But How Does It Work?

“No!  Don’t touch that!”  

I screamed at my sixteen-year-old daughter as she reached for the long, skinny black arm on the record player that was stationed as a display at the mall department store.

“What?  Why?” Her hands flung backward as if they had touched a red glowing stove burner.

“There’s a needle in there.  It’ll scratch the record!”

“A needle?  I don’t get it.  How does it work?"

“The needle is what plays the music.  If you grab it, it’ll slide across the vinyl and put a big scratch in it.”

Michelle was born in the nineties.  When my cassettes were stacked on the bookshelf in the living room, right next to the cassette player deck that was hooked up to two bookshelf speakers.  Music arrived monthly in my mailbox via the RCA Music Club.  I vacuumed and dusted to the Beach Boys and Chicago.  Planted on the floor in front of the stereo, I did sit-ups to Jane Fonda’s 30-Minute Workout tape.

In the nineties, my shoulder-length permed hair didn’t require L’Oreal Dark Brown 4N.  It wasn’t spoiled by gray.  Michelle’s brothers played catch with a baseball in our backyard.    And went to Cub Scouts.  I drove a blue Chevrolet Impala.  A far cry from the bright orange Trans Am – complete with the eagle on the hood.

“But, how does the music get on the record?” Michelle asked. 

“I don’t know.  Google it.” I said. 

The 1976 Trans Am was orange.  It was a four-speed – fast and loud.  Sandwiched between the round black volume and tuning buttons on the radio and the cigarette lighter was an 8-track player, factory installed.  My Neil Diamond tape blasted out “I’m A Believer” as I cruised up over the hills and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” carried me down into the nooks and crannies of Gilman Valley to the house we moved to after my Grandpa passed away. 

“I mean – I can understand how music gets put on a CD,” Michelle said.  “I just don’t get the record thing.”

“Figures you would understand that,” I said.  Truth was – I didn’t know how the music got on the vinyl either.

 I didn’t care that the small round, black 45 singles with the big hole in the middle cost ninety-seven cents.  I just wanted to play them all in one big stack.  Nights in White Satin, Twist and Shout, and Good Vibrations.

“Grandpa, could I borrow some money?” I asked.  “I’ll mow your lawn for you all summer and pay you back.”

 Grandpa Eugene tugged on his wallet.  

“What for?” he asked.

“There’s a record player at the Farmer’s Store.  It’s only twenty-three dollars."  At five dollars per mowing in the late 60s, I could pay him back in a month.  I added, “You don’t have to tell Mom.

“Just accept the fact that music can be recorded on vinyl,” I told Michelle. 

“I can’t!” she replied.  “I have to know.”

The 33s were in the closet.  Mom didn't know we were messing with them.  I gawked at the brightly colored jackets that held the pieces of vinyl, revealing Brenda Lee’s dark red lipstick and teased hair, plus Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass of the 50s.  Mom wiggled her toes and bounced her head to the music as she sat in her wheelchair.  Not to Brenda Lee – but to my absolute favorite - The Chipmunks. 

"Maybe your Grandpa will know," I said.  "You can ask him."

Upstairs at Grandpa and Grandma's, the old Victrola stood in the corner of the spare bedroom in a walnut cabinet.  I pulled out a thick, black disc. The 78 was a lot heavier than the modern 33s.  I blew off the dust and opened the cover on the Victrola to see a shiny silver metal arm, shaped like a goose neck – with a sharp needle on the end.

“Mom!  I hollered down the staircase.  She wheeled over to the doorway.“How does this old record player work?”

“Put the needle down on the record and crank it."

"No - I mean - how does it work?”

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. No, it wasn’t the ancient oil furnace in the dirt floor basement firing itself up. Although, it sure sounded like it. My pursed lips tried to hold back the snicker that was on the verge of bursting through my mouth. I had to compose myself. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral was a no-no. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral when you were over forty-nine was really forbidden.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I glanced at my sister Kathy. Our eyes met for just a second. Mistake. The giggles were instant. And explosive. I slammed my hand onto my mouth. Maybe no one noticed as my shoulders rocked up and down. I looked down at the wood floor. Years of varnish had collected in the spaces between the maple boards. The white baseboard along the wall was draped with cobwebs. Kathy once sat in this same pew, her short legs swinging back and forth in anticipation as she waited her turn to file up in front of the pulpit to say her part of the Christmas story. She did a good job. And as soon as the program was finished, she vomited. Stage fright? Or too much Christmas candy?

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I couldn’t look at Kathy again. I grasped my forearm with my two fingers, digging my fingernails into my flesh hard enough to leave a mark. Would that stop the laughing? I winced, and for a second – the uncontrollable laughter bubbling inside me subsided. The picture of Jesus still hung on the wall between the two arched windows in the same place it was forty years ago. Except now the windows were trimmed in peeling white paint. I glanced at the second pew from the back. That was our spot. My cousin Jane and I sat between Grandpa and Grandma that Sunday. Grandpa handed me a cherry lifesaver. “Hold it in the palm of your hand like this,” he whispered. “Then slide it into your mouth.” I did what Grandpa said and coasted the piece of sweet candy between my lips.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Compassion for my brother, as he fought the invasion of the post-cold coughing fit, enveloped me. At the same time the giggling reiterated itself. I put my finger in my ear and pressed it tightly. It was Easter Sunday. We’d just filled our tummies with pancakes and sausages in the church hall next door. My brother David was fiddling with the blue egg-shaped container of Silly Putty that the Easter bunny had left in his basket. He rolled it into a ball and squished it onto his hand, leaving a replica of his fingerprints in the putty. And then he rolled it into a ball again. Kathy tried to grab it. David resisted. The Silly Putty dropped to the floor. And bounced. And then rolled. All six of our eyes peered up over the heads of the congregation as we watched the little ball make its trek toward the pulpit. It stopped next to Oscar, the usher – and then rolled into the corner.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I bit the inside of my lip until my cheek twinged in distress, focusing my eyes on what extended beyond the window. The teeter-totter was long gone, as well as the summer Bible school kids that took turns going up and down on it. The chocolate chip cookies and the milk for dunking them in hadn’t been around for ages.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Water. I wished I could get my brother a drink. But the square oak table in the corner of the entrance was empty. The white enamel, blue rimmed water pail and tin ladle that we took our drinks from had succumbed to days gone by – long ago replaced by a modern kitchen in the church hall. The tiny little church that I grew up in all those years ago is still tiny. The hustle and bustle of the congregation has since moved on.

As a lone tear escapes the confines of my eyelid and slides down my cheek, I foster the fond memories that are still alive in the tiny church.

And no disrespect was meant as I uncontrollably giggled through the solemn funeral service.

In fact, in an odd sort of way – thank you God, for helping me remember a very special time in my life.

The Smokestack

“Wanna drive by yourself?” Dad asked back in ’68.

“No, I can’t!” I cried.

“Sure you can.”

My legs were jelly. My hands were flopping. “No, no, I can’t.”

But Dad let go of the wheel despite my begging him not to.

My heart was in my throat and my toes were nervously dancing in my tennies. I had no choice but to steer the monstrous piece of equipment. Thus, I learned to drive the tractor at about age eight, standing in front of my Dad as he was seated on the black naugahyde seat in the big red tractor with the cab on it – the IH 806.

Two years later, my friend Zoe and I sat pretzel-legged in the brown loose dirt next to the tractor pulling track at the county fair. My tummy was full of cotton candy and caramel apples, and my bare feet wore the brunt of the day’s grime. At almost midnight – way past my bedtime - the finals had turned into a pull-off between Dad’s red 806 and the enemies – Dux & his brother. Dad told the sled crew, “load ‘er down!” The sled was weighted down with tons of bagged lime. The bugs swarmed around the street light shining down on the sled’s hitch as Dad backed the 806 up to hook.

The engine revved in second gear as Dad thrust the throttle wide open – torque back. The back wheels were weighted down with a thousand pounds of solid cast iron and the lugs quickly dug in. The RPMs wound out and the tires squatted as the straight-off-the-farm tractor went heaving down the track. As Dad passed each mark, two more men jumped on the back of the skid, increasing the load he was pulling by whatever those guys happened to weigh. At the 17 foot mark, in the black of the night, the red 806 bit its tires into the dirt, thrusting the tractor ahead its final inch.

“Whrrr…whrrr,” went the whistle. The official holding the red flag batted it up and down. A rope and tape measure revealed the results.

Dad took home the trophy that night, beating Dux and his brother by less than two inches. The trophy was a maple block of wood with a shiny gold tractor perched on the top and a gold plate engraved with “Buffalo County Fair 1970.” The trophy stood about five inches tall – pretty small.

But it was huge. The trophy was the carrot dangling in front of my dad’s nose.

It wasn’t long before Dad’s Farmall 560 graduated from the cultivator to the pulling circuit with me in the driver’s seat.

On a Saturday afternoon in Downsville, circa 1976ish, I was concentrating so hard on the sequence: listen for the gear to softly grind into third, slip the clutch until the tires started squatting, quickly move the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, I reached down for the governor wire. I tugged on the wire until my knuckles turned white, squeezing out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

As the tractor lugged down the clay track, its monster roar reverberated inside my rib cage. Almost in slow motion, it seemed to be taking forever. I saw my brother and one of his friends standing on the sidelines. Dad didn’t say a word about the fact that I had the tractor in first gear instead of third gear – he just smiled, knowing I wouldn’t make that mistake again. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In the 1980s my brother David caught the tractor pulling virus and was handed down the reins to the 560. The pulling circuit became more sophisticated. David and my dad tinkered and toyed with the red tractor. The block was bored, three carbs stood in line under the hood, and a secret weapon - nitrous oxide, shot itself into the air intake. Down the track David went. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

The trophies came in droves. Some towering over two feet tall, they lined and overflowed the shelves in Dad’s office.

My brother quickly graduated from farm puller to NTPA puller as the innate desire for more dirt flinging sprouted within him. The speed necessary to generate that dirt took on the form of the Acme Wildcat, a 1066 International diesel, rightly named. After a few wild, hair-raising rides, things settled into place with Mr. Ed, “the horse with a name” a 766 IH. With plenty of horses sending a black column of diesel smoke towering above the crowd, Mr. Ed brought my brother numerous honors.

Despite the fact that David roared from state sanctioned tractor pull to tractor pull, the 560 gathered no dust.

My son, Nathan, then seventeen, sat in the driver’s seat. Nathan was a natural tractor puller – wearing the genes of the third generation of family to drive the notorious tractor. Local fairs, county fairs and tractor pulls nearby all welcomed this familiar tractor into their gates.

Countless hours of tweaking the 560’s well-worn parts went deep into the afternoon. Its pistons, frequently charred from the high heat generated by the nitrous were replaced time and time again. The tires grew in width, creating more bite into the clay track. Its wheels revolved at warp speed, compared to the early days of the tractor that came straight off the cultivator.

In 1998, as I stood watching my little girl ride the merry-go-round at the local fair, I could hear Nathan revving up the tractor. Its distinctive roar was ingrained in my head. Other tractors tried to mimic Dad’s 560, but came up short.

Michelle and I quickly scooted from the carnival rides to the tractor pulling track and took a spot by the wooden snow fence that lined the track on both sides. The old fashioned lime-weighted sled was replaced by a modern, mechanical version for safety. As Michelle pressed her face between the slats of the fence, I stood beside her, my heart pounding inside my chest. “We’re just in time,” I said. “Here he comes!”

Nathan listened for the gear to softly grind into third and slipped the clutch until the tires started squatting. He quickly moved the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, he flipped the nitrous switch. He squeezed out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

The familiar monster roar still reverberated inside my rib cage. A quiet sort of pride burst from within. My toes danced in my shoes as I shouted silently to myself “that’s my son – and that’s my dad’s 560!”

My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In 2007, as I stood watching my teenage girl ride the tilt-a-whirl at the local fair the pulling track was silent to me. For the first time in over thirty years, I didn’t hear the distinctive roar that was forever ingrained in my head. For the first time in over thirty years, the smokestack on Dad’s 560 was silent. The red tractor took its position of valor in the shed, while cobwebs draped themselves from the smokestack to the steering wheel. The dust was thickly piled on top of the greasy hood. The red paint was faded to a pinkish-gray and the white 560 painted on the side of the tractor was barely visible.

For a second I was crushed. It was the end of an era – the end of a most exciting time in our lives. The 560 snuck onto the pulling track straight out of the cornfield and surprised ‘em all. Likewise, the legendary tractor disappeared without notice, to put its weary pistons to rest after one heck of a thirty year run.

But I grinned as I remembered the five inch maple trophy that still remained on Dad’s desk. Tractors will come and go – but the monster roar of the red 560 will remain in my head forever.

Two Minutes of Tears ... Every Two Days

He would be the first to say he hates living here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And squished into the bedroom in the basement. Most of his stuff is packed in storage. He has had to share the kitchen with us. And the sofa. And our car. For the last six months.

The shower isn’t his either – it’s filled with girl stuff – fruity shampoo and conditioner and perfumed body wash. He stands outside the bathroom door, patiently waiting for his sister to come out. The pink razor pushes his soap off the shelf in the tub, and it slides down the river of bubbles towards the drain.

I would be the first to say I hate having him here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And his stuff is all over the basement. And the kitchen. And the sofa. And the car. For the last six months.

But I don’t hate having him here. I just hate the fact that he had to be here.

And now I hate the fact that he’s leaving.

And most of the time I can take it.

Most of the time.

Except for that time where I cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

Because he’s leaving. And because he’s been through so much. And because I wonder when it will end. And when the door will be opened for him.

The door to success and happiness.

My dear aunt once told me, “Let go and let God”. What comforting wisdom. You have to assume that you’ve given all the advice you can give, you’ve given all the tools for living. You have to let go and let God.

And yes, there are occasional tears as you think of the distance. That time when you cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

The Wreath

The satin ribbon, months earlier faded from the summer sun beating down upon it, blew haphazardly in the November wind. A dull gold bead, once a glittery spot in a nest of greenery, plopped down onto the floor, rolled into the crevice between the boards and disappeared under the porch. And the ragged pine needles, though artificial, looked weathered and worn from hanging there since the Christmas before.

Although I’d turned my head and glanced at the wreath every time I left the driveway, something inside me could not bear to take it down. Not yet.

The wreath was just one of a few Christmas decorations that never made it back into the box that January.

The January that my life stopped in its tracks.

And because of that, I couldn’t take the wreath down. I just couldn’t.

The wreath was a part of what defined my life before, before my life changed that cold and bitter day. Looking at the wreath reminded me of what I had lost and the pain that I still felt. Taking it down would somehow signify that life was normal again - except it wasn’t. And I didn't want to pretend that it was.

As the winter snow melted, exposing the fresh new sprouts of grass, the wreath hung there. Dandelions speckled the spring lawn like yellow bursts of star light in a dark green sky.   The wreath hung there. Through the hot summer days, the wreath was dry and parched, only to be dampened by the humid clouds that created a hazy backdrop. The seasons came and passed, and still as the cold autumn winds of November rustled through the brown corn tops in the field, the wreath hung there.

Almost a year had passed, and I was still not able to take it down.

I prayed for a Divine intervention.

A week later,  returning home from a day at work, I walked up the sidewalk to the kitchen door.  As I swung the door open, there on the kitchen table, I saw a new green wreath, embellished with a red and silver satin ribbon, sparkling burgundy poinsettias, walnut colored pinecones, and shiny red cranberries.

The boys bought it for you, my husband explained.

Heaviness was lifted from my heart that afternoon, as I took the lifeless wreath down from its hanger on the front door. The wreath had served its purpose. A symbol of pain and suffering no longer, I tossed it into the trash, held the match close enough for the flame to set it afire and watched it disappear.

As I hung the new Christmas wreath on the front door, I stood back and marveled at its beauty. Its freshness indeed signified a fresh start, a new beginning.

A perfect circle- of unending love.
.

True Meaning

The old man sat on the edge of the bed. I watched him with utmost preciseness tear off exactly the right amount of tape. He knew the routine well. Five pieces of tape, criss-crossed over each other in the shape of an asterisk would cover her incision perfectly.

His eyes were filled with love. Love for this woman he met over fifty years ago. A woman he had spent most of his life with.

Fifty years ago, vows were said.

At that time, he probably wasn’t paying much attention to the words. He repeated the words “to love and to cherish”. He repeated the words “in sickness and in health”. And he repeated the words “‘til death do us part”. Fifty years ago they were likely just words.

It would take a lifetime to bring true meaning to them.

A lifetime learning to truly care about this other person.

Caring through sharing life’s experiences – the happy times, the sad times, and even the angry times.

As he placed the last piece of tape over the incision she muttered something he couldn’t understand. To satisfy her inquisitiveness, he calmly agreed with her.

Fifty years ago, vows were said. Today they have true meaning.

The Owner's Manual

The wiper blades scrambled back and forth, trying to keep up with the raindrops that were pelting the windshield. The outdoor thermometer in the Tahoe read 43 degrees, but even so, the drops kept getting larger and thicker – like tiny snowballs splattering on the glass.

Yes, it was a wet and chilly October morning and Mickey and I were on the way to the orthodontist for her monthly braces adjustment. Mickey sat entranced by the rhythm of the wipers, while I was just plain annoyed that I had to have them on at full speed. A summer as dry as can be, and now – when we don’t need the rain – here it is, and has been for the last couple days.

Rain, rain, go away – come again some other … hey, what is that little red light on my Tahoe’s instrument panel? I’d never seen that one before. Usually the amber colored light indicates whether the vehicle is in 4-wheel drive or 2-wheel drive. It looks like the letter “N”. And it’s red. I press the button for 2-wheel drive. No response. I press the other button for 4-wheel drive. No response.

“Well, I’m going to pull over and stop,” before Mickey could ask me what in the world I was doing.

Just like my computer, I’ll bet this one just needs to be rebooted. So I pull over on the side of the road, put the ignition in Park, and shut off the engine. One, two, three … I count to ten and start the engine again and pull out onto the highway.

Darn, the red light is still on.

“Grab my cell phone out of my purse…I think it’s in there,” I say to Mickey – jolting her out of her trance.

“Call Dad – press 2 – I’ve got him on speed dial,” I add, keeping my eyes on the road – and the red light.

Amazingly, he actually answered his phone!

“Yeah, I’ve got this red light with a little “N” by it on the panel where it should say 2-wheel drive. What’s that all about? It wasn’t there when I left. I’ve never even seen it before.”

“I dunno. Must be in Neutral or something,” is his reply.

“Well, is that dangerous, I mean will it stop moving while I’m driving or something?"

“If it was in Neutral it shouldn’t be moving at all,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Should I stop somewhere and have it looked at?”

“I dunno.”

I could see this conversation was going nowhere. So I said goodbye and shut my phone.

Mickey grabbed the Tahoe owner’s manual out of the glove compartment. She said, “I can look it up.” I thought, why not? So I told her to search the Table of Contents for 4-Wheel Drive, as I continued down the highway.

Oh, she found it right away.

“SHIFT THE VEHICLE’S TRANSFER CASE TO NEUTRAL ONLY WHEN YOU ARE TOWING THE VEHICLE”, read the warning letters in bold and caps.

Well, we were obviously not towing the vehicle, we were bounding down the highway at about 56 miles an hour and all I could think of is CRAP. Now what?

Mickey turns the page. “Oh, here it says what to do!” she exclaims – and begins to read more. “Set the parking brake and apply the regular brake pedal. Shift the transmission to Neutral and turn the ignition to Run with the engine off."

“Wait, I’ve got to pull over,” I beg, “then read it to me again, step by step.”

I quickly exit to the side of the road again and she continues reading – as I follow her directions.

“Press the button for the desired transfer case shift position. After the transfer case has shifted out of Neutral the Neutral light will go out.”

GUESS WHAT - IT DID!

“Now, Mom – release the parking brake. Start the engine and shift the transmission to the desired position.”

All was well except for the red brake light which followed simultaneously. By now, Mickey is flipping through the owner’s manual at an expert’s pace. I know that when I released the parking brake it must not have released fully. But she doesn’t. And so I pull over – again – to fiddle with the parking brake as she is reading me the instructions on how to get rid of the red brake light.

When that was gone, and we were back on the road again, I wasn’t annoyed by the hyperactive wipers anymore. I was just happy as can be that we only wasted ten minutes of our time this morning.

Mickey turns to me and bursts out excitedly, “See Mom, we don’t even need men. We fixed this all by ourselves!”

“Yup, we did a good job, didn’t we?” I agreed, thinking most men don’t usually get the owner’s manual out.

We pulled into the parking lot at the orthodontist right on time – and I added, “See Mickey, that’s why we always leave a tad early – just in case … we have to fix our car or something along the way.”

Are we coming or going?

What a week!

Mickey’s week anyway. She was spreading herself thinly between volleyball and football cheerleading. And school. Volleyball practice after school on Monday was followed by a quick shower at school and cold lunch in the car on the way to cheerleading practice at our co-op school, twenty minutes away. Cheer practice was especially important this week - Homecoming Week. The dance routine had to be perfect – the lift had to go off without a hitch. Or Mickey would tumble to the grass.

Game day was Tuesday. This one would be a home volleyball game. Mickey rode home from school with me. She did some homework, grabbed a quick sandwich, her duffle bag and I took her back to school – under directions from the coach to have all players on the floor by 5:30 p.m.

Wednesday was another normal day at school, followed by volleyball practice. The after-practice shower was repeated as the Mickey departed again for her cheer duties, this day with a roast beef sandwich, two pop tarts and a banana in hand. Spirit games for homecoming would begin at 7:00 and conclude at 9:00. Mickey made it to bed earlier tonight – by about 10:00 – and went on her own will – without any prodding from me.

Thursday’s away volleyball game was just about as far away as one could imagine – an hour drive over the hills and through the valleys to a town nestled in the middle of nowhere. With another cold lunch for the bus ride, yesterday’s roast beef was replaced by two peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. Homework was completed on the bus. Thankfully for Mom, (but not for the team) the volleyball games were over in three, lending an earlier-than-normal departure for home. As the phone rang at about 9:15 p.m., Mickey was on the other end, “Mom – we stopped for something to eat – but I have no idea where we are. I’ll call you when we get closer to home.” (Mickey only knows the whereabouts of the mall…nothing else.) By ten o’clock the phone was ringing again – this time her call to be picked up at school.

After a quick shower, Mickey was in bed by 10:30.

Jolted out of bed at 5:30 a.m. by her alarm clock – set about forty-five minutes earlier than usual, Mickey had to be at school by 6:30 a.m. today to catch the football & cheerleading bus on its way to an early morning church service and breakfast – a longstanding homecoming tradition. How did she get to school? Her mother had to get up earlier as well. With only one full bath in the house, I didn’t want to be rubbing elbows with Mickey any more than I had to while we were both standing in front of the sink.

So I grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste and went into the kitchen to brush.
Scrounging through the refrigerator, I decided today we would have turkey and cheese sandwiches. I made one for Mickey and one for myself.

I haven’t seen my daughter very much this week, even though I work at the same school she attends. Even though she sleeps in her bed every night. Even though we bump elbows in the bathroom every morning. When I got to the football game Friday night, I proudly watched Mickey perform her part in the dance routine, flawlessly (from my viewpoint). After the game she came over to me and a friend who were talking.

"I’m so tired," she said. "I was tired all day. I’ve got to tell you what happened during Science class today."

Here’s her story-

After lunch we had study hall in the library. I was so tired, so I got a book and pretended to read it, but really I was just sitting there with my head tilted down so I could rest my eyes. The next hour was Science class. We were supposed to be doing a lab. I sat on the edge of the chair and put my elbow on the table. I could hear the teacher talking, but eventually the sound of her voice started to fade and all I could hear was very far away – words that I couldn’t quite make out. My head nodded a couple times, and I jolted it back, trying to resist the blanket of sleep which was surrounding me, wrapping me tighter and tighter.

A few seconds later I found myself on the floor. Bryce was the only classmate who saw me slide out of the chair and onto the floor. He came to my side and said, “Are you okay?” I looked at him, kind of confused and said, “What happened?” At that point I realized that I fell asleep in class and fell out of my chair onto the floor!

By now Mickey is laughing as she is telling us this story over and over again.

Thankfully, Mickey slept in Saturday morning. And lounged in front of the television all day. Until it was time to get ready for the event which would be the culmination of the whole week – the Homecoming Dance.

We started with her hair at 5:00 p.m. and by 7:00 she was ready to go! I took her to her date’s house where both of us moms took a few pictures of the semi-cooperative couple. I had to stay awake until it was time to go pick them up at the dance at midnight. And take her date and another friend home.

Not all weeks are like this. We crawled into bed at 1:00 a.m.

Mickey’s going to lay low today – after she gets home from church, where she had to wait tables from 10:30-12:30 for the fall festival.

I’m sure next week will be better …

Off To College

Reprinted from August 28, 2008 - in honor of all the moms letting go as their kids pack up and head out to college.

I could just tell they were “college shopping”. The mom and her son were putting a set of bed sheets into their cart. Right away I thought of the day ten years ago that Jonathan went off to college. In fact, it was our first experience with one of our children living away from home.

Oh my gosh, I thought we would never get going because he waited until the day before to pack. That night when he was wandering around aimlessly, I made him a little checklist. Good thing I did, because he would have forgotten his alarm clock.

In less than 24 hours I think I managed to tell him everything I thought he needed to know. Not that I hadn’t been trying to teach him all along, but you know – it’s the last minute second-guessing, wondering if you did the parenting right that gets you.

The drive into unknown territory took a couple hours. As we were parked outside his dorm unloading our car, I quickly realized that the girls I saw moving in were carrying quite a bit more than we were. Lamps, furry chairs, bulletin boards – lots of big stuff. I do remember picking out a set of extra long twin sheets for his bed, plus a basket to carry his shampoo and soap in to the shower, but other than that – he packed up the most important things – his computer, stereo and television. Oh, and some clothes. Plus his school supplies - a pen, notebook and folder.

As we stood in line to check in, I found myself leading the way. All of a sudden I realized – I have to let him do this by himself. So I stepped back.

And waited.

Finally he got in line. He picked up his keys, filled out the paperwork and we trudged upstairs to find his room. Why are dorm rooms always on the top floor?

I did the introductions to his roommate. Well, someone had to say something! You guessed it, he is very shy. So shy in fact, that he proceeded to put his computer together without even looking at the other guy in the room. So I did the small talk - my thoughts are in parenthesis here for you to read.

Where do you live? (Just got out of prison.)
What do your parents do? (Alcohol and drugs.)
Do you have brothers and sisters? (In half-way houses.)
What are your hobbies? (Playing with knives and guns.)

We walked around campus and took care of some business. I think we walked about ten miles – or at least long enough for my feet to really hurt. We ate some lunch and then went back to the dorm room. His roommate wasn’t there right then, so I thought we should say our good-byes and get going. No eighteen year old guy wants a kiss from his mom in front of his new roommate. Plus, we had to pick up Mickey at Grandma’s.

That’s right, I still have a 5-year old at home to take care of. Almost forgot.

I gave my son a big hug and kiss and told him I loved him. I told him to call me. (This was before cell phones, texting and even before instant messaging, mind you.) Then we left.

About twenty-nine miles out of town, my eyes welled up with tears. I silently sobbed for a half hour and then was real quiet the remainder of the trip. Finally I was okay - until that evening, when I went downstairs to his bedroom.

As I got to the bottom of the steps I looked around. A lot of his things were gone – but a lot of stuff was still there. His golf ball collection and the posters on his wall. His cds and dart board. Plus the clothes he didn’t need to take along.

I don’t know why, but I opened his top dresser drawer.

Staring at me were fifty-two white socks that were missing mates.

And I bawled my eyes out.

Blessings to all college kids on the brink of independence. And blessings to their parents during this tough time of giving them wings.

The Casino

Until this past May, I had never been to a casino in my life. The only casinos I’d ever seen were in the movies. You could say it was a life-long dream of mine – to experience it, anyway. To experience the mystery and intrigue of it all... To satisfy the urge to find out what it’s all about...

So, when Jonathan and I attended this year’s Brain Association of Wisconsin’s annual convention in Green Bay, suddenly my life-long dream became reality. Our motel was attached to the casino. We were literally just steps away from potential wealth. (Or more likely from the slim chance that this would ever happen to us.)

With twenty-dollar bills in hand, Jonathan and I made our way past the security guard at the door and strolled on into the casino, trying to look like we belonged there – or at least like we knew what we were doing. We wove our way around the various slot machines, past the black jack table, circled around to the beverage station and then back again. This casino contained probably ninety percent slots, ranging from penny machines to five dollar machines. The slot machines were alive with blinking colored lights, sweet sounding beeps, bells and whistles. And fingerprints.

(Only the second week into the swine flu outbreak, I made a mental note to myself to keep my fingers out of my mouth and to stop at the restroom to wash my hands before we left.)

Neither of us quite sure what to do, Jonathan finally sat himself down at one of the dollar machines.

Twenty seconds later his money was gone.

We walked around some more, thinking and talking potential strategy– we’d better find a different machine or we’d be out of money in a few minutes. Or at least practice on the penny machines first.

He chose a two-cent machine and I sat down beside him. The lady two stools down looked as if she had been there a while. Her elbow rested on her crossed legs as she propped her cigarette precariously on the edge of her lips, leaving her other hand free to spin. Obviously a veteran slot player, I decided to watch this woman.

She had quite a few credits (apparently they don’t spill out buckets of coins anymore) to her favor. When I figured out how she was playing the game, I decided to try it on my own. I decided to go big and risk a five dollar bill. I selected twelve rows and doubled down.

My credits lasted quite a while. I was actually up to $13.85 at one point.

But as my wealth grew, my desire to keep on spinning grew as well. I drove the machine down to zero.

We spent about forty bucks each in two days at the casino. Cheaper than dinner and a movie? Yup. Time spent with my son? Priceless.

Do I need to go again? I think it’s safe to say I’ve satisfied the urge.

M-O-M

Yesterday at a trip to the garden center, I spied something that immediately brought me back about ten years, when Mickey was just four years old.

Mickey and I were shopping. Just like always, I got to push the cart and she got to add things to it. In the same way, she usually got to take the things home and I got to pay for them. (Unless the things I bought were groceries, then I also got to cook with them, do the dishes, plus clean up the kitchen after them.)

Sorry, I got sidetracked.

Back to ten years ago, when we were shopping. This time it was for flowers for our garden. We chose yellow marigolds and put them in our cart. (They don’t smell so pretty, but they are very hardy and look pretty from a distance.) We added pink and purple petunias, which of course were Mickey’s favorite colors. Finally, I spotted a beautiful red geranium – my favorite.

Our cart was full.

At this point, I had to take over steering the cart through the maze of aisles, past the sprinklers and over the garden hoses. Nearing the checkout, Mickey stopped, grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. “Oh, Mom, look at this!” she exclaimed. “I want to get you these for Mother’s Day!” (I forgot to mention that at this point in the school year, her four-year-old reading vocabulary included recognizing the important words - Mom and Dad.)

Mickey saw a beautiful flower arrangement, with purple, pink and white carnations arranged in perfect formation, spelling out her favorite word, M-O-M.

I gasped.

What she didn’t know was that it was a memorial arrangement, one made to put in the ground in front of a headstone.

In a cemetery.

I smiled at Mickey, trying not to laugh. “They really are beautiful,” I told her. Hugging her, I added, “you can get me one like that when I’m older … (hopefully a lot older, I thought).”

So Mickey went home with her M-O-M and we planted our flowers. Yellow marigolds, pink and purple petunias, and one red geranium. And they were beautiful.

Faded White Letters

As we came closer to the homestead in Little Tamarack Valley, a red barn came into view. The faded white letters K.K.J . stood out against the red barn boards. I knew that these were the initials of my great grandfather, Knut K. Jordet.

In 1865, after coming from Norway to America, Knut Jordet and his wife Olia left southeastern Wisconsin and settled on eighty acres of fertile land in west central Wisconsin, in Little Tamarack Valley. On this homestead, my great grandfather Knut K. Jordet was born.

In the front of the house, perched up on the gable of the porch roof, friends and family were greeted with this carving, made by a local woodworker.



Translation:
Knut K. Jordet settled here in the year 1865.
Stands here my house in peace for every envious eye, and to the ground that lets itself be plowed.
Here I eat my bread, Here fear I my God. Blessed is whoever here goes in and out.
Modena 4 December 1896

The year was 1895. Knut K. Jordet and his wife, Gunhild Bjorgo were young newlyweds. They raised seven children here, one of whom was my grandmother Olia, the oldest Jordet daughter. My great-grandfather lived his whole life in Little Tamarack Valley. He worshiped the Lord at Lyster Lutheran Church, just a few miles over the bluff, and in fact, was the first child to be baptized there. He walked this land in Little Tamarack Valley, plowed the soil, and raised his family here. He died on the farm in 1954.



Knut K. and Gunhild Jordet

As we rounded the curve in the patched blacktop road, I couldn’t help but think about my great-grandfather. I wondered if he drove his horses over this road in the cold Wisconsin winter, the sleigh packed with his family as they headed to Sunday worship at Lyster. I wondered what he was like. I wondered what it would have been like to meet him.

Although the buildings at the homestead are still there, visible to anyone passing through, by far the most meaningful to those of us who remain are the faded white letters.

K.K.J.

To most they are just letters. But to me, these letters fill my heart with love for a great-grandfather I never even knew. A man who walked this land. A man who raised a family here. And a man who helps me define my place in this world and who makes me a part of who I am today.


Note: Thank you to my Aunt E. for recording the Jordet family history back in 1978 – where the historical information in this writing comes from.

Food For Thought

My mom was usually in the kitchen when I got off the school bus, sometimes surprising me with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of fresh, cold milk. Sounds cliché, but really, it’s true.

Other days my sister, brother and I raced into the house, threw our coats haphazardly down on the floor, and high-tailed it to the kitchen. Once there, we flung open the pantry door and fought for the box of Rice Krispies on the top shelf. Mom was at the oven, tending to the dinner. The scrumptious smell of roast beef poured out of the oven door, permeating our taste buds.

In either scenario – Mom was there. And my life was comfortable and secure.

Today my daughter beats me home. I surprise her with a phone call, asking her if we need anything from the store on the way home. She usually says, “Milk”.

I arrive a little later. By then Mickey is doing her homework. Or chatting on the computer. I sort the day’s mail – tossing the junk, keeping the rest. Mickey and I have a short chat about today’s events. We go about our business – homework and the ever-present, burning (no pun intended) question of what to make for dinner.

Quite a different scenario, isn’t it?

Thirty-five years ago my mom being there for me when I got home from school was comforting. It made me feel safe and secure.

Our world has changed.

How can I give Mickey that same sense of comfort and security? Or better yet …

What exactly is the comfort and security – the chocolate chip cookies or the fact that we know what to expect when we walk in the kitchen door?

Think about it. Food for thought, if you will.

Our Comfort Zone (Or Discomfort Zone)

My almost five-year-old granddaughter walks in the door with her footed jammies stuffed into her snow boots. With a tremendous tug we finally get the boots off. She runs to the living room to play. What could be better than spending all day Saturday wearing your jammies?

Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to play outside in the snow later on this afternoon. Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to run errands with me.

She’s my jammie girl. And she would go to school every day in her pajamas – if her mother let her. And I can understand how she feels tucked in her snuggly fleece. It’s kind of like having your blankie wrapped around you all day long.

We’ve all had days in our comfort zone, right?

My almost forty-five year old sister gets dressed for a trip to town – bra and all. (She works at home- and I swear, wears her jammies all day long too.) Her car whizzes down the street and out onto the highway. A couple miles farther and she begins to squirm back and forth – trying to adjust the position of her bra. It doesn’t feel quite right – probably because she hasn’t worn one all week.

She wiggles some more but by now the bra has become alive and starts sucking the air out of her lungs. In desperation to get her breath, she pulls her car over into the parking lot of a vacant school building. Driving behind the building she quickly slams the car into park, sending the loose gravel flying.

My sister swiftly rips her bra off and fires it into the back seat, as her fifteen year old daughter’s eyes nearly pop out of her head in disbelief. In the wink of an eye and the squeal of a tire, the car is back on the road, headed toward town.

As they pull into the parking lot at the mall, her daughter nonchalantly remarks, “You should probably take that bra out of the back window, Mom.”

We’ve all had days when we were in our discomfort zone, right?

No Milk

We finally arrived in Milwaukee at about 7:00 on Friday night, after a long, leg cramping, shoulder tensing, four hour drive in 75 mph traffic. It felt so good to get out of the car and stretch. And carry in our bags. And quickly greet Jonathan, who we hadn’t seen since Christmas.

Of course, he was waiting to go and eat dinner with us …

You see, I had emailed him that morning. “Are you going to have dinner ready for us when we get there tonight or should we stop on the way and grab something to eat?” I asked.

“We don’t have any milk in the house,” he replied. “Maybe we could go out for dinner – a family dinner?”

Family dinner in my family usually means one thing.

Mom and Dad’s treat.

Whether it be my mom and dad taking us out.

Or me and my husband taking our kids out.

It’s just the natural order of things in this family.

Anyway, I don’t really know what not having milk had to do with any of it but our plans were made – and we enjoyed our dinner. And our conversation.

Waking up to a winter snowstorm on Saturday morning put a slight damper on the remainder of our weekend plans. After I looked out the window and saw at least six inches of snow on the car, I decided I didn’t even want to go outside. We cancelled our trip to the big mall, and settled instead on visiting the smaller mall close to Jonathan’s house, so Mickey could check out what it was like to shop in Milwaukee.

I bought vacuum cleaner bags.

And soap.

Because I felt the urge to take care of a few things.

Like vacuuming.

And just a little cleaning.

You see, my Grandma Vera could often be seen with dish rag in hand. I can still hear my mom saying, “Mom, please put that rag down and visit for a while. You don’t need to wipe that off right now.”

But Grandma was happiest with dish rag in hand.

And I was too – this weekend at Jonathan’s. I vacuumed the carpets and then cleaned both bathrooms. I washed the dishes and wiped off the countertops and stove. I swept the floors and shook and washed the bathroom rugs.

I was happiest with dish rag in hand.

Just like my Grandma.

… Oh, and I did buy him some milk.

bap⋅tism [bap-tiz-uh-m] –noun

 

1. a ceremonial immersion in water…

I opened the kitchen door, just back from visiting Mom. Right away I spotted the little snow boots on the rug. Peeking around the corner I saw Kaitlyn, perched on a kitchen chair in front of the sink.

“Hi sweetie! What are you doing at Grandma’s house today?”

Kaitlyn’s face breaks out in a big smile, “I’m washing dishes!”

Grandpa is at the counter, getting ready to put fish sticks in the oven. He smiles at me and says, “Kaitlyn and Chrissy came over today to go sliding, but weren’t ready to leave yet, so they are staying for an hour or so."

I’m thinking – what a bonus – I get to hug my sweeties plus I get my dishes done – all at the same time!

Kaitlyn has dishcloth in hand, washing up a storm. The sink is filled with a couple inches of warm, soapy water and she meticulously scrubs the plates, forks, spoons and cups. I cringe as she picks up a glass – I can just imagine her breaking the glass and cutting her finger. Seeing the distress in my eyes, Grandpa quickly comes to the rescue, trading the glass for a plastic cup.

“Grandpa, this chair is getting really wet,” she remarks, and he gets a towel for her to stand on. “My pants are getting really wet too, Grandpa.”

I look at Grandpa and we both smile, as we continue sopping up water from the chair, floor, and surrounding kitchen countertop.

Chrissy is rinsing and then drying the dishes. A six year old with much more dexterity than her four year old counterpart still complains that Kaitlyn is washing too fast – she can’t keep up rinsing and drying. I notice the cold rinse water and think, while it may not be the recommended method, it is certainly not going to hurt us just this once.

“You’re doing a good job, Chrissy! You must help Mom at home all the time with dishes,” I tell her.

In a whiny, but still forceful voice my strong-willed granddaughter replies, “MY MOM NEVER LETS ME DO DISHES!!!”

(In defense of my daughter-in-law, I can assure you that there is another side to her story…)

Grandpa inspects the dishes as he puts them away, returning a couple bowls to Kaitlyn for a second wash. As quickly as our girls came, they were gone - Mom and Dad returned to pick them up – and the dishes were done and put away.

By now, moonlight is peeking through the window. As I get ready to turn the lights out in the kitchen and head to bed, I notice a glistening spot on the end of the kitchen countertop – under the box of Kleenex.

A puddle of water.

I smile to myself as I get yet another towel and wipe up the water. It appears that my new kitchen got quite a baptism tonight.

What a fitting end to a splendid Sunday.

I'm a VP

VP. More than two letters in the alphabet. They stand for Volunteer Partner and I just finished my training today to become one.

A program which is now being implemented by the Brain Injury Association of Wisconsin (BIAW) is called Supportive Partner-to-Partner Network (SPPN). Its purpose is to provide support to families whose loved one has sustained a brain injury.

We are very fortunate living here where we do, to have access to some great brain injury support groups in our area. I learned today that many areas in Wisconsin (where the population is quite sparse) are not as fortunate. This makes the SPPN Program all the more important.

My role as a Volunteer Partner is to listen, encourage and empower family members to make their own decisions regarding their loved ones. I will work with my Supportive Partner via telephone, with a mutually scheduled time for our conversations.

I learned a lot at my training today – including some interesting facts and figures.

-Did you know that brain injury is the leading cause of death and disability in children and young adults and the leading cause of death until age 44?

-Did you know that 3 million Americans suffer disability from stroke – but 5.3 million Americans suffer disability from traumatic brain injury?

-Did you know that more Americans died as a result of traumatic brain injury between 1981 and 1993 than have been killed in all the wars in our history combined?

-Did you know that a mild brain injury is also known as a concussion? That’s right – even if you don’t lose consciousness you could have sustained a mild brain injury. The symptoms might not appear until much later.

-Did you know that many survivors continue to recover for years? Yes, years – 5, 10 or even 25 years.

Now try this-

Slightly lift your right foot off the floor.

Begin circling that foot clockwise, then at the same time …

Pick up a pen and write your name in cursive.

I don’t know about you, but my foot started circling counter-clockwise when I tried to write my name, and my name did not turn out quite right. This is an example of how difficult it may be for a person with a brain injury to use their motor skills.

Educating the public about brain injury is important. And helping out families whose loved ones have survived a brain injury is critical. I feel lucky to be able to be a part of this very important network and look forward to putting my training to use.

VP. More than just two letters of the alphabet.


Note: All facts and figures quoted are from the BIAW website and SSPN Program Training Manual.

The Icing on the Cake

At age 34, I asked my doctor, “Do you think it’s too late to have a baby?”

She said no.

This one little word had just validated and sealed the thoughts inside my head – the longing all mothers have from time to time – the desire to hold a newborn baby in their arms, to share their love with another , the desire to extend their own mortality through another.

A year later, Mickey was born. Not an afterthought, certainly not an accident or surprise – but a blessing from heaven – and with a set of parents who were armed and hopefully ready for the second round of parenthood, this time with the added benefit of experience.



Mickey graces our life with her bubbly personality, keeping us ever-entertained with her wit and humor. The charm she possesses works well for her, whether she is twisting her mother’s arm to go to the mall, or gracefully coaxing her father into giving her money from his wallet (except she would do the coaxing first, then the twisting).

And she keeps us young.

Or perhaps, she just doesn’t let us feel as old as we sometimes feel.

At a time in my life when parents our age are seeing their children graduate from college and move on to start their lives, our daughter is just beginning to plan her future – thinking about careers, where she would like to live and what her hopes and dreams are. I pray that her future is bright and her aspirations in life are achieved.

Mickey is truly our icing on the cake and we wouldn’t have life any other way.



Plus, she did say that when she is living “some place where it’s warm” six years from now she would still come and visit us at Christmas.

I said, “I'm glad, but could we see you more than once a year?”

She pauses to think and then says, “Sure, you can jet out anytime you want.”

Our daughter. A blessing in our lives, her personality molded and shaped by those who love her. Here with us to live, learn and grow, preparing to fly away just like a balloon drifts off into the sky, not knowing quite where it will land – but enjoying the ride.

That’s Mickey. The icing on the cake.

Happy birthday, sweet daughter.

The Halo?

Someone in this picture is donning a halo (well, a star, I guess). I'd like to think of him as being very angelic.

But I don't know...

What do you think?

The '90s

I unpacked my laptop from its bag and put it on the kitchen table. My mom was intrigued, watching me plug it in, start it up, pop in the DVD I’d burned and navigate through the screens to my pictures.

We sat together at the kitchen table for at least a half an hour, commenting on all the pictures from the past year – from Mickey, Kaitlyn and Chrissy’s birthday parties, to the snowstorm on April 28th, to our grandkids in the pumpkin patch, and of course, most recently - Christmas Eve at my Mom’s.

After I ejected the DVD from my computer, I showed it to Mom. Explaining to her that the pictures we just looked at were all contained on this thin sliver of a disc, she just shook her head in disbelief.

The computer back in its bag, Mickey immediately went on to further wow her grandmother with technology – probably more than she needed in one Sunday afternoon. Mickey took one of her IPod ear buds out and placed it in Grandma’s ear. For a minute, they rocked together in their chairs, back and forth to the music.

For a minute, my mom didn’t look quite so old. For a minute, she didn’t look like she didn’t understand what was going on. Mom enjoyed sharing this piece of technology with Mickey. And I enjoyed watching them rock together in their chairs.

All of a sudden Mom pulled her ear bud out, turned to Mickey and asked … don’t you have any “old” music?

To which Mickey replied … “I have some from the ‘90s … “

Yes, the ‘90s.

Before DVDs. Before IPods. Before Mickey.