All Categories

Kids Can Reveal The Most Inconvenient Truths

9/14/2017

More than once as my kids were growing up, they’d spill private information to friends that I wish they hadn’t. Probably gave those friends a good laugh—and something to talk about.

For example, maybe a friend was visiting, and out of the blue, my son might ask something horrific like, "Do you sleep in your underwear?"

The friend might laugh and ask, "Why are you asking me that?"

Answer: "Well, my dad does."

(Just for clarification sake, I hardly ever slept my underwear. But, I lived in Indonesia for 26 years where it can get downright sultry at night, and if you were sleeping in Indonesia without air conditioning like I did, you’d probably have slept some nights in your underwear, too!)

A more likely reveal would be something like, “My dad is the one who eats all the cookies in the house.” To which my friends would have laughed and said, “But he’s skinny and can afford to.” To which my kids would have said, “But he’s OCD about the scale. He weighs himself all the time.” Then, perhaps, my friends would have really had something to snicker about.

This weekend was photo time for the catering business I’m starting. To take pictures, I had to bake several recipes. Pies, cakes, muffins, cookies. But, with my two oldest kids away from home and my youngest moving to Seattle on Saturday, there was no way we were going to be able to eat everything I made (I can no longer afford to eat them all). So, we did what good neighbors do—we brought our unwanted food to a few neighbors. At least this unwanted food was high quality. That’s what we tell ourselves, anyway.

One family has young elementary school children whom we adore. So, I gave them what I knew were their favorite cookies, along with a couple of other yummy treats.

The following day, the mother came by and thanked us for the delicious treats. Half an hour later, her kids came walking home from school, accompanied by a teenage cousin. I was painting the fence outside, and as they passed by, I asked them how they liked the treats.

“My mom won’t let us have any,” the younger said sadly. “She says they’re for the lady downstairs.”

Now, I don’t know if the mom didn’t like the treats and therefore was giving them away, or if she wanted to limit her kids’ intake of sweets (perfectly understandable), or if she and her husband were secretly hoarding them for themselves. Maybe there’s another explanation. It doesn’t matter to me, nor does it bother me that the two stories seem to be at odds. But, I’m clearly amused. Kids can reveal the most inconvenient truths.

1 Comment

Magic Auto Body Repair

7/12/2017

3 Comments

In 1990, our team leader moved to Singapore and bequeathed his three-year-old Suzuki Super Carry to us—a huge and unexpected blessing. I had ridden in the car many times back and forth from Jakarta to Bandung, Indonesia before I actually moved to Bandung. Newly married and bustin’-out ready to drive, we picked up the car in Denpasar, Bali and were baptized into Indonesian road conditions for the grueling 24-hour road trip back home, dodging motorcycles, chickens, ox-carts, cyclists, people, and potholes. With only a 1000cc engine, the car roared and rattled on the open highway, but boy, did it have kick on mountain inclines.

I had more than a couple of bumps in the Super Carry. After one such collision, I needed an auto body repair shop. Maybe it was the accident where I looked down because I felt something on my leg, which turned out to be a huge cockroach crawling up it. That momentary loss of attention to the road caused me to rear-end the car in front of me. Or, maybe it was when the city minibus transport didn’t stop while crossing a major thoroughfare and T-boned me. Whatever the case, I asked my friends where to find a repair shop, and they told me there was one on Gunung Batu Street. So, I drove my damaged car there, looked back and forth, and only found one that said “Ketok Magic," which means, “Magic Dent Repair.” I had seen these all over the island of Java, and assumed the “magic” referred to their great work. Boy, was I ever wrong.

The place was surrounded by an eight-foot corrugated aluminum partition. I rang the bell, they opened the gate, negotiated the repair, and then told me to come back in four hours. Four hours? They quickly ushered me away and resealed the eight-foot impermeable gate. The price was less than half of what I expected to pay. Pleased, I shook off the strangeness of the encounter and went back to my friends to thank them for the suggestion. But when I told them I had taken it to the Ketok Magic shop, their jaws dropped in horror.

“Gerrit, don’t you know they use black magic to repair cars? It's said that if you repair a car there, you will get in a worse accident later.” The conversation went on and on, explaining that this type of repair originated in Blitar, East Java. “You’ll never hear a sound. No pounding, no pulling, no electrical tools. Just silence. They do it all by black magic. They never let you inside, and they never let you see what they’re doing.” The more I heard, and remembering the strangeness of the negotiation encounter, the more I became freaked out. Mysterious and obscure things happen in Indonesia that are attributed to the supernatural. What was I thinking? Four hours to repair the aftermath of an auto accident? Red flags should have been flying in my face.

The shop had already had my car for over two hours, and I realized that by the time I got back there, it would probably be finished. Still, I took off, not really afraid, but definitely freaked out.

I arrived only to find everything was sealed up—as before. And silent. Other than the passing cars along the main road, I couldn’t hear a thing. I’m six-foot-four (195cm), but that wasn’t tall enough to help me see over the top of the fence. So, I listened again. Still, no sound of pounding, voices of workers, or anything. Finding a small rusted hole in the aluminum fence’s sheeting, I crouched low and peered into a yard with a building, bare-dirt grounds, and a few small leafless trees.

Then, something banged against the aluminum fence right where I was standing, sending me reeling backwards in alarm. It was a LOUD bang. Had someone thrown a rock? It would have had to be a large one. Maybe it was just a coincidence. I crept back toward the fence again, my heart throbbing painfully in my chest. Had I done something wrong or violated some unknown law? I had been told it was taboo to try and sneak a peek into a Ketok Magic shop. Peering through the hole again, I searched for evidence of a rock or anyone that might have thrown one. Nothing. A second sharp bang hit the fence. No angry person telling me to back away from the fence, no scary demons or ghosts passing through it. Just an ear-drum-splitting bang.

Have you ever seen videos of a curious animal trying to sniff something out but jumping backward in timidity, circling the object again and again to discover what the unknown object is but fearing it enough to keep from getting close? I was that stupid curious foreigner, circling the fence to find out what really goes on inside of a Ketok Magic shop. And I was rattled enough to walk away. Yup, I walked away, pretending nothing had ever happened. Had anyone seen me? Who knows?

Half an hour later, I walked up to the main gate, rang the doorbell, and paid for my car. It looked pretty good. I asked them if they really used magic. The man cast a wry “guess for yourself” smile, and never answered.

Today, before writing this, I was surfing the internet and found an article about “Paintless Dent Repair,” a technology that’s been around since the 1930s. (Yes, I looked at Wikipedia, and if you’re honest, you do too!) The pictures look pretty much what my car looked like after the Ketok Magic repair.

Did the shop really repair the car by magic? Did I get in another accident after that one? The second question is easier to answer than the first: Unfortunately, yes. As for the first question, all I know is that the people in that Ketok Magic shop must have had a good laugh about throwing those rocks and seeing the white foreigner lose his nerve.

3 Comments

The Battle of Mole Hill

6/20/2017

3 Comments

Family history says that one of my forebears was Cora Breed of THE Breed family of Breed Hill where the Battle of Bunker Hill was REALLY fought (according to authoritative family history). That is where the war of Independence began in the US in 1776. My mother’s maiden name was VanKonynenburg (American spelling), which comes from the word “konijn” (rabbit) and “burg” (“castle” or hill,” depending on the context). For the sake of this post, I’ll humbly assume the more humble definition and imagine a family of angry blue-bloods in pointed wooden shoes battling an invasion of European rabbits burrowing into the green grassy slopes of a massive citadel.

Well, the invasions haven’t stopped, for I’ve been entrenched in battles over hills ever since I returned to the US in 2012! Five years ago I moved into a one-plus-acre site with a lawn that took two to four hours to mow, depending on how long the grass was. One important factor that made the difference between a two-hour mowing and a four-hour mowing: the number of mole hills.

(For readers unfamiliar with moles, read: http://wdfw.wa.gov/living/moles.html)

My first time mowing the lawn, I counted well over a hundred mounds of dirt across the entire lawn. They were too big to run the lawn mower over them, so I had to flatten each one of them out. That took time. Lots of time.

So, I engaged them in battle. I tried smoking them out. I tried flooding them out. I tried a sonar spike—an instrument that emits a high-pitched bleep that moles are supposed to avoid. I bought mole traps and mole bait. Nothing worked. Then, my friend Jerry taught me how to trap them. We set traps, and within a month, I had caught over thirteen of the pesky creatures. After relocating them, I spread the excavated dirt around, reseeded the earthen patches, and soon, the lawn began to actually look nice. Unfortunately, the moles from the adjacent soccer field migrated over the following spring. Knowing I was moving, I gave up on the mole invasion.

Our new house had been an overgrown area of trees, bushes, and blackberry vines. It took me well over a year to clear everything and plant a lawn, leaving a perimeter of trees, ferns, huckleberry bushes, and other natural forest growth. For the first two years, the lawn was pristine—gently sloped for good drainage, well-fertilized, and cut regularly (by none other than me).

But, two weeks ago, mole hills started appearing in the lawn’s northeast corner. I ordered four new traps from Amazon (like the ones I had used at the other property), and last week I set them. Only, I couldn’t catch any moles. The package promised a catch within 48 hours. That didn’t happen. Nor did it happen in 72, 96, 120, or 144 hours. In fact, my first trap was sprung eight days later (last night) without a catch.

That really made me mad! This has now become an all-out war between man and beast. And beast is winning. Drats! Already, I have pounded back fifty mole mounds, and beast keeps reopening them or digging new ones.

Yesterday afternoon, I noticed movement in one of the mole hills, so I ran outside, grabbed the shovel, and waited until I could see exactly where the mole was working. Then, in one daring move of pure manhood, I stabbed the shovel under the mole tunnel and flipped a huge chunk of dirt and grass onto the lawn. I had caught nothing. Double drats! Last night while I was sleeping, in retaliation, Mr. Beast did more damage to my lawn than anything he had done in the previous ten days. It was clearly revenge for its harrowing escape from my shovel. So, this morning, I pounded the mounds back into the ground, stamping on the tunnels to collapse them as if I were throwing a temper tantrum (don’t tell anyone, but I really was having a tantrum!)

On Saturday, a friend came over and asked the obvious, “What happened to your gorgeous lawn?” We explained our problem with the moles.

“Don’t you just love these little frustrations in life?” she laughed. “Like, the mole is thinking, ‘This was my forest, I was here first, and I’m not leaving.’ It’s saying, ‘And you have no say over it.’ It’s so funny.”

Well, maybe some day, when every mole in Washington State has been chased into neighboring Oregon, Idaho, British Columbia, or the Pacific Ocean, I’d laugh at the frustration of today. And if I laugh, it will be an evil cackle of victory over the forces of greater evil. But in the moment, I smiled at my friend, nodded, and thought, “NO I DON’T LOVE THIS FRUSTRATION AT ALL!!!!” It’s NOT funny. It’s not even hilarious. I find nothing humorous about being confounded by a little critter. Hehehe. Besides, no mole activity had been seen in the front yard for the three previous years. It’s clearly an INVADER from beyond the confines of my property. I was here before (this) beast!

My father was over at our house a couple of days ago for Father’s Day. He had asked my advice last year about how I had caught moles at the first property because they had been eating up his lawn. My method didn’t work for him, but the sonar spike method worked. He suggested that the moles on that first property were large moles, and the ones invading my lawn now were a smaller type and therefore escaped the traps. “Just try the sonar spike.”

Well, I went online and found out that Washington State has two kinds of moles. Sigh. Of course, I’ll try the sonar spike, if nothing else to honor my father, for he swears by it.

Just so you know, I’m hardly at wit’s end about this. In fact, I have as much persistence as the mole does, and I believe my brain size should give me an advantage over beast. Advantage me. Only, I’m not available 24/7 like the mole is. Deuce. By the way, do moles ever sleep? That question has been nagging at my mind. I wish the critter would sleep when I did. Then we could resume our daytime war on a level playing field. Oh, wait…the “field” is no longer level. It’s rutted. And, by the continual digging activity, I’d venture to say they don’t EVER sleep. Advantage mole. I’ve got to think of something real quick before babies are born. Then, it would be game, set, and match—me losing.

Meanwhile, the battle rages on as I pound mole-mound-excavated dirt back into the mole tunnels, “tantrum” on the grass and dirt to collapse the tunnels, install the sonar device, and pray that one day, the elusive worm-and-grub-eating garden pest will tire of the battle. Did I ever tell you that I write fantasy novels?

3 Comments

Silly Contributions to the English Language

6/8/2017

2 Comments

Do an on-line search of the phrase, “How many words did Shakespeare invent?” and you’ll find that the playwright is accredited for coining 1700 words in the English language. Many of them were words to which he added common prefixes or suffixes. Others are creations where he put two common words together to make a new one. And still, some were simply made up words because English didn’t have any to express the thought he wished to convey.

Well, in the Hansen household, we have put in some effort to coining new words as well. It’s all part of the zany humor that goes back and forth between parents and kids.

My first original came when our middle child, Paul, was still in early elementary school. Paul was always quick to laugh—even at a pathetic joke—not because he couldn’t tell the difference between clever and lame jokes, but because…he liked to laugh. So one day, I came up with the word “humperschnick.” That is a clear original.

“What does that mean, Dad?”

“It means doing anything that your dad finds irritating.”

“What if I irritate Mom?

“Then that’s called hoppleschnicking.”

“What would you call me if I humperschnicked?”

“That would make you a humperschnicker. If you irritate Mom, then you’re a hoppleschnicker.”

“What if I irritate my sister or brother?”

“Just don’t.”

Laughter.

Humperschnicker and humperschnicking got reduced to simply schnicker and schnicking. Hopple got left behind. And now, about the only one we use schnicker and schnicking on is our Golden Retriever, Biscuit, who is the ultimate schnicker. She turns twelve this month, and either is going deaf or is pretending to go deaf so she can ignore our commands. She always hears, “treat” or “food” (she knows those words soooo well), but “come” is ignored. My kids at least came on the third or fifth call. Biscuit simply ignores calls except when we say, “Biscuit, food!” Then, she’ll jump up with all the energy of a puppy.

Our next foray into word-smithing came by finding a nickname for spaghetti, “spaggots” (rhymes with “maggots”). Our youngest didn’t like spaghetti growing up, and, as he tells me now, “I’ll eat it, but it’s not my favorite.” So whenever he’d ask me, “Dad, what are we having for dinner,” I’d answer “spaggots”—something grossly akin to larvae. Even now, when nineteen-year-old Evan asks the dinner question, and we’re having spaghetti, my standard answer is still “spaggots.”

Biscuit is the occasional and unfortunate victim of (facetious) verbal abuse. In her early years, she earned the nickname “Stinker.” Calling her that became a coping mechanism to help the humans deal with the frustration of a hopelessly rascally pup. Whenever she was naughty, out came the name Stinker, and then everyone laughed, some gave her a hug, and some of the younger family members even gave her a kiss. In response, she smiled as if she was the essence of innocence. Schnicker was another nickname (already explained). But a third name was “cave-dweller.” Early on in our endeavor to understand the family pet, we read that dogs in the wild instinctively chose caves to dwell in, and that in the home, that instinct played out by sleeping or resting under chairs and tables. I’d ask our kids, “Where’s Biscuit?” and the kids answered, “Cave-dwelling.” Biscuit could crawl under the lowest of benches, chairs, tables—anything to give her cover. Even now, when there’s food on the dinner table, her cave is always directly under wherever the most crumbs fall.

Our next venture in word-creation came with Paul. One teenage day, he started calling me “Pa-rent” (though we are from Seattle, this name is pronounced through the nose in two distinct Southern-twang syllables). My wife is “Ma-rent,” and grandparents are “the grand-rents.” And in our typical back-and-forth style, I told Paul, “if we’re going to be rents, you’re going to be a runt.” And though he is now 22, I still call him “Paul-runt.” He’s living in the DC area and calls us almost weekly, if not more than once a week. Our conversations begin with, “Hey Pa-rent.” I respond with, “Hey Paul-runt, what’s going on?”

The most recent Hansen addition to the English language is a rather unsavory one—“bafoop.” I take Biscuit outside to take care of business—to bafoop. I refuse to take her on a walk until she has bafooped. I show her the plastic bag and the leash, and say, “Biscuit, you wanna go for a WALK?” She gets all excited, walks around in circles until she has made a sufficient deposit on the designated corner of the lawn, and then we go on her most glorious moment of the day—a one-mile walk (remember, she’s twelve). The old lady becomes a two-year-old dog that loves to bark and growl at any dog in sight, but suddenly transforms into a smiling creature of angelic disposition when passers-by dote on her.

Okay, maybe we in the Hansen household haven’t coined 1700 words like Mr. William Shakespeare did. We haven’t even coined 17. But, we’ve enjoyed our attempts at word craft, and are proud of our silly contributions to the English language.

2 Comments

If Only You Could Take It Back...

4/7/2017

2 Comments

A couple of days ago, I was at the supermarket. My favorite checkers weren’t on duty, so I did the usual. I shopped the lines, estimated the size of each person’s purchase before me, and chose the line I thought I’d get through the quickest. (Side note: the strategy always fails! The definition of insanity is....) Anyway, the checker was a young woman—polite and friendly. I put my chip card in for payment when finished, and she unilaterally announced, “And a five percent senior discount.”

“But I’m not a senior,” I shot back, smiling. Things went downhill from there.

“You’re not?” she responded with such a loud, incredulous tone that for a moment, my face flushed in anger. Then, I laughed.

Don’t take yourself so seriously, I reminded myself, and drove home chuckling all the way. Guess I don't look 25 anymore. And, to be fair, the supermarket’s “senior discount day” age threshold was 55, and that’s what I’ll be on my next birthday. She wasn’t that far off the mark. But really…did she have to be so dramatic in expressing her surprise? Maybe I’m not really over it. Just kidding.

Faux pas. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve committed one, but I’ll confess, I’ve committed more than my fair share. So, I try to let them pass when I’m the victim, and agonize for days when I perpetrate them.

For example, I’ve learned to never comment on pregnancy unless the woman brings up the topic. Learned that one the hard way. A friend had given birth to her first child two months earlier, and I hadn’t seen her in several months.

“Oh, when are you due?” I asked.

An awkward look came over her face and she changed the subject. Later, someone whispered to me that she had given birth two months earlier. I beat myself up for weeks on that one.

Once on a visit home to the States, I was in a supermarket and ran into someone I hadn’t seen in 20 years.

“Jane, your hair color is different!” were the words of shock that came out of my mouth. Great opening line. Take that back. Miserable opening line.

What about those text messages I’ve sent to the wrong person? Fortunately, none of them have been damaging, but it’s always embarrassing.

The “most delicious” faux pas response came when my brother called Dad, who thought he was talking to me. Dad then made a regrettable statement about my brother. When my brother said, “Dad, it’s me,” and said his name, Dad was totally embarrassed and apologized. My brother had a witty, tongue-in-cheek response.

“Don’t worry about it, Dad. I’ll get over it…eventually.”

2 Comments

Crappy Days

3/9/2017

6 Comments

My wife and I are both swimmers and wanted to teach our kids to swim, but they were terrified of venturing into the water on their own. They were fine to wade in the kiddie pond or around the shallow steps of a full-sized pool where they could safely hold onto a railing or the edge. But if we wanted to venture into the turbulent, dangerous waters of the middle where their feet couldn’t reach the bottom, they clung to us for dear life. They didn’t even mind plunging their heads underwater. We taught them first to hold their nose, take a deep breath, and then we’d dunk together. We came back up laughing and splashing. That was lots of fun. But, they simply couldn’t bring themselves to launch out on their own.

So, I put floater wings around their skinny little arms, took them to the middle of the shallow end of the pool, and let them go. Not a pretty sight. Nor sound. Strangers stared with open mouths, surely judging us as terrible parents. So, we always tried to do it when the pool didn’t have many people around. Our kids’ angst was explosive, to say the least, but it only lasted a few seconds…until they realized they were just fine, and that we were only two or three steps away. They began kicking their legs, and we slowly backed up to the edge of the pool. Within minutes, they realized they could navigate the pool just fine without sinking. (Post-anecdote note: All three of our kids became good swimmers, and the first two even joined swim teams in junior high school.)

How do I connect this swimming story to “crappy days?” Let me explain how today went:

First, I woke up feeling achy all over. I got up a little earlier than usual, but not so early as to explain the headache and stiffness in my limbs. Next, my wife and I couldn’t find a gift card to a local nursery—a $200 card—that we know is somewhere in the bedroom. From there, I met with friends and had to deal with a major disappointment (don’t ask). Then, I stopped by to hand in a resume, hoping for a job interview. Unsuccessful. Next, I drove across town to encourage a dear friend who is going through some struggles. But really, I was the one needing to be encouraged. Oh, the irony! On the way back, I stopped at the nursery (without the gift card) to find out what to do about some shrubs I had bought that were dying. The clerk told me to photo them and send the pictures to him online. Next stop was the grocery store, equipped with a handful of coupons. The checker—one of the nicest young men ever—forgot to enter the coupon discounts. He had already charged my card for the purchase. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, seeing how flustered he was because of the previous customer who had left a whole pile of groceries on the counter with the plausible excuse of being “over-budget” (his grocery cart was looooaded). On second thought, maybe the checker wasn’t flustered—maybe he was just hungry (he’s on the lean side). Rabbit trail: People used to look at my overly skinny self, shake their heads in pity—or worry—and tell me I needed an extra sandwich. So, I’m sympathetic to the condition.

When I got home, I walked into the house through the garage door, and there, sitting in the middle of the hallway floor, for the first time ever, was a big fat pile of dog poop. Our aging Golden Retriever (Biscuit, if you’ve read my previous blog postings) had left a stinky little present. Yes, it was a crappy day—literally. I cleaned it up, and then went out the back door to photograph the dying shrubs (for the nursery). In the process, I locked myself outside. Not devastating—we have a keypad for an automatic garage door on the front side of the house, but it was raining, cold, and the back yard was wet and muddy.

Sometimes I think back to my kids and the swimming pool example, and imagine God putting floater wings on my arms and setting me adrift. I may feel like I’m going to drown, or that the world is coming to an end, but in reality, He’s only a few steps away, encouraging me to navigate my way to the safety of the edge of the pool.

You may ask, “How did you deal with all of that?” To be honest, as I was walking through the wet, muddy back yard to let myself back into the house, I started chuckling at the absurdity of the day. I knew better than to yell, “How can things possibly get any worse?” because I know things can easily be far worse...just not today, hopefully. Since I didn’t get worked up about my misfortunes (this time), I suppose that’s a small victory worth celebrating. (I wonder...is that celebrating mediocrity?) And, I didn’t get mad at Biscuit. Guess that’s two wins for the day.

I bet the next time I have a crappy day, I’ll think back to this post and envision floater wings around my (still) skinny arms. Or, maybe I’ll default to what a friend once quipped about her bad day, “I just want chocolate and TV.” The second one sounds more enticing, but I’m pretty sure the first one is the healthier snack.

6 Comments

MAVERICK

2/10/2017

0 Comments

My sister and I were in the kitchen, cooking up a name (excuse the pun) for our maternal grandmother. I was perhaps four, my sister six.

“Well, she’s the mom of our mom, so why don’t we call her Mommom?” my sister suggested—at least, I think it was her idea. Can’t imagine I could have come up with that at age four.

The name stuck for the last thirty years of Mommom’s life.

A widow at 49, Mommom sold her prime California farm property to her in-laws shortly after her husband’s death and invested the proceeds wisely. She went back to nursing for awhile, and then left that so she could grandmother her only child’s kids (my three siblings and me).

As kids, we thought Mommom was the coolest grandma. She had cool cars. She had a cool condominium in Modesto, California with a heated swimming pool, surrounded by palm trees. She lived near the Oakdale Hershey factory (before it closed), and always supplied us with treats whenever she visited us in Washington State. She brought cool presents, too. She talked cool. Everything about her was cool. And of course, she had money and was generous with our family, because Mom was her only child.

I remember one trip to Santa Cruz where my sister and I climbed into the back seat of her awesome—PURPLE!—1966 Oldsmobile Toronado with retractable headlights…and a 385 V8 engine. It even had air conditioning! (In my hometown—Seattle—few cars had air-conditioning in the early 70s). Once she hit the freeway, she accelerated to 90 miles per hour. We kids were bouncing on the seats as the speedometer needle inched higher and higher. We had never traveled that fast (in a car). Signaling to each other to say nothing, my sister and I wanted to see how long Mommom would drive that fast. But you guessed it—she drove that fast all the way to Santa Cruz, baby, with the windows rolled down and our skinny little arms sticking out, pulling the warm California air into our sleeves to inflate our shirts like balloons.

A few years later, she upgraded to a 1972 Buick LeSabre with a 455 V8 engine. My family inherited that car when I was a teenager, so I got to drive it. Beat my friend’s ’66 Ford Mustang hands down on a short drag test on Highway 99. But…back to Mommom and her LeSabre…

Before she bequeathed the Buick to our family, she was driving it along McHenry Avenue in Modesto and stopped at a traffic light. A young man in the lane next to her rolled down his car window and called out, “Hey grandma, want to drag?”

With laser eyes that could have pierced a ten-foot-thick steel wall, she looked at him and said, “How would you like to go to hxxl?”

At this, my siblings and I gasped, our hands rushing to our mouths in shock.

“I didn’t tell him to go to hxxl,” she justified herself later on. “I just asked him how he would like to go there.”

I remember glancing anxiously at Mom to see if she approved of the explanation, of which she clearly didn’t. Her answering glare let me know that those words would never be acceptable in our home.

But to be fair to Mommom, that’s only one of two times I ever heard her swear—in all the thirty years I remember her (later about the second time). She had a solid faith, enviable character, and was a model of faith, love, virtue…and pure coolness…which is why the incident still stands out in my memory. We all wanted to be like her and live up to her expectations.

On another trip to Modesto, I remember we were all sitting around the dinner table in her dining room when the phone rang. Mommom jumped up to answer it.

Mommom: “Myellow.” (We kids used to make a lot of fun about that).

(Short pause as she listens to the person on the other end of the line).

Mommom: “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number, but I wish I were Nancy. You sound like somebody I’d like to go on a date with.”

She winked at us, and then spent the rest of the dinner time flirting with a complete stranger on the phone while my family giggled and gasped in shock at her swagger. Not sure what Mom really thought of Mommom that night, but I remember Mom shaking her head, unable to contain her laughter—just like the rest of us.

When Mommom was 70, she moved up to Washington State to be near us. Within a few months of the move, she suffered a massive stroke and was touch and go for three months in ICU. In the early days of her hospital stay, my brother left a Garfield balloon tied to the foot of her bed because she didn’t wake up when he visited. The next day during visiting hours, she was asleep again, but she had scribbled a message on a notepad by the side of her bed that read, “Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse I know, but who the hxxl is Garfield?” (the second time).

Mommom recovered and lived another thirteen years after that, telling stories of her life, modeling excellent character, patiently teaching and offering advice when asked. She loved and spoiled us all until she passed away on Valentine’s Day—a fitting day to meet her Savior. But I have often imagined her driving down the streets of gold and pulling up next to a brawny angel and asking, “Hey angel, you wanna drag?”

Somehow, I don’t think she’d get the same humiliating answer she had dished up to a young driver in Modesto, California.

0 Comments

THINGS THAT DO AND DON'T GO INTO MOUTHS

1/19/2017

4 Comments

(Note: Because of the sensitive nature of this blog post, sibling names are not mentioned--to protect the innocent, of course.)

One of my family’s favorite stories when I was growing up was a particular sibling. He used to take a spoon from the kitchen drawer, go outside into the garden, and begin shoveling rich, loamy soil into his mouth. We caught it on camera—and even Super 8 movies (prehistoric, pre-handycam / pre-cell-phone technology). Right before I got married, my parents were celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and so we siblings put together a family history tribute for them and set it to the tune of the Twelve Days of Christmas. You bet, the “Five Golden Rings” was replaced by “sibling ate dirt.” That was our favorite line.

Now, perhaps I’m hitting my sibling too hard here. Because if I want to be really honest, another sibling and I used to sneak into the cabinet where our German Shepherd’s dog food was kept and popped more than a few kibbles into our mouths. We thought it was delicious. That was before I was five.

And then there was another sibling—a brother—who had a pink baby blanket. My parents must have been expecting a girl (no ultrasound in those days). Well, this little machine took to his pink blanket big time—so much so that he chewed on it day in and day out. He called it his “night-night.” It was so full of saliva and stank so badly that nobody wanted to touch it. I remember my parents calling to us.

“Gerrit, would you throw (sibling)’s blanket into the washing machine?”

Because my wife and I had three kids of our own, I now understand that trick. My parents didn’t want to touch that stinky, mutilated blanket any more than we kids did, but they had the power. So, my sister or I (whoever got the request—or command) picked it up by one of its threads with one hand, pinched our noses with the other, and then dropped it into the washing machine. I don’t remember if my clothes were washed with it--heaven forbid, but I guess it doesn’t matter at this point in time, anyway. Whatever the case, we carried that abomination to the laundry room as if it were radioactive. We sure thought it was (both radioactive AND an abomination). It went through the washing cycle, came through the dryer, and didn’t look much better. Within an hour, my sibling had that thing stinking as bad as before it went through the laundering process.

So, considering all the disgusting things my siblings and I put into our mouths, I guess I learned real quick what was disgusting and what wasn’t. The only problem—I learned the lesson too well. I became the family’s pickiest eater. Not a smidgen of gristle or fat made it into my mouth. We had a miniature poodle that sat under the table by my feet. He was happy to conceal that evidence, but not so much the green things. Nothing green—other than lettuce, peas, or green beans, made it into my mouth. And as far as onions and celery goes, I was an expert at picking it out of anything my parents served. Must have been exasperating for them. Actually, my dad made it clear he was displeased. (Let’s just leave the description of his exasperation there.) I didn’t even like potatoes—French fries, baked potatoes, and hash browns were the worst. (I was okay with mashed potatoes.) Pepper was evil, and cooked carrots made me gag. Not until I went to college did my tastes begin to change.

Then, I moved to Asia right out of college. Eating challenges abounded there. I ate snails, frog legs, eel, and any number of things fellow Americans might dub “disgusting.” Padang food serves tripe, lung, and brains…along with other innards. I’m also glad I didn’t live in North Sulawesi, where they eat dog and the three “at”s: cat, rat, and bat. I made a trip there in ’97, and one of our team members wanted to try it all. We asked him if he liked any of it, and he told us that he didn’t, but that he was glad he tried it. I’m glad I didn’t.

But the hardest thing for me to eat was papeda, a dish served in eastern Indonesia. It’s made of sago flour, and when cooked with water, has the consistency of glue (I was going to say snot, but I figured that was inappropriate). During one visit to Papua, I was in a home church group with all ex-convicts, all sitting on the ground in a circle as food was being served. I was trapped. Nowhere to run or hide. I couldn’t wiggle my way out of eating it. Besides, I wasn’t about to be a weenie in front of a bunch of ex-cons who had endured much worse in their lives than I had. So, I took half a plateful. And, I’ll confess, once in a lifetime was enough. I was glad I lived in western Indonesia where we had healthy indigenous foods like Kentucky Fried Chicken and McDonald's.

Living in Asia did wonders for my liking of vegetables, though. I can now eat green things—even like them. But when I traveled back to the States and ate a meal with my parents, Dad always teased. When I was a teenager, he’d say, “Gerrit, watch out—you missed an onion.” Well, on these trips home in my 30s and 40s, that phrase morphed into, “Gerrit, watch out—you might get an onion on your fork.” Dad teased me about it until I turned fifty, at which point Mom said, “That’s enough!” So for the last couple of years, I’ve been hassle-free when we get together for a meal.

That’s because now, I eat almost everything, and fast. I still have a couple of holdouts, but even on those, I’m giving up. I enjoy teasing my kids about not eating tomatoes, or mushrooms, or whatever, so in order to be on strong footing to tease them, I have to eat anything and everything. (Guess I got my dad's teasing gene--chip off the old block).

When I was young, I had to learn about lots of things that were not healthy for me to put in my mouth, like coins, rocks, leaves…and dog food. Now, I have to learn not to put things into my mouth—things that make my stomach extend over my belt. I feel like a little kid all over again who sneaks things into the mouth that shouldn’t go there—like chocolate, sourdough bread and butter (my favorite), potato chips, and in general, yummy things.

Oh, why oh why must we make such rules about what can and can’t go into our mouths????

4 Comments

POKÉMON GO

7/30/2016

3 Comments

On July 9, I was driving our minivan filled with young adults to an island beach for a day of games and a picnic. Along the way, they were buzzing about the latest Pokémon Go game app on their cell phones. I was registering the discussion and excitement, but not tuning in because I was talking with my wife (in the passenger seat), and also, admittedly…because I think cell phone games are a waste of time. And, I think on the whole, Pokémon is weird. Okay, I’ve marked myself as old-fashioned. Done.

We had a lot of fun at the beach and then headed home in the afternoon. As we parked at the ferry terminal, one of the students opened the car door and started walking along the ferry dock, looking down at his phone as he was rushing away. He walked so fast that I ran after him to make sure he was okay. But he passed up the restroom—where I presumed he was heading—and went right to the end of the dock. I thought he was going to jump.

“Got him!” he shouted.

That was the epiphany for me.

Everything I had only been giving half of my attention to became crystal clear. This was the “Pokémon Go” game they had all been talking about so excitedly.

I went home and looked it up on the internet. The scary stuff came out—the potential for criminals or terrorists to lure people into a death trap. The teenager in Wyoming finding a dead body didn’t do much to allay my fears, either.

Then, last night, my wife and I went for a walk along Lake Washington at “Log Boom Park.” We did our nostalgia walk (my wife had grown up in the area), and then returned to the park and sat down on a bench to talk (near dusk). As we were talking, I mentioned to my wife that everyone around us was looking at their cell phones. The two benches to our right each had a young adult typing away on their phones. One gentleman, about 40-45, had walked back and forth about ten times and was looking at his phone. A pair of pre-teens were staring at their cell screens, happily chatting away as they made it from one end of the sitting area to the other and back. A husband and wife in their 40s got out of their car, and the wife was rushing up to her husband and said something about Pokémon Go as they were both rushing around, trying to catch the imaginary Pokémon. It was absurd! We were the only ones in the whole park that weren’t staring at our phones.

I was laughing, almost cynically so, until my wife reminded me of what her sister said about the game: “Hey, at least it’s getting people outdoors and exercising rather than just sitting on the couch and punching away at their tiny screens.”

Good point.

Today, we hiked up to Lake 22 in Washington State, and guess what several hikers were playing? I assume that people were on the hike because they wanted to see a beautiful lake, but who knows? They were exercising rather than watching Saturday morning cartoons!

I still think Pokémon is weird, and I won’t be playing the game, but if anyone reading this does, please make sure you’re aware of your surroundings, look up from your screen frequently to make sure you’re not walking into a trap, and never go into dark alleys. Be smart, and have fun!

Smash hit, Niantic!

3 Comments

Humor at Thirteen

5/4/2016

2 Comments

When I was at my parent’s home a few days ago, Dad handed me two boxes of old stuff. One box was full of book treasures, including the worn-out Bible I had used during college. The second box was loads of fun: negatives and slides of my two trips to Europe, along with high school photos of my best friends…and, my senior high school picture. I looked better then than now, for sure.

But in that photo box was also a small notebook that journaled my last trip with Dad in ’75—a trip to England and Scotland. I had been fascinated by castles in junior high school. He challenged me to work and save money to buy an airplane ticket ($300+) and $50 spending money, which I did over the course of two summers. Goal met, we departed in October.

The trip was an amazing sight-seeing tour—and it was a great father-son bonding time. So many treasured memories from that trip, including photos of a dozen castles. But the journal entries made the trip come alive again. At the time of the trip, I was “not even 13 1/2 yet,” as pointed out on one page. As I read through the journal, I started cracking up. Here are a few of my 13-year-old thoughts at the time, along with a few present-day commentaries in brackets {}.

* * * * *

Sunday, October 12: [On the plane] “We had steak, salad, a roll, beans, and cooked carrots (Yuck!)” {Growing up, I hated cooked carrots—among many other things....}

“The plane shook a lot which of course made me a nervous wreck.” {Of course!}

Monday, October 13: “We had a choice of three different busses to take us to our hotel. We saw all three, but we were on the wrong side of the street to catch them, so we took a taxi and it cost us 70 pence. (1 pence = 2.0635 pennies).” {I was still thinking in terms of pennies at age 13.}

“We got to the hotel only to find how small the room was. Dad’s feet stick about a foot past the end of the bed.” {This was no exaggeration. I remember this vividly.}

“Then we walked around London Tower for about an hour or two and I took two pictures.” {Those were the days—before digital cameras—when we were careful about every shot.}

“Right now, I am laying [sic] in bed writing, while the whole city of London listens to my Dad snore.” {Now, I snore, too.}

Wednesday, October 15: “On the way back to the hotel, we stopped and got some pop and I got some orange tic-tacs for 6 pence which = 12¢. I was amazed.” {It’s amazing what amazes a young teenager who isn’t even 13 1/2 yet.}

“Later, we went to the royal opera house and saw “La Traviata,” and it was beautiful music. We got cheap seats and we got put in cheap places.” {Some things never change.}

Thursday, October 16: “We toured through the [Woburn] abbey, and we met a lady who was selling guidebooks and she wouldn’t shut up! Finally, we just said we’d be going and luckily, that was the last we saw of her!”

Friday, October 17: [In Lincoln] “We went to the Assize Courtrooms in which of course Dad was very interested in [sic]…P.S. To get in the courtroom, you had to be 14. My dad said I was 14, but I’m not even 13 1/2 yet!” {In case the irony wasn't caught: My dad, the judge, fibbed to get me into a courtroom!}

Saturday, October 18: “Then, we went to have dinner at a French restaurant. The food we had, nobody else had, which made it to [sic] appear lousy, and it was.” {I was unhappy with many foods at that age.}

[of York Minster]: “Minster is how it is pronounced, NOT Minister.” {A new vocabulary word at the time.}

Sunday, October 19: “Today, we got up and had a huge breakfast. Sausage, beacon [sic], 2 eggs, mushrooms, toast (two pieces), orange juice, and tomatoes, (though I didn’t have any tomatoes).” {Guess I didn’t like tomatoes, either.}

[About our guide—the owner of the bed & breakfast place where we stayed]: “He was sort of fun to have around, although he smoked heavily and it drove Dad and me up the wall.” {Teenage candor!}

“Then, by the time we got home, it was time to have dinner so my dad and I dropped off the man and went to have Kentucky Fried Chicken.” {KFC—an American refuge!}

“Then we went to the movie theater. We saw ‘Superargo’ which was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen, and ‘Paper Tiger’ which was very good.” {I have zero recollection of this, so I googled it and found out that ‘Superargo’ is a 1966 Spanish superhero film.}

Wednesday, October 22: “Today, we got up and had the usual breakfast (which is growing dull time after time) eggs, beacon [sic], tomato, toast, tea, juice, and sausage. I’m sure getting sick of it.” {How quickly teenagers get bored.}

“We drove on down south towards [sic] London. We saw beautiful countryside, but the weather was cloudy, dull-looking, as usual.” {Editorializing at age 13!}

“Then we ate at the Greek restaurant. Dad’s food was terrific, my food was awful.” {Man, I complained about food a lot!}

Thursday, October 23: “Then we went to a Welsch [sic] concert and without knowing it we sat in the middle of the choir. It was also a church service as well as a choir and everything was in Welsch [sic].” {I doubt we actually sat in the choir loft. We were on the balcony, and that’s not where choirs usually sit 😀}

* * * * *

Reading the journal through during college, I remember being embarrassed by its juvenile tone and was tempted to throw it away. So glad I didn’t!

Forty-one years down the road, Dad and I are going on our first father-son trip since that England-Scotland journey. Dad is almost 85, and I’m almost 54. We’re going to visit my son who’s in infantry training in Fort Benning, Georgia. No castles, operas, Welch concerts, or talkative tour guides this time. (And if I am served tomatoes, cooked carrots, or what have you, I’ll eat it all gratefully.)

I’m fully aware that the trip’s dynamic this time around will be much different, and I probably won’t keep a daily journal like I did back then. These three days will fly past us at supersonic speed. But I will cherish every moment spent together—both with father and son. And, hopefully, I’ll have some more funnies to write about when back.

See you later!

2 Comments

<<Previous

Forward>>

Archives

Categories