Home alone

(NOTE: Meant to post this last night but I was too busy frantically cleaning the house before Mary got home -NOT!)

Mary comes home tonight. In fact, as I type this, she’s approximately over Helena, MT and in a half hour, I’ll head to the airport. Can’t wait!

Whenever Mary is gone and I’m home alone, I field a lot of “typical husband home alone” comments from co-workers and others. The thrust is that I’m expected – as a man – to be thrilled at the prospect of a long weekend alone in the castle.

The assumption is that I’ll eat ‘my foods,’ rent inappropriate movies and let the place go to the dogs. I actually had someone ask me today if I needed to get home early to clean up the place before Mary returns.

Well, I do eat what I want but probably not what they might think. The house looks at least as good as when she left and not because of any last minute blitz.

I’m never thrilled at the prospect of Mary being gone. The life we’ve crafted, we’ve crafted together. She is my best buddy, true love and occasional verbal sparring partner. What she is not, is my keeper.

I will pick her up tonight and when we get home, I’ll go right to bed so I can be up to catch the bus to work, while Mary stays up awhile to wind down from her trip home.  And that’s okay. Just having her in the house is a win every time.

Jiggs

Jiggs the Exuberant is a boxer who lives in the house around the corner, which also shares about twenty feet of backyard fence line with us. He spends a fair amount of time trying to figure out how to get over, under or through the fence to frolic with our doggies.

Jiggs lives in a rental house occupied by a frequently changing cast of early twenties car enthusiasts and as far as I can tell, he’s on his third ‘owner.’ I think the house comes furnished with him. And while his human roommates seem to treat him well, seem even to take delight in his presence, it’s become clear they don’t all understand the concept of closed gates.

These failures in our neighbors’ security system occur at irregular intervals but generally every couple of weeks or so. Jiggs’ jaunts are short lived but joyful. For whatever reason, he celebrates his independence by making a beeline for Chez McDermott, where he frolics outside the family room picture window until I notice him and come outside, leash in hand. He jumps and licks and squiggles his little boxer body in the most amazing display of unabashed love and joy, then leans against my leg while I attach the leash to his collar. He does this whole body wag thing that threatens to make his nose and butt meet on the far side of my calf.

Meanwhile, Odin the Large and Lazy and Zoey the Small and Annoying are barking up a storm from behind the window, incensed at the idea that their human is being co-opted by the boxer from the back fence. As Jiggs and I head for home, I can hear them barking all the way. They are not impressed with my little buddy.

Jiggs doesn’t fight capture; in fact, he runs to me when I call. And he squiggles all the way home.  Today it was the front door that was left open and Jiggs happily ran inside to his water bowl. Then, his adventure concluded, he gave no indication of noticing my departure.

Upon my arrival back home, of course I have to submit to a round of suspicious sniffing from Odin and Zoey before I can resume my life. That is, until Jiggs’ next Great Escape.

I find myself looking forward to it.

Either you get this, or you don't

Cochrane

My list of inexplicable volunteer activities

Things Mary and I volunteered to do, supposedly in support of our children but really because we thought it would be cool or fun or we just didn’t think about it before saying yes:

·         Built a full-size, working pumpkin carriage for Cinderella

·         Served as cookie managers for the Brownie troop - twice

·         Escorted a first grade trip to the Puyallup Fair

·         Chaperoned a choir trip to Korea – (This was Mary – I would never be so silly!)

·         Hosted up to forty kids for a Christmas cookie decorating party, six years in a row – (Okay, this one was mine, and I still have the multipled sugar cookie recipe that yields 1200 Christmas trees, snowmen, and Santas.)

·         Put up more Christmas lights each year until the FAA started using our house as a beacon for airliners

·         Ran the concession for x number of school plays at a succession of schools

·         Slid around town for three hours taking half the drill team home on the night of the big snowfall when it turned out none of the other parents had four-wheel drive. Neither did we, technically speaking, but SOMEONE had to get them home!

·         Served as line judge for the volleyball tournaments – Not a popular position as it turns out, and impresses no one, but I think I look fabulous doing the dance steps

·         And other things, innumerable

So, what’s the point of building and sharing this list with all my blog buddies?

·         The plus reason – I wanted to share with you how much we loved doing whatever we needed to do to be supportive of our daughters’ activities as they grew up, thus proving we were the coolest parents at (Stevenson Elementary / Odle Middle School, Sammamish High School).

·         The other reason – As we sit watching Survivor and arguing over who’s going to put the kettle on for tea, I felt the need to remind myself that I once had energy and commitment.

·         You choose.

For a friend whose daughter will soon start peeling away…

Here’s what Mary and I think we’ve learned so far:

·         Touching skin will become less and less frequent but touching hearts need not.

·         Your best laid plans are fantasy.

·         Few of us are where we thought we were going but all of us got here.

·         Here is not such a bad place.

·         Making some bad choices is necessary – it’s easier to learn from stumbles than leaps.

·         Become savvy about Skype, etc.

·         When Skyping, study the background, then pretend not to notice.

·         Same for piercings, hair colors, etc. (Okay, so this one took me awhile – what of it?)

·         The quality of your child’s education and the size of your retirement account represent an inverse correlation.

·         Listening remains a key skill set.

·         You have to keep a nest for them at ‘home,’ but it can also serve as your newly acquired office. They’ll get over it.

·         Love and acceptance trump advice and consent every day of the week.

·         That boy you think is trouble, might well be. And you don’t have a vote.

·         In choosing schools, living one’s dream is infinitely more important than following the accepted path. Our dancing stilt walker and our budding engineer are both pursuing their passions. Two successes and neither more or less impressive and welcome than the other.  

·         Help them understand that lots of buddies are loads of fun but one or three truly loved and deeply trusted (and trustworthy) friends will ultimately be more satisfying.

·         Every now and then – and this advice is for both you and the offspring – stop and stare. Notice. Embrace.

·         Noticing will usually be more useful than seeking. Still trying to figure out why that is.

·         They are expected to break holiday traditions as the mood strikes. You are not allowed the same latitude.

·         No one said this would be fair.

·         Speaking of not fair, your sole path to grandchildren runs through them and the choices they make. Get over it.

·         You thought childrearing was tough? Fasten your seat belt, the ride is just starting.

Boston

Friends and family:
Daughter Two is okay physically and hunkered down with her friends. The school and city are pretty much shut down today.  Through bad luck, she was near the scene once again and is trying make sense of it. Please stream your best, most wholesome thoughts toward Boston.
Michael and family

An announcement

As of today, I am 60 years of age.
Can you say, "Senior Discount?"

A letter to my daughter

I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there when people died.

But it’s not the same, not really, is it? In my case, the horror came as the result of accident and I was a ‘first responder,” putatively trained to be prepared for the worst. No one prepared you. It was no accident that drove your experience of yesterday. And that makes it a wholly different sort of awful.

I guess I really don’t know what you and your friends are going through. We can talk about PTSD and survivor guilt and fear until we’re collectively blue in our faces and it does nothing to address your questions or assuage your…what? What do we call the emotions assaulting you this morning after?

Psychology 101 can’t help us understand the infliction of intentional, random, horrific injury. The news media pretend to try but only succeed in revealing their own ingrained blood lust.

What does a father say in response to a daughter’s questions that he doesn’t entirely understand and certainly can’t answer?

Toni is right about two things, at least these two things:

                Talking to someone who knows how to listen helps.

                Concentrating on the positive is central.

So I’ll do what I can do, the only avenue available to me and remind you of some facts that might help or at least I hope can’t hurt.

·         Authorities announced yesterday that they don’t need blood donations because they already have jammed refrigerators. Lots of folks literally gave of themselves to make that the case.

·         People were rushing in to help before the smoke stopped roiling out. If you look at the photos – and actually I don’t suggest you do, better to just take my word – but if you do look, you’ll see so many people, many of them wearing street clothes, squeezing pressure points and holding heads and hands and pushing makeshift wheelchairs. 

·         Uncountable messages were posted in the first hours offering a bed for the night, a dinner, a ride to strangers based entirely on need and not at all on affiliation.

·         Any one of the friends who read this blog would take you in on a moment’s notice. We would do the same for them and theirs.

·         Tobi insisting you get up, shower and go to lunch and lab with her because she knew the last thing you needed was to be alone with your thoughts, was spot on. She’s as good a friend as one could ever want.

·         You have the best big seester in the known world and she’s always at the end of the phone line.

·         The race will be run again next year because ultimately, it’s most important not to give in.

No title

Haven’t a clue what the title should be for this one. Mary and I don’t know what to think.

Someone tried to kill our daughter today. As it happens, Daughter Two is safe. But other people’s daughters aren’t safe. Many daughters and sons tonight are injured terribly, physically or psychically and our hearts and minds reach out to them.

Hurt is hurt.

It’s never a good thing when your cell phone rings and your daughter’s voice says, “I wanted you to know I’m all right. It was right where we were standing but I had already left and I’m okay.” (You can probably hear the sound of a father’s brain spooling up as it seeks answers to questions that begin with the five Ws – especially, ‘what’ and ‘why?’)

She was fundraising for Camp Kesem and a half hour after she left, the place where she had been standing became a terrible new piece of our history. And she will spend the rest of her life knowing this evil that reached out to touch her and missed, owing solely to a fluke of timing.

As a father, I’m feeling what I’m feeling, as you can imagine. We need not go into that here. You get it.

But as a person, as a citizen and as A dad – as opposed to HER dad – it horrifies me that any harm that might have befallen her would have come to her so unthinkingly. The bomber(s) don’t know Two and don’t care to know her. Had she been one of the victims, one of the physical victims that is, the bombers wouldn’t have cared that she was there raising money for a charitable cause.

They didn’t care that she was my daughter…

…or your friend…

…or a budding engineer…

…or one of the best minds of her generation…

…or a beloved sister…

…a volleyball player…

…or  Odin’s bud…

…a gifted singer and arranger…

…or a great, intuitive project manager.

Whoever these demons turn out to be, they just don’t care who they hurt. They do this because they think that in so doing, they can send a message.

I don’t give a crap about them. Their agenda is of no moment to me. I don’t care to know what message was being sent today. I don’t care if they’re feeling oppressed or that their religion has been insulted. Don’t care about any of that. The people who did this just. Do. Not. Matter.

What matters to me is that my daughter and her friends are safe. And it matters to me grievously that others are not.  

It matters to me that in the same snippet of film in which one sees the blast, we also see bystanders, officials, friends and strangers jumping in and pulling away the barricades so they could begin the task of helping the injured. Two bombs went off and I see as many people running toward as away.

Someone tried to kill my daughter today. And that someone is nothing to me. The people that matter to me are all in the newsreel. People pulling together in the first seconds after the horror. People in extremis. People whose first reaction in extremis was, “I have to help.”

Hope

I am in love with that most hopeful of utterances, “maybe tomorrow.”  Al Pacino as Frank Slade in Scent of a Woman says this, confirming to Chris O’Donnell’s character Charlie Simms that he is not going to blow his brains out. Today, anyway.

Several friends have used versions of this phrase recently, one in a blog, others in messages both verbal and in Facebook.

We’ve all gone through tough times here and there. Some of us more than others and some of us have had some truly hard things in our lives. Somehow, we get through tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow” means there will be a tomorrow. Even for Frank Slade.

We’ve used that phrase for much less momentous possibilities.

Will we have roast beef? Maybe tomorrow.

Will I mow the lawn? Maybe. Tomorrow.

When are you going to pay me? Maybe tomorrow…

Orphan Annie was right about tomorrow. It’s only a day away.

Maybe.

Las Vegas

I don’t get it.

I mean, I understand the great shows like Cirque Du Soleil. But those could have been staged in other destination cities. And I have to admit I probably wouldn’t fly here just to see the shows. But I was assigned to teach a class here, so here I be.

I took the shuttle down to the strip last night to look it over and I wasn’t impressed.  I walked through three major casinos in my search for dinner and all I saw was people trying to beat out other people. There’s a sense of desperation here that’s palpable. And the façade at each such establishment (one’s supposedly Arthurian and another ancient Egyptian, and so on) is so thin that they don’t event bother to pretend to establish and maintain a theme at more than a surface level.

The airport is conveniently proximate to the casinos, so that the minimum time is spent getting from the airplane to the gambling. Even the bandits in the airport were doing big business. Seems like people can’t wait to start throwing their money down the maw.

It’s just a way of dressing up theft, to my mind. Except of course, it isn’t. Theft, that is. These people volunteer to donate their money to this fake city that shouldn’t even exist.

I don’t get it.

Measures

Words don’t mean the same to everyone and this particularly applies to words of measurement.

Well, some do. If you’re using avoirdupois or metric and applying a term traceable to an international standard, then of course a cup is a cup and a meter thirty-nine-point-something-or-other inches. An angstrom is a specific and precise unit. (Okay, I had to say that in case the ASTM thought police read this. And now, we return to our regular programming…)

From our first dawning knowledge that the sounds issuing from our mothers’ moving lips carried meaning, we’ve gradually come to know that some of those sounds, repeated over time and enhanced by facial expressions and hand motions and of course, context carry meanings that are at once both well-defined and infinitely adjustable. And we tend to grow up accepting our mothers’ definitions of things, including units of measure.

Take some. No,no, not “take some!” Take, “some.” It’s a word we use every day and it could mean any quantity from three to three million, an ounce to a long tonne. In my mother’s lexicon, it meant a quantity appropriate to the item in question. “Some” ice cream meant a single serving, which in our house was probably more substantial than in some of yours. To Mom, “some” meant as much or as many as needed and no more. Not the same for my Dad. “Some” nails meant enough to join the boards in question together plus another half dozen or so that would end up bent on the floor of the garage. But of course, that had more to do with Dad’s shortcomings as a carpenter than any failure on his part to properly estimate the need.

“Many” is a similarly slippery term. How many is many? Depends. Do you mean many as in a lot or many as in “I didn’t see many,” which is sort of a limiting quantification. “Lot” sort of fills the same usage niche, except when used by a wide-eyed young’un, as in “there were a LOT of them.”

Yeah, expressions of quantity or magnitude could be confusing growing up in our house and neighborhood. But over time and with accumulated experience and maturity, I believe I’ve got a handle on some of the most used terms, so I figured I’d share them with you. Herewith, some definitions, courtesy of Marion’s baby boy:

Soon = Not yet, and if you keep asking, then maybe never.

Smidgen = A quantity that I’m hoping you won’t think is too much, because I really like this stuff.

Passel = More than some, occasionally more than many, but usually not a LOT of them.

Bunch = In carrots, about seven. In flowers, however many I could afford. In all else, some. Occasionally many, as in “They was a bunch of ‘em!”

More than enough = You’ll probably have to share.

Plenty = See “more than enough.”

Units of time can be similarly catalogued:

Days = Three days

Days and days = Four days

Days on end = Longer than Mom found appropriate.

All hours (as in noise from next door until all hours) = Until eleven p.m.

Almost all night = At least thirty seconds past midnight

Way too late = Later than I’d prefer.

As you may have surmised by now, not all of the terms I learned from my Mom are exacting in any definitive sense. But there is no doubt in my mind what they mean, each and all. I’m betting each of you has equivalent – though perhaps not necessarily similar – definitions for each of these terms.

That’s okay. I declare my definitions the correct ones, if for no other reason than I grew up in Marion’s house.

I didn’t promise to be reasonable.

More on dogs

Zoey the Small and Annoying just followed Mary up the stairs to our bedroom. She’ll go back and forth a half dozen times before I’m done posting this, intent on being with both of us and nervous lest I lose my way and never make it to the bedroom.

Odin the Large and Lazy has been upstairs for some time, staking out his place of prominence at the foot of our bed and not at all concerned about the fact that I’ll have to climb over him to make my way into the room. These days, overcoming inertia is not his strong suit. He likes to move as little as possible, preferably once in the morning and once in the evening.

We ran into a guy with a beautiful five-year old Golden while out walking tonight and I let her nuzzle my hand. I’ve always loved Goldens and I’ve never met one that didn’t return my affection. I’m the Golden Whisperer. (In addition to being the Baby Whisperer, but that’s another post entirely.)

There’s a young lady who frequently carries her dachshund on the bus mornings and they snuggle and cuddle all the way to 4^th and Seneca. Tonight she was on the bus without the dog and she was having a tense conversation with someone on the phone. She does better when her dog’s with her.

We were over at the neighbors’ for dinner Saturday night and Ynez the guide dog spent a good portion of the evening proferring her hindquarters for rubbing. I was only too happy to oblige.

We’d wondered what happened to Jiggs the boxer in the house catty-cornered from us but after a couple months of no sightings, all of a sudden there he was on Sunday while I mowed the lawn near the fenceline. He’s really a lovely, special dog who wants only to be friends with the whole world. All at once. And he’s one of those pups who always somehow manages to get out and go gleefully romping through the hood.

There was a dog at the Rainier bus stop today whose owner had dressed it up in a foo foo outfit. As I’ve said before, I swear dogs can show embarrassment.

I love dogs. Can you tell?

That for which I am thankful

1) Toni's blog
2) And some other stuff