What a busy weekend! How many times have you said, "Remember when we..." or do you recall that time when ....? In the book for the Women Who Read Club's July meeting, the author provided just the right turn of phrase to describe that experience. In his book, Let the Great World Spin, Colum McCann reflected on a shared family experience from his childhood, "I can still after all these years sit in the museum of those afternoons." The phrase rang true as the sights, sounds, people and discussions of the weekend created a kaleidoscope of images. Each represented a small part of the the memories of this new journey.
Artifact 1 - How easy it is to fret over things. After weeks of looking and plotting, considering ideas and rejecting them as impractical, too expensive, or just not right, reality said my furniture shopping would be at IKEA. The new decor would be bright or white or subdued. The sofa would be green or white or tan or plaid. It would be a love seat or a sectional or include a chaise. The style would be country, cottage, traditional, transitional or eclectic. With the IKEA run planned for Saturday, I awoke at 6:00 AM, not at all sure what I was going to choose, but convinced that something had to happen. After all, the rebate on sofas ended that day.
Artifact 2 - Driving down the road with Beth and Katie, I managed the 35-40 minute trip without incident. At one point I counted the lanes, seven in each direction, but people were sharing nicely. After meatballs, the quest began. The green would be too hard to match, the white too stark. The off-white looked dirty: the dark colors were not in consideration. The caramel color appeared to be the default choice until we saw a new cover, one that looked and felt more like sofa upholstery. The neutral tones would serve as a great base for seasonal pillows and not fight with any other colors I might choose. Beth lobbied successfully for the chaise sofa, arguing that while it took a significant amount of wall space, that would in essence be my recliner. We added a chair with a pattern consistent with a sort of cottage/transitional theme, and we were off to entertainment centers.
Artifact 3 - The deliberations on the style of the entertainment center brought us to the definite choice before we arrived at the showroom. My early morning ruminations prodded me to consider whether I really wanted in the white color which was the original plan. "Too much white with the table and chairs also being white," I thought. Standing by the display, Beth cleared her throat and said, "Um, I was just thinking, I mean it's just an idea, but have you thought that maybe the white would be too much? The black with a black TV would just look classier." I smiled and said that I had pretty much decided I liked the dark better myself. Ah, great minds.
Artifact 4 - The dining table and chairs presented no problem; simply walk up and ask the person to include those on the list of items for the Pick and Deliver. Only two tables remained in the warehouse, so she entered it and we charged downstairs for a quick check out to insure we got one of those two tables. Rushing through IKEA on a Saturday afternoon was something of an oxymoron. The lines at the registers reminded me of a Disney cue. Of course, we got into the line with people who were having problems, and we were no exception. Apparently the new computer system confused our kind helpers at each stop, and some items were "pick and deliver", some were "cash and carry', and others were "you pick and we deliver". 25 minutes later, everything except the dining room chairs, which did not find their way onto any list, was together on the correct list, and I purchased all of it in 30 seconds. Getting the rebate gift card and arranging for the Sunday delivery proved easy by Saturday and IKEA standards. Beth and Katie found the chairs and I used my rebates toward the price, and we were on our way. the last task of the day loomed ahead - creating space for it all.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Sweet Trilling
Tomorrow I hope to announce that all cardboard save boxes of stamps to be transferred to Beth's house and books boxes are gone. The end of organizing the Master Bedroom and closet is near. The time for pictures and finishing touches approaches.
Georgia heat arrived in full measure, but the couple of hours spent at the theater seeing Brave with my family provided a nice respite. The movie was cute and a bit intense with some of the bear fights. The typical Disney princess defies her parent(s) and finds her true love. This movie marks a slightly different twist, but I won't be a spoiler.
As I mentioned yesterday, the accompaniment to breakfast al fresco comes from singing birds in the nearby trees. Today, warbling sounded from my guest room closet and birds did not get in there. Having gotten all closet boxes except those containing books emptied, a number of items lay scattered about the closet. After the movie and a trip to "my" gigantic Home Goods store, Beth and Katie came over for lemonade and cookies. Ever the house explorer, Katie prowled in the closet and found my old recorder. She sneaked off into my bedroom and we could here some squeal and squeaks. Katie walked back in, headed toward the closet, and in typical perfectionist fashion said, "I can't do this," and headed to put it away in the closet.
Because both she and her sister have a tendency to think they should just be able to pick up something and do it, both her mom and I jumped on the learning and practice bandwagon and gave the speech in chorus. "You can't do everything perfectly or even a little bit without instruction and practice. Even the great musicians practiced and took lessons..." As might be expected with such a trite commentary, Katie continued to head for the closet to put the recorder away. And then I said, "Wait, I'll give you your first lesson." as if I could teach someone the recorder. But, pulling my foot out of my mouth, I put the recorder in and showed her the fingering and the blowing technique for a pleasant sound.
Off Katie went to my bedroom again, coming back in about five minutes with some good sounds and some muffled ones since her fingers were not tight enough on the holes. Clearly she felt good about making a sound, but needed to work on quality. At that point, she went into the guest room closet and began to practice some more. Soon she was making bird trills and warbles and clearly enjoying her capabilities. She asked to take it home, but her mom and I agreed that was an activity for Mimi's house. Katie obediently put it away and said, "Next time I come back, you can give me another lesson." JOY!!
And now I have to practice so I can give her another lesson.
Georgia heat arrived in full measure, but the couple of hours spent at the theater seeing Brave with my family provided a nice respite. The movie was cute and a bit intense with some of the bear fights. The typical Disney princess defies her parent(s) and finds her true love. This movie marks a slightly different twist, but I won't be a spoiler.
As I mentioned yesterday, the accompaniment to breakfast al fresco comes from singing birds in the nearby trees. Today, warbling sounded from my guest room closet and birds did not get in there. Having gotten all closet boxes except those containing books emptied, a number of items lay scattered about the closet. After the movie and a trip to "my" gigantic Home Goods store, Beth and Katie came over for lemonade and cookies. Ever the house explorer, Katie prowled in the closet and found my old recorder. She sneaked off into my bedroom and we could here some squeal and squeaks. Katie walked back in, headed toward the closet, and in typical perfectionist fashion said, "I can't do this," and headed to put it away in the closet.
Because both she and her sister have a tendency to think they should just be able to pick up something and do it, both her mom and I jumped on the learning and practice bandwagon and gave the speech in chorus. "You can't do everything perfectly or even a little bit without instruction and practice. Even the great musicians practiced and took lessons..." As might be expected with such a trite commentary, Katie continued to head for the closet to put the recorder away. And then I said, "Wait, I'll give you your first lesson." as if I could teach someone the recorder. But, pulling my foot out of my mouth, I put the recorder in and showed her the fingering and the blowing technique for a pleasant sound.
Off Katie went to my bedroom again, coming back in about five minutes with some good sounds and some muffled ones since her fingers were not tight enough on the holes. Clearly she felt good about making a sound, but needed to work on quality. At that point, she went into the guest room closet and began to practice some more. Soon she was making bird trills and warbles and clearly enjoying her capabilities. She asked to take it home, but her mom and I agreed that was an activity for Mimi's house. Katie obediently put it away and said, "Next time I come back, you can give me another lesson." JOY!!
And now I have to practice so I can give her another lesson.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Breakfast with the Birds
Yesterday was a nothing day, more mess made than cleaned, no direct human contact unless you count the 888 call I missed that didn't leave a message. Days like this are inevitable for all of us, but perhaps more so when separation from old friends occurs before new friends are made. Not a bad day; not a good day: a nothing day. The worst thing about it was preparing my breakfast this morning and contemplating making an interesting blog post.
The weather was one likely candidate. Yours has turned lovely and mine is helping Georgia live up to its reputation. That's the end of that discussion.
But as I sat down on the porch to eat my breakfast and enjoy a cup of coffee before the day heated up too much, my raucous bird friend perched atop the tree outside and began his single note, raspy throated call, over and over again, dragging my attention away from my book. Soon he was joined by several other birds of different types. Having no bird books to reference, their species remain unknown. One's coloring reminded me of a robin, but smaller and with subdued coloring . Another small mottled-brown bird with a long skinny beak sat nearby furtively watching the others. Soon a redheaded, tan bodied bird landed on a top branch. One, then two, then three birds landed next to him and lined up on the branch which bent under their combined weight. Momentarily, similar birds with paler heads landed on a nearby branch facing the first group. Their conversation of chirps and twitters back and forth across the branches drove the other birds out of the tree. The chatter continued for several moments, fascinating me, then they rose virtually as one. Seven or eight birds flew on perhaps with the conference completed or perhaps to delight another human observer down the way.
Those sweet birds brought joy to my day and reminded me, there really is no such thing as a nothing day, you just have to look for, or be given perspective.
The weather was one likely candidate. Yours has turned lovely and mine is helping Georgia live up to its reputation. That's the end of that discussion.
But as I sat down on the porch to eat my breakfast and enjoy a cup of coffee before the day heated up too much, my raucous bird friend perched atop the tree outside and began his single note, raspy throated call, over and over again, dragging my attention away from my book. Soon he was joined by several other birds of different types. Having no bird books to reference, their species remain unknown. One's coloring reminded me of a robin, but smaller and with subdued coloring . Another small mottled-brown bird with a long skinny beak sat nearby furtively watching the others. Soon a redheaded, tan bodied bird landed on a top branch. One, then two, then three birds landed next to him and lined up on the branch which bent under their combined weight. Momentarily, similar birds with paler heads landed on a nearby branch facing the first group. Their conversation of chirps and twitters back and forth across the branches drove the other birds out of the tree. The chatter continued for several moments, fascinating me, then they rose virtually as one. Seven or eight birds flew on perhaps with the conference completed or perhaps to delight another human observer down the way.
Those sweet birds brought joy to my day and reminded me, there really is no such thing as a nothing day, you just have to look for, or be given perspective.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Bible, Butter, Boxes and Bins
Oh, no, I have lost it. Two posts named Bible and Butter popped up and I deleted one. It was the finished one. Now I must recreate and that is not a good thing. Somehow the words at the end of the day don't seem quite as fresh as those at the beginning. Perhaps I will just combine yesterday and today, and move on. Flexibility.
Random describes my nature as well as these days. Random people have trouble with lists. The to-do list often looks untouched at the end of the day. Some folks labeled as random have come up with a solution, writing the list as they go or leaving blank spaces to fill in actual tasks accomplished. Neither applied today, and the only list was in my head. Writing the blog post occupied the first spot after the morning routine was completed. Since Tuesday included Bible study and I have been waiting to tell you about French Butter Presses and Butter Bells, they became the rather random co-topics.
To keep the mind and spirit engaged, two Bible studies occupy the agenda for the summer. Doing The Frazzled Female study from afar with my Shalom friends provides regular contact and insures that I hold them up in prayer even as they keep remembering me. By joining with women from the new church I am attending for an in-depth study of Psalm 119, I have the opportunity to meet and discuss scripture in person. Getting to know a few people doesn't hurt either. The Shalom group begins working on their study this week, so I am ahead. The Gwinnet Community Church (GCC) study, Sweeter than Chocolate began last night with 30 women gathered. Both promise to be enjoyable and valuable
SQUIRREL
Believe it or not, butter can sit on counter in the summer and not turn into mound of soft yellow mush in a pool of golden liquid. An alternative to spreading rock hard refrigerated butter exists. Known variously by the classy name, the French Butter Press, or by its southern moniker, a Butter Bell, this ingenious little two piece pottery gizmo works! My introduction to the Butter Bell came when Beth received one from Bill as a gift. He demonstrated packing softened butter tightly into the bell, adding about a half inch of water to the bowl, and inverting the bell in the bowl. Beth lifted it out; the butter was in the bell, not the bowl. I tried it after it had been on the counter all night. The butter was in the bell. But, that was winter. Considering purchasing one when the move to Georgia was complete did start me looking, but that would be something to complete after arriving, not something to haul down.
However, on a trip to the Clay Coyote Pottery Shop near Hutch to purchase a mug for Bill, there on the shelf was a French Butter Press. Examination of the piece and the literature indicated the two items served the same purpose. The idea that I would arrive with a unique, beautifully turned, glazed and fired butter keeper began to take shape. When two friends blessed me with some money to help with moving, I hurried right out to the Clay Coyote and purchased the item you see below. It won approval even from Bill, the connoisseur of Butter Bells.
More boxes and bins got emptied today, and the plans for where to put it all developed problems. More items found their way to the Goodwill bin. A second bin will have to get started tomorrow. Too much stuff - redundant stuff. Why in the land of chapped lips could I never find a Chapstick? A drawer in the bathroom now holds a modest collection of 15 or so. Why was there never a pencil or pen when I had to write something? A storage drawer now overflows with pencils, pens, markers, highlighters, and colored pencils. Really? How many plastic folder label holders does one person need; how many post-it note packs; how many writing pads; how many file folders; how many colored dots? Yes, today marked actually unpacking the boxes from the desk, the kitchen, the basement, my desk, and wherever else these products were stored.
Random describes my nature as well as these days. Random people have trouble with lists. The to-do list often looks untouched at the end of the day. Some folks labeled as random have come up with a solution, writing the list as they go or leaving blank spaces to fill in actual tasks accomplished. Neither applied today, and the only list was in my head. Writing the blog post occupied the first spot after the morning routine was completed. Since Tuesday included Bible study and I have been waiting to tell you about French Butter Presses and Butter Bells, they became the rather random co-topics.
To keep the mind and spirit engaged, two Bible studies occupy the agenda for the summer. Doing The Frazzled Female study from afar with my Shalom friends provides regular contact and insures that I hold them up in prayer even as they keep remembering me. By joining with women from the new church I am attending for an in-depth study of Psalm 119, I have the opportunity to meet and discuss scripture in person. Getting to know a few people doesn't hurt either. The Shalom group begins working on their study this week, so I am ahead. The Gwinnet Community Church (GCC) study, Sweeter than Chocolate began last night with 30 women gathered. Both promise to be enjoyable and valuable
SQUIRREL
Believe it or not, butter can sit on counter in the summer and not turn into mound of soft yellow mush in a pool of golden liquid. An alternative to spreading rock hard refrigerated butter exists. Known variously by the classy name, the French Butter Press, or by its southern moniker, a Butter Bell, this ingenious little two piece pottery gizmo works! My introduction to the Butter Bell came when Beth received one from Bill as a gift. He demonstrated packing softened butter tightly into the bell, adding about a half inch of water to the bowl, and inverting the bell in the bowl. Beth lifted it out; the butter was in the bell, not the bowl. I tried it after it had been on the counter all night. The butter was in the bell. But, that was winter. Considering purchasing one when the move to Georgia was complete did start me looking, but that would be something to complete after arriving, not something to haul down.
However, on a trip to the Clay Coyote Pottery Shop near Hutch to purchase a mug for Bill, there on the shelf was a French Butter Press. Examination of the piece and the literature indicated the two items served the same purpose. The idea that I would arrive with a unique, beautifully turned, glazed and fired butter keeper began to take shape. When two friends blessed me with some money to help with moving, I hurried right out to the Clay Coyote and purchased the item you see below. It won approval even from Bill, the connoisseur of Butter Bells.
 |
| The French Butter Press as it sits. |
 |
| Soft, spreadable full stick of butter. |
I've lost count of the boxes hauled to the compactor and the number of empty bins will soon match the number of full bins including the Christmas collection. The apartment did not get done by my birthday, so we'll hold out for the Fourth of July.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Al Fresco
By all accounts the June weather in Georgia this year does not represent the norm. Last year, by June 16 the thermometer topped 90 degrees 15 times; this year it hasn't hit that mark yet. Recognizing that the cool trend is about to end encouraged me to enjoy the benefits of my patio before reality strikes at the end of the week. Diminutive describes the space well, but with a 30 inch round table and two chairs, the patio serves me well. With the real herbs and flowers on the railing and the beautiful faux geranium arrangement on the table, the ambiance is pleasant. The blue sky with lovely puffy summer clouds and the green trees provide a lovely view while dining; that is if your nose comes out of the magazine long enough to notice. The birds sing and screech constantly. The setting provided a relaxed space for both lunch and breakfast.
Beth called and asked if she and Bill could come over and finish up the cabinet. Of course, I said yes, but not until after I teased about being too busy for them to come. The thought of getting that cabinet done provided the impetus to suggest that they feed the children and then join me at Five Guys, just around the corner from the apartment before they set to the task. The children got leftover pizza and we ate the best hamburgers and fries around, a small enough payment for the construction work. At Beth's request we ate outside, so three times Al Fresco. As it turned out Bill worked on computer issues and Beth and I finished the cabinet. OK, honestly Beth did most of it, but I was the one who could get the drawers in.
Now the task is to get a top for the cabinet and move ahead with unpacking.
Beth called and asked if she and Bill could come over and finish up the cabinet. Of course, I said yes, but not until after I teased about being too busy for them to come. The thought of getting that cabinet done provided the impetus to suggest that they feed the children and then join me at Five Guys, just around the corner from the apartment before they set to the task. The children got leftover pizza and we ate the best hamburgers and fries around, a small enough payment for the construction work. At Beth's request we ate outside, so three times Al Fresco. As it turned out Bill worked on computer issues and Beth and I finished the cabinet. OK, honestly Beth did most of it, but I was the one who could get the drawers in.
Now the task is to get a top for the cabinet and move ahead with unpacking.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Birthday Blessings & a Bonus
Birthday celebrations differ among various cultural and family traditions. Some do not acknowledge the day at all, while for others each birthday is a reason for a huge celebration, and some special birthdays become rites of passage with either hilarity or solemnity or both. My family didn't go to either extreme, but birthdays called for significant celebration. It was your day, one deserving of some kind of special treatment, a dinner, and a cake of the celebrant's choice, maybe a few presents and cards from many of the aunts and uncles - sometimes even a party.
The excitement of yesterday's birthday was finally being able to celebrate with my family. My dinner choice was Maple Glazed Salmon and a carrot cake, and the set time was 5:30. What a lovely evening to look forward to. No but's should be attached to that statement, but... in the back of my mind was the thought that it would be a long time before the actual celebration. Thoughts like that come unbidden on your first birthday in a new place, going to a church where no one knows it's your birthday, and no particular plans for the day that made it different.
The unintentional treat for the day was sleeping in a bit, so I didn't miss the breakfast in bed that wasn't there. Multiple Facebook wishes pushed me out the door with a smile on my face as I headed for church. Every so often June 17 falls on Father's Day, so the day is shared. Church and Sunday School focused, as they should, on dads and families. My empty stomach grumbled rather loudly and my mind wandered to waffles. My brunch for the day needed to be waffles. Where could I get waffles? This is IHOP country, and I know I have passed the blue roofed restaurants on one of those roads by now well traveled. I set out from church, with the goal of finding one. Twisting and turning and crossing over myself, I eventually ended up in downtown Lawrenceville, which is my touchstone. I know how to get home from there. Reluctant to give up, but beginning to be low on gas, I headed to the Kroger near home where I can get cheaper gas. As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed a large yellow Waffle House sign a block off to my left.
Waffle House is not IHOP, but by now the word waffle was all I needed to see. Since I was by myself, I could ignore Beth's disdain for Waffle House, so I proceeded to drive over and walk in to a loud, crowded Waffle House bustling with activity and screamed orders. Beth's complaints about the place rattled in my head and sounded in my ears, but hunger won, and I stayed to wait for a place to sit. The sweet waitress offered me one of the two empty chairs at the high counter, but I deferred to a couple who had just walked in. Then she suggested joining another single lady diner. Memories of my mom and I being joined at a Rochester restaurant many years ago popped into my mind*, so I said, "Check with her and see if she is willing." She was, so I joined Amanda for brunch.
We conversed about circumstances that brought us alone to Waffle House. For me it was the self-indulgent birthday treat, for her it was a self indulgent treat before she went to visit her husband in the Pulmonary Critical Care unit at the hospital. She cried a little and talked about him and about her work and family. We chatted about the weather, apartments, and moves. As Amanda left and we agreed brunch was more pleasant than we had anticipated, she stopped to pick up a coffee for her husband and came back to the table to doctor it up to his liking. Amanda left then, but did a quick turn around and said,"Don't let her take any money from you for your breakfast, because I paid for it. Happy Birthday." God's blessings take many shapes and forms.
The official celebration was delightful. Good food, a wonderful cake, and being with family represented all I needed. Having a couple of Georgia friends of Beth's and mine stop by for the cake was the frosting. Speaking of frosting, Beth's homemade carrot cake with cream cheese frosting decorated as a daisy, was out of this world good.
God blessed me with a most enjoyable birthday.
*Bonus Story:
Rochester, being a medical town, boasts numerous restaurants within walking distance of The Mayo and has for years. One day when I was a teen, my mom and I decided to go to one of those restaurants. This was before the days of Applebee's and all the sit down restaurant chains, so we headed to one of the downtown places with a reputation for good food and reasonable prices for our outing. The place was hopping.
When we were seated the hostess leaned over and asked Mom whether we would be willing to have a single diner join us. My sweet mother said she would be fine if a lady joined us, and I rolled my eyes, subtly, of course. Within moments, a lady joined us. Her husband was in the hospital and she needed to grab lunch. To break the ice, my mom said, "My name is Elsie and this is my daughter, Carol."
The lady brightened, and exclaimed, "My name is Elsie, too! Isn't that an interesting coincidence?"
Smiling and nodding with a twinkle in her eye, Mom declared, "That is interesting, but I'll bet you don't have the same middle name. I don't know what my mother was thinking when she tagged her own name with Elsie for my middle name. I loved my mother, but I do not like my middle name."
Elsie replied, "Frankly, I am not particularly fond of my middle name either. You don't suppose..." Both pondered whether they would actually share their hateful middle names, and finally, one of them said, "Sophie" and both of them, with incredulous countenances, started to laugh. Shaking my head I joined in the joke.
The Elsie Sophies stayed in touch until our new friend died.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
For Father's Day - Daddy's Girl
I was a daddy's girl. My dad was 47 when I was born, and I was his second family. Just this year we have learned the details surrounding the deaths of his sons in WWII. Both were Army pilots; one was lost in a mechanical failure over the English Channel and the other due to a mechanical failure on a training mission in South Carolina. Statistics indicate that a huge number of WWII air deaths were not due to dog fights, strafing, or enemy ground fire; more crashes and deaths were caused by design, mechanical and engine problems.
The story of my dad's courtship of my mom waits for another blog story about romance and love on one side, and fondness and expediency on the other. However, they married and I was born about a year later. His comment upon my birth was, "Thank God she's a girl. She won't have to go to war."
Recently we found a letter my mom wrote to Beth, my daughter, about the Grandfather she never knew. Apparently, I was my dad's pride and joy from day one. Though I remember trips to the depot and roundhouse connected with the Chicago Great Western railroad as part of my earliest memories, I did not realize that the first trip occurred when I was only months old. No wonder that peculiar diesel and leather smell is such a powerful olfactory trigger.
My own memories are of counting train cars wherever we went and watching the direction of engines change on the huge turn-style. The coke machine at the freight depot dispensed nickel bottles of coke, so my treat while the guys talked shop was a bottle of coke, and I thought I was pretty special to get pop, because we didn't get it at home. My dad received permission for me to ride with him one day, an original take your daughter to work day. We traveled about 25 miles to a mine site, and I spent time in the engine and caboose, even climbing up to the cupola. In the engine, I got to pull the whistle for the crossings.
Fishing provided another special daddy-daughter time. I loved fishing with my dad, but coddling his little girl and baiting my hooks wasn't his style. I learned to squish the worm or spear the minnow on the hook. He usually took the fish off the hook, though. One particular time in Balsam Lake,Wisconsin, Dad met a farmer who invited him to fish for crappies on his private lake. We got up a daybreak and headed down the overgrown track leading to the lake. Dad helped me get set and reminded me about casting and fingering the reel before he donned his waders and moved out to deeper water.
Of course, I managed to mess up my reel royally. The fish were biting so Dad said to just use the other one and be more careful. Dad was so excited as almost every cast yielded a large crappie. Thrilled just to be with him and not paying close attention to my casting from the shallows, I managed to get a huge backlash in the second reel, so I called out to my dad, but he said it was time to learn how to fix my mistakes. Clambering out of the water, I sat down dejectedly and began to pull at the knotted fish line. Beyond the black cord, I noticed my legs, covered with little leaches and striped with bloody streams. What followed was a bloody scream. My dad was probably as mad at me that day as he ever got, because as much as I loved him and wanted to be with him as often as I could, when it came to blood I wanted my mommy.
The stories could go on, but on this Father's Day, I am so thankful for the memories I have of a dad who really loved me and spent time with me...a dad who encouraged my in my faith even before he came to his own ...a dad who died too soon at only 61. I missed him then and I miss him even yet. However, I know that from that loss was born a relationship with my mom that might well not have flourished as it did. The Lord works for good in all things..., and sometimes we get to see it.
The story of my dad's courtship of my mom waits for another blog story about romance and love on one side, and fondness and expediency on the other. However, they married and I was born about a year later. His comment upon my birth was, "Thank God she's a girl. She won't have to go to war."
Recently we found a letter my mom wrote to Beth, my daughter, about the Grandfather she never knew. Apparently, I was my dad's pride and joy from day one. Though I remember trips to the depot and roundhouse connected with the Chicago Great Western railroad as part of my earliest memories, I did not realize that the first trip occurred when I was only months old. No wonder that peculiar diesel and leather smell is such a powerful olfactory trigger.
My own memories are of counting train cars wherever we went and watching the direction of engines change on the huge turn-style. The coke machine at the freight depot dispensed nickel bottles of coke, so my treat while the guys talked shop was a bottle of coke, and I thought I was pretty special to get pop, because we didn't get it at home. My dad received permission for me to ride with him one day, an original take your daughter to work day. We traveled about 25 miles to a mine site, and I spent time in the engine and caboose, even climbing up to the cupola. In the engine, I got to pull the whistle for the crossings.
Fishing provided another special daddy-daughter time. I loved fishing with my dad, but coddling his little girl and baiting my hooks wasn't his style. I learned to squish the worm or spear the minnow on the hook. He usually took the fish off the hook, though. One particular time in Balsam Lake,Wisconsin, Dad met a farmer who invited him to fish for crappies on his private lake. We got up a daybreak and headed down the overgrown track leading to the lake. Dad helped me get set and reminded me about casting and fingering the reel before he donned his waders and moved out to deeper water.
Of course, I managed to mess up my reel royally. The fish were biting so Dad said to just use the other one and be more careful. Dad was so excited as almost every cast yielded a large crappie. Thrilled just to be with him and not paying close attention to my casting from the shallows, I managed to get a huge backlash in the second reel, so I called out to my dad, but he said it was time to learn how to fix my mistakes. Clambering out of the water, I sat down dejectedly and began to pull at the knotted fish line. Beyond the black cord, I noticed my legs, covered with little leaches and striped with bloody streams. What followed was a bloody scream. My dad was probably as mad at me that day as he ever got, because as much as I loved him and wanted to be with him as often as I could, when it came to blood I wanted my mommy.
The stories could go on, but on this Father's Day, I am so thankful for the memories I have of a dad who really loved me and spent time with me...a dad who encouraged my in my faith even before he came to his own ...a dad who died too soon at only 61. I missed him then and I miss him even yet. However, I know that from that loss was born a relationship with my mom that might well not have flourished as it did. The Lord works for good in all things..., and sometimes we get to see it.
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