Now We Are One

 

Thanks for Living Here.

With those four simple words, our last-born son exited our home to forge a new life for himself as a married man. The words were whispered to him by his father, who was failing utterly and completely in his efforts to appear stoic.

Tears were shed, but not of sadness. We were happy for him. He had chosen well and we had confidence that his decision was well thought out and planned with the precision of an architect designing his family’s first home. No. Our tears (Yes, I confess to shedding a few myself) were of joy, interspersed with a well-rounded measure of sentimentality.

As the boy he was to us exited our door in the form of the man he had somehow become while we were preoccupied with other matters, a vivid vignette played out in our minds. There was the mental image of a ten-year-old child sprawled out on a blanket in our field, his dog at his side. When asked what he was doing there, he answered, “Just listening.” Or the image imbedded in his father’s heart of a young boy sitting high in a redbud tree, binoculars in hand, watching a circling white-tailed hawk, or the pileated woodpecker that lived in a tree in our backyard.

*  *  *

Now, as he dances with his lovely bride of two hours, his mother and father are remembering the child of four who stood on the tops of his “Uncle” Ray’s feet, pestering him for just one more ride across the carpet of our rented vacation condo, or leaned down to touch the slick, smooth skin of the dolphin who followed our boat as it made its way across the channel to Shell Island.  We see the young man who defended his home against an invading raccoon who, clever critter that it was, slipped in through our fireplace  with the stealth of Cyrus the Great entering through the gates of Babylon and, like E.T, hid itself in plain sight on a wallshelf lined with stuffed animals!

We know that child is gone—he has been for a very long time. We just missed the signs, or perhaps are simply in denial. And while we are home waxing sentimental over the loss of our baby and, maybe (if we’re being truly honest) over our own vanishing youth, our son now boasts a beautiful young wife who has become the center of his universe, and he looks forward, as is his right, to a life brimming with empty pages just waiting to be filled.

 

And that is as it should be.

If I Were an Old Lady …

First, I wouldn’t much care to be referred to as an “old lady.” I’m going to have to ask you to keep that in mind as I approach the ripe old age of 60. I already choke when purchasing a “Senior Pass” at the movie theater where, apparently, age 55 is their idea of old!

There’s a reason I bring this up. I just returned from taking my elderly mother to the dentist. (I’ll concede here that 84 does qualify as elderly.) He was a very nice guy, by the way, dispelling all those rumors you may have heard about dentists. I may even switch to him myself. If I do, it will be in spite of his receptionist who flashed me her most condescending smile and mouthed, “She’s so cute,” after escorting Mom to the back room.

Cute? A freshly groomed French poodle is “cute.” A toothless, hairless, dimple-bottomed baby is “cute.” But I doubt my mother, who is succumbing to old age despite all her efforts to keep it at bay, would look upon “cute” as a compliment. Sure, she has the requisite snowy-white hair and she’s shriveled to half the size of the woman who threatened me with bodily harm if I forgot my curfew as a teenager. But she also has an I.Q. that exceeds 160, reads prolifically and can quote Thanatopsis with more ease than I can spell it.

It amazes me how many people talk to this woman like she’s a five-year-old – even the very nice dentist. After he examined her, he left her sitting in the dental chair and came out to consult me about her options, “How do you want to handle this?” he asked. I said, “Ask your patient; she’s very sharp.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said.

I’ve got to give the oral surgeon credit. He spoke directly to her. But he lost points when his young x-ray technician entered the room. I wanted to ask her how she was enjoying her firest year of high school! The conversation went something like this:

Gidget:              “Okay. Let’s hop down so we can take an x-ray.”

Me (laughing):  “I don’t think anyone’s going to be doing any ‘hopping’ today.”

Gidget:              “Huh?”

Me:                  “It’s a joke.”

Gidget:              “Oh.” (Looking like she was sorely in need of a dictionary.)

“Gidget” then proceeds to give instructions about the x-ray, which, I’m sure my nearly deaf mother hears as “Blah Blah Blah.”

Me:                     “She’s very hard of hearing.”  “Gidget” looks at me, confused.

Me:                    “She’s kind of deaf.”

As “Gidget” proceeds to get Mom situated just so for the x-ray, she neglects to point out the two-inch step-up at the base of the machine. Worst case scenario: Mom expires when the resulting broken hip fails to heal properly. Best case scenario: She returns home with multiple bruises and contusions in addition to her four extracted teeth.

Me:                    “Maybe you should tell her about the step up.”

Gidget:               “Huh?”

After getting that issue straightened out, ”G” wants Mom to stand straight and tall, with both feet planted squarely together.

Gidget:               “Put your feet closer together.” (Mom hears: “Blah Blah Blah.” )

Me:                   “She’s hard of hearing; you need to talk louder.”

Instead, “Gidget” bends down and manually pushes my mother’s feet together until they are touching. Mom starts to sway like a toppling ten pin.

Me:                    “She needs to hold on to something for balance.”

I’ll bet you’re starting to see a pattern here? If so, you’ve probably guessed “G’s” next words.

Gidget:              “Huh?”

Me again:  (Pointing to some handles on the machine): “Maybe you could tell her to hold onto those.”

Gidget:  (Speaking to Mom very quietly): “Blah Blah Blah.”

Call it common sense. Call it common courtesy. Call it common respect for the walking One-Foot-in-the-Grave-But-Not-Yet-Dead. Why do people assume all senior citizens are senile … or suffering from dementia? I’ve checked with my doctor and she assures me that old age is not contagious (although we will all eventually succumb the malady). But white hair and wrinkles do not cause “stupid.” (I’m giving some the benefit of the doubt here.) Most individuals of the elderly persuasion have lived long, full lives, had satisfying careers, made life-altering decisions, shaped the lives of their children and others, and maybe even fought and survived a war or two.

Let’s face it. It’s no fun being dependent on a cane or a walker for mobility, or to have to impose on someone to chauffeur you to the store or the dentist – and it’s especially not fun to know people are smiling behind your back and calling you “cute.” Awww. They never chose to shrivel up like a dried plum (formerly known as prunes). They’re not “on board” with the idea of aging any more than we’ll be when it’s our turn. Some are even embarrassed about it. As my mom told the dentist (and you may quote her – After all, with an I.Q. like hers, you know it’s bound to be something profound):

“Getting old is pigeon poop.”  

Awww.

The Whistler – In Memory of My Father

The scenes replayed from my childhood all begin the same way – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy tunes, like Anna in Siam “whenever she felt afraid” – except with Dad, it was just … whenever.

I can’t remember a time when my father didn’t whistle. We always knew he had arrived home from work long before he entered the house. His music preceded him, the whistle slipping from his lips as easily as the slide of Glenn Miller’s trombone.

When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent. “That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised, coming out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.” Then he would whistle contentedly as we followed him like a gaggle of geese to the next landmark.

When we passed his old high school, he stopped whistling long enough to describe the tornado that had ripped through town while all its residents were packed inside the gymnasium watching a basketball game. Dad had rushed in to warn everyone of the funnel cloud that had touched down, but, of course, nobody believed him, convinced it was just another one of his pranks. He was vindicated, however, when they filed out of the gymnasium after the game to find debris everywhere–roofless houses, uprooted trees, chimneys shaved off like unwanted whiskers. “There was nothing they could have done anyway; they were probably better off sitting in the safety of that gym enjoying a good game.” Again with the whistling. Over the Rainbow.

I could never get lost as a child. One time at the carnival I got separated from my parents amid the throng of humanity on the Midway. But I wasn’t scared. All I had to do, I told myself, was listen for the whistle. And sure enough, there it was. The theme from Carousel. (His choices were always appropriate to the setting.)

My father enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the only person ever rebuked for whistling in Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. You guessed it. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the docent clicked her tongue in contempt, he teased. “I think old Abe would have liked my whistling. It was his favorite song, after all.” You would think the self-conscious, pre-adolescent young girl that was me at the time would have found it mortifying to have all 20+ eyes in the tour group focused on my father, but, as it turned out, group sentiment appeared to run about 20:1 in his favor.

If you asked me what trait I loved most about my father, his whistling would be at the top of my list. Once, at the mall, we passed a group of teenagers who made fun of him as we walked by, snickering and pointing at him and blowing through their lips in mock whistles, then falling all over each other in peals of rude laughter. I remember wondering at the time what their dads were doing right then.

Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … or nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying. They gave him six months; he aimed for a year or, better yet, to prove them wrong all together. In the end he had to settle for 4½ months beyond their prediction, but they were good months. He tied up loose ends, said his goodbyes, made his amends. “I’ve had a long, happy life,” he’d said over and over. “I’m thankful for all I’ve had–my friends, my family, my memories. I’m ready.”

I’m not sure what tune he picked for the grand finale; his words were trapped inside him by then. But of one thing I have no doubt – my father went out whistling.

In Memoriam

Charles A. Dill

April 11, 1922 – February 18, 2009

PBY5A by Chuck Dill

My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys . . .

Or … How to Write a Successful Blog

Yesterday, I stood in a long line for two and a half hours … in the cold … in shoes that, even on a normal day make my feet feel like they’re being crunched in a vise. And I enjoyed every minute of it. (Well, except for that shoe thing … and the cold … and the two and a half hours.)  

Because at the end of that line, I got to meet Pioneer Woman!

For the majority of you, especially those of you of the female persuasion, that requires no further explanation. But if you happen to be one of the 53 people left in the country who hasn’t a clue, I’m talking about Ree Drummond, a/k/a The Pioneer Woman, who was appearing at a book signing for her newly released Black Heels and Tractor Wheels.

But wait. There’s more! I actually got to meet Marlboro Man. (Marlboro Man is Ree’s handsome, long-suffering husband–and the focus of every woman’s fantasy since the inception of Ree’s blog several years back.) Her newest book is the story of their meeting and falling in love.

Marlboro Man and I even exchanged a few words before I fainted.

JUST kidding. I remember babbling something to him like: “Do you sign the books with your real name or as ‘Marlboro Man’?” (Ree’s affectionate nickname for her cowboy/rancher guy husband). He drawled (yes, he really does drawl) that if he used his real name, he doubted anyone would even know who he was.

Lest you harbor concerns at my shamelessly throwing myself at the feet of this “other man,” I should tell you that my own, very sweet, long-suffering husband was the one who snapped the above picture. He also stood at my side for that two and a half hour wait, enduring the cold and a line that circled the outside of the library building, suffering right along with me–unequivocally proving that my creature worship had his stamp of approval. He even enjoyed it (except for that thing about the cold … and the long lines … and having forgotten to bring along his coat).

Inside, after a Q & A session, we were divided into groups of forty for the book signing. There were eleven (count them: 11!) groups. Let’s see. That would be (calculating on my fingers and toes) 11 times 4 = 44 times 10 = some 440 people waiting their turn to stand beside Pioneer Woman (and/or Marlboro Man) and get her/their autograph … times how many other libraries or book stores in how many other cities in how many other weeks!

And it all began with a simple blog.

Ree Drummond knows how to do a blog up right! So, I’m thinking it might be a good learning exercise to look at her M.O. and break down exactly what it is she is doing “right.” What makes her blog stand out from all the others? Here are just a few things I’ve come up with.

1. She writes like she’s talking to her own sister or to her best friend. People like that. This is no celebrity so full of herself that her favorite subject is me, me, me. She’s down-to-earth, self-effacing … and funny as all get-out.

2. She keeps it simple and talks about things we can all relate to. Her blog isn’t going to cure world hunger or strengthen the economy. She writes about everyday things–what happened on the ranch, her missing dog, her three-year-old’s difficulties verbalizing certain words, for instance the term “juice bag.” (Hint: I can’t repeat his version lest my blog get red-flagged. Let’s just say it rhymes with juice bag and leave it at that.) She shares her favorite things, her love of photography and cooking … she’s just one of us. Her gift is the ability to leave her readers feeling like they know her personally.

3. She writes something every day, even if only a few words. If you don’t turn up; they (the readers) won’t turn up. They need a reason to tune into your blog. If it’s not updated regularly, they get bored and move on. Let’s face it – a person can only handle so much disappointment. And, let’s face it, there’s no shortage of blogs out there from which to choose.

4. She has no ulterior motives in her blogging. She’s not trying to sell us anything. When she does mention a product, it’s always with a disclaimer: she is not an affiliate marketer and she is not making any money by mentioning thus and such a product. (And frankly, more than once her heads-up has led me to products I now swear by and don’t know how I ever lived without!)

5. She’s funny. People like funny–especially after an unfunny day at work or school. There’s always a place for blogs promoting social reform, how the internet has affected commerce, how the publishing industry has changed, etc. But, occasionally we need something light and airy, something that will help us take ourselves–and life –less seriously. Something that makes us laugh.

6. Pictures. Pictures. Pictures! Ree Drummond sprinkles visual content generously throughout her pages. It breaks up the monotony of a blog and creates interest. It draws the eye. It makes us smile. It’s artistically appealing. A picture paints a thousand words …

Blogging. Seemed like a decent outlet for my creative bent … a way to express myself, especially regarding special or significant momennt in my life. Thus my blog in memory of my father and, later, my youngest son’s marriage. After all, I do enjoy writing … I even wrote a novel. I hoped a blog might be a good way to promote that novel at some point. (Pipe dream? You tell me, Mr. Agent Man. Sure, there’s not a vampire in all its 400+ pages. And no, it’s not set on some planet south of Glackor, a parallel universe … or even middle earth. But it’s an engaging story nonetheless. A story about real people … with real struggles, with a nice little romance thrown in for good measure. A novel idea for a novel these days. But it worked pretty well for Margaret Mitchell, Anne Tyler, Diana Gabaldon, John Jakes, Sue Grafton …)

Anyway, the book signing was a wonderful success and greatly entertaining. We met some pretty nice people during our long hours in line. A military family with three kids came all the way from Fort Leonardwood, MO. A legal secretary from Perryville (that’s 30 miles south of St. Genevieve). I told the girl behind me that I think I talked to her during our wait time more than I’ve ever talked to some of my friends! That qualifies her as my new best friend! By the way, she took this picture of me and Marlboro Man.

So … I watched Pioneer Woman openly tremble as she stood at the podium facing the masses. Her confessed public speaking anxiety captured the sympathy of all. She talked of Charlie the Bassett Hound and Josh, the very eligible cowboy nephew. She pointed out Marlboro Man, standing faithfully in the wings in all his cowboy-hatted glory–there to extend her his moral support. She entertained some questions from the audience—and she signed my new book.

All of this for free!

Not bad for a Saturday evening’s entertainment.