Dad responds to date error in black pants saga

Carol,

Well, thanks for your efforts in being my helper. It will work out ok. I seems that I do not only know what day it is I cannot remember what month it is. Does that mean the the year will be next?

Thanks again

dad

Continuing saga of the black pants

Dad,

As you recall, you asked me to pick up your black (not navy) pants and take them to your friends flower shop. They were heading south to your vacation spot and were happy to deliver the correct color of slacks to you, if I could deliver the correct color of slacks to them. You specified a specific date for me to drop them off before your friends left town.

I had no problem getting your pants to your friends shop by the day you noted.

However, I do not believe it was the date you meant.

I went by on Thursday to deliver your black (not navy) pants, early. Surprisingly, the girls in the shop said that Ann and her husband had left that morning.

I must have looked very crestfallen as I shuffled out of the store trying to figure out how I had made a mistake and delivered on the wrong date.

I plopped into my car and started to turn the key.

Suddenly, one of the florists sprang from the shop waving a bouquet of carnations. She tapped on my window. I eased it down and she stuffed the flowers in my hand.

I accepted them with a droopy smile.

I now have a bouquet of pink flowers and a pair of black slacks.

As a reminder, this is February. Next month is March.

Navy is the new black: the story of the missing pants

My dad is a regular guy. With regular issues. He forgets things.

He is on vacation and discovered he was missing something. He sent me an email and asked that I stop by his house, dig through his closet, grab his black pants -- that he needs for a special occasion -- and forward them to his sunny digs in Arizona.

I did.

Then I got this message.

"I do not remember if I thanked you for going by the house to pick up my black pants so here is a thank you.

However, the pants you chose were Navy Blue."

Why you should always keep a clean room

Yesterday, one of our web visitors spent some precious Saturday leisure time to reflect on our wallpaper post. Their reflection resulted in a comment that was simply too good not to feature. And like all good thoughtful, reflective posts, there is a moral to the story (See Editor's Note below).

Here's the contribution from an 'anonymous' visitor:

Once upon a time Little_Carol was overheard commenting on The "Magic Mother." For those of you who do not know who The "Magic Mother" was I'll try and explain. She was the mystical, magical mother that was never wrong and always knew what you were doing and thinking. In this part of the universe nothing was kept from The "Magic Mother" because she was the closest thing to an omniscient being they knew. The universe was in balance and all things were right. This is how things are and things rarely change.

One day Little_Brother came along. Now Little_Sister thought that Little_Brother was the most annoying creature in the world, this unbeknown to her is called the little brother effect. The little brother annoyance factor is higher and louder when is traveling towards him or him towards you. Simply stated the little brother effect is directly proportional to the proximity of you to the little brother.

Now where was I? Oh yes, the day that Little_Brother came along. The universe shifted that day as the balance had been upset. Little_Brother came to believe in the things his Big_Sisters told him of the omniscient being they knew and called The "Magic Mother." She was always right and had never been proved otherwise. Things in the universe began to settle back in and once again the universe was in balance and all things were right. This is how things are and things rarely change.

One day as Little_Brother was walking through a room he overheard The "Magic Mother" talking and he was stunned. He actually thought he heard The "Magic Mother" say she was wrong. This.....could it be... but how could he prove it. You see like the boy that called wolf Little_Brother had been known to pull a prank or 2 or 3 or eleven-teen. He knew Big_Sisters would never believe him and think it was just another prank. His mind went rushing how to prove it. Since he was a well read boy for his age, he loved Hardy Boys and Sherlock Holmes, a thought came into his mind. Why not put it on paper and see if The "Magic Mother" would sign it. Proof positive that no one could deny. Yes and it was a good example of Occam's razor, well at least he thought it was.

Decision made, he quickly searched for something to write on and write with. He quickly penned the important things (On this date, at this time, The "Magic Mother" admitted to being wrong). He left a line for her signature. He approached The "Magic Mother" and presented her with his writing. She quickly read it. This always puzzled him he thought she would have known what he was up to and would have no need to read it. That was just a passing thought and was as easily forgotten as the answer "yes" to the question of can I go out and play.

She signed it, after a little laugh. Oh, on that day the universe once again shifted and once again it was not balanced. He had to find Big_Sisters and show them his proof. Big_Sisters could hardly believe their eyes, and the universe shifted again as things became more and more out of balance. They ran to The "Magic Mother" and asked if it was true. They could not believe that Little_Brother could be right and The "Magic Mother" was not. Oh, how their universes were turned upside down that day.

As the years went by, that piece of paper was swallowed up in the portable hole that existed in his room, although he could never find it. This did not matter as it was always remember there was a piece of paper and even to this day The "Magic Mother" is still The "Magic Mother."

Editors Note: Let this be a lesson to all of us, clean your room and know where your important papers are!

The only other thing I can say, is this: I REMEMBER THAT PIECE OF PAPER.

Like it was yesterday :-)

Family vacation, borders and flying suitcases

Family trips evoke horror ridden memories or gut wrenching cackles. During the trip to the homestead in Idaho a suitcase got left on the top of the car. The wind blew it off. We stopped to pick it up. Inside was a clock which, packed by my overly cautious uncle, suffered nary a scratch. He’d bought it during the trip and was flying home and had packed it to withstand airport handling.

The clock survived the flight off the car and the flight home.

My daughter’s memories include seeing all the license plates, falling asleep listening to a book on tape and not minding missing any of it as the nap made the travel time pass quickly. My dad’s vacation memories center around history and being in the middle of something exciting, for example, where fur traders traversed from Taos, Mexico to Yellowstone, or having sensory overload at places like Cabella’s.

My vacation memories usually center on leaving work with a clean desk—should someone need to find something in my absence the possibilities increase with each item I file or discard. Then there’s the thrill of finally being on the road and maybe driving fast with a radar detector.

Other family members might complain our hunger clocks are not in the same time zone, of restrooms too low or too tiny, of missing the correct turn-off, and keeping expenses straight so everyone pays their part.

I gaze out the car window and admire green velvet fields. I watch the breath of the wind blow across them and change their hue. I take in green and tan corn stalks stretching behind wood post fences, farmhouses, silos, irrigation wing spans, the rare red-roof barn, a gentle border of trees signaling a creek, a white steeple church, wind turbines, mile long trains that parallel us, blue sky sparsely peppered with dark clouds or glowing with white billows.

We drive.

We cross state boundaries and face personal ones. These borders of our soul help define who we are, what we are for or against, and what we want and do not want. And sometimes we find ourselves not strapped on, wheeling precariously across the roof of the car, the next bump and we disappear. We may pray someone notices, or we may pray they drive on without us.

If family neglect left you on top of the car, did you fly off and survive, or crack with a hurt too big to repair?

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Blue Lily, imagination and fragments of family we all miss

I’m writing at the moment. Sunk deep into a story. It occupies my thoughts when I wake and whispers to me in sleep. I have the idea mapped out in my mind and anxiously look forward to each moment in front of the computer.  But in-between the imagination and fingertips is another universe, and as I get to the end of each chapter I realize nothing is exactly as I’d envisioned it.

The story takes on a life of its own and I am merely a guest on it’s journey.

I wonder how I can assert so little control.

I wonder why I don’t know what will happen until it taps itself out on the white screen.

I wonder who is really writing the story.

My current project is named, Blue Lily, a nod at my great grandmother who went by the nickname Lily and whose hair was so black it was blue in the sparkling sunlight. Her given name was Carol, like mine, but more. She was Carolyn.

I feel simple and small beside her memory. She was adored by her granddaughter, my mother. And two lifetimes after her Lily’s death my mother can still cry. “You never get over missing family,” she explains and I know exactly what she means.

But I wonder if I am speaking as me or as Blue Lily.

Who are you missing?

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Things my mom didn't tell me

My mom told me there were three bedrooms at the place she had booked for us at the beach.

What she didn’t tell me: the two bedrooms on the second floor have private baths with jetted tubs, the living room features a gas fireplace, flat screen TV and stereo system, the kitchen a dishwasher, a side-by-side with filtered water, and granite countertops.

She also neglected to announce the deck featured an ocean view, touted a gas grill and a hottub, which is why I appeared without a bathing suit.

Had she told me it was equipped with a washer and dryer I would have brought my chores.

Stop.

I’m confused. I thought we were traveling with retired folk. I thought we were…not rich. I thought vacation timeshares were bad, and that you should not purchase them.

I still believe that is true.

Do not buy timeshares!

Do, however, encourage your parents to purchase them. ☺

Oh, and remember to bring along someone who can cook (that would not be me).

And enjoy the view.

With a glass of wine.

Out of a box.

Really.

That was my classy contribution...

What's your best contribution this summer?

Don’t be fooled by the smiley face

There is no family vacation without savoring a bakery, dining in a recommended restaurant, driving around at least once…the wrong direction (we call that DAD!), and visiting a bookstore.

I didn’t buy a book. I had two dozen in the trunk, but that did not stop me from shopping. I can’t leave people alone. I had to bother the bookstore owner a few of times, do you have A Certain Slant of Light? Do you have a copy of (fill in the blank). Oh, hey, did you know the designer who did this Columbine bookcover (Henry Sene Yee) talks about creating it on his blog? Would you like me to email that to you?

After all that needless chatter I was, indeed, obligated to spend money in her store. A gift to me. I settled on a notebook. Every writer needs one.

In fact, mini-notebooks were required in Novel Writing Boot Camp by teacher Carolyn Rose. In fact, Elizabeth Lyons, in her book Manuscript Makeover, advises we have mere seconds to capture a thought, an idea, a firefly. They all admonish: keep something handy to write on. I have nothing handy, its all in the bottom of one of my many bags.

I bought the notebook.

I, however, was not the first person to write in my notebook.

It was my sister.

She wrote, “Hello. No pictures on Face book ☺.”

I think the smiley face negates any orders she may have been doling out.

What messages are you ignoring?


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A family means love, good food and adoption

Full disclosure: adoption runs rampant in our family. Really amok.

No one remembers who’s adopted and who is not.

That’s a tragedy. But only in Wisconsin, 1998.

I first heard of this tragedy shortly after it happened. I watched a television program about a Milwaukee, Wisconsin uncle attempting to adopt his orphaned niece. The judge denied the uncle's petition because he had also been adopted, and therefore—using strict interpretation of the law—not a blood relative, and that is what Children's Court Judge Daniel L. Konkol based his decision on. The case was reviewed in the book Adoption Nation, and an excerpt can be read here.

Globally, adoption laws require would-be parents to jump through hoops no birth parent will ever be forced to consider, and that’s okay. But why would a state law require adoptive parents to accept their adopted children, as if they were delivered by birth in all matters legal, and then turn around and negate the child’s rights once they had grown into adulthood? It was a staggering decision that angered adoption advocates.

The TV program, the concept, and the ‘meddlers’ in the Milwaukee case left me incensed. After all, aren’t there at least two people in the picture perfect, two parent, 2.5 child, American dream family who are NOT blood relatives? Yes, usually. The mother and the father. Okay, my logic sucks, but still.

I was reminded of this program while re-reading Jacquelyn Mitchard’s book A Theory of Relativity. If her name sounds familiar it is because she also wrote The Deep End of the Ocean. In A Theory of Relativity, Mitchard creates a masterful piece that does not allow us to view any one person as bad, nor does any character have unsound motives. Actions stem from good intentions and how we value families based on the family we know and the duty we feel. Mitchard serves up the story with Sturm and Drang, and although I would have preferred more forward direction in the time line during the first part of the story, the book is knuckle biting.

In real life, Uncle Scott Albrecht lost the case to adopt his niece. Mitchard’s development of his saga into fiction and her own personal parallel is reported on the Harper Collins web-site in Mitchard's Author Essay.

And I can speak from experience, it is not blood that creates a family. It is love, good food, and the ability to tolerate each other on vacation.

What is family to you?

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Less cranky, more cranberry and I'll take that with honey

Good morning.

I did turn off the computer.

I set down my book.

I put on my sandals.

I went.

It was… different.

Yes, I stood inside the Cranberry Museum, which means I was not forced into the Kite Museum. So, before this vacation continues, allow me to get this out of the way:

• 8,000 acres of cranberries stretch across the West Coast


• Cranberries do NOT grow in water (they are, however, harvested in water)


• Cranberries require bees for pollination
  

What does all this mean?

Cranberry honey stands ready for my toast tomorrow.

How about you? What are you planning for tomorrow?

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The Tempest leaves town

Vacation Day One
I can be a pleasant person to vacation with. Really.

I’m just not a pleasant person to be around when trying to leave on vacation. I stomp and storm. Not pretty.

The tempest is the build up of stress, the need to flee work pressure, to escape constant deadlines, to shed the dozens who appear at my cube every ten minutes, or so, with questions, questions, questions. The patience it drains to consider each one, decide yes or no, and further, to explain the philosophy behind my responses—believing if they understand the why, they’ll be able to craft their own decisions, and the right ones, in the field—takes boundless energy.

Personal power piddled down to an unsteady drip of a leaky faucet. No energy. Except to, well, yell.

I was so horribly prepared for this week off my dear daughter did my packing. She started an hour before we left. That is quite possibly child labor in some homes, but in mine a gesture of love. Sweet love, someone loves me very much. I am grateful.

When I finally slid behind the wheel, all energy pumped out, forced out into cleaning and scouring so we wouldn’t come home to the same old mess, and seriously bled dry by not enough pre-planning, I was exhausted.

All I craved was a couch and a cover to crack. Hardbound, paperback, didn’t matter. I crated two dozen and threw them in the trunk. A partial tank of gas later, we arrived.

The next issue was the others who love me. The rest of the family. I heard them plainly as each mile passed between us and home. “No computer.” “Stop reading.” “Come with us.” But the physical hurdle to overcome crossed The Columbia.

A bridge. It's 6.545 miles long, merely 28 ft wide, and 196 ft at high tide. It's the longest continuous truss bridge in North America. We crossed it.

We arrived 10PM, hungry, everything closed except Chen's Chinese. We grabbed our take-out and dodged horses clopping on the sidewalk. Seriously. We are totally in the Wild West, which isn't a problem per se, it's the road apples that annoy.

At the condo, I turned on my computer. I grappled through a few pages of my book. I slipped into bed….

I think they call that sleep.

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