Category: FAMILY

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Christmas Dinner

I was raised by feral wolves. At least that is how it felt every time we took a road trip.

My parents were big on travel adventure, short on planning. Somehow, it always worked out for them. They never bothered with any research or advance bookings. We would just pile into the car and drive. We would arrive at our destination late at night, be the last car through the drive through, then drive around to find a room in a low-end motel. Growing up we thought this was normal.

This same lack of planning defined our Christmas trip to Disney World when I was a young kid. This was a major trip from Canada to Florida at the busiest time of year. Most people spend months planning their Disney vacation, optimizing all variables to navigate the crowds. My parents did zero research. Their only real decision was whether to take a 50 mile detour from the Interstate to see the world’s biggest ball of yarn. Thankfully they did not.

We pulled into a suburb of Orlando at around 10:30 on Christmas Eve. Surprise – everything was closed. This was back in the 1970’s right in the belt buckle of the bible belt, so everything was closed. There wasn’t a single restaurant open. Mercifully, they found a hotel. It was so low end that you could put quarters in a machine to make the bed vibrate. We unpacked the car, tired and hungry.

The only food we had with us was a gingerbread house that my sister had made as a Girl Scout project. It had travelled with us from Canada in the trunk of the car and was still partially frozen. So our family piled on to the vibrating bed and dad fed quarters into the machine while we waited for the gingerbread house to thaw. Then he went down the corridor and came back with a couple of cans of grape soda and a bucket of ice. Feral wolves, I tell you.

There were four of us. Each person got one wall of the gingerbread house for our main course. For desert, we split the roof between us since it had icing and gumdrops. Then we washed it all down with Grape Crush. We fell into our vibrating beds in a sugar coma.

We awoke Christmas morning ready to face the crowds at Disney World. Outside it was freezing.  Truly freezing. Florida was in the grip of a rare cold snap. Parents who had done their planning and watched the weather report opted to stay away that day. We were from Canada and had all our cold weather gear, so no problem. And no crowds. We had Disney World to ourselves. Love my parents: somehow it just always worked out for them.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.

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The King

He took a deep breath. Then against his better judgement, my brother walked into the Managing Director’s office wearing a professional-grade Elvis impersonator suit. What happened next was most unexpected.

For context, our family does own a high-end Elvis impersonator suit: rhinestones, bell-bottoms, wig, faux gator-skin shoes, cape, rings. The whole deal. Every family needs one.

I purchased the suit in San Francisco. I needed it for a play I was in while living overseas. On my last day in town I asked my friend, a San Francisco native, “Are there any shops around here where I might purchase an Elvis costume?” He looked at me with a mix of surprise and disappointment. Such a dumb question.

With a roll of his eyes he speed-dialed a costume shop. “Ramone”, he said. “I need an Elvis costume right away”. There was silence on our end as Ramone responded.

“No…”, said my friend as he looked at me and winked, “…probably more the sweaty, pudgy comeback years.” Ouch. Guilty as charged.

We headed to the shop and I purchased the costume. It saw good service in the play.

Years later, working in Washington, DC, I brought the costume out of retirement. It was Halloween. I changed into the suit in my office and walked around my floor at work handing out candy. It was that sort of workplace. Frankly, it has been that sort of career.

By contrast, my brother worked at a high-octane DC law firm just up the street. We met for lunch and I mentioned my morning Halloween Elvis escapade. He got a glint in his eye. He walked back with me to my office and borrowed the costume.

And so it came to be that my brother suited up as The King and delivered candy throughout his law firm to people billing $1,000 per hour for legal services. The other attorneys were stunned, bemused, horrified. One actually asked him, “Is this being done on billable time?” Then my brother went for it.

The King took the elevator up to the top floor where the Managing Director had his palatial corner office. My brother approached the receptionist. She looked at him and said “You are either on the fast track to being a partner, or he is going to fire your ass”. My brother said “Thankyaverymush” and then gave her some candy.

He knocked on the Managing Director’s door and entered, singing out “Trick or Treat!” in a deep Elvis voice. Time stood still. Then the partner leapt from his desk and exclaimed with glee, “NO WAY!” It turns out, and nobody knew this, he was a huge Elvis fan. He got several selfies taken with The King. Then my brother returned to obscurity within the bowels of the firm. But not before he became a legend.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Little Miss Sunshine

One day at work I received a hysterical call from our nanny. She is Guatemalan and her English is limited, especially when upset, so I couldn’t make out precisely what was wrong. I ascertained that nobody was hurt, and assured her I would sort it out when I got home.

Later as I pulled up our driveway she flew out the door to meet me, tears in her eyes. She held aloft the video case for “Little Miss Sunshine”. For those of you who do not know the film, Little Miss Sunshine is pure cinematic gold. The film also includes A LOT of profanity. Everyone would agree this is not an age-appropriate film for a 4-year old.

Enter our 4-year old son. He and his best friend had been bored. They innocently approached the nanny with the video in hand asking if they could watch it. The cover features a cute little girl standing in front of a camper van. What could possibly be wrong with that? The nanny put in the film and went off to do something.  Later when she came to check on the boys, she walked in to hear the grandfather character ask “Is that chicken?… what’s with the godd@#$%, f-ing chicken?!”

The actual film footage of this moment can be found here. Don’t play this clip at the office. Did I mention there is A LOT of profanity in the film and that it is NOT suitable for a 4-year old?

The nanny instantly turned off the movie. The boys had no idea what the words meant. But they knew without doubt they were not supposed to hear or use such words. Which of course they proceeded to do for the rest of the day.  At lunch they asked each other “what’s with the godd@#$%, f-ing chicken?!” They biked down the hill and called to one another “what’s with the godd@#$%, f-ing  chickennnnnnn?” The nanny was beside herself, sure that she had scarred them for life and that I would be horrified.

On the contrary. I could not stop laughing. I assured her that everything was fine and not to worry. I would speak about it with our boy. But first I had to go tell the other boy’s dad about what happened. The other dad is a Christian youth pastor, but also one of the most relaxed dudes I know. He often uses the phrase “Far out”.

I walked across the street and said, “Hey neighbor, do you know the film “Little Miss Sunshine?”

“Sure Chuck”, he said. “Far out”.

“Well”, I replied, “You will probably hear more about it in the coming days…” I then explained what had happened. He too could not stop laughing. He assured me it was no problem and that he would have a talk about it with his son.

The next morning I dropped my little guy off at daycare. We entered the crowded room. He spied his best friend at the other end of the classroom with his youth pastor dad. “Hey Buddy!” my son yelled in his loudest voice, “Is that chicken?… what’s with the godd@#$%, f-ing chicken?!” In the deafening silence that followed there came a faint “Far out” from the other end of the room.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.] 

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Home Repair

My father is a man of many talents. Home repair is not one of them.  Unless a home repair requires duct tape it is generally beyond him.

Gutter falling down? Duct tape.  Ripped screen door? Duct tape. Crack in the canoe? Duct tape. He once duct-taped our rotten picnic table together as a “temporary” solution. We did not buy a new one for over a year.

One day while driving our old van, dad thought he heard wind whistling through the floor. We peeled back the floor mat to explore. It turns out the wind was not coming through a few rusty pinholes, but rather through one giant rusted out hole the size of a basketball. We found an old piece of sheet metal. We placed it over the hole and anchored it in place with some duct tape. Dad drove that van with a duct-taped floor for another 5 years.

I once asked dad if he would show me how to fix something – anything – that did not involve duct tape. Most of the other dads I knew were handy. Could he show some home repairs that involved wiring, plumbing, or power tools? Dad looked at me thoughtfully. He nodded.

“You’re right”, he said. “It’s high time for me to show you what I know about home repair”. We agreed to install a garage door opener together the following day.

When I awoke the next morning dad was already in the kitchen. He was in his work clothes, cooking pancakes. I quickly got dressed and my heart filled with happiness at this father-son bonding.  We finished our breakfast and moved out to do our first real home repair together. Just then the doorbell rang.

There stood the neighbourhood handyman. “Good morning”, he said to my dad. “Thanks for the call yesterday. What is it that I can do for you?”

“Thanks for coming over”, said my dad. “We’ve got a garage door here that needs to be installed”. He handed our garage keys to the handyman and closed the door.

Then he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye. “Well son, that’s about all I have to teach you about home repair”, he said. “Any questions”?

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The Candy Man

We recently learned that our 12-year old son has been selling addictive substances at his school. What parent wants to learn that? But as it turns out, the more we learned the more we laughed.

Our son attends an international school. Earlier this year he discovered that his classmates crave a sugary candy called Air Heads. Especially the British and Asian kids, of whom there are many. You cannot buy Airheads outside of the United States, which probably says something about their obscene sugar content and addictive nature. Our son’s entrepreneurial antennae went up. His class is full of sugar addicts. Sugar supply is limited. What to do?

So he purchased (with our permission) a few boxes of AirHeads when we were in the US. The unit cost per candy was 10 cents apiece. Then he sold them at his school (without our permission) for $1 apiece – a 900% mark up! In business terms, he has a monopoly. In parental terms, he is exploiting his classmates. In ethical terms, this is highly questionable. In any case, the little rascal made $100 in his first day of “dealing”!

By the next morning, a horde of kids had gathered around our son’s locker. So much so that he had to employ two of his friends as “security”. Alas these friends are also British, so they don’t have cool street names like J-Dawg: they are Sebastien and Jeffrey. And, as Brits, their primary means of enforcement is class-based shaming. Regardless, our boy had got his English homies working the corner.

Over dinner, our son noted that he had developed a few “key accounts”, notably a girl named Sonja. Sonja bought $50 worth of AirHeads on the first day. I asked our son if he had given Sonja a discount. “I gave her the first one for free” he said. “You gotta hook the fish before they bite”.

I asked our son if he paid his enforcer friends. “No dad” he said, “They just work for the candy”.

I asked our son if he was helping himself to any of the candy. “No dad”, he said, “You never try your own supply”. What? Where is he learning this? Has he been watching The Wire?!!!

He actually made so much money that we made him do a business plan. He did one, and showed us his budget for reinvestment, savings, expenditures, and charitable contributions. At our insistence he has curtailed his dealing activities, for now. But he has recently joined the school “Entrepreneur Club” where he hopes – and this is a direct quote – “To make some real money”. Love that boy.

We reckon that our son is either our ticket to an early retirement, or that we have a future prison visit ministry.

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Dress Up

News flash: This week marks the one year anniversary of Words for the Weary. Thanks to everyone for reading these stories. I hope you enjoy doing so as much as I enjoy writing them. My thanks also to the intrepid blog curator for her weekly edit and story upload.  Let’s try to keep this going for another year if we can!

Sometimes, on very special occasions, a man just needs to wear a dress, dammit.

One such occasion was shortly after university for a theme party we christened Bridesmaid Revisited. The objective was to dig out old, often ugly, bridesmaid dresses mouldering in the closet and wear them for the party. How often do bridal party members get the chance to re-wear the dress they spent hundreds of dollars on?

The hitch was that everyone at the party was expected to wear such a dress. So that afternoon a number of us guys went down to the thrift store to see what we could find. I scored a big formal number in retina-searing yellow with pleats, an open back, and a huge silk flower affixed to the shoulder. I pity the poor woman who originally elected (or was obliged) to wear this dress. I sought to do it justice in her honour.

The party was a hit. Of the 70+ people there, only one was not in a dress. And he had chosen to attend dressed as a weedy wedding photographer. By midnight most of the party was sitting in the big kiddy wading pool at the municipal park across the street.  A neighbour called the cops. When the police arrived, they just stood there chuckling in disbelief. We got our picture with them before peacefully dispersing.  Thankfully this was in the days before social media.

Another occasion calling for formal dress wear was a wedding shower hosted for my soon-to-be-wife by friends of my mother. My wife was a bit nervous, since she did not know these women all too well. But being a good sport, off she went to the event with mom.

To ease her nerves (and without telling her of course), I suggested to my dad and brother that we follow them there and crash the shower dressed as uninvited lady guests. Of course they readily agreed. We dug out horrendous old dresses from the family costume box. We weren’t too convincing, since at the time dad and I both had beards and my brother’s legs rivalled those of a lesser primate. Still, one does what one can.

We drove to the shower, babbling nervously in our frocks. We stopped at a traffic light. A pick-up truck rolled up in the lane beside us. Behind the wheel sat the Chairman of the university department where my father was a professor. He glanced down into our car. He did a double take. His eyes widened, locked with those of my father in his frilly green dress. Time stood still. The light changed and, as we drove away, dad gave his Chairman a coquettish smile and wave. Then he turned to us and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got tenure.”

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The Anniversary

We knew we would get married the first time we met.  Still, it’s not the sort of thing you discuss on a first date. And it almost didn’t happen.

We met at a Christmas party in Canada. My job was to greet guests at the door. I was resplendent in a pair of yuletide green jeans and two oven mitts shaped like moose heads. I used the oven mitts like puppets, welcoming new guests to the house in my best moose voice. The moose slurred a bit, since I had been “sampling” egg nog most of the afternoon. But most of the guests spoke French, so they had no idea what the moose was saying anyways.

I opened the door and there she was. The moose slurred Merry Christmas. She smiled, greeted me, and glanced down at my green jeans. It was not altogether a look of approval.

As it so often does during Canadian parties in winter, talk soon turned to hockey. I overheard her say to someone that her sports interest was not actually hockey, but American football. She instantly had my respect because you NEVER say that in Canada. She overheard me laugh at myself as I slopped egg nog on my green jeans. She was amused. Those first moments – respect, humour, and slopped food – formed a pattern for what was to become our relationship.

I switched to drinking tea in an effort to actually engage her in meaningful conversation. We talked for hours about family, faith, our previous work in Africa, and other matters of the heart. We exchanged numbers. As the party ended the moose bade her farewell. I watched her walk away, and I knew.

The next day I called. She was abrupt. She hung up quickly. My heart sank. How could I have gotten it that wrong? I hadn’t drunk that much egg nog! But then she called back. “Sorry about that”, she said sheepishly. “It was 4th and inches with Dallas inside the ten yard line and the game on the line. I just couldn’t talk. Kansas City and Oakland play in an hour, do you want to come over to watch?” And so it was to be.

Two short weeks later we went on separate trips to opposite corners of the world. We were going to see very close friends who happened to be of the opposite sex. During our respective trips our friends disclosed to each of us their preference to be more than friends. These expressions came from people we cared for deeply and had known for years. She and I still barely knew each other. What to do?

When we returned home I asked her how she had responded. She smiled and said, “I said thank you, but I can’t. Because a few weeks ago I met the man I am supposed to marry.” And so it was to be, 20 years ago this week.

This story is dedicated to the love of my life. Happy Anniversary, my dear.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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The Farm

The best investment we ever made was a share in a little organic farm. The primary value is not in the land. The real treasure is the one-of-a-kind couple who own and run the farm.

30 years ago I sat in the living room of their farmhouse interviewing with them for a job as a summer farmhand. I had visited other farms. I had interviewed with other farm couples. But this was the one. Somehow, I just knew it. What I learned during my summer on their farm would shape me for a lifetime.

The first lesson was one of overwhelming commitment. This couple pours all of themselves into this piece of land. And they do so without a safety net.  There is no romance in trying to live off the land. Often the farm does not reciprocate their love – drought, weeds, pests, prices can all beat them down. But they always rally, and forge on to somehow move forward.

Ingenuity was another big lesson. How do you make the margins on a hard piece of land? By building a wind turbine out of the rear brake drum of a car. By designing and welding your own custom farm implements. By building everything out of recycled freezer lids. This couple are masters at walking gently on the land, finding a thousand ways to use less while giving more. I expect they could teach more about “sustainability” than any college professor. For me, living with them was no end of a lesson.

Perhaps the most enduring lesson is simply how they face reality. As they forge a path back to the land, the rest of the industry goes for factory scale farms with huge petrochemical inputs. Where they plant trees, others farm within an inch of the waterways, washing topsoil away. The hard choices they have made are not recognized or rewarded by the market. Money is tight. The future is always unknown. Yet they are willing to live with constant uncertainty because of their commitment to making a different reality possible.

They have little in the way of family, but their land has been a haven for hundreds and hundreds of people over the years. They have no children, but their farm has been home to dozens, including my own two. As I write this, my son is driving the tractor in the field while my daughter finishes mucking out horse stalls.

This farm, and its impact on my family, is a lifetime dream come true. We are blessed to be a small part of it and to learn from two such unique souls.  30 years ago I sensed something special sitting in their living room. But who could have known then how this would all turn out.

This story is dedicated to the B’s. Thank you for everything.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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The 4th of July

My extended family gathers on the Mississippi River each 4th of July to celebrate with fun and gluttony. These gatherings are the source of many of my favorite memories.

Anchoring the weekend is the keg – sometimes two kegs – of Miller Lite. In recent years this has been supplemented by margaritas and single malt whisky.

As the morning sun sparkles on the mighty river the breakfast pizza awaits – topped with bacon, ham, eggs, sausage. Or for the weight conscious, perhaps just a bowl of ice cream and left over Cheetos. My wife became an official member of the family one year when she came downstairs holding an ice cream bar and wine cooler at 9:30 AM. She had officially joined the dark side. There was wild cheering.

Lunch usually includes deviled eggs and ham salad – a dish that consists of neither ham, nor salad. It is ground bologna and mayonnaise with chives thrown in for roughage. You slather it on Wonderbread. An hour after ingesting this, the cottage septic system takes one vicious beating after another.

Evening favorites include fried catfish or “tacos in a bag”. The latter involves each family member with their own personal bag of Doritos. The bag is flattened, opened, and then ground beef, cheese, and tomatoes (veggies, so important) are scooped in and mixed around with the crushed Doritos. Then you just dig into the bag with a spoon. No messy cleanup!

After this we waddle to the campfire for S’mores with a side of diabetes. The campfire is the site of legendary family bonding: inappropriate fireside skits, inappropriate song and dance, inappropriate amounts of liquor. And so much 4th of July explosives that it leaves ashes in your drink.

Nearby is a small town which hosts our favorite 4th of July Parade. One year as the parade rolled past, a young lady waved from the back of a pick-up truck proudly wearing a sash that read “Clayton County Beef Queen”. Twenty minutes later the exact same girl rolled past a second time sporting a different sash that read “Clayton County Pork Queen”.  Here was true 4th of July Iowa royalty.

So too are my three lovely aunts who make the family celebration possible each year. This story is dedicated to you, with all my love and thanks. HAPPY 4TH OF JULY everyone!

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Grandparents

“At Church. Beer in fridge. Love, Grandma”.  The note was taped to the front door of my grandparent’s house. My college roommate and I had just rolled up after 10 hours on the road in my 1970’s camper van, “Chocolate Thunder”: orange shag carpet inside, tantalizing brown color outside.

Moments after we had let ourselves in to my grandparent’s house they burst through the door and smothered us in hugs and kisses.

I asked grandma how she was doing. “Busier than a fart in a hot skillet”, she replied. She really said that.

Grandpa went to the fridge and returned with cans of Miller Lite. He also brought out the small glass cups: refined people never drink their Miller Lite directly from the can. My roommate stared wide eyed.

Grandma broke out the Wonder Bread and bologna and invited us to make sandwiches. In an effort to be polite, my roommate cut a modest slice of bologna. Without asking, Grandma reached over and manhandled his sandwich. She slapped on a second chunk of bologna the size of Rhode Island and teased, “You polite Canadians and your anemic sandwiches!” My roommate dutifully choked it down, aided by gulps of Miller Lite.

We had just moved into the living room to watch the Cubs game when an old family friend arrived. Out came more Miller Lite and another small glass. He regaled us with stories about his time years before in seminary, where he routinely snuck into the kitchen for a late night snack. Once, when he heard the head priest coming, he was forced to hide under a table for 20 minutes to avoid being caught. He re-enacted the event by crawling under the coffee table in my grandparent’s living room. We all laughed so hard we cried.

My roommate and I retired to the guest room. We had separate little Bert and Ernie beds with knitted bed covers. Above my bed was a crocheted wall hanging of a Sioux warrior. Above his there hung a felt church banner that read “This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.” We turned off the lights.

Through the thin walls we could hear grandma humming the Beer Barrel Polka as she washed up the glasses. Grandpa was listening to his police scanner radio. In the dark my roommate quietly remarked, “My God, I wish I had your grandparents”.