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Dad

My dad died peacefully last week. I miss him terribly. His death, and indeed his entire life, is a powerful testament to the Words for the Weary spirit of “lighthearted stories about everyday things”.

Two weeks ago we arrived at his home to find him in an armchair. He was connected to oxygen and wearing slippers shaped like hamburgers. He cheerily engaged with everyone while consuming vast amounts of ice cream. His faith and humor and grace remained intact despite the cancer. This was no stoic façade: it’s how dad was hardwired from a lifetime of love.

On one occasion during the ensuing days, as I reconnected his oxygen, he took a deep breath and said “Ah, oxygen. Great stuff. They should put more of it in the air…”.

After moving to narcotic pain medication he quipped “My first drug trip. So this is what all the fuss was about in the 1970s. I suppose I must be hip now with the younger generation.”

We returned one night from the hospital to find a neighbor’s note: “Tater-tot hot dish in the refrigerator”.  I love Midwestern neighbors. And I love tater-tots.

Dad was never strong on administration. His account passwords are kept on little yellow sticky notes that absolutely cover his desk. Each note contains a complex mathematical formula which, when solved, reveals a password. I asked him how I was ever to sort out his affairs. He smiled and suggested that if I took a step back and looked at the sticky notes with the correct perspective, they were artfully arranged in the shape of an iguana. Thanks dad.

We prayed together. When speech left him, we prayed for him. Or we simply held hands and gazed upon one another with such love that words were not required.

His decline was remarkably fast – a week before he died he was playing the piano. His final days and the moments of his death were profound. You could squeegee the love out of the air, it was so saturated with grace and light.  He died surrounded by his closest loved ones, utterly at peace with his life and with God.

He was the greatest man I have ever known. He also happened to be my dad. No amount of thanks seems sufficient for such a gift.

[This post is dedicated to my late father. His obituary, written by my sister late one night in just a few minutes, can be found here]

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Pause in Posts

Dear Readers,

This site will be inactive for a few weeks, but we will return soon with lighthearted stories on faith, friends and the general oddities of the human experience.

We wish you all the best as you begin this new year and return to work, to school and to life in the next week weeks.

Thank you,

Words For The Weary Team

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New Year’s Eve – Guest Writer

Written by the Site Editor 

It is always bizarre to be a teenager and celebrate New Year’s with family. There is the sense that some massive party is being missed – when usually, my friends and I were far too disorganised to organise anything. So I created a system; one year with family, one year with friends. My family have never celebrated New Year’s to much extravagance in my memory – although apparently there was a good ‘end-of-the-world’ party at the turn of the century. One year, we were skiing in Austria and my parents, my sister and I were far too tired to make it to midnight, and decided to celebrate ‘Ugandan New Year’s Eve’, as it was several hours ahead and allowed for a 10pm bedtime.

For the winter of 2015, this was not the case. The plan was to celebrate up in Gruyeres, the small medieval town in Switzerland that bizarrely hosts a horror art museum attributed to the designer of Alien, H. R. Giger. We even invited some friends we had known in Uganda to join us.

We expected there to be some fanfare. But at 8 o’clock when we had gone to dinner, nothing had yet been made evident. It turned out that one of our friends, the father of the family we had invited along with us, is not an evening person. As we tried to coax him into playing games, he grew evermore disinterested. To the extent that winning and losing were met with the same ‘Oh, that’s interesting’ comment. We were far too amused by his reluctant attempt to stay up until midnight to realise that nothing had happened in the village. My sister was head down on the table feeling ill with a condition that we later diagnosed as chickenpox at the age of 14 (I contracted it 2 weeks later at 17). Perhaps it was epitomising Swiss-ness, and a rowdy party was not an option for such a sleepy, usually tourist-filled village.

However, at 11.50pm, something happened. A group of about 10 or 15 people bundled into the central square with a massive speaker. They started pouring drinks, chatting and laughing. The speaker blared out ABBA, Queen and various classic songs that everyone can sing to, be they English, French or German speaking. And for 15 minutes, we laughed and drank together to welcome the new year.

By 00.10, they had cleared out. Obviously, it would not do to have a rowdy event in the town square endure for too long and upset the neighbours. They cleared themselves away, took the speaker and all the plastic cups from their champagne, and bid us good night. We were stunned, as they erased any sign of having been there at all. We walked up to the top of the village to spot fireworks being set off in far away villages and mountain chalet towns. We welcomed 2016 in the tranquillity of a Swiss village – the year that followed was anything but tranquil.

We wish you all the best for the New Year’s, and thank you as ever for your support. Please forward Words for the Weary to anyone who you feel needs a story every week! 

 

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Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!!

To all of our readers at Words for the Weary, we wish you the best of the festive season, from an enjoyable Christmas with family and friends to joyous celebrations of a New Year and New Beginnings in 2019. As ever, you’ll be accompanied throughout the year by anecdotes from your favourite blog….

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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 Water Park

My friend worked at a Greek restaurant in Wildwood, New Jersey. She arrived one day to find the chef stirring a vat of Tzatziki sauce – with his bare arm.

Elbow-deep in grossness pretty much describes Wildwood. It is the ocean playground of those with abundant tats, hairy chests, gold bling and Speedos. Hotels are the two-story walk-up type with coke machines in the stairwell (officially called “Doo-Wop”  architecture – fun fact).

We go to Wildwood for the amazing seaside waterpark. One year we took the neighbor’s kids with us. They included two small boys that I stayed with while the bigger kids went to the slides and dive pools. Neither boy could swim well, and one of them was wearing a buoyant suit shaped like a strawberry. It was a hand-me-down from his older sister. I guess there’s just no pride when you’re four.

We went to the kiddie splash pool where there was a pirate ship. I suggested a game of hide and seek. I counted to ten with my eyes closed. Then I looked up and they were gone. Like Elvis has left the building gone, they had left the splash pool. They were somewhere out among the tattooed masses of the waterpark.

I panicked. I looked around everywhere. I mercifully spotted one of the brothers holding the hand of a confused and concerned looking stranger. One down. But where was the other? I ran to the information counter and explained that there was a missing kid. I described what he was wearing. The staff person was Russian. Imagine female Vladimir Putin using a loudspeaker to say, “Vee look for za strawberry. Da”. Not effective.

Just then my wife spotted him. The strawberry was at the top of the very highest water slide. Tube in hand, he was patiently waiting in line for his turn. Leaving his sibling with my wife I sprinted up the stairs, rudely elbowing kids out of the way. I arrived, panting and out of breath, and took him aside. He put his foot down: he wanted to go down the slide. In fact, there were two parallel slides side by side so kids could race. I caved. He and I took our positions in the respective slides and waited for the lifeguard to give us the green light.

GO! The strawberry took off like a leaf on a torrent, rocketing down the twists and the turns of the slide. I did not move. The water built up behind my back like the Hoover Dam. Nothing. The water began to spill over my shoulders. Still nothing. The lifeguard began to giggle. She suggested that maybe if I lay on my back it might help. So I did. The water poured over me like an island in a stream, for that is what I am: just too dam big for the water to move.

So I began to butt-shimmy down the waterslide, using my hands on either side like they do at the start of a bobsled race. All the way down: shimmy, shimmy, shimmy. I could hear peals of laughter behind me. I could see my wife at the bottom, gutting herself alongside the strawberry. I finally got to the bottom.

I then offered to get them Greek food for lunch.

[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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Jumper 4

We were young. We were stupid. And no doubt alcohol factored into our collective decision to try parachuting.

Without further reflection, my college roommates and I found ourselves in the dead of a Canadian winter at a training centre for first-time jumpers. There we learned how to arch our backs as we fell from the rafters on to the hay below. We learned how to keep our knees and feet together as we landed. We learned how to hit the ground and roll. Most important – and this was drilled into us – we were instructed never to look downward as we landed.

Then we suited up: jumpsuits, helmets, goggles. We hoisted the packed parachutes on to our backs and strapped in. A one-way radio was clipped to the reserve chute on our chest so we could hear instructions from the ground crew.

We headed outside to the waiting airplane. It was at this precise moment that I got scared. Only then did it occur to me this might be a potentially fatal thing to do. But no turning back now, not with all my roommates there. Young. Stupid.

They stacked us in order inside the tiny airplane. I was Jumper 4. They clipped the top of our chutes to the static line and rolled down the runway. The plane lumbered into the air. The jump master yelled to each of us above the noise and the wind – remember: knees together, feet together, don’t look down when we land. We reached altitude and the plane began to circle over the landing zone.

The jump master positioned one jumper at a time at the open door. They sat on the edge with legs dangling outside. Then she yelled, “One, Two, Three…Go!” At which point the jumper would propel themselves from the plane care of clenched butt cheeks. As they exited, a wing-tip camera took their photo. The chutes pulled open as the jumpers fell away from the plane. Then it was my turn.

I remember this moment with utter clarity. It is perhaps the most frightened I have ever been in my life. But before I knew it I was clenching my butt cheeks, then falling through space while screaming bloody murder. The wingtip camera shows me white as a ghost.

Then….poof. The chute opened. It was glorious. Floating above the wintry Ontario countryside, it looked like a toy train landscape with snow on the tiny buildings and fence posts. Complete silence except for the gentle wind. Peace. Relief. After a few minutes my radio crackled.

“Jumper 4 prepare to land. Remember: knees together, feet together, don’t look down”. What were they talking about? I was still miles from the ground. So I looked down.

BLAM. I hit the ground like a sack of concrete. Because I was looking down, my body folded in half so hard that my teeth sliced the knees of my flight suit open. I crumpled to the ground, barely able to breathe. Then my chute filled with a gust of wind. My helmeted head clattered along the ground as the full chute propelled me across the frozen farm field on my back. Finally I stopped care of a fence.

“Jumper 4”, crackled my radio. “That looked really painful. Give us a thumbs up if you are still alive”.

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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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Turning 50

My mid-life crisis happened when I was 36. It lasted about 45 minutes.

It happened as my wife and I were at a joint birthday party for a man turning 50 and his daughter turning 20. We realized during the party that (a) we were closer in age to the 50-year-old and (b) we preferred his company to the younger set. I turned to my wife and said, “Honey, WE are now officially the old people!” When we got home I processed this realization by listening to Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water on repeat. That was it.

When I turned 50 this past weekend I experienced perhaps the opposite of a mid-life crisis. It began with the course I was on in Dublin, filled with meaning and blessing and delicious birthday cake. And then when the course ended, I headed for the nearest pub.

This was a genuine Irish neighborhood pub, straight out of a James Joyce novel. No tourists. I ordered a birthday whisky and sat at the bar with the locals watching rugby. The man beside me gazed upon his frothy Guinness with a tender mixture of reverence and lust.

My eye was drawn to a poster on the wall promoting the “Dublin Gospel Choir”. Their benefit concert was scheduled to begin within the hour at the nearby Dublin Rugby Club. Why not? I finished my whisky and headed for the concert.

The Dublin Rugby Club has all the charm of an old bowling alley. Featureless white walls are adorned with faded rugby pennants. Ancient floorboards reek from generations of spilled beer. The all-local crowd was packed in on lawn chairs. I stood in the back nursing a Guinness in gleeful expectation.

Before the choir began they took up a collection for the nearby Saint Francis Hospice. As they passed the donation bucket round, the choir director shared a heartfelt story of the hospice staff quietly sneaking whisky into her father’s room as he lay dying. When he finally died, they lovingly slipped a bottle into his casket to “ease him over the threshold”.  God bless Ireland.

Then the choir began. The Dublin Gospel Choir is, without doubt, the whitest soul group I have ever seen. But man can they sing. They delivered a moving mix of spirituals and modern classics as the audience swayed along. Beer was spilled on the floor. Then the choir launched into a gospel version of…Bridge Over Troubled Water.

Hearing that song moved me to tears of joy. I would like to think it was the effect of whisky and Guinness. But in truth the tears flowed in happy nostalgia for my life long ago and gratitude for the present; for the touching humanity of the hospice staff; in remembrance of a facility across the ocean in which my own infirm mother is so well cared for. Unlocked by the familiar song, I glimpsed a small fraction of the overwhelming grace in my life. In all our lives.

I walked back through dark streets and warm Irish rain. I came upon an empty church. I wandered in. I lit a votive candle and sat in silence, reflecting on the choir’s unexpected birthday gift. Then I said “thank you” over and over and over again.

[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.]