The Show Pony

Captain Adam and The Pole Dancer moored at the Straits Marina in Mackinaw City, MI.

Once upon a time, there were three small children whose mother loved them equally and unconditionally.  Jak was the oldest followed two and a half years later by Adam followed four years later by Jennifer.   HOWEVER, as time went on, these little angelic beings created an alternative universe for themselves.  It happened innocently, and when it happened, it stuck.   It stuck not because it was true, but because it was funny.

Jennifer on her 1st Birthday, Swimming Lessons for Jak at 6 mos., A Nautical Theme for Captain Adam at 3 mos.!

Their father, John, ran for United States Congress in 2010.  The entire year was a blur.  John and I felt a calling, as patriots, to give up our personal lives to go to Washington D.C. to serve and save our country as farmers once did when our republic was founded.  The scope of the campaign was massive and our children became involved in every aspect.  There were speeches, rallies, door-to-door knocking, signs to be placed, and many public appearances.

One day, toward the end of the run,  Adam got a wild burr up his butt when I asked him and his sister to dress up and be present at another one of our events.  He shot Jennifer his signature grin, looked me right in the eye, and snorted, “Nope.  I’m tired of being your Show Pony.”

Jennifer gasped–then the light bulb came on–her chance to grease the wheels and work Mom over good.  She faced  Adam and said, “Well, if you’re the Show Pony then Jak is the Stallion.  I guess that makes me the Donkey.”   We all busted out laughing.  Jennifer had been the work horse behind the scenes, scheduling events, answering calls at campaign headquarters, video taping speeches, walking in parades, and handling all the grunt work with poise and professionalism.  Adam was running the farm and our Subway Restaurants so he was already tapped out each time we would ask him to spruce up and show up.  Our son, John a.k.a  Jak, was working and living in New York so his siblings felt that he got a “Get Out of Jail Free” card, having only to show his support through phone calls and emails.  It was one of those spur of the moment family funnies that will live in infamy.

To this day, Adam remains my Show Pony.  He is the one with the flash and the quick wit.  He does eveything big:  boats, trucks, and tractors.   He has my father’s sense of timing, his invention, and his creativity.  I recall the scene from Apollo 13 when the space capsule was freezing cold and the astronauts were in peril as Americans sat frozen in horror waiting for mission news.  Jim Lovell’s mother, Blanche, had this exchange:

The 2010 campaign was the best of times, it was the best of times.  As a family we have never worked harder for something or had more fun doing it.  It was an honor to hold the public trust for even a short while.   As the results poured in on that November 2010 election night (we ran on the Republican ticket in a 70 percent Democratic district against a 30+ year incumbent) we finished 4 points short.  In all other races, in all previous years, the Republican candidate never came within 36 points of taking the seat.  There were no losers that year.  When you give all you have with all you’ve got–and grow friendships and faith along the way–then the experience ends with getting more than you gave.

Our Sweet Little Jennifer-Bennifer, all grown up.

Baby Rose

The Birds and The Bees

Our sweet German Shorthaired Pointer, Anna, was six years old when we drove her to Wisconsin to be bred to FC AFC Dr. N’s C. J. MH, VC  a  recognized champion in the National Bird Dog Hall of Fame.  350 miles, some Mickey D’s, and two pit stops later we arrived at his kennel ready to take a picture of the dogs when they met and mingled.  I figured there would be at least a half of an hour of photo ops as they became acquainted;  sniffing, greeting, and circling.  I wanted to pose them side by side for a picture we could frame.  Afterwards, I imagined both lovebirds would go into a private kennel while we owners drank champagne and passed cigars around.  

Dr. N’s C.J.

As soon as Anna hopped down from our truck, CJ was on top of her.  He is a boy who has been to this rodeo before.  John and I were equally shocked at the speed of connectivity.  Even Verizon Wireless would be impressed.  We locked eyes in panic and John rushed to Anna’s side.  The camera dangling around my neck was my only move…I was stopped cold, frozen in my tracks.    The kennel owner explained how important it is that we witness the blessed TWENTY MINUTE event to prove he used the correct stud.  (Jeez-Louise, I would have believed him anyway.)

After 25 years of marriage, we were honestly embarrassed in front of each other.  I thought I had seen it all, but had to laugh (inside) watching John hold Anna and whispering to her, “It’s okay, Anna, it’s okay,” as CJ’s tongue lolled out the side of his mouth.  Throughout the service, John locked eyes with me and I with he, and we did our best to feign dignity.   The stud’s owner shot me the skunk eye when she noticed the camera.   We were busted.   I didn’t bring it for the express purpose of doggie porn, I assured her.   We were totally green –and Anna was too by then.

May 1, 2003  -  Whelping Day

A few short months later, we had a litter of eight speckled pups and all the joy our hearts could hold.  Their little squeaks were music and they would cuddle in our arms for hours.  The first five weeks were a piece of cake; Anna did all the work.  After that, they figured out how to get out of their enclosure and left us gifts of every size.  One pup would be a keeper; a gun dog to take over momma’s job.  We had to pick. 

Ours had to have the best nose, lots of intensity, and we wanted a white-ish one, a real “looker”.     There was one pup in particular who was especially connected to Anna.  She kept by momma’s side and did a lot of sitting.  She was heavily ticked and the darkest dog–and some in my family thought she was the ugliest one.  She was fat, too.  A big, round, fat, full puppy.  As the rest of the puppies were sold to hunting homes, somehow Creekwood’s Ramblin’ Rose stayed behind.  My fat baby Rose–the dog only a mother could love.

Remi at 8 weeks

Nap Time in May

Rosie proved to be a solid hunter.  She had a great nose and made trips to Iowa and the Dakotas where she put up hundreds of pheasants.  John did a great job getting her ready.  Everyday we worked on obedience and field training.   Her deep chest was full of air and her stamina rivaled that of any professional hunting dog.  Everyone wanted to hunt behind John’s dog.

Anna and Rose, doing what they were born to do.

Fate Steps In

Anna, our sweet momma, grew jealous of Rose.  She began to take off with Rose and run away, trying to lose Rose.  They would be gone for two hours and Anna would come back first, feeling triumphant.  Then Rose would (thankfully) show up and we could all breathe again.  Our solution was to never to let both dogs out at the same time.  For months it worked until one day the housekeepers were here and they unknowingly let both dogs out at the same time.  Sure enough, Anna took off and Baby Rose followed.  It was a 20 degree November day filled with flurries and dropping temps as the night drew down.   No Anna.  No Rose.  Finally, John’s cell phone rang.  A frantic lady said, “Hurry, come out to Baldwin Road.  Your dog is hurt.  I hit it with my car.”

We shot through the front door, dropped the truck in drive, and fish tailed down the road spitting snow, ice and salt.  In a sad way both of us secretly hoped it wasn’t Rose.  When we got to the scene, Anna was standing and Rose was in the back seat of a car, wrapped in a red blanket.  Her upper thigh bone was snapped and exposed.  The opposite hip was out of the socket, rendering her a paraplegic.  The lady said that after she hit the dog, it spun around and was dragging itself across the icy road by it’s front legs and crying out.  She couldn’t leave it.  Using the information on Rose’s collar, she called us.  THANK GOD for responsible drivers!

At Michigan State’s Veterinary Hospital in East Lansing, we learned that her whole caboose was shot.  She was four years old, in her prime, and fully trained to do what she was born to do–hunt upland game.  We opted to have her leg surgically repaired with rods, plates, and pins and the hip was placed in a sling that we lifted each time she had to evacuate.  You learn those nifty words in the hospital.  After six months, the rod became infected and had to be removed.   The vets at State assured us that the bone had healed and it was strong.  The day we brought her home from the hospital, I heard a loud snap.  She screamed and hobbled on three legs.  John and I knew we were back to square one.  At this point, having gone through all the pain that I know we three could tolerate, we opted to put her down.

Fate Steps In

Training Day

Buckets of tears later, while staring out a window, a random thought popped into my head.  I wondered if Dr. N’s CJ was still at stud.  If we couldn’t have Baby Rose anymore, maybe we could get a half sister? (Anna was ten years old and wasn’t viable.)  At 13 years of age, trusty CJ had sired an impressive litter seven weeks earlier.  Off we went, hearts in hand, back to Wisconsin, where we played with a pack of puppies and picked a perfect pup– Remington’s Iron Maiden, Rosie’s sister!

3 Months Old: Our first camping trip!

Anna accepted Remi with a scowl, but soon enough everybody loved everybody.  Now fully trained to pheasant hunt, Remi has just turned four years old.  I tell her every day that her Daddy was a champion and her sister was loved.  She just looks back at me with impatient eyes that say, “So are you going to hand over that treat, or what?”

Eyes on the Prize

Remi honors Cash

Remi in Winter White

Remington’s Iron Maiden

Rose and Anna

The ‘ol Schnazzola

What I remember most about that winter day was being pinned down on a table by two white-capped nurses wearing freshly pressed white dress uniforms.  An attending doctor shoved two chopsticks, tipped with gauze, up what used to be my nose.

We lived in the basement apartment of the white house at 52nd and Albany on Chicago’s south side.

I had dragged my Flexible Flyer sled six city blocks down to a parking lot at a steel factory in Chicago called Central Steel at 47th and Central.  There were big snow hills there, created when plow trucks cleared the huge employee parking lots.  To my eight year old heart, it was as wonderful as any ski hill in Colorado.

My blue snow coat was trimmed in white and it had a hood which kept my ears toasted.  My hands had gotten a little cold inside the wool mittens I wore, but since I could still feel my fingertips, I was good to go.  On that particular day, none of the other neighborhood kids had shown up yet.  Figuring the rest would be along soon, I started to fly.

Racing down was so much fun.  I went over and over again until the thrill was gone.  It was time to explore my options.  I figured if going down on my tummy, face-first, was so much fun, then wouldn’t it be even grander to go down on my tummy, backwards, feet-first with my knees bent to the sky.  No one else had shown up yet, so I was free to work on it.

The first time down was fun.  The next time down, I wanted to look and see the icy snow rush past the rails under my sled.  About halfway down, I lowered my head between the red rails and watched them carve a path down the hill.  “Let’s do it again!” I thought.    After getting some speed going and taking control of the red steering bar with soaking wet mittens, stuck to the metal like a wet tongue on icy pipe, I lowered my face into position to see the mechanics of sledding.

Sudden Impact.  A round ice chunk  plowed into my nostrils, hitting my upside-down nose like a sledgehammer.  The amount of snot that a young child can create is truly incredible.  Tears, pain, and blood created a trail of thick mucus that Stevie Wonder could follow.  I remember a lady driving a red Chevy Impala with the big fins and round tail lights stopped to ask me if I needed help.  The trim on my blue coat was green and red at this point and my nose covered my face.  Never one to accept a ride from strangers, I kept walking, dragging my downed Flyer by its rope.

Forty years later, my mother will still tell you she remembers the exact moment I stepped through the front door.  She had to check to see if her daughter was standing behind what might be a nose on the face that just walked in.  “Jim!  Get her to the hospital” she called out to my dad.  He swooped me up, snots and all, into his arms and buckled me into our 1968 green Ford Fairlane 500 with the 289.  Dad hit the gas.

The diagnosis was a badly smooshed moosh.  Nothing was broken but my pride.  I survived the doctor’s poking and cleaning that day, remembering the sterile, antiseptic smells.  The only lasting after-effect I suffered  is an aversion to chopsticks.

Brother, can you spare a dime?

Getting Even

Two thumbs up to my sister-in-law, Kathleen, for posting this on Facebook.   It only costs a dime to get rid of the Michigan State Bird.

You will need:

• Two Liter Pop Bottle (That’s right, we call ‘em pop bottles around here.)
• Razor or Scissors
• Glue
• One Teaspoon Yeast
• One Half Cup of Sugar
• Some Luke Warm Water

Cut the top off of the bottle, invert it, and place it inside the bottom of the bottle so that both cut edges are up.  Glue the raw edges together.   Click your heels three times and add the yeast, sugar and warm water to the bottle.

The sugar feeds the yeast and carbon dioxide (mosquito crack) is released.

Taco Salad Shells

Just saw this nifty trick on facebook!

I like to fill my shells with taco meat, shredded lettuce and cheese, black beans, corn, diced tomato,  and top it all off with sour cream.

Putting all the ingredients in the middle of the table, letting everyone customize their own salad makes each person happy.  Never any leftovers!

Another idea is to fill the crispy shells with diced ham, hard boiled egg, bacon pieces, spinach and romaine lettuce, and slivered almonds or cashews.  Top with ranch dressing.

The Pear

Technology has finally caught up with my dad.  He invented “The Pear” which today is similar to a facebook “Poke” with a sinister twist.  The hand gesture is made by placing all fingertips (and the thumb) together and pointing it at your victim.  It is a “gotcha” when you consider that he and his grandchildren discovered The Pear during an innocent visit to Medieval Times. 

The  pear of anguish is the modern name for a type of instrument displayed in some museums, consisting of a metal body (usually pear-shaped) divided into spoon-like segments that could be spread apart by turning a screw.  The instrument was inserted into the victim’s mouth or rectum, and then slowly spread apart as the screw was turned.  Of course the six to ten year-olds were fixated by the latter use and giggled uncontrollably all night.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Gramps invented “The Pear.”

“Getting Peared” became the end game of our family times together as the grandchildren grew and became parents themselves.  They peared each other, they peared inappropriately as often as possible, and they peared ME!    Technology helped them find long distance pearing methods.  My niece, Sarah, living in Washington state recently “got me” with this one.  Gramps would be proud to know it has TRICKled down to another generation.

The pear is especially handy when most socially inappropriate…like getting someone with it during a long, boring meeting or doing it when only the recipient can see it.  For example, you might be meeting someone important (like your child’s teacher) and as introductions are made, your kid gets behind the teacher and shoots you a Pear.  Sometimes I pass one of my kids today on the road and as we near each other, I stick my hand up and out of the moon roof and shoot him a Pear…this is known as a drive-by Pearing and it gets extra brownie points.

The real challenge lately has been to keep myself from driving 360 miles to Pittsburgh to spank my nephew’s butt for encouraging his (otherwise) wonderful son, Caleb, to draw pear pictures and mail them to me.

Caleb, when he is not drawing pictures of pears.

I get the mail, my heart swoons because Caleb has sent me a letter!.  But nooooo….   that stink pot is at home giggling, just waiting for Aunt Kelly to get Peared.   His dad is lucky that he is a U.S. Marine and only me and Chuck Norris are afraid of U.S. Marines.

When my oldest son went skiing in Switzerland, I asked him to bring me something back (I’m thinking CHOCOLATE).  Silly me.  His “gift” was a photo of himself, standing so triumphantly in front of a 10′x15′  public transit billboard of a ripe, dew covered pear.  I have to admit, I kind of admired his choice.

Cell phones have taken this fixation to a whole new level.  I might be shopping at Target for a shower curtain and happen upon one covered in pears.  OMG…Instantly, my heart starts racing.  I have to “get someone with it.”  This generally results in a group text.

There was one year, though, on Grandparent’s Day, that I got even with my dad for all this when I framed this super sweet photo of his grandchildren as his “gift.”