The Perfect Crime?

One summer several seasons ago, my husband and I were engaged in a “discussion” where He was talking and I wasn’t listening.  Capital intended.  Somewhere in the exchange He made a remark which catapulted me into a two year crimespree.  I blame Him.

It all began with a silly, simple thing like me wanting to go fishing.  It is what I love to do.  To do it properly one needs a boat, some gear, a dog who is your co-pilot, and an overcast June afternoon with a cold pop in a cup holder and some bug spray on board.  I had everything but the boat.    That’s when the discussing turned into cussing and a non-typical threat; a gauntlet thrown down by Him:

He said, “You may NEVER have a boat because we don’t have room for it.”

Really? Do we not live on a farm?

I’ve excelled at getting what I want throughout our 30 year marriage…capitalizing on the tricks we wives perfect over the years.  Most of the time John finds it amusing and challenging, so it all works out in the end.   This was a man who has always given me everything in this life I’ve ever really wanted and I guess he just underestimated how badly I wanted to fish and how far I would go to land one.  To me, His words were like nails on a chalkboard or a wedgie on my dreams.  In desperation and on vacation, I turned to a life of crime.  I couldn’t stop myself.  I am a weakling.

In hindsight, the guilt almost outweighed my visions of reeling

in a splashing four pound smallie.  (almost)

A land-lover, He was back home making the bacon and I was in da U.P. camping on the shores of the Michigamme Reservoir with my parents, my brother and his grown children.  We had all been sharing my dad’s Bass Tracker and admittedly, it was crowded.  Being the fun girl that I think I am, I buzzed into town just to see if anyone was giving any old boats away on the side of the road.

I could justify something on the cheap side –but I knew I could never bring it home.

Just then I spotted an older aluminum boat with an Evinrude 115  resting on top of a  trailer whose durability was suspect.  The whole thing jumped off the side of the road and screamed, “Pick me!”   After kicking some tires and talking turkey, she was all mine.  I tried to stop myself; I really did.  Then I named her Mabel.  Trusty ‘Ol Mabel.  I stopped in town and found some letters at the hardware store, so her name could be properly displayed.  She and I had a rip roaring time for two summers in a row out on that lake.  We filled her live well and I dove off the bow into the cool water a couple of times.  When winter came, I stashed her at a storage facility.  A little thrill ran up my leg as the time went by and He was none the wiser.

Everyone in my family was sworn to secrecy.  No pictures of Mabel.  No mention of her blue gunwales or how she was strong enough to pull skiiers.  They said they couldn’t lie, but wouldn’t inform (knowing this is how I operate).  My husband, John, was on a need to know basis and he didn’t need to know.

We were in Chicago at my parent’s house during the spring that my father died.  The house felt empty and the backyard didn’t look right.  That’s when John looked in the yard and asked my brother, “Where is Gramp’s boat?”  Without thinking, my brother replied, “It is up north in storage with Kelly’s.”

John’s eyes literally bugged out of his head as he grew

a big Grinch smile–he had me. 

I was a goner.

Oh, I’ve paid for my crime since then and the story of Trusty ‘Ol Mabel is told and retold so much that I’ve become a legend in my own mind.  This story had a happy ending (hehehe) because John was a good sport; the surprises in life keep marriage aglow and if I wasn’t naughty, he wouldn’t stay interested.  All has been forgiven and eventually Mabel was less trusty than crusty and she went on the auction block.   Guilt.  Yepper… this was over the top but I would do it again.

Mission Improbable

The doorbell rang and the delivery fairy dropped off a heavy, flat box that was supposed to be a nightstand.  No where on the order form did it say “assembly required.”   Allrighty then.

In an unprecedented move, I decided to sit down and read the whole “destruction” manual before beginning any hands on assembly.

All these flat pieces of wood are supposed to end up as a three dimensional, fully functional nightstand with two drawers and a shelf.  Final determination:  This project may require alcohol.

The booklet indicated that assembly should take 30 minutes, tops.   Then I saw it.

The parts bag.

Just kill me now.

I had a meat tenderizer for a hammer and no power tools.  After two hours of dinking around,  I discovered that I was better at banging than screwing.  After a lot of ups and downs, it eventually came together.   All I needed was a cigarette.

(Wait, I don’t smoke.) 

Somewhere in China there is a guy who is laughing at me.

Now…if I could just get this stupid lamp put together!

Roosevelt’s Cowboys

“Sinewy, hardy, self-reliant, the cowboy’s life forces men to be both daring and adventurous, and the passing over their heads of a few years leaves printed on their faces certain lines which tell of dangers quietly fronted and hardships uncomplainingly endured.

They are far from being as lawless as they are described; though they sometimes cut strange antics when, after many months of lonely life, they come into a frontier town in which drinking and gambling are the only recognized forms of amusement, and where pleasure and vice are considered synonymous terms. On the round-ups, or when a number get together, there is much boisterous, often foul-mouthed mirth; but they are rather silent, self-contained men when with strangers, and are frank and hospitable to a degree.

The Texans are perhaps the best at the actual cowboy work. They are absolutely fearless riders and understand well the habits of the half wild cattle, being unequaled in those most trying times when, for instance, the cattle are stampeded by a thunderstorm at night, while in the use of the rope they are only excelled by the Mexicans. On the other hand, they are prone to drink, and when drunk, to shoot.”

–1885, Theodore Roosevelt’s “Hunting Trips of a Ranchman”

 I could listen to this song 100 times straight and never tire of the lyrics. 

Now You Know

1976 Watching the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson together, every night.

My dad died somewhat unexpectedly in the last hour of the last official day of winter, on March 20, 2007.   The significance of his timing is not lost on me.   When I think about it, he lived exactly as he had always lived, with purpose.  He held on to that final season of his life and let go just moments before the next one.

For almost two years, he had been doctored.  He had endured radiation and chemo with a smile for us and a wink when he saw that we saw how pleased with himself he was for finding a cute, fuzzy toque for his head.   Yet, that winter had come, those late evening hours passed, and spring arrived without him.

My mother and I followed the ambulance to the hospital where he was pronounced.  Devastated, I leaned down to his ear and softly whispered, “Now you know.”    Three little words were all I could muster, but when I think about it now, they are profound.

Since that time I’ve come to know that those we have loved and lost are never really far away.   Through pain, I’ve learned that time is a human measure and touch is a human need. I’ve learned to celebrate his life, not mourn his death.  This is where faith comes in.   I also realized that the way I conduct my affairs and how I treat others directly reflects his legacy.  In everything I do, he remains my compass–my true north.

Now here’s the interesting part:

1968 My dad’s graduation from Roosevelt University in Chicago. My mom used to drive under the post office to pick him up at night from college. We were tucked in blankets in the back seat.

Not only is my dad sitting on my shoulder these days, but he enjoys letting me know.    My mom, my brother, and I fish in Michigan’s upper peninsula every year for vacation.   The first thing I do when I get there is to fire up my dad’s Merc 60 and take his bass boat up Corbett’s Creek to our special fishing spot to see if they are still hittin’.   Without fail, the motor quits.  Every time, every year, six years straight.  I sit there on the silent creek and smile.  Faith.

He made sure we knew he was present at his eulogy, too.  There had been a story told about my parent’s first date where he nervously spilled a whole glass of ice water on my mom at dinner.  Then she told a story about more water spills; it was their kind of  “luck” when they went out.  At the funeral luncheon, a waiter shouldering a large tray brought eight glasses of water to our table.  Just like a bad movie, he tripped–and toppled the eight full glasses of ice water down my daughter’s back.  Everyone jumped up, jumped back, and got bug eyed thinking to themselves, “It can’t be!”

1982 Mom and Dad at a rest area on the way to Michigan to visit their first grandchild. Mom was a grandma at 38.

A few weeks later my mother’s two sisters were up at our farm and we took a walk to a little pond on our property while mom rested back at the truck.  We were standing on the shore talking and enjoying the woods and water when one of my aunts thought to ask if there were any fish in the pond.   I was right in the middle of telling her how my son, Adam, and Gramps had jury rigged a fish finder to a little row boat a few summers back and rowed all over the four acre lake looking for fish.  At the exact moment I said that my dad had said, “There are absolutely no fish in this pond,” A FISH JUMPED COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WATER.   Our jaws hung open, our brains couldn’t process what our eyes had seen, and my aunt was the first one to dare utter, “That was your dad!”     Faith.

These random water events are not his only form of amusement.  There are others that I’m reserving for another time.  I used to think I was crazy or desperate or wishful.  Now I know.

“There’s one form of immortality that I like to think about.

It is that all those that from the very first have given anything to the world are living in the world today.”

Dad’s perfect cast, and my perfect timing, on Corbetts Creek

Grandpa’s girls, Sarah and Jennifer

Gramps’ Pride and Joy, his grandson, “Jim, the Marine”

Fine Wine

Uncle Sam –as in Sam Wal-Mart– is teaming up in 2013 with Ernest & Julio Gallo Winery of California to produce full bodied wines at a $2-$5 price point.   Wine connoisseurs may not be inclined to put a bottle of the Wal-Mart brand reds or whites into their shopping carts but, “There is a market for inexpensive wine,” said Kathy Micken, professor of Marketing at Michigan State University in East Lansing, Michigan.  Branding will be very important so Walmart asked its customers to go online and vote for the most attractive name.

The top picks in order of popularity were:

10.  Chateau Traileur Parc

9.   White Trashfindel

8.   Big Red Gulp

7.   World Championship Riesling

6.   NASCARbernet

5.   Chef Boyardeaux

4.   Peanut Noir

3.   I Can’t Believe it’s not Vinegar

2.   Grape Expectations

1.   Nasti Spumante

The beauty of Wal-Mart wine is that it can be served with either white meat (opossum) or red meat (squirrel).

Mid Century Modern

Me.  Circa 1960

It dawned on me the other day that my baby hands held my great-great grandmother’s hands and she was born in 1876.  These same old hands of mine have held a newborn’s tiny grasp; a little someone born in 2012.  My mid-century birth has been a gift that has enabled me to bridge centuries.   In 1960, our family took a special picture of all the living women in my maternal line because we had a fifth generation, ending with me!

I remember my great-great Grandma Head.  She was born in Leipzig, Germany, and came to the United States by ship when she was five years old.  As a four year old, I remember she had shocking white hair that she kept in a black hair net and enjoyed burnt toast dipped in hot tea every morning.  She always sat at a rectangular Formica table next to a big white stove in the kitchen.  I played three-handed pinochle all summer long with her daughter, my great-grandma James, and my Aunt Robin.   I walked Grandma James’  toy poodle, Tiny, when I was in grammar school and had to be quiet in the house when she was taking her afternoon nap on the back porch.   Her daughter, my grandma Brock, took the bus every day into downtown Chicago to wait tables at the Palmer House Hotel for tips.  She supported her entire family, all women.  Her household held three of my grandmas and my mother and her three sisters.

All the women in Grandma Brock’s home.

I used to steal vegetables from backyard gardens in our neighborhood and surprise Grandma Brock with them.  She would scold me as she lovingly placed the contraband on her windowsill to ripen and then she’d ask me if I had seen any string beans around.  She always had a wink and a smile for me.

Now it is up to me and mom, who will turn 70 years old this May, to remember.  All my grandmas have been gone since the mid-1970′s or sooner, but I still remember how our lives were.  There was love in my grandma’s house and that love grabs at my heartstrings –especially when I see red tomatoes on a vine.

The Chicago museum used to do these moon pictures in the 1950′s. (L-R) is Aunt Joyce, Aunt Robin, and my mother, Paula.