C versus O — Not a Sesame Street blog

Tags

challenges, family, friends, life, parents

Dang, is that my hand in the picture?  It looks like Thing from the Addams Family is feeding me my hamburger.  Oddly enough, my Dad and I were having one of those discussions this morning that only guys can have, about how hands are what truly give a person’s age away.  I say that as I sit in a McDonalds outside of Peoria, Illinois with an elderly lately sitting a few booths away from me, facing me while reading her newspaper with a magnifying glass.  She looks like her face is nothing but nose.

This was my weekend.  MY weekend.   Me, mine, MY weekend.

Sort of.  Selfishly, as should be fairly obvious by that last miniature paragraph, I chose to look at it that way.  I was escaping to a place where I could just be with me, with a few people to share my me time, without the burden of job or kids or spouse.  That is why it was me time, not really so selfish, probably a time that will be very healthy for me.  A few weeks ago, while chatting with a friend of mine, she encouraged me to come down to see my parents and take in a football game at my alma mater with her and some friends.  Rather than frown and say “naaaaa, it will never happen”, I looked at my calendar and at our family activity calendar, discovered it was very doable, and said yeah sure why not that sounds like a good idea I can’t wait you may regret this.  Except that friend is one of those “what’s stopping you?” types, so I doubt she regrets it.

So, I put in for last Friday as a vacation day, found a $10 a day weekend rental car, looked up places to ride a mountain bike along the way, warned my parents I was invading their space for the weekend.

If you have read my last few blogs, you know a little about how I am choosing to look at life right now.  I’m not hitting the curve very well, if at all, not sure if I am even seeing the ball.  There is a lot of whiffing going on.  At the moment, that’s closer to true than I should admit.  I just got off the trail after a few hours on my mountain bike, trails with several water crossings, lots of opportunity to put on the stink.

Weekends like this should provide opportunity for soul searching, come to Jesus, reality forehead whacking, epiphanies.  Driving away from parents’ house early this afternoon, I was still waiting for that to happen.  Dad was driving ahead of me, glad to have the opportunity alone with me for the final time this weekend, leading the way to the restaurant off of I-55 outside of Lincoln, Illinois that we had chosen.  Dad had suggested the restaurant for one reason and made the suggestion with the stern, wrinkled bald forehead look that I have grown to like over the years.

Son, you don’t need to rush home.  Let’s have lunch and then you go ride those trails you rode on the way here last Friday.  It will be good for you.  You had a big smile on your face when you got here Friday, albeit a dirty face.

I had to chuckle at that last stern comment.  He was right.  The singletrack dirt trails I had taken my bike over on the way to my parents’ house had been a hoot.  They were new to me, peaceful and rolling in some places, just enough challenges to make them worth the side trip.  There were trails that skirted the side of dirt gullies and ridges, a challenge for someone who fears heights like I do.  One trail had an obstacle, or should I say challenge, or should say challenging obstacle, that had kicked my butt.  I wanted to go back to show it who was boss.

Challenges.  Obstacles.

I stood over my bicycle at the top of the deep drop into a gully that emerged steeply up a rocky trail on the other side.  This had been my challenging obstacle on Friday, although I had taken the opposite direction on the trail as I had the other day, knowing where that section of trail was at and thinking that I might have more of a fighting chance if I approached that drop from a different angle.  While it did indeed seem less daunting from the opposite side of the gully, I frowned at the large tree on the left of the trail and a few feet from where the trail dropped straight down.  To the right of the tree was a large root that would either launch my bicycle or my body into the air.  There was only a tiny line I could take, with little time to negotiate that line due to the speed that would send me careening downwards. 

Ugh.

Obstacle.  This challenge was becoming just that.  No longer was I thinking that I could do this.  My fear was turning a challenging obstacle into an obstacle. 

Two riders approached that gully from the other side of the trail.  I moved to the side to watch them.  I heard the lead rider tell his buddy that the tough part of the trail was over after this.  They hopped the log at the top, dropped in, and greeted my with large grins as they passed by with thank yous for my courtesy.  My fear was not apparent to them.    Those riders didn’t know that I had approached that gully three times already and turned back.  I knew my experience should get me through that challenge, but something else made me fear the pain, the hurt, what might be waiting on the other side.  I might not make it.

This is it.  You have to do this, Steve.

I came into this weekend already aware of the challenges and obstacles I would witness.  It would be my choice to confront them, my reaction also my choice.  A sick mother.  A father struggling with how to deal with her pain and the prison that caring for a wife in constant pain had become to him.  Two people I love dealing with perhaps the biggest challenge of this part of their life (raising me should be considered a separate part — because that was a challenge), experiencing pain I am ill equipped to handle.  They both are aware of the demons in my own life I am wrestling with, both wanting to soothe the pain I am dealing with.  Added to that was knowing that I would be seeing an “old” friend who herself was struggling with some challenges, her encouragement for me to visit partly issued to me out of a need to help me address my own demons.  I think she got a little more than she bargained for, had me witness a bit more of her own challenges than she had planned.  She handled the challenges admirably, an attitude that showed a strength.  Pretty cool.  And that kid helped me to keep my head up, our time together really very brief, but good in a way that gave me a perspective and strength that I was able to draw on.

She’s going to barf when she reads that.

Mom was in a lot of pain and discomfort when I got to the house on Friday.  She and Dad had just gotten home from a therapy appointment for the knee she had replaced.  I walked through the door as Mom laid in her bed, retching into a bucket, her face ashen as she turned from that bucket to greet me.   At the moment, she was not ready to see me.  She took a pill to help with the nausea, forced herself to come to her chair in the living room to say hello to me, her face turning from a grimace to a smile as we began to talk.

How was your trip, Steve?  From the look of all that dirt you are wearing, it looks like you had a good time.

“Yeah, Mom.  Taking all day to make a two and a half hour trip was good for me.”

You look good, son. 

She always says that.  I look good.  I am the boy who takes care of himself, who rides bicycles and plays ball and golf and does all kinds of stuff she is proud of.  Mom needed to see me.  Mom has been fighting with nausea and pain since June 7.  Seeing her son was what Dad and I hoped she needs to turn that corner.

Mom didn’t have much strength, but she was buoyed enough that the color came back to her face.  We had dinner together, Dad told me I had better get going to that football game, Mom excused herself to go back to bed.

I went to that football game.  Spent some time with that “old” friend, listened to the stories we have to share.  She bought the beer.  It probably should have been strange sharing beer with a friend who had been a high school girl when most of our memories had been made together.  It wasn’t.  Same girl, just better, down to earth and real.  I had the thought, especially as I listened to her tell how God had put people in her life for a reason, that maybe just maybe that little bit of spark of encouragement was the reason we had touched base again.

And maybe it was so I could hear “what’s stopping you?” from her again.  She has overcome that obstacle, seems to be looking at challenges rather than obstacles again.

I thought about that as I stood over my bike at the top of the gully a few hours ago.  If I don’t do this, maybe it says something about how I am letting challenges in my life become obstacles.

Dad bowed his head at the table this afternoon, his hand over his forehead to hide his eyes.  When he turned to look at me his eyes were wet with tears.

Steve, I don’t know how much longer I can take this.  I can’t leave your Mom for any amount of time.  It’s not that she won’t let me.  I just can’t do it.  And it is so hard to see her in so much pain.  Is she going to be like this until she finally dies?  Is this in her head?  It has been so long.  So long.  And I don’t know the answer.  You saw her yesterday.  She thinks she is going to die.   She says she wants to die.

I only told him what I know.  You have to fight through this, Dad.  Take the time away that you need.  She is not going to die.  You know that.  Making yourself miserable is not going to help her pain, not stop her pain.

Yesterday afternoon I came back to my parents’ house after spending some time playing tennis with that “old” friend to find my Dad bent over in a chair at the foot of Mom’s bed as she wept and cried and wailed in pain, her pain out of control, an almost insane look in her eyes.  I witnessed what Dad had been telling me about.  It was terrible to watch not only my mother, but my father as he watched her helplessly.  I sat at the foot of her bed, consoling them both, telling them this was only going to be temporary, that she is going to turn that corner soon.  Their sheltie puppy curled up in my lap as I sat there, providing both parents a moment to forget about the pain that had enveloped the room moments before.  That puppy adopted me this weekend, a playmate that she adored like a child who is waiting for someone to give them their undivided attention.  My parents loved seeing that.

But I saw the pain.  I did not want to see that.  It was an obstacle that was growing so big that the challenge was diminishing to acceptance.

I dodged the tree, jumped the root on the right, hit the bottom of the gully and shot over the rocks on the other side.  I kicked that gully’s butt.  For the rest of the ride, I got dirtier than ever before, nothing looking as big as that challenging obstacle I had feared on the trail behind me.

Now to get and that car for the two hour drive home.

 

 

Out To Pasture

Tags

dying, mental illness, parents

My Mom is going nuts.

She is becoming her mother.

She thinks she is dying.  Is living under the assumption that she is dying soon.  Everything she does, all of her pain and suffering,  seems to be done for attention.  Just like her mother did.  Even dying was an attempt for attention for my grandmother.

Pay attention to me.  I am in pain.  I am dying.

The guilt trips are summoned with the desperation of someone who is alone.

No one ever calls.  Your kids don’t respond to my emails.  I never get to see you. 

My father is there.  He is trying to understand.  He is scared.  He is tired of trips to the ER in the middle of the night.  He is tired of the endless amounts of tests that all show she is perfectly healthy.

Son, is it possible this is all in her mind?

I don’t know, Dad.  He asks me not only because I am his oldest son, but because I am the one who has the experience with knee and foot surgeries, having gone through the recoveries for both procedures and more than once.  I am old enough to have been mature enough to understand what my grandmother did to her daughter the last few years my grandmother was alive, was the boy who visited her and took care of her house and car, listened to her lament for my dead grandfather, how she wished she was with him.

I want to die.

My mother is saying that.  Dad says that he hears it several times a day.  As I listened to my Dad tell me about that last night the resignation in his voice told me a lot.  Dad is used to the strong woman he has known for more than fifty years, the type of woman who never gives up, that fights like a bull dog, who stood up for her husband and her boys with the devotion that only a wife and mother can have.  I am used to that also.  I also heard my mother say many times that she will never become like her mother.  Her mother gave up.  Her mother wanted to die.  Her focus turned inward and she could think of nothing else.

Son, she is your grandmother.  Your mother has become what she said she would never become.

I couldn’t disagree with that.  Two weeks ago, Mom sent an email to me, my brothers, our wives, our children.  It was wishes from a death bed, instructions to never forget God, always respect your parents, an admonition that she will be gone soon.

I am going to visit my parents this weekend, a relatively short two and a half hour drive south from Chicagoland. Mom has already shown her approval by sending out an email to my brothers and I — “STEVE is coming to visit this weekend”.  Funny thing is that one brother lives 45 minutes away, comes to see her frequently and my parents visit him frequently.  My other brother, a successful executive for the Sears company up here in Chicago, comes down to visit a whole lot more than I do.  Dad is planning the meals, looking forward to the time we are going to spend together.  I am not bringing Miriam or the kids.  It’s just going to be me.   I think Dad needs the time to visit with me without the distraction of my family, needs to get away from the stress of caring from my Mom.  I am looking forward to spending a little time with friends, need the time away myself.  With all that is going on in my life, I am going a bit nuts myself.

Backhand

Tags

abuse, fatherhood, marriage issues, personal

My mind is cycling between clarity and confusion.  I need to write simply to give my mind something to do, a distraction.  The only real clear thought that I have is the assumption that I have held for a long time — in order to finish the race I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  I don’t have to win the race, but quitting is worse than not finishing.  I don’t need to run a perfect race but struggling through it is going to produce the character I need to run other races.

But aren’t there some times I am going to step in a hole, feel the pain that mistake brings?   What is the right thing to do about the pain?  Keep running and let the effort carry it away?  Let someone care for it, give me the assurance that I will be able to run again, let me withdraw and recover?

I don’t know.

It is really difficult for anyone to understand the way I am running the race without knowing how the race has gone lately.  There have been some real obstacles in my way.  If my life as a father and husband could be compared to the way I approach an actual race or endurance challenge, then I would break it up into little pieces and take each bit at a time.  On longer rides, let’s a tough 100 mile ride with lots of climbs, I can look at a route map, use my ride computer to control my pace and see how far along I am, and I can literally force myself through even the toughest of rides by riding 10 miles a  time, one mile at a time, and half mile at a time until I cross the finish line.  If all I care about is finishing that is what I do.  The competitor in me always wants to do better than just finishing.  Surviving the race of husband and father may just mean being satisfied with finishing.

I really stepped in a hole tonight, though.  I saw it coming, stepped in it any way.  It just looked too big to run around.

My son is 14 years old.  He is an over indulged, controlling, selfish, ungrateful kid who is given even more power by a mother who wants to control, refuses to do the smart thing by acknowledging that a father and husband deserves respect simply by who he is, and shows that disrespect to her husband in front of the 14 year old son.  The boy challenges me constantly, picks at me.

“Your dad is having a bad day.  He’s angry with you because he is having a bad day.”

No.  Dad is angry because he spent all weekend working to fix the family car, mow the lawn, fix the boy’s bicycle, pick the boy up, drop the boy off, go out late at night to find a battery he needs at 5:30 the next morning — then wanted to watch his football team on Sunday night TV only to have the boy storm in to change the channel in front of him barely a minute after the TV was turned on.  No, Dad is not angry because he is tired or having a bad day.  He is angry because he is being disrespected, then treated like he is being a jerk for being angry.

The whole week has been like Sunday night.  I am stressed.  Very.  Try dealing with a possible foreclosure while dealing with constant 14 year old angst.  Yes, Dad is not having the best of times right now.  But all Dad really wants is a chance to catch his breath, feel like his family is there for him.  What happened to the era when the father came home to a nice home cooked meal, relaxed in his easy chair, was expected to take the time to decompress in his home?

A friend told me today that a old farmer shared a bit of simple wisdom with him before the old farmer passed away — people of the past had children because those children were assets.  They needed to have children, many children, because those children helped around the farm, performed chores, served a purpose.  Children these days are no longer an asset.  They are a liability.

Jeez.  I hope that’s not really true, but as I sit in the midst of this cloud of confusion, I can’t help but identify a little with that statement.  It’s not the way I want it to be and I see the mistake in that way of thinking.  Anyone can choose to look that way.  But holy cow it’s a struggle not to think that way.  The costs are just not looking like they are worth the limited reward. In a lot of marriages, the wife is not an asset either.

Arrrggghhhh.

I backhanded my son tonight as I was driving him home from golf practice.  He was mad because I didn’t get there to pick him up as soon as he wished.  Instead of stopping the fight when I asked, asked him to be quiet the rest of the drive home, he decided to mock instead.  So I backhanded him in the arm.  Hard.  With purpose.  He was not going to stop.

I saw the hole, should have stopped, but chose to jump in instead.  I am not a violent man, can be angry at times, but striking my son or my wife or my dog is not something that is a part of me.  But I did it.

Believe it or not that is where some of the clarity comes in.  The kid deserved it.  But I also know that giving in to slugging him was not the answer.  I should feel bad about it, but I don’t.

It’s nights like this when I really feel Satan tugging at my ankles.  I understand more how he is trying to pull me down, beat me, get me to stop running the race.  I read in the bible recently how Satan had been the Prince of the Air — the guy been raised above all — but his refusal to acknowledge God, denial of God’s sovereign power, disrespect and selfishness and ego forced him to be thrown to the pit.  I can feel him trying to pull me into that pit with him as I give in to the struggle.

I don’t have an answer right now.

Whack A Zombie

Tags

Alas Babylon, fantasy, Omega Man, real life, Walking Dead, zombies

Cover of The Omega Man [Blu-ray]

Just once I would like to whack a zombie, the efficient arc of my freshly sharpened machete’ creating a satisfying squish thud (or would that be thud squish?) as blade meets rotted forehead.  I also would like to finish writing a sentence without being interrupted mid word by a 14 year old boy.  There is more chance of the zombie fantasy happening.

I’m looking for zombie volunteers.  Had the Blackhawks not won the Stanley cup this summer there would be plenty of near zombie Cub fans wandering aimlessly around the streets, mindlessly seeking Cardinal fans such as myself to jealously devour.  With the Bears also winning at the moment, even the Cardinals making the playoffs AGAIN will not awaken the slumbering Cub zombies to mayhem, their appetites whetted by the winning ways of other Chicago teams.

Post apocalyptic stories like the Walking Dead, the Omega Man, Alas Babylon, Left Behind all hold a certain appeal.  The thought of living in a world that is suddenly devoid of the responsibilities of life as usual is one that I like, the lines of civility blurred by the rules of survival.  Suddenly it is OK to whomp that zombie, kill or be killed, take what you need to exist.  That annoying guy who shows off all the cool stuff he has, the cars or the boats or clothes or golf clubs, no longer has any weight in a post apocalyptic world.  Sooner or later they just plain don’t exist and his stuff is up for grabs.  The strong stick together, the bonds of existence creating the necessity of relationship.  Men return to being men, women respecting their man or they are left behind.

Can I get a big man grunt for that last one?

I like the thought of starting over, of trading the stress of existence for the necessity of survival.  Forget the mortgage payments, the bills, mowing the lawn, going to work each day, trying to figure out where to come up with the money for my daughter’s braces or my son’s sports equipment.

I might even get a regular meal now and then.  If we are focused on coming up with the food, we’re going to cook what we get.

I bet I would be able to ride bicycles every day.  Now there is a thought.

If I were a Walking Dead character who would I be?  Merle?  Rick?  Daryl?  Shane?  No, I would not be a zombie, but there are a few (Sandy) who read this blog that might already be…..

Flow

Tags

bonding, flow, marriage, mountain bike, relationships

Gravity feels real strange when it is tugging on your head instead of your feet.  My left foot silhouetted in the sunlight that filtered through the trees above the dirt trail I had been riding just a few seconds before, back sinking in the soft sandy earth underneath my back, right foot hooked against a small tree to keep me from sliding further into the little ravine I had fallen into – I couldn’t keep from laughing.  Oddly enough, I had started laughing as the rear tire of my mountain bike dug into the deep sand on the trail to throw me backwards off of the trail.

“I would ask if you are OK, but it doesn’t sound like you are hurt.”  Robb reached down from the trail to help pull me up.  As I shook the dirt off, he showed me the huge rut my wheel had made in the sand.  “Good thing you were leading.  I took the line around you.”

I like the energy my new found friend brought to me.  From the moment I met Robb just a few days before, his natural enthusiasm had drawn me, our passion for bicycles a common denominator.  Robb answered my Craigslist ad selling an old set of bicycle wheels I had in my garage, Spinergy Rev X carbon road wheels, old technology now but wheels still popular with those who know about them.  I had taken the rear wheel apart a few years ago, hoping to rebuild them, but had left the wheel disassembled for years.

Formerly mine, Spinergy Rev X wheels, still a pretty sexy set of bike wheels. If I didn’t need the money, I would probably save the front wheel to use on days with little to no wind.

“Not a problem, Steve.  For the price you are selling them, I can afford to find the parts to rebuild the wheel.  If you find the parts, let me know.”  Robb handed me the $80 asking price without haggling, suggested we meet for a mountain bike ride on Saturday even if I couldn’t find the missing parts.  I had met Robb in a Home Depot parking lot on my way home from a mountain bike ride at my favorite park, so he was interested in riding with me.

“Sure, why not.  That would be great.”  I hesitated a little.  I’m 52 years old.  Robb looked to be mid-twenties and had the look of someone who lives a bicycle lifestyle, a muscled boy with long curly blonde hair.  This kid would likely kick my butt.

The missing parts for the rear wheel were right where I had left them on my workbench a few years ago, in a green plastic cup nestled behind a cardboard box I keep old bike parts in.  It was a good thing I found the parts.  Robb emailed me to let me know that he was having a bit of a time finding all of the parts.  We agreed to meet for a ride at 2 PM Saturday at Saw Wee Kee, my favorite place to ride off road.  I would give him the missing parts then.

It was during the pre ride chat in the parking lot that I found out why Robb looked like a cyclist – he had raced for several years – mountain bike racing.

Oh crap.  This kid was going to see what a chump I am on a mountain bike.  If I had any hopes to teach the kid a few lessons, that revelation dashed them.

“Why don’t you lead in?” Robb asked as we began to roll to the trail that leads in to the park.  “It’s been a while since I have rode here.”

Oh crap.  I was going to have to perform.  The ante had been raised.

Thing is, the kid talked all the way in, encouraged me as we zipped along the singletrack.  I was taking chances, riding faster than I normally would.. and having the time of my life.  A few minutes in, I was feeling the flow, everything working well, riding better than ever.  Robb was following close but it was obvious I was doing well enough to make the ride worthwhile for him.

And so the little crash into the ravine meant nothing.  Something that may have left me grumpy on some days, had me laughing instead.  I took the lead again after the crash, found a trail loop that Robb had never seen, a twisty and fast technical section that is usually more difficult to be fun for me.  This ride was different, though, and every little twist or dive felt effortless. Riding with this guy had really helped me find a groove, a flow, that necessary ingredient to riding off road.  Any mental obstacles that had been there on previous rides disappeared as the extra motivation drove me to take chances that normally would slow me down.

I wonder what my life would be like if I could approach the obstacles I have with the same kind of abandon I had on those trails last Saturday.  Would my life find the same “flow”?  If my wife followed my lead the same way, encouraged and chose to accept the ride as it is, picked me up when I fall and take the front when needed – how different would our relationship be? Instead the gravity of the relationship often pulls me down, but not in a way that makes me laugh, not in a way that makes me want to climb back on and continue.

I need to get my wife on a mountain bike….

Conventionally Unconventional

Tags

sick day, stress, unconventional manner, work

Unconventional.

One’s first impression of me, if that one is only looking at me, is not going to be screaming “unconventional”.  My appearance is basic middle aged Midwestern male, lower middle class father who is still transitioning to bald, a bit of a gut — real average.  My guess is that most people think I do pretty much everything by the book, as any reasonably intelligent male of my social standing does.

For the most part that is true.  For the most part it is true, but not always.

The way I called in sick to work today might be one example of that not always.  This morning was one of those mornings where I woke up early with what can only be described as a stress induced whopper of a headache.  They happen, are bound to happen considering the stress of fatherhood and trying to stay financially afloat in today’s economy.  A dull pain filled my head in a foggy halo even before I opened my eyes to the bark bark bark of my morning alarm (I love that alarm).  Today was supposed to be a ride my bike to work day, as the rest of the week needs to be by necessity of a weak checking account balance, and the ache in my head as I struggled out of bed told me that riding was not going to be a realistic option.  We also were out of the only pain reliever that works for my headaches, a few generic ibuprofen were all I could find.  I popped three, downed a slug of Pepto, then returned to bed hoping that the pain would be dulled to a manageable roar an hour later.  One problem — the zoo called my family was stirring and the panic filled hour of school prep did not allow for rest.  An hour later there was no relief.  To top it off, once my wife discovered I was still in bed, her incessant questions just made the ache worse.  So I got out of bed, took a shower, shoved off for work with about 20 minutes left.  Maybe coffee would help.

It didn’t help.

So I sat in the coffee shop, wondering what to do.  It’s Tuesday, not a good day to take off of work for any reason simply because it will be a mad house at work tomorrow if I miss today.  My eyes were not focusing well, the woozy halo of the headache still affecting my vision.  It usually does.  I could go to work, hope that I would recover in an hour or so like I occasionally do, or I could go back home and rest.  Since much of the headache is likely stress related — I made a mortgage payment by phone last night to stave off the foreclosure hounds for a few more weeks — I knew that going to work was not likely going to help my head.  Neither was going home.  What to do?

I drove to work.  Sat in my car outside the building for a minute while mulling over what to do.  I went in.  The time clock said 8:31, which meant I was 31 minutes late.  Really it was best to just take the sick day.  I sat in the company cafeteria for a few minutes, finished my coffee.

Go to work.  Don’t clock in.  See what needs to be taken care of right away.  Do it.  Go home.

So I did just that.  I went to my desk, logged in to my computer, looked at email.  I kept quiet.  There WERE a few issues that needed my attention immediately.  I took care of them, communicated with the people who needed to be communicated with, made sure my boss was copied so that he could take care of any further issues today should they come up.

I felt a bit of the stress leave.  Strangely enough going to work and knowing what was there for me helped my state of mind.

My boss wasn’t at his desk, didn’t even know I had come in.  He must have been in a meeting.  So it felt real strange calling him from the phone at my desk for the purpose of calling in sick.  That can’t happen very often!

The house is quiet.  The headache persists and I need to quit looking at a computer screen — because everything is starting to swim.

Maybe I am not too unconventional, I guess I just do things my own way.

War of the Marigolds

Tags

flowers, marigolds, marriage, winner takes all

Many are familiar with the , ironically Wars of the Roses fought between the royal House of Plantagenet (get it?  Plants!!!) or the houses of York (white rose symbol) and Lancaster (red rose symbol) for the throne of England.  The victor was Henry Tudor on the Lancaster side, who married Elizabeth of York to unite the two houses.  Romantic if you look at it from that perspective.

My house is fighting a lesser known war — the War of the Marigolds.  I guarantee you it is not so romantic, especially since this war will not be resolved with a marriage.  It’s more likely to be resolved with me sleeping on the couch.

Marigolds are a flower that are an essential annual for our yard.  They are not my favorite flower, but I like them for a number of reasons.  They repel insects, so I usually plant them around the edge of my garden (when I plant a garden — which is not every year).  There are many varieties, all of them hardy and long lasting, usually blooming healthily into November.  As long as the weeds are managed around the plants, marigolds provide a handsome display, a display I prefer to consider as masculine, a proud demonstration of my floral manhood. 

That may be the reason why my wife keeps pulling them up.  She is of the female variety who prefers to keep manhood at bay. 

And thus the War of the Marigolds.  Every year I plant them, every year I make the mistake of pointing out the flourishing bed of marigolds to my wife.  Shortly thereafter, she “accidentally” pulls the plants, claiming she though they were weeds and she was just trying to help out.  Listen, dear, that excuse only should work once and, well, it’s been a few more times than once.  This year she pulled the marigolds when they were about a week from bloom, the buds already appearing amongst the bushy stalks.

I just said “bushy stalks”.

How long had it been since I had pointed out the marigolds to her?  Less than a week.

Guess I should know better by now.

Undaunted, I raked the plot of ground she had just laid bare, planted new marigold seeds, this time the large bush variety.  I instructed our sheltie, Nick, to bark at Miriam ferociously should she get near the new plants.

They survived.  It is mid-September, but as the picture provides testimony, we have large yellow marigold blooms, bright and friendly, three inches wide for some of the biggest flowers, tall bushy stalks.  Man flowers.

I WEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNN!!!!!

 

 

Talk About Vanity Plates…..

Tags

schlong, vanitly license plate

I took this photo in the parking lot at work the other day. The car belongs to a guy working as a contract employee. When I asked him about the plates, he explained that his last name is Long and when he filled out the application for vanity plates, he jokingly put “Schlong” down as one of the five choices, thinking the censors would just laugh at it. It was the one they gave to him. He has had soccer moms pull up next to him and, while leaning across their 12 year old daughter, stick her finger in and out of her cheek. The guy has a lot of stories. It’s no wonder that his wife will not drive the car.

Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth — IN CHURCH

Tags

church, parenting

Kids misbehave in church.  A fellow-ette WP blogger just shared the story of how her nine year old boy pouted demonstratively in church this past weekend, drawing a picture of her and stabbing it with her pen.  An exorcist may have been in order.  She asked her readers to share their own stories of their kids misbehaving in church.  That should be a simple task for any churchgoing parent, eh?  Not so simple for me.  The church I attend has it’s own “Kid’s City” program and most kids don’t see the inside of the adult auditorium during weekend services until they get to high school.  Alyssa has been going to services with us for a few years, Nate the freshman just started attending with us this month.

I should have plenty of kids misbehaving in church stories, ought to tell the story of the time that I threw a fit when the communion trays were passed because I wanted some of that grape juice snack.  My dad dragged me down the middle aisle between the wooden pews by one arm as I kicked and screamed, then out the big wooden doors and down the concrete steps.  Our car was parked in front, the doors didn’t close on their own.  Dad wailed on me as the church watched, then guided me in front of him with the tears pouring down my face and dripping off of my chin (but quietly), back up the middle aisle to our seat.  It was a small town church.  I swear that people started clapping in appreciation for my dad.

I wasn’t going to tell that story.  Oops.  Should I tell stories from when I was a youth minister now?

Nate’s first adult church service with us was ‘tough’ for him to stomach.  After fifteen minutes, he decided he had enough, excused himself to the bathroom and didn’t come back.  After waiting ten minutes for him, I turned to Miriam and said “This is not acceptable”, started to get up from my seat to go retrieve our son.  Miriam, with a horrified look on her face, put her hand on my arm to stop me.

“It’s OK.  Just let him stay out there.”

“No.  It’s NOT acceptable.”  And my voice began to raise beyond a whisper.  Was she really going to let it be like that?

“I’ll go get him.  You stay here.”

There were no big wooden doors at the back of the auditorium, no concrete steps, and in today’s social climate I was not going to wail on my son.  From the look in Mir’s eyes, however, it was obvious she thought I might.  She already thinks I have too much of my father in me, something I don’t understand.  My father is a very good, intelligent man who most of the time made the correct decisions when he raised me.  Dad wasn’t afraid to discipline, didn’t let me control the situation, because he knew the importance of teaching me by expecting me to behave like a young man.  All I was going to do was retrieve our son, stress the importance of staying in church — and behaving like a young adult.  Mir pushed past me, over Alyssa, and ten minutes later returned with our brooding son.

There may be more stories to come….

Redbird Fooled By Blonde Festival Queens

Minnesota apparently can lead a good bird astray. The Mabel festival queens partied just a bit too much with poor Redbird.