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Those Nagging Ailments

11/1/2020

As I inexorably creep closer to the big 6-0, I notice little things about my physical well-being that test my patience. A blister from running hasn’t healed after eleven days. A canker sore travels around the mouth for over two weeks. I can’t touch my toes as easily as I used to (but I still can!). Neuropathy in the feet. A ripped meniscus in the knee, which makes for unstable stair climbing, rock climbing, hiking, and unstable lifting of heavy objects. My skin does weird things. I have to moisten my fingertips when opening those thin plastic bags in the produce section of the supermarket because those hands don’t have enough moisture anymore. My glorious locks of soft hair…now reduced to thin and coarser strands. Bruises appear without knowing (or remembering—help!!!) how I got them. At least the shrinking hasn’t started yet. Then, there’s the issue of recovery time from hard work around the house—or exercise.

About that last one…I was talking with a young man in his mid-20s from Louisiana, and as we were kidding around, I told him that I had said to my sons, “I can still do pretty much everything I could in my 20s athletic-wise…but for the recovery time!” The Louisianan replied with a laugh, “If my dad said that to me, I’d make so much noise.”

I finally went to the doctor early in the year for plugged up ears—before COVID—congestion that hadn’t cleared for two months. It made flying back and forth from the East and West Coast miserable enough, but even more so to Asia and back. That congestion worsened my already challenged hearing ability. Back to the doctor visit: All the physicians in the clinic were so young. Funny thing, they used to be old people when I was growing up. What happened?

If you’re worried about me ageing, don’t be, because in the end, we’re all headed for tougher times. I’m not especially excited about seeing what the 60s will bring on this front. But don’t fret, I don’t turn 60 this year or next. If I survive COVID and this 2020 US election, I’ll finally get to experience life in my sixties in 2022. In the meantime, stay safe, wear a mask, and stay six feet apart when you’re around other people. (For those of you who live in Indonesia/Java and other densely populated places of the Earth, just do the best you can, because that “six feet” of social distancing realistically shrinks to “six centimeters.”)

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Those Kids and Their Music

7/3/2020

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Most kids would rather be singing 50s karaoke songs before her Majesty the Queen of England than be the butt end of their parent’s humor blog. Not my son. Paul actually asked me, begged me, pleaded with me to write about him. He egged me on for days, teasing, taunting, daring me to write about this topic. Of course, I laughed along, playing it cool, waiting to spring it on him when he’d least expect it. And so, for better or worse, here we are today.

Paul likes metal music, heavy guitar-driven music—the kind of music that curdles blood and sends people racing for ear plugs. And he wonders why he has a hard time with his hearing. Oh wait, that’s me. Hmmm….

Convinced I detest this kind of music, he puts on a metal song whenever I’m riding in his car (not too loud, thankfully), fishing for a complaint. He waits for me to mock, insult, or demand that he play different music. So, naturally, I say nothing. My silence emboldens him, for he thinks it gives him license to vocalize what he imagines I’m thinking. However, he has no idea what’s going through my head, and what’s funny to me is that he’s so far off.

You see, what Paul doesn’t know is that when he’s not around, I secretly listen to metal music. I indulge when my wife isn’t around, when my mom or church friends aren’t around. In one secret file in my desk, I have rock band posters signed by the artists themselves. I’ve even been to metal concerts without ever telling anyone…until now. On my laptop and iPhone is a cleverly disguised iTunes playlist entitled “Classical Music.” Nobody will ever check it (99.9999% of iTunes users are NOT listening to Bach, Beethoven, or Chopin), so I know I’m safe from anyone discovering my secret. This playlist consists of such “classics” as Iron Maiden, Metallica, Slayer, Disturbed, Trivium, Babymetal…you know, the whole works.

Now, if you really knew me, you’d probably realize that I’m just joshing…gosh! I even had to google “metal bands” to come up with that list. Shivers run up my spine when I see the images on their album covers…disturbing, to say the least. What’s worse, I cringe when I see clips of the lyrics on the search pages. I would never sing, much less utter such words in front of a young child. Not even in front of Paul who is twenty-five.

After that web search, I looked for “Christian metal bands.” Those, of course, are the songs that Paul plays for me in the car—Thousand Foot Krutch, Skillet, and others whose names I can’t remember. Maybe he thinks because they’re Christian metal bands, I won’t protest so strongly. (But remember, I don’t protest—I stay silent. All bets are off as to what my wife might say if he plays that kind of music when she’s in the car).

All that said, the music Paul listens to doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it does my wife. Even much of the music I listen to is more upbeat than what she likes. She likes Josh Groban. Better quit there.

What Paul can’t fully appreciate is that I was once a young man. Let that blow his developing twenty-five-year-old brain into a glob of cosmic confusion churning around in his young adult heart. More shocking to him still would be to know that I listened to wailing electric guitar-driven music—at full blast—in my car—during my early years. I even used to hang around guitarists who took me to their lairs (practice studios) and busted the woofers more than once. Maybe I lost more than my hearing during those jam sessions.

In any case, the only thing I’m thinking when Paul turns on that kind of music is, “How can he do this?” The “he” refers not to Paul, but to the vocalists. Screaming, growling, show after show. How much recovery time do those shrillers need between performances? I lose my voice after trying to growl a little on a single song. Those guys’ voices are made of tougher stuff than mine, for sure.

No, I don’t enjoy metal music, and I wouldn’t be unhappy if Paul found something more “mainstream” to listen to. But hey, my secret chuckle is now that Paul has a son, he’s likely to be singing nursery rhymes, Veggie Tales, and kids songs all over again like he did when hewas a child. Becoming a father helps to tame the wild nature of boys, and that’s probably a good thing. Paul, when you read this, I hope you are shocked, chuckle, and finally comprehend the scandalous thoughts that pass through your father’s mind when he’s forced to listen to your music.

Love,

Dad

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Early Eating Forays in Indonesia

11/4/2019

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I recently wrote this for a writing group—a fun, light-hearted piece where the clown, as usual, was me.

Bluntness

When I first moved to Indonesia, I was hosted by a wonderful family, the father a pediatrician, the mother a housewife and excellent cook. Their eldest son was a fellow University of Washington graduate and friend from church in Seattle.

Growing up, I had liked to cook and bake on occasion, but I took special interest in it while studying at the UW when faced with the high prices of mediocre dorm food. So, when my host mother asked if I knew how to make apple pie, I answered, “Of course.” I then proceeded to make my mom’s special apple pie recipe. I wasn’t as gifted at the pie crust as Mom, but the filling was unbeatable.

When the pie came out of the oven, my host mom took a step backward.

“Oh, Gerrit, it’s very ugly.”

I nearly had a heart attack. My face turned red. Indonesians can sometimes be painfully blunt.

“But you must try it,” I urged, swallowing my pride. “I promise it is very delicious.”

She tried a piece, and admitted that she had never tasted such a delicious apple pie, but she re-asserted that the appearance was unappealing.

After a couple of years of living in Indonesia and having visited various bakeries, I began to understand that appearance of baked goods was everything. I thought their pies and cakes were woefully lacking in taste, despite being amazingly decorated.

Coveted Cookies

Chocolate chips cookies were uncommon when I arrived in the country in the 1980s. Moreover, the chocolate morsels were hard to find. While they usually ran around $1-2 in the US, a package sold for $5.00 in Indonesia. And, $5.00 was pricey for a small package of chocolate, especially when my monthly salary was only $300. But I made the purchase and wanted to share this American treat with my host family and co-workers. The former seemed pleased with the results, so I packed a box to share at work.

I lived in Pluit, a newer section of town in the far northern reaches of Jakarta (at the time). To get to my workplace, I usually took a Bajaj, a three-wheeled vehicle imported from India that had open sides rather than windows. These small orange vehicles spat out thick black exhaust from their tailpipes. The drivers were usually poor, uneducated men from outlying provinces and were always sweaty and dirty from the tropical heat and city pollution. Heck, I wiped away black grime from my face after each ride!

Feeling especially pleased with myself for having made the cookies, a generous vibe swept through my being, and I offered one to the Bajaj driver. He grinned, took one bite, and threw the rest out the window, the smile replaced by a scowl of rejection.

Again, I nearly had a heart attack. My face turned red, and my jaw quivered as I searched for a response. I couldn’t find one. I would have eaten the other half of that precious American delicacy, but no, he had to throw it onto the street only to be trampled by other Bajaj’s, cars, bicycles, motorcycles, and minibuses. Never again did I offer a chocolate chip cookie to anyone I thought might so rudely toss it away.

Spiked Rice

In the first few months of marriage, Julie and I hired a young Sundanese woman to help out with housework. Her name was Dila. Having quickly grown close to her and her family, we were invited to the wedding of one of her relatives. This wedding was a traditional affair, held in the bride’s home which happened to be halfway up the winding mountain road to Lembang, a resort and farming town a few miles north of Bandung. In 1990, the area was still relaxed with relatively few cars on the highway.

Dila seated us on an outdoor patio along with several other guests, disappeared into the house momentarily, and returned with a Sundanese delicacy called “tapé” (pronounced “tah′-pay”). About half the size of my palm, it was wrapped in banana leaves. Never an adventurous eater, I was skeptical and deferred to my wife to take the first taste. She took a bite, smiled at Dila, who responded with a broad smile of approval. Seeing Julie’s positive response, I quickly unwrapped mine and shoved it into my mouth just as Dila re-entered the house. I nearly gagged. Furious at Julie for tricking me into tasting it, I could barely keep my cool.

“I wasn’t trying to trick you, Gerrit,” she said softly, apologetically, slipping her hand into mine to calm me down. “We couldn’t offend Dila, so I smiled. What else was I supposed to do?” Reluctantly, I backed down, knowing she was right.

Tapé is fermented glutinous rice. And boy, was that rice ever fermented! Being a non-drinker, I don’t have anything nastier to compare it to other than communion wine, but let me tell you, this rice “delicacy” seemed much, much, much stronger than the wine of the eucharist. For some readers, this story may be all the motivation needed to go out and purchase air tickets to Indonesia—just to get a taste of fermented glutinous rice, but not for me. In all 26+ years of living in Indonesia plus all seven trips since returning to the US in 2012, I have never ventured another taste.

Spaghetti Mucous

Doesn’t that subtitle make the mouth salivate? I was sitting on the floor of a home in Papua (Indonesia’s half of the island of New Guinea), owned by an ex-con. Seated in a circle of his fellow ex-cons, I was asked if I wanted to try papeda, a traditional meal in eastern Indonesia made from sago flour (extracted from a sago palm). I looked around at what the other men were eating, and it looked completely unappetizing, if not horrifying. I figured I could get by for asking for half a plate, so that is what I did.

Sago flour is like tapioca flower on steroids. It is used for glue in Indonesian post offices. When prepared, it is a clear glutinous mass, topped with a fish sauce that tasted (to me) like a garlicy red spaghetti sauce. Here’s a video link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzKIEkeBGvo (see minute 6:00-8:00 to see the consistency, and what it looks like to eat it). But when you try to spoon the papeda, it behaves a little like flubber—unwilling to give—though fortunately, it doesn’t send anyone bouncing like in the Robin Williams film. As I was slurping it down, it felt like thick mucous slipping down my throat.

Indonesians who grow up with this treat swear by it. Like so many things in life, our attitude toward food is influenced by our upbringing. I was not brought up in eastern Indonesia. But, with a bunch of ex-cons surrounding me, I wasn’t going to wimp out and not finish the plate. So, I struggled…through…every…last…horrible…disgusting…bite. The only thing that kept me going was constantly reminding myself that it wasn’t snot but was an edible, popular dish among the Papuans. My other consolation was that I didn’t have to try the live sago larva—the favorite delicacy of all in many parts of Papua. These larvae will bite the human tongue if their heads aren’t crushed with the first bite. Here’s a video link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7hpF9Zzanw.

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Senior Moments

3/29/2019

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After the passing of our dog Biscuit last September, my wife and I vowed not to get another dog. We loved our canine friend dearly, but Golden Retrievers shed a lot, and we had tumbleweed rolling around our house 24/7 because of her. Besides, we like to travel, and finding a place (or sitter) for Biscuit was always a challenge. Well, we had a few months of freedom from that responsibility (believe me, we didn’t have freedom from a whole host of other responsibilities!), and it was nice while it lasted. But then, another puppy came into our lives. Yes, the shredded box of kleenex strewn across the living room floor, the decimated fir cones littering the floors (the ones the puppy managed to snag on the way back into the house from doing his business), the chewed up sandals, the myriad of displaced items—it’s Biscuit 2.0—all over again.

The other day, “Fido” (names have been changed to protect the innocent) was doing something annoying, and I reacted by…calmly…raising my voice, shouting, “Biscuit, Charlie, uh, Fido.” Yup, I called him Biscuit, then the name of my parent’s dog, Charlie, and finally arrived at the correct name. As kids, we chuckled when my grandmother went through the other three sibling names before landing on the correct one. We teased my parents when they started doing it. And now…well, I swear, I’m never going to do it again. Wish me luck.

I cringe every time I call my youngest child by the name of my youngest brother. How could I possibly mix up a 51-year old with a 21-year old? They don’t even live in the same house. Okay, and now comes confession time. Once in a rare while, I call our middle child by the name of my sibling number three. Why do I do that? What’s worse is when I forget what I was talking about.

My parents moved into our home a few weeks ago to heal from surgery. They both broke their hips (yes, their times “under the knife” were only a day apart). A couple of days ago, I was talking with my dad, who is 87. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, paused, and said, “I lost my train of thought.” I’ve experienced that hundreds of times over the course of my life (okay, maybe thousands of times…? Scary thought!), and it never bothered me until I started getting more “senior”-ish and paid more attention to the problem. Dad hasn’t lost his smarts at all, so we just laughed it off. But something possessed me to google, “What causes people to lose their train of thought?”

Apparently, researchers have decided that the culprit is on one part of the brain’s stopping system called the subthalamic nucleus. Now if you can say that—subthalamic nucleus—you’ll never have to worry about senior moments again, because you’ll sound super intelligent no matter how many times you forget what you were going to say.

Anyway, I read to the end of the article and found it moderately enlightening. No life-changing epiphany. At the bottom of the article, however, I noticed a host of eye-catching photos.

“Gut doctor: ‘I beg Americans to throw out this vegetable.’” A gross diagram of the human digestive system was displayed right above the smart-looking gut doctor (some of the images weren’t attractive…obviously, as Professor Snape would say). Well, I’m practiced enough at these distractions to know that if I succumb to clicking on one of these articles, I will go through a 47,252-slide presentation before I get to the end. In the end, I will be encouraged to purchase the gut doctor’s book, or subscribe to his YouTube channel. Either that, or I will be offered a “brief 30-minute” video presentation describing the problem but never offering the solution. What’s worse, the video will actually last for two hours…and still won’t give me the answer unless I purchase the product or service being sold.

Among the more humorous photos were, “World’s First Surviving Octuplets Are All Grown Up. Look at them Nine Years Later.” All eight infants were proudly and elegantly dressed in matching clothes for the photo pose. I’m sure the story is amazing, and any woman who can survive raising octuplets is a superhero in my book. Only two pictures away was another story about septuplets. The chaos in that family surely was no different than that in the octuplet family. I just remember how challenging it was for my wife and I to get our children one at a time, three years between each one.

After my eyes roamed away from the multiple-child families, I noticed pictures of Johnny Carson (do millenials even know who that is?), Rosanne Barr and her latest outrage, something about the 40+ Kate Beckinsale’s relationship with the 20+ Pete Davidson, and “A Fast Way to Pay off $10,000 in Credit Card Debt.” All good reads, I’m sure. Wait, I think I’ve digressed. Now, where was I?

Oh yeah, Biscuit. I mean Charlie. I mean Fido. Doggone it. Excuse the pun. I’m always pleased when I can regain my train of thought. I guess not all hope is lost.

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Grandpa Blueberry

4/19/2018

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This year, my wife and I are hosting one of our church’s seven or eight “Life Groups” in our home on Wednesday nights. Currently, our life group has seven single adults/teens, five couples, and five children under the age of three. We start with a meal, and then move to the living room for a time of discussion, encouragement, and prayer. If you haven’t been around two-year-olds for awhile, you may have forgotten that the most challenging aspect of such an evening is figuring out how to handle four active toddlers (one of the five is still an infant, so he's easy). Anyway, two of the children are Spanish-speaking only, and one is Korean-speaking only. How can a tall “grandfatherly” man (can’t believe I’m admitting to this) give his friends a break from their active (absolutely wonderful and absolutely active) kids?

Well…enter Grandpa Blueberry. I have discovered that kids universally love blueberries. And, none of their parents object to me offering them (as opposed to candy, cookies, or other sweets). So, what do I do every Wednesday morning? I go to the supermarket and buy a package of blueberries. When families arrive with their kids, I am prepared. Little Joao raises his arms as he comes through the front door, and we go straight to the refrigerator. He often takes two berries at a time and hands one down to Gracie, who gladly accepts it. The generosity of a two-year-old can sometimes put to shame adults like me!

Last night during the discussion and prayer portion of the evening, Joao came up to me and pointed to his wide-open mouth. Yup, he was ready for another round of blueberries. I nodded to affirm his request, but because we were praying, I folded my hands to signal that he, too, could participate. He was incredibly patient and waited quietly. When finished, I took Joao and Gracie to the kitchen, sat them on the counter, and started handing out blueberries. Then, little Joy came into the kitchen and wanted to get in on the action. I picked her up and held her. Like Joao and Grace, she couldn’t get the blueberries down fast enough. Then came little Julia (almost walking), pulled herself up by my pantleg, and wanted to participate. Try to picture two toddlers sitting on the counter, legs happily swinging, a third held in my right arm, and a fourth in my left arm, all the while keeping the blueberry train going. Finally, I sat Joy down next to Joao and Gracie, and had them joyfully consuming berries for several minutes until I peeped around the corner and asked the parents if it was okay to feed them so many. They, of course, were enjoying a few minutes of distraction-free fellowship, and waved me on to keep going. One came in and took a picture of the spectacle. Hilarious!

I don’t know how far this will go as the weeks progress, but it will be hard to top last night…in their minds or mine. But, Grandpa Blueberry will surely make another appearance next week. Not that I like being called Grandpa anything, but I am proud of being able to entertain four toddlers for an extended length of time (five whole minutes?).

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The Bum Chair and Other Family Jokes

12/28/2017

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Our dining room table has eight chairs, all with a woven rattan net in the middle of the seat. They’re carved oak pieces from my grandmother, so they have sentimental value. The only drawback to them is that over time, the rattan wears, and the strands begin to break. So, every year or two, one of them will begin to go. Anyone sitting on that chair begins to sink, making the experience uncomfortable, to say the least. I dub it “the bum chair.” Because these chairs are expensive to fix, they tend to stay in disrepair for awhile.

When both of my sons were teenagers, still living at home, one of their pranks against “Dad” (me) was to make sure the bum chair was always in my usual place at the dinner table. I’d sit down, feel the discomfort, and wince. My sons would burst out laughing. The joke was on me. Always. And because I was never suspecting, I fell for the trick again and again, much to their delight.

So, this Christmas season, both of my sons are at home again for a couple of weeks. All the old family jokes come out—especially when my daughter joins us. My older son pulled out a text I had sent him more than two years ago, teasing him that “Even at your wedding, you’ll probably make sure I’m sitting in the bum chair.” Can you believe, he saved that text from over two years ago—and he still thinks it’s funny? Of course, everyone around the table laughed. At me.

Another family joke is when I wanted to have fun embarrassing my teenage sons at a Dairy Queen drive-thru. Whenever we went for Blizzards, I'd order the Reese’s Blizzard. But the employees at our local Dairy Queen always pronounced it “Ree-sees.” I knew the correct pronunciation was “Ree-siz.” So, I asked the attendant, much to my sons’ chagrin, “Why do you guys always call it ‘Ree-sees’?” Of course, I embarrassed them in the moment, but since then, they’ve turned the tables on me and now tease me about “getting angry” at the drive-thru attendants. “Hey Dad, why do they call it Reeeeee-seeeees?” I hear the exaggerated version of that ill-fated question again and again, whenever they want to throw a jab my way. Yup, shamed in my home ever since. (A word of caution to parents of teenagers: Any prank you play on your kids has the unlimited potential to backfire.)

My sons were often loud and rowdy, whereas my wife preferred peace, tranquility, and order in the home. Whenever they'd get carried away, she’d call out, “Boys,” as a way to make them aware that they were exceeding the acceptable decibel threshold, or that too much testosterone was at play. So, with both of them at the dinner table during this Christmas season, one will deliberately amplify his voice so the other can say, “Boys.” However, they modified the pronunciation to “boyce.” Back and forth they trade jabs, followed up by, “boyce, boyce.” My wife and I can do nothing but look on helplessly.

When did our home get so out of control?

Another table trick they used to play was setting out the cutlery but deliberately leaving out a spoon, fork, or napkin for me. We’d sit down, pray, and then begin the meal.

“Hey, how come I didn’t get a fork?” I’d complain.

“I put four of everything on the table,” my wife countered. “Must be here somewhere.”

My kids would only snicker.

What could I do but laugh?

Funny words and movie lines often come out—words picked up in literature or lines heard in movies.

"Poppycock" (National Treasure), "We ain't had nothing but maggoty bread for three stinkin' days" (Lord of the Rings/LOTR movie), and a whole host of other ridiculous words pop up, all used on each other. But "Jackanapes" (CS Lewis' Narnia series) and "Stinker" (LOTR) are used facetiously on our poor defenseless dog Biscuit. Scandalous chuckles follow, and Biscuit smiles happily, thinking she's being called "good dog" with new vocabulary.

I may not want to trade these moments, memories, or family jokes for anything, but, I’ll always trade the bum chair for a good one, even when it makes my scheming kids snicker all the louder.

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Instagrammers

12/1/2017

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With the launch of my catering business, I’ve had to jump into yet another world of social media: Instagram.

“Uh, a little late,” some of you might scolding your computer, pad, or phone screen, laughing. Well, just to let you know…I've been thinking the same thing while writing this post. Maybe you’re not scolding the phone, but you’re one of my friends that recently elected to follow me, and thought, “Finally!”

Having worked with young people and taught at a small university for so many years, I have lots of younger friends. At the very least, they’re probably all smiling at this latecomer to Instagram.

But now it’s my turn to smile. I’m genuinely enjoying the creativity of the screen names followers have chosen. Many of these are friends, and others I have no idea who they are, because generally speaking, I only spend enough time on social media to accomplish what I need to accomplish (plus a few minutes here and there if a news feed item from family or friends catches my attention). Anyway, I’d like to share a few of the more creative screen names.

First-up Instagram follower/liker name is “bladelord666.” Now, Guardian of the Galaxy’s “Star-Lord” is one of my family’s favorite movie characters. But “blade lord”? Is that a cross between “Blade Runner” and “Star-Lord”? If they chose the name before Blade Runner 2049, maybe the Instagrammer’s name is Harrison Pratt or Chris Ford. If “bladelord666” is a name chosen after the BR2049 movie came out, it gets kinda confusing trying to throw Ryan Gosling’s name into the mix. But attaching the number of the beast (666) from the Bible’s book of Revelation? This hints at the possibility that the person embraces a dark self-image. Outrageously hilarious.

Next up is “the_half_merry_artist.” Now, this name simply makes me sad. Only half-merry? Makes me wonder if this person needs some cheering up.

Then comes “_it_rained_it_poured_”. I think this Instagrammer came up with that name after reading my last humor blog post about rain. Could be a Seattlite. Never know.

Being a cookie lover, I loved it when “cookiesmonster1” started following me. Long live the cookie monster! Actually, “cookiemonster1” is someone I actually know, and she is a fun person who definitely loves to make cookies.

The name “mindofralph” makes me wonder what happened to Ralph’s body. Or, is it someone else who’s borrowing Ralph’s mind? I guess I’ve read too much fantasy and science fiction to be thinking that way.

Can a plural ever claim to be a singular? “we.are.the.pacific.ocean” just did. But what kind of person claims to be an ocean? I mean, the Pacific Ocean is bigly. Is this person from Hawaii, Western Samoa, Guam, Vanatau, Tahiti, Fiji, the Solomon Islands…? I’ve heard of people having an inflated view of themselves, but this takes the cake!

Speaking of cake, I’ve been using Instagram to post pictures of Exemplar Catering’s baked goods. But one of my followers/likers has the name “nocakess”. Not sure what the extra “s” at the end stands for, but the first seven letters are crystal clear. This person doesn’t like cake. Then why does “nocakess” like my photos about cookies and cakes? I won’t sweat it, because we make cookies, too. And lots of other things. Something for everybody.

So, Instagrammers, keep having fun with the crazy-fun names, and if you’re reading about my business for the first time, check out Exemplar Catering on Facebook, Instagram, and at exemplarcatering.com. And while you're at it, keep up the fun and creative names.

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I'm From Seattle—I love the rain

11/4/2017

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Rain has been one of Seattle’s iconic attributes for a long time. I grew up here, left for Indonesia in 1986, and moved back in 2012. At that time, the line was, “In 1985, Seattle had an average of 30 days of sunshine a year. In 2012, it is now 60 days of sunshine a year.” Yes, I know, that’s double the amount of sunshine—a significant increase (puleez don’t turn this into an argument about climate change), but 60 days still isn’t that much. Except that the last three years, we’ve had incredibly long and dry summers. In fact, we just had the first rainless Halloween in eleven years. Yes, we Seattle natives love the sunshine days, but we love our rain, too, right? Keeps everything green.

However, when I moved to Indonesia, I brought my Seattle mentality about rain with me. Foolish, because tropical rain isn’t the same as Seattle rain.

We’d host an event at our house, and people wouldn’t show up. Cell phones weren’t around at the time, and even land lines were infrequent where we were living. The following day or a few days later, I’d see them, and they’d say something like, “Sorry, Gerrit, we couldn’t come. It was raining.” I’d always answer, “No worries,” but my thoughts were, How lame of an excuse can you come up with? Use an umbrella if you absolutely must, but for heaven’s sake, deal with it! After all, we Seattlites walk in the rain almost every day and think nothing of it.

That was my attitude until I had to take the public transportation during a downpour in Indonesia, and found that the streets had become six-inch-deep rivers, flooding garbage out of trash bins and into the flow. The city I lived in was built on the foothills of a mountain range, so all the streets in the north (where we lived) were sloped—some steeply. Nobody can walk down the street in a fast-moving river where anything might smash or cut into shins. Besides, the public transportation minibuses went along with their side doors open, and passengers got drenched when another car passed, or the driver hit an unseen pothole.

One friend was driving in our city when a heavy tree branch (seven inches in diameter) broke off from above and impaled his windshield, missing him by mere threads. He could easily have been killed. Driving in the rain can be even more hazardous than walking.

Another time, we went over to some friends for a dinner party, and we got there early—just as a downpour started. One section of the housing complex (built in a flat area on the eastern side of the city) was already flooded twelve inches deep, but we made it through without our car stalling. As the night wore on, the water level rose to three feet deep. Coming on foot after work, one young man was determined not to miss the party (a rare exception considering the circumstances). His solution was to take off his shoes and pants and wade through the deep brown water in his underwear, and then put everything back on once he was past the flooded section. We all laughed along with him at his story. Needless to say, he came through the front door soaked from head to foot.

Whenever my family went to the beach during the rainy season, we swam in the pool rather than the wonderfully warm Indian Ocean, for rain-swollen rivers carried upriver garbage to the sea. After experiencing the unpleasantness of paddling or stroking along the shore with fingers snagging floating packages of instant noodles or plastic cups bumping into us, we learned to time our swims long before the afternoon rains struck.

One evening, while driving my visiting parents to the airport in Jakarta for a return flight to the US, my car got a flat tire. We had been driving through torrential rain in a sparsely populated area, and that amount of precipitation hides the potholes on the road, especially in the dark. So I hit one at high speed. I was able to get the car to the paved entrance of a large factory. Because the hour was late, the complex was closed, so I pulled the car as close to the gate as I could—as far away from the road as possible. The wind was blowing, umbrellas were useless, and I was soon miserably cold and wet. Halfway into the tire change, a full-sized bus came roaring past and hit the “lake” on the side of the road, dousing me with a wall of stinky, muddy road water. Literally, it took my breath away. At that point, I could only laugh…and hurry through the tire change even faster.

All that to say that living in the tropics taught me to have a greater respect for the rain. It didn’t take me long to begin sympathizing with the no-shows rather than getting upset by them.

Now that I’m back in Seattle, I have to say, I love the rain again—especially autumn rains. I no longer have to water our trees, our garden, or our lawn, and that brings the water bill way down. And that’s a good thing. Though I have to go out and work in the cold rain, raking fifteen (large) garbage bags of wet maple leaves and storing them in our garage until the compost waste truck comes by next Wednesday, I still like the rain.

Remember, I’m from Seattle. And that explains it all.

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All About Fit

10/20/2017

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One exasperating characteristic of learning English as a non-native speaker is the sheer number of words in our lexicon. So many stinking words! Who could ever know them all? I’ll tell you who. Have you ever watched the national spelling bee finals? Both native-born and immigrant children spell crazy words adult native-English speakers have never even heard of, much less seen in print.

Having taught English overseas as well as to immigrants in the USA, I’ve found that another frustrating characteristic of the English language is doubling up on a word's definitions. So many English words are used in multiple, unrelated ways. Take, for example, the word “fit.” If you want to see for yourself, go to dictionary.com and type in the word “fit.” It can be used as a noun, a verb, in several idiomatic expressions…and it lists distinct uses in American English and British English. Scrolling down the page never seems to come to an end.

So, rather than make you read a dictionary, I’m going to simplify by demonstrating some common usages of the word “fit.”

A couple of months back, I was preparing for a trip to Indonesia where I lived for 26 years. Many Indonesians like to comment on whether I’ve gained weight, and whether I’ve developed a belly in my 40+ years. They tease each other about it, and so they think it’s harmless when they tease me. But it’s NOT harmless. No way. I take no personal offense, understanding they mean no harm, but that doesn’t mean I like it being said. In fact, no American likes to have attention drawn to his or her belly unless it’s six-pack abs.

Anyway, I was working on sliming down that midsection bloat to avoid the inevitable teasing. I had lost eight or nine pounds and was feeling pretty good about it. Then, one Sunday morning, I grabbed a pair of slacks from the closet but struggled to get them buttoned. Should have been easy! I complained to my wife how exasperating it was to be nine pounds lighter but still have to struggle to get those pants buttoned.

They didn’t fit. Which means, they were the wrong size for me (in my case, too small).

Deflated, I took the pants off, but then noticed something…they weren’t mine. They were my nineteen-year-old son’s which were a smaller size. Somehow, they had made it into my closet. Laughing at myself, I grabbed another pair, made sure they were mine, and fit into them easily, which made me feel much better about the weight loss I had achieved--especially considering that I had fit into the smaller size.

Another usage of the word “fit”: One of my sons when he was two years old, was playing with his five-year-old sister. As kids will do, the elder grabbed a toy from the younger’s hand. My wife and I were sitting thirty feet away iand had a complete view of everything that was transpiring. The toddler looked at us and screamed at the top of his lungs.

He had a fit, which means he became very angry.

The elder looked at us in horror, fearing that she was in big trouble. The younger kept howling, fully expecting us to intervene. I glanced at my wife, who glanced at me, and we both chuckled at the toddler's calculated outrage. Seeing we weren’t going to do anything but laugh, the crying stopped almost instantly, and the young grabbed the toy back from his sister. Our chuckles turned into outright laughter at the ridiculous ploy. (Have to keep a sense of humor around kid chaos).

Now, for my third and final usage of the word “fit.” I used to run…a lot…until I tore the meniscus in my right knee. The last year I lived in Indonesia, I floated the idea of doing a “fitness month” at the K-12 school we had started. We scheduled a pushup contest, a situp contest, a 100m race, a 5K race, and a 10K race (basketball and soccer games, too). Pretty much in my prime running years, I challenged the high school student body.

“If anyone can beat me in the 10K race,” I promised, “I’ll treat you and four friends at a nice restaurant.”

The challenge was on. Most everybody knew that I ran, but few had ever actually seen me run.

My wife tied for 1st place in the women’s pushup contest (at 48, she beat all the high school girls and younger teachers), and she came in second in the women’s 10K race. At 49, I didn’t win the pushup contest, even though I tried. But, I did win the 10K by at least five minutes, the timers told me—maybe by as many as ten minutes.

To be fit means to be in good physical condition.

My wife jokes that she won not because she’s so fit, but rather, because the competition wasn’t too serious about winning. And, my race time was nothing to boast about, especially considering that I walked up the last hill. But again, had any of the students or teachers been regular runners, they could have easily beaten me.

Of course, there are other ways to use the word “fit,” too, which only goes to underscore the underlying question, “How does the size of clothes have any connection with getting angry or being in good physical condition?”

English is a frustrating language to learn.

I rest my case.

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Youth and Current Events

9/28/2017

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Have you noticed how much political rhetoric is being put out on news and social media? Oh my gosh—everyone has an opinion! In fact, I would venture to say, though I haven’t conducted a survey—not even a scientific one—to verify my opinion that Americans are slightly opinionated. What do you think? Wait, no need to answer that. But, have you noticed how ill-informed and diabolical some of those opinions are? Especially those on “the other side”?

Amidst all the confusion and ill-informed arguments, it’s no wonder our country and world are in such a mess. Not only can our best, brightest, and strongest NOT agree on how to solve our problems, they can’t even present a united voice on the brink of international disaster.

My college-student son pointed this out recently, reminding me about the Sokovia Accords. I was impressed that he was not so ill-informed on current events as I had thought the youth of America to be. In fact, he knew the details quite accurately—far better than I did. He knew all about the issues—the right of individual conscience and liberty balanced against the need for international security and order. And I was so proud when he sided with the American envoy, who, simply walked away from the negotiations, refusing to sign. Almost all of the other signatories agreed to curb personal liberties for the sake of ensuring political stability.

“Now wait…,” you may be saying. “I’ve heard of the Sokovia Accords. What are they again?”

Well, I thought you’d never ask.

But before I answer the question, I want to bait you like all those advertorials on the internet where if you click to find the answer, you have to go through a thirty or sixty-minute presentation to get a myeh answer to the question that hooked you in the first place. (Okay, cat’s out of the bag—yes, I’ve clicked on enough of them to know they’re a black hole that sucks your internet time into infinity.) Was that a rabbit trail or what?

Anyway, back to the topic at hand: If you already know what the Sokovia Accords are, then you pass as a well-informed up-to-date citizen of the modern world. If you don’t know, I can only shake my head sorrowfully.

The Sokovia Accords were proposed in May 2016 because a group of vigilante Americans thought they could do whatever it took to take down the bad guys of the world. A battle occured in Sokovia. The city was pretty much destroyed in the process, and countless lives were lost. So, to prevent similar tragedies, the Sokovia Accords were drawn up. Surprisingly (or maybe not surprisingly), Hollywood stars, who better understand political issues than the rest of us, took a prominent role in bringing this agreement to the table. Unfortunately, even they were split. A showdown between America’s virtuous envoy, Chris Evans, supported by Anthony Mackie, Paul Rudd, and a couple others, and Robert Downey Jr.’s gang of superheroes was inevitable.

Yes, folks, you can learn all about it in Marvel’s documentary, Captain America: Civil War. Of course, nobody knows (except the screen writers, directors, and actors) how this superhero civil war will resolve itself in the next Avengers movie, but whatever the case, I admire Captain America for doing the right thing, even though his decision cost him personally. After all, who can fault Captain America (other than Tony Stark)?

After the enlightened conversation with my son, I didn’t bother to test him further on his knowledge of current affairs. He might have exposed my ignorance even further. Or, I could have exposed his lack of knowledge. Shoot, MSNBC found that Gary Johnson, 2016 US presidential candidate, didn’t even know what Aleppo was, and look how badly he lost the election. I figured that testing my son’s knowledge further presented two scary possibilities: One, my son could fail at his university studies, and two, I could fail in my tenuous role as wise, intelligent father to my son. In light of those unacceptable risks, I settled for being schooled in current affairs by my bright, intelligent son (chip off the old block, if I don’t say so myself).

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