gaming, all of which are used by only one family member (though he does spend as much time on them as four people should). My irritation with high-tech toys recently got me thinking about simple pleasures, including:

• Crisp, clean bed sheets, ideally dried on the wash line outside
• A brand new box of 64 Crayola crayons
• Planting flowers
• Having new windshield wipers during a downpour
• A good book 
• Water draining from your ear after swimming
• An ice cold glass of milk with warm chocolate chip cookies

And then there's the incomparable pleasure of a nice hot shower and the comfort of your bed. Two memories from my childhood illustrate the powerful pull of the shower/sleep combination.

A DAY AT THE SHORE. When we were kids we would occasionally go to Long Beach Island just for the day. I don't remember that much from our time on the beach itself, but I will never forget the ride home. In a black 1972 Grand Prix Pontiac with vinyl seats. I'm pretty sure when you opened the doors of that monster, the internal temperature was about 210 degrees. And the seats were guaranteed to give you third degree burns. Best of all, you had three pounds of sand in the crotch of your bathing suit and a two hour drive home to look forward to. A shower and the comfort of your bed were all you dreamed about for those two very long hours.

The lasting impression of sand and heat are rivaled only by my memories of A NIGHT AT THE RACES. When we were kids, my dad worked for a guy whose son raced stock cars at Flemington Speedway in Flemington, New Jersey. On Saturday nights my parents would take my sister and me to the races where we would whine for concession foods and then eagerly wait for a crash to provide some element of excitement in which was an otherwise incredibly boring evening for two young girls.

The only other noteworthy element of our nights at the races was the dirt. Flemington Speedway had a dirt track from the day it opened in 1915 until being paved at the end of the 1990 season. By the time we left the track, well after our bedtime, we were coated in a fine layer of grit that also made its way into our eyes, ears, and nose. And then, because torture isn't complete without a long car ride, we would climb back into that '72 Pontiac for the 45 minute drive home, again craving nothing more than the comfort of our beds, but knowing a shower had to come first despite our complete exhaustion. To this day I use the expression "Night at the races tired," when trying to explain to Rob the degree of my sleepiness.

Showers, sleep, windshield wipers, milk, crayons, bed sheets, books, and flowers. These are a few of my favorite things (along with cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels). Simple pleasures. Your turn... 

In Search of a Role Model?

Saturday was my dad's 70th birthday. With all the mental exertion I spent in class last week, I forgot to even buy him a card. In an effort to make it up to him, this post is dedicated to my dad.

First, for those of you who know him, you know my dad doesn't look like a 70-year-old man. I always enjoy shocking folks by revealing his age. If his hearing loss and increasingly slow driving didn't give him away, you'd never know he was older than his early 60's, tops. But good looks aside, my father has a laundry list of commendable qualities, including:

• A selfless desire to be there for his friends. Just ask them.
• Compassion for living things (with the exception of squirrels and skunks and game that he likes to eat) I will never forget the time he pulled the car off to the side of the road to pick up a turtle that sat in harm's way.
• A desire for knowledge. My father tends to feel badly about himself for his lack of a college education, but without question he is one of the smartest people I know. The engineering/architectural type things he can figure out with a paper and pencil would blow your mind. And he's not a bad writer either!
• Second to none craftsmanship. Need proof? Come see the beautiful wood work he did in my living room. He's got offers from my friends for projects that would keep him busy for years.
• A great protector. Whether it was bumps in the night at home as a kid, or in rough ocean waters with him on the boat, I have never felt more safe with anyone in my whole life.
• A great provider. How many people do you know who could put two kids through college and pay for two weddings without a penny of debt, all on a welder's salary? My dad still fights the urge to take care of my sister and me. (Dad, for the millionth time, we don't need an inheritance, we need you and mom to enjoy your retirement. Go spend your hard-earned money.)
• Unquestionable moral and ethical fiber. Whether he's returning a stranger's lost wallet or refusing to take a sick day, my dad's integrity, work ethic, and honor are second to none. Could a kid ask for a better role model?

Now, lest we proceed to have him anointed for sainthood, the reality is that my father isn't perfect. For instance, you wouldn't want to be with him when he's negotiating to buy a new car. And you probably don't want to engage him in a discussion of politics. And he can be maddeningly obsessive in his work. And sometimes he makes questionable decisions, like driving with a dead skunk tied to his truck hitch in order to dispose of it in the woods about a 1/2 mile away (should I mention it was rush hour and he passed bus stops,  traumatizing children in the process?) But all in all, my father is without question one of the people I love most in this world, and I couldn't be prouder to say he's mine.

Happy 70th birthday, dad!

Mom and Dad a couple years ago on a trip to Mexico (the last one I tagged along on...sigh)