DAD - childhood memories

Turn the clock back 40 or so years and I can see exactly what my family was doing on a grey weekend day like today. 

     With full bellies after breakfast, a half dozen kids and two parents would be lolling about the living room reading the paper and listening to the radio.  Dad would notice a fresh-looking log floating in the cove in front of our house that had probably tumbled down the Puyallup River during the spring rains.  A quick look through the binoculars would confirm that this one, with its bark mostly intact and a little fresh wood exposed, was worth harvesting.

     He and Mom, or sometimes an older sibling, would pull out the dinghy, mount the outboard motor and hum toward the log before it floated out of reasonable reach.  This log harvesting wasn’t exactly legal but was not harmful either.  And besides – it kept our drafty old home toasty warm in the winter with plenty of dry wood to stoke the fire.

     My tall, strong Papa would drag that log up the beach, just high enough to safely start cutting.  Out came his chainsaw and we would all plug our ears while sweet-smelling chips flew in all directions.  He would turn the long, branchless tree into a pile of round, fat cookies.  In a race with the inevitably rising tide he would grab the ax and start chopping away.  We kids would scurry about a safe distance away on the beach searching for treasures and playing with the shore crabs until we were called to duty. 

     We were each required to stack as many splintery pieces as we could carry in our arms and haul our load up the steep grass hill to the side of the garage.   There the wood would be neatly stacked to dry out for the following winter.  Being the youngest I always took the smaller pieces, but it was hard work climbing all the stairs up from the beach regardless.  My folks are of the hard-working type and they expected us to be hard workers too.  Although incessant complaining was not tolerated, we certainly grumbled plenty to each other, out of hearing range of our parents

     One of the rewards of this manual labor was when the day ended much like it started.  We’d be lounging around the living room after a belly-warming dinner, basking in the warmth of a fire built from last year’s log harvest.  Dad, exhausted, would stretch out across the carpet, half napping, while my sisters and I drove our Hot Wheels racing cars all over Daddy Mountain.

     As us kids grew up and everyone was too busy for these communal projects, Dad reluctantly ordered and paid for cords of wood to be delivered to our driveway in a big noisy truck.  We still were called out to stack the wood, but this job was much easier without the steep hill to climb.  That purchased, delivered wood kept our house warm as well.  But I think those fires built with the sea-salty harvested wood, collected by my Dad and his strong work ethic that he passed along to all of us kids, made the coziest fires of all.

     Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  Thanks for all of the great memories and lessons along the way.

Smoker's Yoga

Bed-head hidden beneath a fisherman’s hat
 

Tired eyes masked with shades

He shuffles out the front door and pauses at the foot of the driveway

Taking a moment to feel the sun and breathe in fresh morning air before

Lighting a cigarette

 

Reaching for the sky

He raises his arms high over head in a slow, satisfying stretch

With wisps of smoke curling from his right hand

Posing, pausing long enough for his belly to peek out from under the worn gray t-shirt to greet the day

 

With a grunt, the stretch becomes a bend

As he stoops to snatch the plastic-clad newspaper from the pavement

While other shy body parts catch a glimpse of the morning from behind

 

Slowly rising with a deep inhale and a nicotine sigh

He nods and waves through his personal cloud at the passing dog and walker

 

 

 

Run For Your LIFE!!!

                No need to look over your shoulder.   There is not a gargantuan boulder thundering down the path in your direction.  No tsunami rolling in to sweep you out to sea.  Not even a cloud of voracious insects blocking the sun, ready to swarm and feast upon your exposed flesh.  I am merely talking about what we runners do every day.  We run for our lives.

I’m not talking about our physical lives, because we already know the countless health benefits of vigorous physical activity.  We know that running strengthens our bones and muscles and keeps our heart healthy.  The burning of calories keeps our bodies balanced between what we put in and what we put out.  Craving the occasional double cheeseburger with the works, or a generous slice of chocolate/peanut butter pie? Go for it, and then enjoy those added early morning miles as you work off each one of those delectable extra calories.  Running keeps our bodies in balance.

                But when I say that I “Run for my life,” I am thinking not only of my physical well-being, but the whole package; body, mind and heart - the sappy-sentimental-loving kind of heart. 

                Solo runs are cleansing.  Usually in the morning when the birds and frogs are welcoming the day, I head out for a plod on nearby trails.  This is a chance to clear my mind of the clutter of work and home life.  Undistracted by news-radio, bustling kids frenetically getting ready for school or the pile of laundry that has been waiting for me to for two days, I chug along.  I am able to plan the day, the week and reflect on life in general.  This is also my most creative time of day.  Could it be all of that fresh air hitting my brain that feels so rejuvenating, or just the fact that my only purpose for this one hour of the day is to move forward, one step at a time?  These morning runs are sometimes dreaded when the weather is frigid and wet, and the thought of staying in the warm, cozy house so inviting.  But these soggy outings are never regretted afterward.  Total refreshment never fails.

                Buddy runs are necessary.  At least half the time I meet my training partner for a run.  We help motivate each other to get out and push one another along.  Sometimes we meet for a workout - maybe a timed tempo run, hill repeats or the ominous track workouts.   Although my partner, an admitted track-junkie, has to hog-tie and drag me along to the sinister oval, I’m usually happy she did.  However, I believe it is not necessarily the physical gains from the training that are most beneficial.

 These buddy runs are our Mental Health Check-ups.  We vent about everything from work, to spouses, to kids, to undone chores, all in the safety of our private, side-by-side conversation.  We sometimes rage and swear and solve world problems, and our anger pushes us to faster times.  Other days are spent stopping, doubled-over belly-laughing, to a joke or funny story – on these days our times slow way, way down.  But we don’t mind how fast or how slow, because all of those big stresses that seemed so over-whelming when we got up that morning somehow have a new shine – a smaller, more friendly, do-able sparkle and now we are ready to tackle those problems, one bite at a time.

And then there are the group runs.  I sometimes think of our Sunday run as a Mob Run.  Anywhere from five to twenty of us meet at the trailhead for a social 1.5 to 2 hour run on the beautiful, winding trails of Galbraith Mountain.  The conversation is lively and completely uncensored, but everyone knows that what is said on the trail stays on the trail!  These runs prove to me that laughter is good for the soul because I always return home afterward feeling light and exuberant instead of pooped from the long, hilly miles.  What I do know is we would likely never meet weekly for a couple of hours to chat if we weren’t on the run.  These women and these runs keep me sane and happy and I don’t want to imagine living without them.

So, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!  For all the parts of your life, for your body, mind and spirit.  Those couch potatoes and “you’re going to hurt your knees” naysayers don’t know what they’re missing!

               

                

Take My Wife, Please

                There is one four letter word that gets my hackles up, believe it or not.   Now, I’m no prude – I love lively self-expression filled with colorful words.  Sometimes it takes one of those “Seven Dirty Words” that George Carlin embraced to get the point across.  Those forbidden words can serve as a sort of punctuation, providing the perfect emphasis or pause.   In fact, I love to swear. 

But this particular word, although the meaning is benign, has the connotation of ownership or belittlement that makes my skin crawl.   At the top of my least favorite word list is ‘wife’.  Now, I’ll admit right off that there are times when this word is appropriate when explaining connections between people, but I think this term is incredibly over-used and in most cases can be replaced by a more expressive word or just a plain old name.  For example, “John and his wife are coming for dinner.”  Does John’s wife not have a name?  Do you not know her name?  Learn it.  Names are always better than labels.

“Is this your wife?” asked after a manly handshake and hello.  “Sorry, I’m not owned by anyone, but we are married.  My name is Sharon.”  I know, I know – a petty complaint and a little ridiculous. No big deal.  You can say the same thing about the term “husband”.  You are right.  My husband, my daughter, my dog – these are all merely explaining a relationship.  Honestly, I don’t kick and scream every time I hear the word (but you might notice my slight convulsions when that word is thrown in my direction).

But HERE is the one use that gets my lips-a-curling and my fangs-a-showing:  “The Wife.”   As in, “The wife and I are going on vacation.”  THE wife?   You can’t do better than that?  I use 'the' when referring to objects.  THE glass in on THE table.  THE radio is on THE wrong channel.  THE poop is in THE grass.  Do you ever hear “THE husband” except when someone is deliberately turning it around for a laugh?  It’s almost worse than ownership, because it rings of resignation.  “This is THE wife.  I don’t claim her as mine or anything.  She’s just there.  She’s like the furniture.  THE lawn.   She isn’t even a she, she’s a THE.” 

I may not be writing the words, but you can bet I’m picturing all of those colorful swear words in my head right now, just thinking about ‘THE wife’.  Feel free to join me in this visualization exercise.

 Well, now that I’ve gotten that off the chest, I’ll get the child off to school and start the day.  

Happy Friday to y’all – or whatever day it is when you read this.

March Forth!

                I am lucky enough to call myself a Patches Pal.  If you grew up in the Puget Sound area in the 60's and 70's, chances are you are also a Proud Patches Pal!  If you didn’t, well…I feel kind of sorry for you because you don’t know what you missed.  Each morning before school I sat shoulder to shoulder with my siblings, squatting on the shag carpet in front of the big old console television giggling at J.P. Patches and all of his goofy sidekicks, like just about every other kid within sight of Mt. Rainier.  Always in the center of the screen was his huge Grandfather clock, complete with Grandfather’s face.  We watched that show, and that clock, until it was time to rush out the door to catch the school bus at the corner.

                J.P. Patches was the mayor of the City Dump from 1958 to 1981. He lived in a shack with Esmerelda the rag doll and his gender-bending girlfriend named Gertrude (played by Bob Newman…in fact, most characters that visited were played by Bob Newman) not to mention his pet rubber chicken named Tikey Turkey. Today is March 4^th, always a special day at the Seattle City Dump. Mr. Patches declared the fourth day of March as extra special because this was the only day of the year that stated a command, “March Forth!”

                On this day J.P., who some knew out-of-make-up as Chris Wedes, would lead a raucous march around his shack. Mr. Music Man would play special marching music to encourage us kids at home to join the march and celebrate the day.  Never does this date pass that I don’t march a few steps in J.P.’s honor.

J.P. had a constant parade of visitors such as Ketchikan the Animal Man, Miss Smith from Miss Smith’s Delivery Service, Officer Patty-Wagon and Boris S. Wort – the Second Meanest Man in the World.  You could see Bob Newman sweating at times as he juggled all of his alter-egos, costumes and make-up in one show.  Visiting characters had to be careful when leaving the City Dump, as most of them fell into a seemingly bottomless pit right outside Patches’ shack door. He often warned them, but they never listened.   We didn’t see them fall, just heard their call for help fade as the victim fell far down into the dump’s abyss.

The best thing about this old show was that it was live, mostly improvisation and slightly subversive.  There were so often jokes, aimed more at adults, that made the characters AND the crew bust-up laughing. We children laughed along with them because we thought we were supposed to, but  we didn't really know why.  Last night I watched an old episode with my family (yes, I have a DVD set – you can borrow it if you promise to cherish every moment) where Ketchikan read an old classic story to the television audience, “Henny Penny”.  We watched the Animal Man catch the giggles when he reached the part about “Cocky-Locky” and proceeded to laugh himself off his chair while the crew egged him on.  My stomach still hurts from my own gut-busting guffaws!

To this day I can't listen to the classic jazz tune “In the Mood” without thinking of Mr. Announcer Man (his theme song) on Friday mornings giving his weather reports and general advice.  Was there ever a childhood birthday that we didn’t sit silently in hopeful anticipation, fingers-crossed, waiting for J.P. to see us in his ICU2 TV Set, wish us a Happy Day and tell us where in our house to find that hidden special birthday present?

Calling all Patches Pals:  Please join me today in a short march in honor of our childhood hero.  If you don’t have marching music, just find a pot and wooden spoon, chant with the beasts in the Secret Room, “OO-GA-CHAKA!  OO-GA-OO-GA-OO-GA-CHAKA!” and lift those knees high.  And March Forth!!

My oldest daughter's first Halloween.  I had to introduce her to my childhood hero.  So glad I did.

Blame the Dog? Heck yeah.

(Warning:  Contains potty humor)

There are few things better in life than my loyal dog, asleep on her bed at my side.

And almost nothing is worse than her deathly gas clouds wafting over our faces while we drift off to sleep (or at least TRY to).

I try to feel empathy for her intestinal woes and be patient.

I try to breathe with one long exhale, in hopes that the cloud will disperse and breathable air will return in time for the inhale.  But that’s one Big cloud.

The thought crosses our minds at the same time – is someone trying the “Blame the dog” game?  Should I smack my husband?  Is he about to mistakenly smack me?

But no.  Although my pup, like all dogs, has no fleshy cheeks that rumble and flap with the passing of gas and usually are of the silent-but-deadly type, these gaseous utterances have a slight sound at the beginning and end - much like a capital letter and a punctuation mark on a sentence.  Definitely coming from the dog’s exposed brown star.

I peek over the edge of the bed and see that she is as disgusted as the rest of us.  With the squeak of another eruption, her head pops up and she looks toward her tail, nose twitching.  “Dang…” I almost hear her grumble.  “What died in me?”

I turn away from her side of the bed and try to build a protective cave of blankets around my face, which works well enough to doze off for a while.

Just two hours later, I hear my beloved dog whimpering to get outside.  She’s a good sleeper so I know what’s going on.  As I shuffle across the dark bedroom floor toward the door, I’m hoping that whatever is knocking on her back door will ease her intestinal pain, and our own discomfort.

At last, Goodnight.

Mission Impossible

              I’m on a mission.  Actually, at my directive, my whole family is on a mission.  Our sanity and health depend upon the success of this task.  Our job is to keep The Catling awake during the day.  She has become a Demon of the Night, and we need to suck the energy out of her during the daylight so that she putters to a quiet purr at night.

                These cold winter days are making this nearly impossible.  Being of the heat seeking variety of feline, Lyra the Catling finds a warm spot to occupy and quickly drifts off into a content dream.  Since all the dog beds and sofas are empty I am fooled into thinking she is outside playing or wrestling her brother downstairs.  But, no!  I walk into the living room to find her sprawled out, belly-up in a golden sunspot under the picture window.  When the long shadows of winter fade into evening, our gas stove works like morphine on her small frame.  Once curled up below the flames, the most movement we see is her brief joyful twinkle as she gazes up at the fire with pure love, as if the iron box was her own mother.

                What are the stakes?  Imagine yourself in a deliciously deep slumber, when a furry, purring beast, with un-retractable claws (a birth defect) that are as sharp as a box of needles, climbs onto your face for a love session.  She rubs her face on your face, and can’t help but give love bites to your nose and chin. When she is rested this session goes on and on and on.  You lock her out of the room, only to have her poking her paws through the gap beneath the door, pulling and scratching at the wood.  You give up and let her in.  She is quiet for a moment, but then starts playing hockey with the objects on your desk.  At last she gets bored and decides to play ricochet ball on the wooden steps with her bouncy balls.  The last game is a relief, because at least the sound is distant and happy.

Even Alfie the Turtle can't get her to move

                On a normal mild-weather-play-outside-chase-butterflies kind of day, Lyra’s bed-time love session would end after a couple of minutes as she falls asleep from exhaustion.  But these cold winter days leave her no choice but to sleep all darned day to leave her refreshed for a night of play.  I do my best to disrupt her daytime naps.  I pet her, poke her, move her, play with her, even drag her limp body across the carpet far away from the heat source.  But she persists and drags herself across the carpet to bask in the radiant warmth.

Lyra sniffing catnip and dreaming

 Today I attempted to tease her by hog-tying her tiny legs with my pony-tail-holder while she snored on the dog bed, but she didn’t even notice.  She merely smiled and stretched while the hair-tie sprung away from her toes. This evening I put catnip right under her nose.  She just closed her eyes and inhaled, dozed off and had the best psychedelic dream, ever.

                I will have to admit defeat today.  Tonight will no doubt be long and torturous for the humans in the house.  It’s a lucky thing for Lyra that she is the Catling, a diminutive runt so innocent, dimwitted and adorable, or she might be in big trouble.