Who’s counting?

by Mary Pierce

Life’s a dream with Firstborn.  In his perfect nursery, we arrange educational toys by stage of development, sub-categorized by color.  Good books like his bookshelves according to the Dewey decimal system.

We order 100 copies of Firstborn;s hospital picture.  We gush.  “Did you ever see a cuter baby?

Every precious Firstborn moment is documented in his baby book.  The first real eye contact (“He looked at me!  He’s a genius!”  The first time he rolls over (Olympics, here we come!”)  His first word  (“Did you hear that?  Hippopotamus” clear as a bell!”_

We save his first shoes, film his first steps and preserve a curl from his first haircut.  We even shrink-wrap Firstborn’s first outfit, for Firstborn’s first born  to wear someday.

Ever ounce of Firstborn’s food is scrutinized for salt, fat and sugar content.  We puree fresh fruits and veretables and offer only whole grains and healthy cereals.  No junk food for our little one!

We record Firstborn’s growth on the “See How I’ve Grown” chart.  Month after month, we suspend him by his underarms, dangling him against the chart, his tiny toes barely brushing the floor, to preserve – and celebrate0 every  adorable quarter-inch.

Life is under control.

Number Two

Along comes Second Child.  We take the hospital picture, but by now we know the truth.  Newborns are kind of goofy looking – even ours.   Only the grandparents see the pictures.

We’re tired but try to valiantly to maintain that perfect atmosphere Firstborn enjoyed.  Feeding standards, however change.  WE puree less and purchase more.  Instead of daily nutritional balance, we try for weekly.

We are stunned as Second Child dismantles the educational toys.  She chews through the home library, finding picture books and the Encyclopedia for Babies equally tasty.

The growth chart reflects Second Child’s development in larger chunks: 1, 3, 6, 8 months and a year.  Her baby book is succinctly sums up her early stages of development:  She came, she saw, she destroyed.”

     Three’s a Charm

Enter Child Three.  We only thought we were tired before.  The Third-child Challenge hits the first time we have to get the whole family out the door.  It’s easier to herd worms.

Child Three has little archeological evidence to prove she exists.  Her hospital picture was lost in the chaos of life.

One photograph is eventually found stuffed into the binding  of her baby book, after the page recording her birth and first shots.  (the rest of the pages are blank)

Child Three appears on the growth chart at 7 weeks and 13 months.  The next mark is at 25 months and then nothing.

With three children food rules go out the kitchen door.   Our menu plan is simple:  Don’t open the same kind of can two days in a row.  Marshmallows become a food group.  To cover the nutritional bases, we toss an occasional chewable dinosaur vitamin into the morning bowl of Sugar Maxi-Bits.

     Home Sweet Home

As Child Three wrestles with the dog for a bologna sandwich that fell off the table, we dream about life before kids:  reading grown up books, watching movies with no animation.  Everything was under control.  Live was better wasn’t it?

We thought so, but somewhere between potty training and T-ball we changed our minds.  Control is highly overrated.  Maintaining a perfect atmopshere is exhausting and impossible – really impossible.

Life got better when we gave up trying to keep a perfect house and decided instead to create a home: an imperfect, sometimes crazy place where imperfect  people can live, grow, try, fail, laugh and love.  A place to belong.

A home with new rules:  Clutter keeps, kids don’t .  A little dir – even occasional chaos – never hurt anyone.  and every life, every season, every day, every moment is a gift.  Precious and brief.

One day we expect to have plenty of time for grown-up movies.  Life will have some semblance of order again.  And the house will be quiet.  Very, very quiet.

We’ll have plenty of time to marvel at how quickly these days have passed.  And we’ll have plenty of time to miss them.

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(This was an article Mrs DM clipped out of an old Focus on the Family magazine.  I printed off a copy for a friend tonight (she has 3 little ones in tow, one was “grazing on the kitchen floor” when we stopped…Mrs DM reassured her, that it was OK and had this article to pass along….Wanted to share it with those of you with little ones.  DM)

Picture of my brother and I back in the day…I was a first born

Stupid things I have done and lived to tell

Yesterday afternoon as I was pulling into the parking lot of the Prescription Shop I heard  what sounded like breaking glass  and a loud thump come from behind my  truck.  When I got out , I discovered  a parking lot covered with  2 inch roofing nails.   On the top of my cab, a wooden nail  crate lay on it’s side, nails spilling out everywhere.    15 minutes before, I had tried to unload  a walking tractor from the back of my truck. The box of nails and a small plow  were  in the way, so I’d temporarily plopped the box of nails on top of my ladder rack, forgetting to  set them  down before I left the shop.

I thought to myself as I was scrambling  to pick up the nails (and keep one eye on the traffic so as not to get run over) it’s a good thing this happened in the parking lot and not in middle of the intersection I had just crossed.  I was embarrassed  and  wanted to laugh @ the same time..

lesson:  slow down and count my good fortune.  It could have been much worse.

Most of the time, we don’t like to tell other people about our  screw ups because we don’t like to look stupid…when if truth be told, all of us screw up once in a while, even you have

Ever hear this little ditty?

Dentists mistakes are pulled; carpenters turn their mistakes into sawdust; doctors bury their failures and lawyers lock them up from the public view.

At the  end of this post I’d like to invite you to share a blooper from your own life and  your lesson learned

Here’s two more from my own life:

* In 2006 we decided to convert part of our home into a B and B.  As we upgraded our bathroom, we ended up installing, not one but (3) different tubs before we finally got it right…the first one was too small, the second one too tall but the third tub was just right.  (yes, all of these tubs were actually installed, and functioning..it was not a cheap lesson.

Lesson:  sit in a tub before you purchase it./ don’t just order over the phone.

* decided I wanted to sell ice cream back in the early 90′s (like those guys who drive around in the summer playing that silly music)  After spending  hundreds of dollars fabricating my little mobile stand, I am told I need to be bonded, to the tune of $900.  So I had to pull the plug.

lesson:  do my homework before spending a bunch of $ a new great idea.

DM

Roger and Elaine

 

Roger And Elaine

Let’s say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine.  He asks her out to a movie.  She accepts.  They have a pretty good time.  A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves.  They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither of them is seeing anyone else.  And then, one evening when they are driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and without really thinking, she says it aloud:  “Do you realise that, as of tonight, we’ve been seeing each other exactly six months?”   and then there is silence in the car.  To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence.  She thinks to herself; Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that.  Maybe he’s been feeling confined by our relationship;  maybe he thinks I’m trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn’t want, or isn’t sure of.

And Roger is thinking:  Gosh Six months.

And Elaine is thinking:  But, hey, I’m not sure I want this kind of relationship either.  Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I’d have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward….I mean, where are we going?  Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy?  Are we headed toward marriage?  Toward children?  Toward a lifetime together?  Am I ready for that level of commitment?  Do I really know this person?

And Roger is thinking:  So that means it was…let’s see…it must have been February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer’s which means…lemme check the odometer….Whoa!  I am way overdue for an oil change here.

And Elaine is thinking: He’s upset.  I can see it on his face.  Maybe I’m reading this completely wrong.  Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe he has sensed, even before I sensed it…that I was feeling some reservations…Yes, I bet that’s it.  That’s why he is so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings.  He’s afraid of being rejected.

And Roger is thinking:  And I’m gonna have them look at the transmission again.  I don’t care what those morons say,  it’s still not shifting right.  And they better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time.  What cold weather?  It’s 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.

And Elaine is thinking:  He’s angry.  And I don’t blame him.  I’d be angry too.  I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can’t help the way I feel.  I’m just not sure.

And Roger is thinking:  They’ll probably say it’s only a 90 day warranty.  That’s exactly what they’re gonna say, the scumbags.

And Elaine is thinking:  Maybe I’m just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I’m sitting right next to a perfectly good person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me.  A person who is in pain because of my self-centered, school girl romantic fantasy.

And Roger is thinking:  Warranty?  They want a warranty?  I’ll give them a warranty!

“Roger,” Elaine says aloud.

“What?” says Roger, startled.

“Please don’t torture yourself like this,”she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears.  Maybe I should never have….Oh my….I feel so…”(She breaks down, sobbing)

     “What?” says Roger

  “I’m such a fool,” Elaine sobs.  “I mean, I know there ‘s no knight.  I really know that.  It’s silly.  There’s no knight and there’s no horse.”

    “There’s no horse?” says Roger

“You think I’m a fool, don’t you.”   Elaine says.

     “No!”says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer.

“It’s just that…It’s that I…I need some time,” Elaine says.  (There is a 15 second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response.  Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work)

“Yes,”he says.  (Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.)

     “Oh Roger, do you really feel that way?” she says.

      “What way?”  says Roger.

      “That way about time,” says Elaine.

“Oh,” says Roger. “Yes.”

     (Elaine turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse.)

At last she speaks: “Thank you, Roger.”  she says.

  “Thank you,” says Roger.

Roger then takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn, whereas when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakian’s  he never heard of.  A tiny voice in the far recesses  of his mind tells him that something major was going on back in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it’s better if he doesn’t think about it.  (This is also Roger’s policy regarding world hunger)

The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours.  In painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification.  They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it either.

Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with Norm, a mutual friend of his and Elaine’s will pause just before serving, frown, and say; “Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?”

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    Footnote:  I  first heard this story at a men’s retreat .  Every so often it comes up again in a conversation with either one of my kids in the context of dating relationships or between my wife and I when we find ourselves not communicating clearly.  I’ll refer to either a garbage truck or something about a horse  

I posted this one a couple of years ago on the blog so it may be familiar to some of you long time readers.

Players

That Sunday morning Lady is a player.

Definition:  Persons with enough nimbleness of mind to accept a surprise invitation to jump into a quick game of imagination.  People with loosey-goosey sense of mischief.  Players are also Laughers.  And you can’t tell  the Players by the way they appear on the outside.

Example:  Here’s a uniform city bus driver standing in the door of his vehicle, staring into the rain.  An invitation from me, passing by:  “OK, Here’s the deal:  I’ll pay for the gas, and you’ll drive us to California to the beach at Santa Monica.”

With a straight face he says, “OK, Meet me here at midnight.  It’s the end of my run and they won’t miss me or the bus until morning.  I’ll get some barbecue.”  He smiles.

A Player.

Consider this lady with a shopping car full of oddball stuff standing beside me in front of the cheese counter at the grocery store.  My invitation:  “I like the groceries in your cart better than mine.  Want to trade?  You take mine and I’ll take yours.  Could be interesting when we get home.”

She smiles.  Checks out my cart.  “You’ve got a deal,”  she says.   We take each other’s carts and roll away.

Later, she’s waiting for me at the check-out counter.  She knows and I know:  We weren’t really going to go through with it.  But those few moments of madness brought new meaning to “going to the store for a few things.”  And the lady knows the game.

A Player.

On the other hand:  There’s a tailor shop on Queen Anne Avenue.  Sign in the window says ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS FOR MEN AND WOMEN.   The tailor is standing in the doorway.  I stop. ” I’d like to get altered and repaired, “ I say.

She looks at me cautiously.  Goes inside.  Closes the door.

Not a player.

Players may be discreet.  Here’s the charming woman who works at the sidewalk flower stand at the nearby market.  She called me “Babycakes” just before Thanksgiving Day,  but I haven’t seen her since.  Invitation:  “Do I still look like Babycakes to you?” I ask.

She looks at me shrewdly.  “Sir, it is the policy of the store that employees are not to get familiar with customers.”  Oh, too bad,” say I.  She’s no longer a player.  As I turn my back and walk away, she whispers, “Thanks for coming by Babycakes.”

She’s an undercover Player now.

Here’s me again, at a well-known company to pick up copies of a manuscript.  I am visibly annoyed – this is my third trip to get what was promised yesterday.  The anxious clerk, Miss Saucer-eyes, is obviously new to the herd behind the counter and doesn’t know what to do with me or for me.  The work is still not done, despite promises.  Getting mad won’t help.

“OK, I won’t make any trouble, “ I say, “Just give me a really clever, off- the wall creative excuse- the wildest thing you can think of.  Make me laugh and I’ll go away.”

Miss Saucer-eyes is mute.  This situation was not covered in training school last week.  “I’ll speak to my manager.”

Definitely not a Player.  But the story continues.

Miss Saucer-eyes retreats to the back of the shop and consults with her boss, a high-energy, sharply dressed woman, who marches briskly toward me with a steely look.   She leans over the counter and explains:

“Sir, you may not know this, but this store has been a front for the Irish Republican Army for years.  We’re supposed to be turning in our firearms, and it seems a bazooka is missing from the inventory.  When we find the bazooka things will get back to normal.  If I were you, I wouldn’t make any trouble.  just come back tomorrow, OK?”

A big league Player.

One final example:  A double whammy I didn’t see coming.

Clerk in a bookstore- older lady with dyed red hair.

    “Can I help you? she asks.

“Happy birthday,” I say.  (Always makes people smile- sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but sometimes right on.  An invitation to play)

“Well, I hope you’re coming to my party.”  She says.  “We need someone to jump out of the cake.”

“I’m your man.”

“You’d be expected to go-go dance naked.”

     “Then I’m not your man.”

A Player….

A lady waiting in line behind me overheard this book store babble and drifted away from the counter and out the door.  She missed her chance.

Probably not a Player.

Later, as I walked by the sidewalk table at a nearby coffee-house, I spot the lady who fled the store.  “Sorry, Hope we didn’t annoy you,” I said.

She smiled.  “Oh no,”  she replied.  “It’s just that I jumped out of the cake last year.  It hurts my feelings to think they’re looking for a replacement.”

A Player after all.”

From Robert Fulghum’s book  What on Earth Have I done?

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How about you?

Are you ever  a “player”?

I (DM)  am, on occasion.

It  goes in streaks.

Some days I end up talking with Kris  @ the lumberyard several times.

Just to keep it interesting, I will tell her it’s the Johnson County Sheriff’s department calling.  She  likes to play along.

Think I’m one of the highlights in her day.

So tell me, what is one of the silliest things you’ve ever done?

Hank

Hank and his son Don farmed near when I was grew up. 

Hank was a typical old German…orny, and tight.

(I can say that about old Germans because I is one )

 I heard  the following story last weekend  from my friend  Steve (see picture below) who heard it  first hand from one of the grandsons.

  One Saturday morning Hank and Don   were pulling the  water pump on the windmill. 

“Vee, need to hurrrry up!   Hank said to his son Don,  in his broken English. “It feels like it’s start’n to rrrrain.!”

(I can  just hear the  “r’s rolling off his tongue)

“It’s not supposed to rain! ” Don replied, exasperated.

At this point, Hank looked up.  There at the top of the windmill were his two grandsons, Brian and Aarron…\standing on the edge of the wooden platform  peeing .

“You Son of a ***’s he said, shaking his fist.   Come down from there  NOW !!!! “ 

The boys don’t come down, they know if they do, the’ll get a whoop’n.

___________________________________________________________

Another time, Brian and Aaron decide to stick the billy-goat in their grandpa’s car.

 They opened  the door and stick him  in the back seat.  They leave  the window down  just a little.

  Hank eventually discovers the goat in the car…

“Kum here Donald!”

The D** goat jumped through de vindow of de car.  Hep me git him out!.” 

 Hank, grabs  the goat by the horns and starts to pull.

At this point, the goat  locks his front  legs and digs  his hoofs into the seat. 

Old Hank is yanking, and cussing , trying to wrestle the billy-goat out of the car.

 Hank looses his footing  and his feet slide  under the car.

 The goat sees his chance and  leaps  out  of the door,  past Hank who is still  lying on the gravel.

  The boys   watch the drama unfold from a distance….

 

Photo of Steve and I telling stories and pondering history  over a pot of coffee.

_______________________________________________________

What is history  but a series of stories?  

 Who decides which ones we’ll  remember and which ones we forget?

Personally, the ones that stick with me are either funny or tragic.

So tell me a story.

Danka    DM

ps  Steve, or anyone else who happens upon this post who knew Hank personally,   feel free to clarify any of the details here, and  better yet, tell us another story about Hank.

Asbestos Gelos

       I have to warn you-  this post may be a little coarse for some of you.  Just to be clear, I didn’t write it, but it’s one of those stories that made me laugh so hard the first time I read it, I wanted to share it with a few of you.   One of my favorite activities around our home is to read  out loud to each other .  Not every day mind you, and not even every week.  It kind of goes in spurts…so if you were visiting  our home tonight  and you were one of those people in my life I can be 100% myself around, I might   pick up one of Robert Fulghum’s  books and read you a story .   This one comes from his book  What On Earth Have I Done. 

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Asbestos Gelos

 

    
“My Cretan connection began the summer I was wandering around Europe alone while waiting for my wife to finish her medical residency.  No particular agenda just doing what came next.  I went to Crete to see the famous archaeological digs at Knossos and to look in on a graduate school program at the Orthodox Academy of Crete.  When I was ready to step off the paths beaten down by tourists, I went to a small village at the western end of thee island- a fishing village at the end of the road: Kolymbari.

      I found a room for the night and rose before the sun the next morning to go running.  The day was already hot, so I dressed only in black running briefs and shoes.  (It’s relevant to the story to note there that my hair and beard were white even then.)  My route took me past the main kofeneion (coffeehouse) of the village where men sat outside socializing.  They ignored me.  I was surprised.  They seemed surly, hostile, and unwelcoming.

      Later, when I mentioned this to my landlord, he said, Oh no, Cretans are very welcoming to strangers- it is an old tradition – philoxenia.  But in your case the men at the kofeneion did not know what to make of you.  For one thing, your hair and beard make you look like a priest, but they have never seen a half-naked priest running through the village in what looks like his underwear at that our of the morning.”

       “Oh.”

     “No problem.  Smile, wave, say good morning in Greek: Kalimera- kah-lee-mare-ha.  You will find them friendly.”

     “Right.”"

(Pause.)

       See this from the point of view of the men at the Kofeneion.  They have been gathering here at down for years without disturbance or distraction.  SUddenly, without warning, a white-bearded, half-naked priest flashes by.

       “What the hell was that, Yorgos?”

     “Darned if I know.”

      “Tourists get weirder every year.”

      The next morning I set off running with goodwill toward men in my heart.  Ready to greet the villagers.  The men at the Kofeneion see me.

       ” Yorgos, Look, here he comes again.”

       Hold that moment.  As I said, my appearance was a bit of a surprise in the first place.  Then there is the fact of my miserable language skills.  During the night, my brain changed Kilmera (good morning) to calamari, which means “squid.”

     And then there was the problem of waving.  I did not know that Cretans wave with a gentle gesture of an upheld, closed-fingered hand, backside out, palm in.  I didn’t know that the All-American hearty wave- arm extended, fingers open- is equivalent to giving Cretans the finger- ”Up your!” in other words.

      To continue:  Here I come.  Running by the Kofeneion, I shouted, “Calamari, Calamari, Calamari,” and gave my most enthusiastic open-handed wave to all.

     The Cretans heard, “Squid, Squid, Squid” and saw “Up yours!” from the priest in the underpants.

       Well,  They fell out of their chairs laughing.  And shouted “Calamari, Calamari, Calamari” and enthusiastically waved  “Up yours!” back at me.  More than pleased, I ran on- thinking that these are truly friendly people after all- my kind of guys.

       The men in the kofeneion could hardly believe what had happened.  “What planet did he fall off of?” they wondered.  And of course they did what you and I would do next.  During the day they told their friends about the bizarre stranger’s dawn appearance.  And when their friends didn’t believe them, they said, “It’s true.  come see.  Have coffee in the morning.

      And sure enough, here I come again.  I did notice that there were quite a few more men having coffee than yesterday.

       “Look Demetri.  I told you.  HEre he comes.  Shout “squid” at him and give him the finger and see what he does.”  So they did and I did and so on.  Funny, rowdy laughter all around.

      As I ran on by, I turned and gave them the All- American sign for “OK” thumb and forefinger forming a circle.  They laughed even harder and gave me the “OK” sign back.

      Wonderful!

      Word gets around.

       “You’re kidding. No, come see.”  The next morning even women and children were there to greet me.

     But that same morning, just after I passed the coffee house, a middle-school English teacher stopped me in the street.  Serious young man, visibly upset.  “Excuse me,” mister, you are making a jackass of yourself, and those idiots at the kofeneion are helping you.  YOu should all be ashamed.  You are setting a bad example. What will the children think?”

     “What’s wrong? What have I done?”

      “In the first place, he said, no self-respecting Cretan man would ever go out of his house and into the village dressed as you are.  Immodest.”  He went on to distinguish between calamari and Kalimera, and explained the fine points of correct waving.

      Finally, he wanted me to know that the sign for “OK” in America was the sign Cretans use for telling someone to stick their head up their own rear end.  The road-rage gesture in Crete.  A serious provocation that could lead to shots being fired.  He conceded that good friends might use it as a perverse joke.  But strangers? Never!

     I felt bad.  I glanced back at the men at the kofeneion.  Sheepish grins.  Now they knew I knew.  And I knew they knew. And so, now what?  I walked away puzzled: Should I leave the village, find another running route, apologize, what?

     But I couldn’t ignore one unambiguous fact:  the laughter.

     What had happened was funny.  The laughter was real.

    Actually my best American friends and I would have reacted in the same way.  These Cretans still seemed like my kind of guys.

      During the night my brain sorted out the problem.

      At first light I was clear in my mind what to do.

      I donned my running shorts and added to my costume a T-shirt with the blue and white Greek flag on it.  Here I come.

      Solemnly, the coffee drinkers watched me approach.  No gestures.  As Impassive as the first morning.

      “Look, here he is again, Yorgos. What do you think he will do now?”

      Is he angry with us?”

      “Who knows?

      To prepare for this occasion, I had asked my landlord how to insult Cretan men in a way that’s permissible only among good friends- the grossest thing- trusting you know you are kidding…..

    Call them malackos….it is shall I say, a suggestion of masculine inadequacy….”

      As I got to the kofeneion, I slowed down.

     I stopped.  Faced them.

      A tense moment.  Friend or Foe?

      I smiled.  “Calamari.” Then I waved, American style: “Up your!”  and growled malackos at them, while slapping my palm against my wrist…. and stood there grinning, but with heart pounding- afraid I just might get the hell beat out of me.

     The kofeneion erupted with laughter and applause.  A chair was provided.  “Come, come. Sit.” Coffee, brandy, and a cigarette were offered. And with their minimal English and my feeble Greek we retold and reenacted the joke we had made together- from their point of view as well as mine.  Above all, they thought my way of handling the situation- the in-your-face-with-humor- had Cretan style.  Arrogant.  Only a true friend would be so audacious.

      I was, after all, their kind of guy- and they were mine.

      It seems there was an opening for the Village Idiot, and I filled it.

    That was the beginning.

     For a long time they knew little about me except that I was a fool and a laugher  who understood something about the humor and social courage of Cretan men.  To me they became friends with names like Yorgos, Manolis, Kostas, Nikos, Demetri, and Ioannis.  To them I became the Americanos, Kyrios Calamari-  the American, the honorable Mr. Squid.

      As I say, I have been going back for more than twenty years.  They have included me in  the life of the village- feasts, weddings, gossip, baptisms, wine-making, and olive harvest.  My clumsy Greek amuses them still.

      I return each year in part because I expect laughter- from their timeless jokes and stories that are often raw and reckless and wicked.  Jokes about old age, and sex and war and stupidity jokes that mask fear and failure and foolishness   Their laughter is not cautious.  Without this laughter the Cretans would hot have survived their travails and tragedies across the centuries.  Cretan laughter is fierce, defiant laughter  an “Up your!” to the forces of death and mystery and evil.

     They have a word for this laughter: Asbestos Gelos.

    (As-bes-tos yay-lohs)  A term used by Homer actually.

       It literally means “Fireproof laughter.”

     Unquenchable laugher.  Invincible laugher.

       And the Cretans say that he who laughs, lasts.

    And they have been around for a long, long time.

Men get your psa checked

      “You’re numbers are slightly elevated, so the Dr wants to have you see a specialist.”

Me:  “Well, could you tell me what the number was.”

Nurse : “Sure.  Your psa was 5.1,  we like to see it between 2.1 and 4 for someone your age.”

  So began my latest adventure into the sometimes intimidating world of aging and medicine.

        Disclaimer:  There are a  few references to medical procedures and body parts that could make you squeamish -  not trying to gross you out.   Proceed accordingly.

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       Unless you are a pervert, most of us cringe  when a trip to the Dr’s office includes getting into your birthday suit.  Call me a big baby, but for years I have sworn I was not going to have my prostrate checked. 

 No way/ no how

 But, after reading this  article, I picked up the phone and scheduled an appointment with my personal physician. I sucked it up, did what I had to do and  figured that would be the end of it.

A week later his nurse called, said  the psa test result was “slightly elevated”,  recommended I see a Urologist.

     When I asked the nurse at the Urologist  if I needed to have my prostrate checked again, since the first doctor had already done so, the nurse said with a wink, “I’m sure you would  want to get my money’s worth.”

To which I replied:  “Who told you that? ”  

        As I sat in the examining room at the Urologist, three boxed of rubber latex gloves sitting on the counter caught my eye.

“That can’t be good”, I thought to myself. 

        When the Dr stepped into the room, I had a good feeling.   He was in his early to mid 30′s, had a twinkle in his eye.  He read my chart, made some small talk.  He asked me what I did for a living.  I told him , I framed houses and poured cement.  I  loved my job.   He said he loved his job too,  including what he had to do to me in a minute.

     I told him he was a sick man.

      On the admission  form, it asked if I wanted to have a chaperone.  I checked “yes” and listed my wife.  I figured, she would  be  good moral support, and  there was nothing she hadn’t already seen.

       The actual procedure lasted less than  a minute.  He wants to see me again in about  6 months, which  would be right around Christmas time, I”m pretty sure I heard him mention something about a Christmas goose.

 Question-  Do you have any tips for someone feeling a little squeamish about going to the Dr?  Have you ever put off going to the Dr?

knick knack paddy wacks

  

(Picture of a pack rat in a kayak)

   Seth and Arron just pulled out of our  driveway with two canary yellow 10 ft  Old Town  kayaks strapped in the back of their white  Pickup. 

    They were happy.

    I was happy.

      Even the dog was happy.

     We crossed paths  via Craigslist.

      My wife was questioning the wisdom of  my  original purchase after Seth and Aaron left  so  I patiently  showed  her just how good a deal everyone had gotten. 

      I’d purchased the pair  for  just under  $1000.00  on line.   ( The suggested retail was   $569 each)  I can still remember the rush  of  watching that  semi trailer pull  next to  our driveway and drop  those two large boxes off.

    Over the next two years  I would feel a wave of pleasure and satisfaction  every time I looked at them. 

      Last September, Kristina  (a fellow blogger) and family came to visit for an extended weekend,  we decided to float the river.  We ended up hiring a canoe outfitter to shuttle us-   our 2 kayak stayed at home.  

         In the two years  we’ve owned them , they have only been on the water once.

        A few weeks ago I suggested to my dear patient   wife  over coffee maybe we could/should consider unloading them on Craigslist. 

      I listed them  for $850.00. 

      Got  three  calls, two e-mails- no body seemed  interested in paying more than $600 for the pair- and I’m quoting 

 ”cause you can buy a new  kayak for $250.00“

     Yea, I’m thinking but these are not  “cheap” kayaks- these are LOONS- brother-  

    

      Night before last, Seth called and by the end of the conversation  had offered me $700.00.

      Sold!

      I can just hear someone say\  “You mean to tell me you lost over $300.00 ,  used them once,  and  you still think  you got a good deal???” 

    Take $300.00 , divide that by 24 months, that comes out to $12.50 a month.  What else can you do for $12.50 a month that  gives you that much enjoyment?  Been out for dinner or to a movie lately?   You can spend $5.00 on a little tub of buttered popcorn.

           A  much  wiser man than me once said, “The eyes of man are never satisfied.” 

       Why are  we attracted to “stuff’?”

       I believe it’s a universal problem.  You may not like  the same sort of stuff  your neighbor does  but I’m willing to bet if  I were to  look  long enough, I could find something you have a weakness for.

    Friend of mine who was an investment counselor once said to me, most people who make a lot of money spend it just as fast as they make it.   Whereas, you and I of modest means  might collect  Hummels, antiques or shoes, the wealthy  just collect bigger toys. 

     There is a man who lives about 30 minutes from us that collects train paraphernalia , I’m talking  real train stuff.  He  has a caboose and two train cars in his back yard and probably 20 smaller  rigs in his driveway. 

         Two weeks ago, our town had  it’s semi-annual clean up days….you know, you dung out your basement and put the pile on the curb.   One man’s junk is another man’s treasure right?   We were putting in a new driveway for someone  that week and I spotted my next door neighbor rooting through a pile just up the street.  I had two thoughts…Oh-oh…if his wife only knew..she hates it when he drags stuff home.  and secondly,   I wonder if he knows I spotted him.

    So what do you think?      Is it really a universal problem?  What  is you drawn to?    Are you a saver or a pitcher?     

 As always, thanks for reading my stuff! DM

Robber Taken Out With Baked Beans

 “Give me the keys to your truck and your money.”

       Son-in-law Matt stopped at the   Super Walmart in Federal Way Washington about 10:30 PM  to pick up some groceries.   He parked next to a van.     As he came out of the store,  putting the  groceries in the back of the pickup, a man  suddenly came up behind him pressing a pistol to his head.   “Give me the keys to your truck and your money.”

  Matt said to him “OK man, be cool.”  

      Matt is an Iowa farm boy had moved to Federal Way  with our daughter to  fly  for an air ambulance  at this point in their life.  He noticed two things about the gunman.  First,  the safety was still on the gun , and secondly, his finger was not on the trigger.

      As Matt tells the story, he continued to move slowly,  grabbed a 32 oz. can of Bush’s  pork and beans, turned  and hit the guy in the side of his head as hard as he could.  The thief dropped to the ground….m0aning.  Matt took the can of beans and hit him 4 more times. 

      “I could hear things cracking after the 4th hit so I quit.” Matt said.  

      Matt did not want to touch the gun, and put his prints on it,  but neither did he want to  leave it in the parking lot while he went to get help so he parked  his  truck on the pistol.    Matt  grabbed some zip ties out of his truck,  and zip tied the guys hands behind his back, dragging  him over to the cart return and zip tied him to there.  The thief was not going anywhere @ that point, so Matt calmly goes back into the store with the bloody dented  can of pork and beans,  tells the cashier he’d just been assaulted in the parking lot,  and someone needed to call the police. 

      “I want to get this blood washed  off my hands right away.  I will be in the bathroom if  the police get here before I’m done.”

       When the police arrive, they ask Matt if he was  carrying any weapons?   “Well, that all depends…my tool box is in the truck and everyone of these tools could be a weapon if they  have to be.”

      The police officer wanted to look behind his seat for weapons, but the baby car seat won’t allow it to move forward.

     “You seem to be just a normal dad.” the officer said with a smile.

       As they continued to talk, Matt mentions where he works,  and the officer lightens up .

     “Hey I know you guys, we’ve brought people in to your air ambulance service before.”

   

photo of Matt with son Rigg

Moral of the story: 

    Mess with the bull and you may get the horns.”

Winston The Pig- Litter Update

     Today’s post is dedicated to the families who opened their hearts and homes to Winston the pig’s first litter.  Below are some  photo updates:

     This first piglet has been called “Wingo”  she has been adopted by Anna:

 

Here is a picture of Lizzie  all snuggled in with some other critters who was adopted by Enola and family:

Buzz and Lydia Lynn  live with Kristina and Jesse-  Here’s a picture of them looking @ their Mama on their computer:

Bacon  (hope there isn’t any for-shadowing in that name) is seen below with Addy and  Big Rigg:

Winky is getting lots of love and affection from Owen:

Here is a piglet named “Monk”  hanging w/ his new friend Jonathan:

I had to post this additional picture of Buzz.  Jesse took him on a road trip the first week he got there….took lots of pictures.   Sounds like Buzz had the trip of a life time:

 As far as the other 4 baby pigs….Joy  sais she  be sending me some photos  and updates of of her babies,so when she does, I will add them  here, and I do have one more piglet  going to Grace’s. 

     Let me know if you would be interested in adopting a piglet.  At this point, there are none available- but that could change pretty fast, if enough people expressed an interest.  In addition to the piglet, you also get a certificate of adoption:

Any profit from the sale of these pigs goes toward the ongoing expenses and upkeep of the real pig Winston.  Here she is waiting for me to come and feed her: