Category: FAMILY

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The Motel

The diaper exploded in the motel swimming pool. Then the offending infant sealed the deal by throwing up in the shallow end. They closed the pool for cleaning. Our children returned to the motel room, downcast.

We had chosen this motel, a classic 1950’s two story walk-up, specifically because it had a pool. That was our treat for the kids as our family toured the historic battlefield of Gettysburg. Our only fallback now was the allure of the make-it-yourself waffle iron at the breakfast bar the next morning.

That night the Boy Scout troop in the room above us began bouncing off the walls. Their leaping and tackling reverberated like thunderclaps in our room below. At 10:00 PM I went up and kindly asked them to be quiet. At 11:00 PM I did the same. By midnight, I had had enough. I threw back the covers. My wife immediately registered concern. She knows that when Panda dad switches to Grizzly dad, it can get unpleasant. I assured her I was under control. I strolled purposefully up to the second floor walkway in my plaid boxer shorts and thin sleeping t-shirt.

I knocked on the door. The room went silent. I knocked again. A boy scout opened the door and peered out, wide-eyed.

“Where is the scoutmaster?”, I asked calmly.

The scout became immediately contrite. “I am sorry”, he said. “We’ll tone it down”.

“Please answer my question”, I said with Vladimir-Putin-lack-of-emotion and half-lidded eyes, “and tell me where I can find the scoutmaster”.

“I promise we’ll be quiet”, said the scout.

“Son”, I said, “I am going to knock on every door on this floor until I find the scoutmaster. You can either come with me, or I can march back down here with him when I find him. What’s it going to be?”

Before he could answer, a door opened further down the walkway. Out stepped a man who turned out to be the scoutmaster. He looked puzzlingly at my boxer shorts. I explained calmly and politely what was going on. He said he’d take care of it. He did. Not another peep out of those guys.

The next morning our family was sitting in the breakfast room eating waffles. At the table beside us were several obese men. They were dressed in Civil War period uniforms and had waffle batter on their chins. As they discussed their upcoming battle re-enactment one of them remarked, “You know what I don’t understand? It’s those wussies that re-enact the War of 1812. I mean, that was just a totally sucky war, man”. Our family quietly challenged one another to think of anything less cool than battle re-enactment guys with waffle drizzle on their chins talking trash about other battle re-enactment guys. Our son identified “diapers exploding in a motel pool” as being way, way less cool.

In walked the scout troop. The entire troop came up and apologized. They looked us in the eyes. They shook our hands. They took responsibility. Later, we commended the scout leader on their exemplary morning conduct, and we asked him to convey our sincere appreciation.

[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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Love – 12/03/2018

Dementia is horrific not only because it robs loved ones of their faculties, but because the rest of us watch loved ones fade away in slow motion. But even in such darkness there can be light and laughter. Such is the case with my father.

The care that he has provided for my mother for over a decade, and the tender constancy with which he has done so, is simply awe inspiring. The doctors, home care, facilities, paperwork and expenses are relentless. He honors birthdays and anniversaries that mom can no longer recall. He participates in care facility activities with unselfconscious enthusiasm, even when she is asleep.

There are, of course, moments of exasperation, fear, despair, and exhaustion. But not once, in all this time, has he ever complained. On the contrary. He maintains that caring for my mother has been the privilege of a lifetime. Awe. Inspiring. Grace.

Of course, being the family that we are, we also treasure the moments of absurdity as they come along.

One such occasion took place one winter morning. Dad was making coffee. My mother has mild hearing loss, so dad asked her in a rather loud voice if SHE WANTED ANY COFFEE? In her state of confusion, she was indignant at being addressed in an inappropriately loud voice. Uncharacteristically, she threatened to walk out (!). Dad just smiled and went into the kitchen to fetch the coffee. But when he returned to the living room, she was gone. The front door was open and there was mom, steaming down the street in her flannel night gown and bathrobe.

Dad took off after her in hot pursuit in his own night clothes that consist of: two slippers shaped like moose paddling a canoe, red flannel pants, and a t-shirt several sizes too small bearing the skyline of his hometown and the tagline: “Des Moines: Let us Exceed Your Already Low Expectations”.

He caught up with her. She was of course totally surprised to see him. He casually asked if she would like to join him at home for some coffee. Of course she was happy to. And so back they went, arm in arm, through a winter’s morning in all their flannel glory.

 

[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.]

[Image credit to Slifka Sales Co].

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Inseparable – 05/02/2018

“What is the most reckless thing we can do today?” said my son to his best friend as they sat together in a red wagon atop a large hill. You know what happened next.

They emerged from the wreckage looking like they had been dragged across a cheese grater. In their wisdom, they were wearing helmets. In their minds, this was another glorious adventure.

My son and his best friend are inseparable. And not just in matters of self-destruction. Both are creative, kind-hearted, appropriately irreverent, tender. They love to laugh. They seldom shower. For years they lived across the street from one another. They were equally at home in both houses.

Three elements define their boyhood together: creativity, risk, and something physical like fighting, biking, sweat, or food. They often rigged lawn chairs in the upper reaches of a tree with ropes. They sat up there only two feet apart, talking on walkie-talkies. They dressed in armor with spears and shields and jousted on their scooters. They converted the back deck of an abandoned house into a pirate ship, replete with plank, gun portals, and a long section of sloping eaves trough into which they would pee. We could not sit on our sofa for years, because the cushions were perpetually used as a fort.

If you care to download it, I once received the 30 second video at the end of this post whilst at my workplace. The boys had taken our dog crate and taped it to a couple of skateboards.  Then they built a barrier out of garbage cans in our driveway. One would climb into the dog crate while the other pushed it at top speed to crash through the barrier. Who needs virtual reality when your life is this real?

One of the hardest parts about moving to Switzerland was tearing the two boys apart. As we drove away, our son’s best friend ran alongside the car all the way to the end of the block. Many months later our son broke his arm. As we sat in the waiting room of the Swiss hospital his eyes welled with tears. I asked him if the pain was too much. He shook his head. Then in reference to his best friend he said quietly, “This is my first broken arm where he isn’t here with me”.

Video:  https://wordsfortheweary.net/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/IMG_7314.mov

 

 

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The Puddle – 29/01/2018

Sitting in the puddle of urine caused me to reflect on my life. Particularly since the urine was not my own.

We arrived at the dementia care facility and wheeled our dear family member into the garden to enjoy some sunshine. On route we passed the activities room where a singer of modest talent was belting out “Margaritaville” to a few dozen facility residents. As we rolled by, our family member shoved her fingers in her ears. Dementia has not diminished her musical scruples.

We parked the wheelchair in the garden. I sat down on a cushioned park bench. As I did there was a loud and prolonged squishing sound. My trousers became instantly soaked.  Several cups of suspicious liquid drained from the cushion to the pavement below.

Only then did I notice another facility resident ambling away from the scene of the crime. Her saturated sweat pants told the whole story.

Standing beside me, my ever sympathetic wife could not stop laughing. A duty nurse promptly came to clean up the mess and take the cushion off for laundering. She managed to choke out the words “occupational hazard” between peals of laughter. Where is the humanity, I ask you?

This incident did not register with our family member at all. She chattered away in a happy state and within a world, sadly, all her own. She was clearly energized by the sunshine and a few power naps.

As we went back inside we could hear the entertainer down the hall. He had passed around little tambourines and was lustily leading the facility residents in a version of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”. However, the residents soon lost the beat, along with the general plot of the song. The resulting chaos sounded something like: “He was Bad (bang) Bad (bang) Leroy Brown (bang), bad(bang) est (bang, bang, bang) man in(bang) the (bang, bang, bang, bang, bang).”

My wife made me strip off my trousers in the parking lot. I rode home in my undies, humming “Margaritaville”, reflecting on the heartbreaking beauty of this life sublime.

[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.]

[This story is dedicated to newborn Evelina. May you love this world as much as your namesake.]

Photo credit: Horizons Unlimited

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Fishing in Florida – 08/01/2017

[Welcome back and Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a good break. This holiday story is a wee bit longer than most, but I believe it’s worth it. And it’s all true.]

A few Christmases ago my brother-in- law and I rose in the early dawn light and piled into the car with our respective sons, sandwiches, a change of clothes, and high expectations. The previous night we had received a text from one “Captain Biff”, confirming that our deep sea fishing trip in the Gulf was on. His text also included an apology that his primary boat was in for repair so we would be using his backup
craft. No matter.

Not knowing where to park, we drove towards a man standing by the pier to ask for directions. He was a strapping fellow with short, ginger hair. He looked like a retired Rowdy Roddy Piper. He was wearing a filthy pea-green shirt covered with fish-ick and ripped camouflage shorts which offered a full view of his black boxers underneath. as we rolled up, the man leaned into the open driver’s window and said in a voice bristling with enthusiasm, “Y’all looking for Cap’n Biff?!” We nodded. “Co-ink-ee-dink! You found him!” He pointed us towards the parking lot and told us to meet him at the boat. The thrum of marine engines filled the air and added to our anticipation.

We gathered our things from the car and made for the pier. There sat Cap’n Biff’s backup boat, a little putt-putt party-barge pontoon with a 50hp Evinrude outboard. It looked like a floating David surrounded by marine Goliaths. As we stepped aboard, The Cap’n apologized that this was a lesser boat than his normal one, and noted we wouldn’t be hitting any deep water today but would instead fish in the shoals near shore. My brother-in- law slumped. The Cap’n cranked up some Bob Marley as we made for open water, while the Evinrude whined like a swarm of angry bees.

Despite the early hour, and I suspect in part to compensate for his crappy boat, Cap’n Biff proved to be quite the chatterbox. As we headed towards the shoals he told us about his time in the service, the ins and outs of charter fishing, and prattled on about the local gossip. My brother-in- law finally engaged. “Captain Biff”, he said, “I can’t help but notice a sort of musty smell here on the boat.…”

For the first time the Captain looked sheepish. “Yup”, he said. “When I pulled her out of storage this morning the seats were covered in a ton of dust and I didn’t have time to give her a full wipe down. So I covered the seats with these old hunting blankets here from my truck. I forgot that some of them blankets is scented with male buck urine, you know, to attract the horny female deer? So I expect that may be what we’re all smelling”. The air filled with Bob Marley as my brother-in- law and I sat tried to process the moment. …Buffalo soljaaahhh, dreadlocked Rasta…

Finally the Captain eased off the Evinrude as we drifted up to the shoals. Here he proved himself to be a veteran fisherman and a master at working with us novices. He taught us how to bait hooks, avoiding the spiky parts of the bait shrimp. He prepared the rods and lines, and taught our boys about the reels. Each time as we brought our arms back to cast, Captain Biff would yell “FLANG THAT DAWG!” with genuine enthusiasm.

As we kept casting, I noticed the Captain looking to the back of the boat with growing alarm. “Uh, fellas”, said Captain Biff with genuine worry in his voice. “I’m afraid we’ve got to cut this one a little short. It appears one of them pontoons is taking on water and we may be sinking”. Only then did I realize that my brother-in- law was indeed sitting a few inches lower than the rest of us at the back of the boat, and that we were listing noticeably to one side. Quickly Captain Biff flew into action, stowing the gear and firing up the Evinrude. He turned back for the pier as the rest of us huddled precariously on the front corner of the boat to counterbalance the growing weight in the rear waterlogged pontoon. The putt-putt Evinrude screamed for all it was worth as we inched across the open water.

Finally the pier came into sight. Captain Biff headed straight for the ramp, ignoring the stares of the other Captains who looked on wide-eyed at our semi-submerged party barge with its smoking outboard. Captain Biff threw a line on to the pier and ran up to get his truck and trailer, fearing that the boat might actually sink before he could skid it up out of the water. We remained on the front corner of the boat as counterbalance to keep it from going down. Meanwhile, the harbor master, an elderly man standing on the pier with glasses on the end his nose, began scribbling on his clipboard.

Captain Biff backed the trailer down into the water. Lashing the bow of the boat directly to the trailer he dispensed with the winch, knowing that he could not haul up the tons of water now filling the leaky pontoon. He motioned for us to step off the boat at the same moment as he dropped his truck into low-gear 4 X 4 and gunned it. The entire dripping mess lurched up the ramp. Tires smoked and the weight of the waterlogged pontoon almost crushed Captain Biff’s trailer. The prop, still spinning, flung water and weeds into the air. The harbor master’s writing became a blur while. Above the chaos …I shot the sherriiiifff…. could be heard coming from the boat’s sound system.

Then, right there at the top of the ramp, in the midst of the stares from onlookers, the judgement of his peers, and pending fines from the harbormaster, Captain Biff proved what kind of man he really was. He stepped from his truck up on to his boat, now spurting water from its leaky pontoon like a dozen little boys peeing, and crowed like a rooster on a dung heap “YEEAAAHHH! FLANG THAT DAWWWGGGG!!!” And while others waited in disbelief to get their boats down the ramp, Biff took the opportunity to fillet our caught fish. And he took his sweet time doing it, too. Then he added as a masterstroke while handing us the bag of fresh fillets, “I think I’m gonna offer you boys a discount”! Pure. Divine. Poetry.

[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. Happy New Year!]

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My Great Aunt – 13/11/2017

One hot summer day at a family reunion, someone gave my great aunt a margarita and a water gun. She was in her late 80s. She knocked the drink back like it was Kool-aid. Then she drank another. Before the end of the day she was dancing on the picnic table in her Baskin-Robbins-esque polyester pant suit, squirting people with water.

Later she was playing a ball-toss game with a priest. He made a throw and missed the target altogether. Picture a woman in her late 80s, cradling her drink like Dean Martin, turning to the clergyman and saying, “IS THAT THE BEST YOU’VE GOT, HOLY BOY?” She trash-talked a priest. Then she squirted him with water. Then she went and got another margarita.

She taught us kids how to gamble, playing Royal Rummy for pennies at her kitchen table. She let us sip beer from little paper cups from as early as I can remember. She asked about our lives. She patiently listened to our response.  She modeled faith in action, sending her prayers and her money to schools in South America, Africa, Native reserves, and inner city slums. She never had any children of her own, but man did she have a heart for them.

She also nearly killed us with her driving. The finer points of gentle acceleration and gradual braking were lost on her. When the light turned green she would pin it, and at the next red light she would hammer on the brake inches before the intersection. Naturally we kids loved this, being flung all over the car in the days before seatbelts.

She was hard of hearing. Even with hearing aids she SPOKE LOUDLY, her volume the same regardless of subject matter. Once she went to the hospital to visit a family member with an infection who would sit up in his bed, hallucinating and bathed in sweat, and yell about the rising river water. In walks my great aunt. She sizes up the situation and then randomly blurts, “LAST NIGHT MY UTERUS DROPPED, AND NOW I HAVE TO WIPE TWICE WHEN I TINKLE”. She honestly said that. At that moment said family member sat up and yelled, “Everyone get the hell out, the river’s flooding!” He honestly said that. You can’t make this stuff up.

They broke the mold with my great aunt. Last week she would have been 104. Happy Birthday dear one, and how we miss you!

 

 

[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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Halloween – 06/11/2017

Things went bad one Halloween when my niece pooped in her lion costume. She was only two, so what are you going do? But the outfit is a one-piece, necessitating a messy and difficult extraction even for veteran parents. My sister-in-law was forced to do an emergency pit-stop in our living room to initiate the clean-up.

We were also joined by a dear family member who has dementia. In the face of this horrible disease, our family has treasured moments of levity as they come along. Such it was to be this Halloween.

When the doorbell rang the family member would instinctively open the door. She would then stand there silent, confused by the throngs of costumed children. But the moment someone yelled “trick or treat”, recognition would radiate across her face. Her eyes sparkled as she would exclaim with surprise and enthusiasm, “Why, it must be Halloween!”  Finding the candy bowl, she would dish out liberal portions to the kids, and then help herself to a chocolate bar.

This cycle repeated itself dozens of times throughout the evening. Each group of trick-or-treaters was a brand new experience for her: doorbell, confusion, recognition, an enthusiastic exclamation of “Why, it must be Halloween!”, and then another chocolate bar. She must have eaten 20 before the night was through.

At one point our pre-teen daughter arrived back from trick or treating, dragging with her a pack of pre-teen girls engaged in pre-teen drama. They had elected to go out together all dressed as pieces of fruit. Apparently the banana had teased the apple about some part of her costume. The apple began to cry. Then the banana felt guilty, so she began to cry. Then the grape blamed the cherry for not stepping into the fray. So the entire fruit bowl began to cry. All the while said family member was circulating in the midst of the weeping fruit, dishing out candy while gleefully consuming yet another chocolate bar.

As my niece slipped back into her lion costume her older brother, dressed as the Pope, managed to catch his finger in our screen door. So at one moment in time our living room boasted a screaming pope, my sister-in-law trying to contain the fallout, weeping tween-age fruit, my beleaguered wife, a niece dressed as a lion who smelled like some unholy combination of stale poop and sugar, and a family member with dementia and an ear-to-ear grin, vibrating from excess chocolate consumption.

The very next batch of kids to ring the doorbell saw the chaotic throng in our living room. They decided the party must be inside, so in they came! I hope that everyone had a great Halloween this year!

 

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, please feel free to forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier!]

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The Interviews – 16/10/2017

I was once offered employment by a naked man in a public shower. This is pretty typical of my career, which mostly consists of jobs for which I am unqualified and interviews that do not follow a script. Let me explain before you come to the wrong conclusion.

I knew a professor at college who was really into running. I am really into not running. Yet for some reason we found ourselves showering next to each other at the Athletic Center one morning. He asked if I wanted to be his Teaching Assistant while he lathered with shampoo. I said yes while I soaped my armpits. We maintained strict eye contact with one another throughout this exchange, because if there is one thing for which I am categorically unqualified, it is to be naked in a public shower.

In another instance, I was interviewed by someone who had just arrived that morning on an overnight flight from China. He kept falling asleep during our interview. When he would momentarily roused himself, I would continue answering his original question until he dozed off again. We only got through three questions in 45 minutes, which I credit with getting me a job for which I was woefully unqualified.

During another interview, I was asked how I felt about working for Jews. Seriously. I was so caught off guard by the question that it’s one of the few times in my life I have truly been at a loss for words. I must have stammered something affirming because the interviewer offered me the job. I learned later that he was a rabbi – who knew?

I was once asked by a friend to interview for a job I didn’t want but for which, for a change, I was actually qualified. During the proceedings she asked me to identify “the most creative tools” I use when communicating with others. With nothing to lose (except our friendship, perhaps), I decided to really go for it with my response. I slowly stood up, fixed the panel with a steely gaze, took off my suit jacket, and said without a touch of irony: “Interpretive. Dance.” Then I dialed up the uncomfortable with a few choice moves. Despite these heroic efforts I was offered the job.

Perhaps the most memorable interview was for my first “real” job. I was so unqualified for this one that I had to borrow my roommate’s suit, since I did not own one at the time. I can still recall the moment I entered that intimidating office foyer, ringed by racks of promotional material. I tried to exude managerial competence as I strode towards the interview panel assembled across the room. Instead, the trouser cuff from my roommate’s borrowed suit caught the corner of a pamphlet rack, spinning me off balance. I careened headfirst into the adjacent rack, pulling it and all the resources down upon me with a crash. I lay there, winded, as pamphlets scattered into the air like a thousand paper snowflakes. Agonizing Silence. Agonizing Shame. Eventually, mercifully, one of the interviewers exclaimed, “What an entrance! I mean, HE NAILED that landing!” Somehow, I got the job.

And so, after procrastinating by writing this story, I go now to interview for yet another job for which I am unqualified. I’ll let you know how it goes. If all else fails, I may simply revert to showering in public.

 

 

Photo credit goes to www.tes.com