My Daddy

          “Anyone can be a father but it takes a special person to be a daddy.”  Hallmark card

  

          This morning at our usual Sunday breakfast, I had a wonderful realization about my father.  My friend was telling a story and responded that she saw a lot of her father in her son and in herself.  I thought to myself and brought to my mind’s eye an image of my own father.  I told the group at the breakfast table that I thought the only thing of my father that I had inherited was the ability to tell a good story.

          Later while writing in my journal I realized what a marvelous gift my father had given me.  I am a writer.  I tell stories and thanks to my father’s gene pool, I tell a pretty good tale.

          When I was a little girl one of my favorite things to do was to say to my father, “Daddy, tell us something about down home.”  My parents were from the rural Kentucky hills and their childhood seemed to be Waltonesque to me.  Big family, not much money but a whole lot of love and adventures for kids running free in the countryside.

          My dad would conjure up a story about when he was a kid.  He had such wonderful stories to tell.  My favorite one was about the time his brother had challenged him to see who could throw a rock the farthest and my father had hit his brother right between the eyes with his throw.  We would all laugh and Daddy would just beam with obvious delight.  We kids would ask for more and more stories and he would agree and give us another rendition of one of his favorite memories.

          The things that made my father’s stories so good were the fact that they were real and had actually happened.  He used expression in his face as he told the stories and you could tell from his face that he was reliving those moments as he told us about them.  He would laugh and clap his hands and we would cry, “what then? What then?” and he would entice us further even if we had heard the story before.         

Daddy had so many stories about hunting and courting my mother and stories about his brother and sisters.  My most unfavorite were the snake stories because I would have bad dreams.  My mother would try to hush these stories but once he got on a roll there was no turning back.

          I think the reason I loved my daddy’s stories so much were that they allowed me a glimpse of him when he was young.  When I envision my daddy I see him, as he was young, smiling and handsome with such beautiful wavy dark hair.  I’ve heard it said that it is a shame that we didn’t know our parents when they were young.  Because of my father’s stories, I did know him when he was young.  He will always be young to me.  And he was a very special person.

        My Daddy used to tell stories.  He was a fabulous story teller.  He was a big cutup and liked to joke a lot.

        He would meet people for the very first time and tell about when he was in the Army.  (He was never in the army.)  He talked about when he got shot and the person he was talking to asked him where he got shot.  He would point to the top of his head and tell them to feel where it went in.

        When they felt the top of his head he would lift his butt, and then tell them to feel where it came out.  They would all just crack up.  (Sorry about the pun.)

Younger daughter, Jessica, gave me the most wonderful Christmas gift.  It is a subscription to Story Worth.  I write stories this year and they create a book at the end of the year.  I am so very excited.  I may be inspired to write more because of this.

This week’s subject is “How did you figure out how to be a parent?”  I have to admit, first of all, that I never intended on becoming a parent.  I am the youngest of three children and so was never around babies or small children.  I never babysat any children, and I hated being around my friend’s small siblings.

When I found out that I was pregnant I bought a child care book by Dr. Spock.  I read it and figured out a few things from the good doctor.  I also talked to my mother about being a parent and she gave me useful advice.  I called her frequently when I had questions.  Why is the baby drooling so much?  Why does she always get hungry when it is my time to sit down and eat?  When will she start to talk? And walk?

At my first six week check up with Addi the pediatrician lifted her arm and there was this big booger under her arm.  He looked at me and said, “She won’t break.”  I was so embarrassed.  She got a good washing at the next bath time.

I think also that instincts had kicked in.  When you have grown this little human being inside you for nine months there is just something internally that tells you when something is wrong.  You want to protect them, keep them clean and from harm.  The miracle that came from the love between two people is hard to resist.

Addi was a pretty easy baby.  She was so pleasant and fun to be around.  She hardly ever cried but if she did she passed out. (Talk about scary!)  Jess on the other hand, was a handful.  She whined and cried constantly.  She had this horrible habit of flinging herself backwards and clunking her head on the floor.  We called her Clunkhead for a while.

Kahlil Gibran wrote about children, “Your children are not your children.  They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.  You may give them your love but not your thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.”  He also wrote “You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”  I guess this was my inspiration of becoming a parent.

I feel that you just rent children long enough to housebreak them and then send them on their way, hopefully to become responsible adults who will contribute to society.

I had another inspiration about parenting from a co-worker.  Her teenage son was constantly complaining.  She said she told him one day, “If you don’t like it here, move out.  Get a job.  Have your own house where you can do what you want to do.”

I just loved this.  The children were just living in MY house and abiding by MY rules.  And if they didn’t like it, they could just move.

Once when we were driving to my mother’s house the girls kept arguing and being grouchy.  The hubster stopped the car, went around and opened the door and told them to, “Get out.”  He was sick of their moaning and told them so.  They cried so hard but he gave them a good scare and they were much more pleasant after that.

I had this system of warning them if they were bothering my nerves.  I would count to three. They usually quieted down on two.  Addi once asked me what would happen if I got to three.  I said I’d have to take them to the orphanage.

Later on in that year, we had purchased half a beef from my uncle.  We purchased a side every fall.  We had accumulated quite a bit of beef liver and I decided to donate it to a local orphanage. When I parked the car and went to get the liver to take in, the girls asked me where we were.  I answered innocently, “This is the orphanage.”

They started crying and screaming, “No, mommy.  We’ll be good.  Don’t take us to the orphanage.”  I had to laugh, and I had to hide my laughter.  I gave them both hugs and kisses and said I was donating the liver to the orphanage, not taking them to the place.  That was a meaningful lesson in parenting.  Watch what you say.

I guess what I mean to say about parenting is that I never really learned how to be a parent.  I just made it up as I went along.  I probably wasn’t the nicest mother at times.  I suffered from PMS from Hell once a month, and I’m sure I was a bitch to live with.  On the other hand, I did read to my children and tuck them into bed.  I tried to make sure that they had what they needed but tried not to overdo the nurturing.

My nickname from my children is Smother.  So, I guess I probably overdid the loving thing.  But I think they still like me.  And I feel they both have become responsible adults and are contributing to society.

Peace be with you.

The first Christmas that I recall as a child was the one that I wished for a tea set.  My parents insisted that there was not extra money for a lot of gifts that year and we would have to settle with underwear, socks, oranges and fresh nuts.  We went to church that evening and when we got back I headed to bed to find on my bed a little tea set.  I was so excited, and I really believed that Santa Claus had truly heard my wish.

At church we children always got a little white box that was filled with hard candy.  I have always hated most hard candy but in the box was usually these cream drops.  My brother always called them a most unfortunate derogatory name and I hated him for it.

My mother would make this apple stack cake that she kept in place with candy canes.  She would bake for several days to get all the layers.  I believe there was at least six or eight layers.  She dried apples in the fall to make her cake.  It was a very special cake and we all loved it.  I don’t know why she stopped making them when we got older.

In high school our entire choir would hop a school bus and go caroling in four-part harmony.  That was one of my very favorite Christmas memories along with our Christmas concerts.

When the girls were little we would love surprising them on Christmas morning with lots of lovely gifts under the tree.  Addi got a little Volkswagon one year and the girls had so much fun with that thing.  Another year they got a small slide and they could hide under the stair part.  Dad invented a game called “dolly diving” where he would walk their dolls up the stair and fling them off down the slide.  They would erupt in gales of laughter and try it themselves

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I was the Girl Scout leader for my girls from Kindergarten to third grade and I always mase sure we went Christmas caroling for our December meeting.  I love to carol and I forced them to go with me.  I had a blast and I know the old folks that we caroled loved it as much.

We also had a group that put on plays at the Lodge here at Lake Summerset.  We were called the Five and Dime Theatre Company.  We would write the plays and perform for our audience.  We usually had about 30 to 50 people attend, including our friends and relatives.  One year one of the three kings backed out on me at the last minute and I had to fill in wearing my neighbor’s afghan and a Burger King crown.  Not one of my best memories but still a special one.

The girls have grown and gone on to their own families and memories.  I have spent several fond Christmases in Arizona with the Muse family enjoying the warm weather and family joy.

This year is the first Christmas that I am a grandmother.  Younger daughter, Jess, and her husband, Anthony, have given us a miracle of a grandson, Vincent.  I got to go visit for Jess’ baby shower and to see my baby pregnant.  I also spent a few days with them after Vinnie was born and got to hold him, sing him lullabies and rock him to sleep.

This afternoon we will Skype with the girls and open our presents. I can’t wait to see little Vinnie for his first Christmas.  I know there will be many more to come but the first is just so very special.

Merry Christmas and peace be with you.

I just love a good pot luck.  I know some folks who hate them because they don’t trust other peoples’ cooking.  The hubster is one of those.  I like trying other peoples’ cooking to find new recipes.  In the past I have found cheesy potatoes, corn bread salad, several wonderful cookie recipes and an excellent recipe for Swedish meatballs.

As luck would have it, I was invited to a recent holiday pot luck.  I took taco cheese dip because I really wanted it but hate to make it because I eat all of it.

I tried a Chinese ramen salad that was very tasty.  There were yummy corn casserole and a notable cranberry cookie dessert.  As I was passing by the table one of the most obnoxious odors accosted me.  I leaned down to discover which dish held the aroma.  As I pretty much always take one spoonful of each dish, just in case it is wonderful, I took one small spoonful of this casserole.

Back in my dining chair, I ventured a taste of the horrible smelling concoction and almost heaved.  I chewed a bit of what I assumed was meat.  I strategically spit the taste into my napkin and got up, threw it in the trash and got myself another napkin.

I have no idea if the casserole was rice, potato, overcooked Noodles or what. and can only venture to guess what this casserole was.  I came up with the most horrid thing imaginable.  It was snake shit casserole.  There, I’ve said it!

Years ago, I had gone to another pot luck with my friend, Nancy, and we had the worst soup I had ever eaten.  We decided that it was butt hair soup.

The next time I saw Nancy I had to tell her about the snake shit casserole.  We had a good laugh.

Although I consider myself an adventurous food consumer, I believe I will be cautious the next pot luck that I attend.

PS  I did a Google search for snake shit casserole and there were images that came up.  I am so very frightened.

Peace be with you.

I’ve had this little stone haunting me in my kitchen for the past while.  It says, “remember” on it, and for the life of me I cannot remember where I got this little stone.  And I can’t imagine what I am supposed to remember.

I have found lately that I forget words that I want to use.  I will be in mid-sentence and forget the word that I need to express what I am trying to get across.  It’s not that I don’t have a large vocabulary, I do.  I just lose words sometimes.  I also have that age-old problem of going to retrieve something and forget what I am looking for.

I guess Alzheimer’s disease is one of my worst fears.  I try my best to do all the things they suggest you do to protect your brain and your memory.  I do puzzles of all kinds – jigsaw, crossword and all kinds of little memory exercises.  (I just forgot the word “exercises”.)

I’m reading a fascinating book called, The Keeper of Lost Things by Ruth Hogan.  It is a great story about a guy who finds things and makes up stories as to what happened to them and to the person who lost the item.  I am thinking I should start to write about the things I find.

I used to walk around the lake (six miles) every Earth Day and pick up garbage.  I’d go one way one day and do the opposite way the next day.  I have found used condoms, unused condoms, tampons, a ton of Marlboro light cigarette packages (some day I am going to find that asshole).  I once found a paper bag with a bunch of herbs.  There was oregano, marjoram, thyme, and parsley as I recall.  I bet that person was pissed when she started making her spaghetti sauce.

I once found a size large navy sweatshirt that said “London” on it.  I brought it home and washed it and it is one of my favorite sweatshirts.  I also found a pair of pink panties once and threw them back on the ground.  That would be some story to tell.

A ten-dollar bill was probably the best thing I have ever found.  I find change all the time.  I even pick up pennies.

Last summer I kept finding those little booze bottles.  They were empty except for the Rumchata that I found.  I gave it to Garnet as it is one of her favorite things.  By the way, I was the inventor of Rumchata.  We were in Arizona for Jess’ graduation from college and she turned me onto Orchata.  I remarked that it would be great with rum and we purchased some and I drank it for her graduation party.

At that party the funniest thing happened.  There was this guy at the party who was obviously one of Jess’ friends and he was like six-foot six and about 250 pounds.  He claimed that he could stop anyone from attacking him and I took his challenge.  He grabbed me from behind and smothered me.  I bit him.  He screamed like a little girl, “she bit me.”  I didn’t do it hard but I certainly broke his grasp. I won!!!

I do remember the strangest things, but I can’t remember what I ate yesterday, half the time.  I remember lyrics to songs from the sixties.  I remember my phone number from childhood.  When I worked for Liberal Markets in Dayton, Ohio I could remember half the phone numbers from the thirty some stores that I worked with.

In this book that I am reading the protagonist drinks Diet Coke.  If you know me this is one of my worst hates.  I hate anything with aspartame.  I especially hate Diet Coke.  I think it is bad for your brain and I try to tell everyone who drinks it, not to.  I heard on NPR the other day that our beloved President drinks a ton of Diet Coke.  We wonder why he lies so much.  He can’t remember stuff because he is poisoning his brain with Diet Coke.  (Perhaps the Democrats have hope yet.)

It’s almost Christmas and I have everything ready.  Of course, I don’t do a whole lot.  I sent my packages to my girls and the Webbs already.  My cards went out the second week of December.  I don’t buy many gifts but got the hubster a little something.  Yesterday and today I delivered cookies to all the folks I love and appreciate.

We are going to the in-laws for Christmas Eve.  I’m making big-ass salad.  I hope I don’t forget it this time as I did on Thanksgiving.  But since it is the main meal I am sure I will remember it.

Peace be with you.

I started out my day eating a baked potato with cottage cheese and Pace hot salsa.  Breakfast of champions!  I then continued to Facebook where I watched daughter, Addi, baking Cookiepalooza.  She is so very entertaining.  I think she is unique and I am so proud that I had something to do with her creation.

Another friend, Alicia, recommended me to watch Zooey Deschanel explaining that white bread is garbage and we should be baking our own bread.  I reminisced about the time my good friend, Dave Staddon’s mom taught me and his wife, Mari, how to make Butterhorns.  She was so patient with us.  We also make homemade Whole Wheat Bread.

Two years in a row, I made Buttterhorns for my family for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  My mother made those store-bought dinner rolls and everyone ignored my homemade bread.  I quit making homemade bread for my extended family but made them for my own little family.

Now-a-days, at the Faerber residence we don’t eat much bread.  The hubster decided years ago that white food was bad for him and refused to eat it.  I occasionally buy a loaf of whole grain oat bread and have a piece of toast for breakfast.  I keep the bread in the fridge.  (Don’t you think the smell of fresh made cinnamon toast is one of the best smells ever?)

I wish you could buy just four slices of bread at a time.  Then it wouldn’t waste away in the fridge. Or perhaps I should start baking my own bread and making little loaves and freezing the rest. I do love a warm piece of bread with real butter melting on the top.

I like shopping at Sullivan’s grocery where you can purchase just one roll or a dozen if so desired.  I do so love having a bigass burger on a fresh onion roll.  Or a meatball sub on a fresh hoagie bun.

Years ago, I wrote a story about baking bread with Dave’s mom and I want to share it today.

LEARNING TO BAKE BREAD

            We have this friend of the family, Dave, who is a Native American and he ate with us frequently when we were young.  He talked about the fresh bread his mother would make and suggested that I should learn to make bread someday.

            Dave spent two years in Japan studying Martial Arts and came home to America with his Japanese wife.  Dave’s mother, Agnes, called me one day before Thanksgiving.  She invited me over for a Saturday and asked me to bring a large mixing bowl, a stick of real butter, a bag of flour and some baking sheets.

            Agnes, Dave’s wife and I spent the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and she taught us how to make Butterhorns and whole wheat bread.  She stressed the importance of the temperature of the yeast, the strength of kneading the bread and the love we were putting into the creation for our families to enjoy.

            My baby, Addi, spent the day also and banged on Agnes’ pots and pans with wooden spoons and got flour all over the kitchen.  We girls shared cooking stores and Agnes told us stories of when Dave was little and how much he enjoyed it when she baked bread.  Agnes shared stories of when she was little and lived on the Ojibway Indian Reservation in Canada.  We had such fun and learned so much about her and baking bread.

            Almost twenty years later I still take the time to prepare Butterhorns for my family for Thanksgiving dinner.  My memory of that day and all that Agnes taught me has remained with me.  I feel she shares Thanksgiving with us each year.

Peace be with you.