Redneck Piano Mover

My Dad is a genius!

"Dad, I just bought a piano.  Can you help me move it with your truck, or your trailer, or one of the myriad of moving menagerie that you own?"

"We don't have brawn,"  he deadpanned.  "Let me think and I'll be over in a minute."

I returned to the garage sale site and patiently waited.

"My dad is coming."

"Just your dad?" the guy said.

"Yup, just my Dad."  I responded with complete confidence.    The guy is a product of a brighter age-- a guy who thinks the world needs whatever he thinks up next.  He is always the inventor, trying to do it better.  From backpacks, log splitters, diamond forging, to a better way to mold bronze, he has been there, built that and then tried to improve it.


We hear an engine laboring... what will it be, the ten-ton trailer he welded himself to move his heavy machinery?  Or the RV he rebuilt from his half-ton dump truck?  It could be the tool trailer he modeled from an old truck bed?  I could hardly wait.

And Voila!  Up he drives in Hogan. A 1972 International that still runs, and when it doesn't, it can still be fixed without computers.  

Dad lowered the bucket down, tipped the piano in, tied it down and drove through town.

Drove right to my back door, tipped it up and he, my son, my nephew, and weak little me rolled it in.

ThAT, GUY, is, AMAZing!






If only my son could reignite the inventor mind that has been dumbed out of him by the monotony of public school and my poor parenting practices which failed to inspire greatness.  I can only hope.

The world needs more inventive minds like my Dad's.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.     And when it does, I write

12-9-13

Naked at Church

I try to get to church early enough each week to take a deep breath and allow calm to enhance my spiritual experience.  I typically go to church by myself and because of that, I get the opportunity to exercise the spirit of my muse who asks, “Who needs me to sit with them today?”  Like many churchgoers, I begin the day in the spirit of warm acceptance, but sometimes I end the day with a bit of a chill. 

A little back story.  I have an autoimmune disorder that causes discomfort from cold temperatures.  During the summer months I avoid air-conditioned superstores and all restaurants that don't offer patio seating because after I spend an hour in air-conditioning, I am forced to spend an equal amount of time curled up regenerating heat to regain movement in my hips, elbows, knees and fingers.  And, awaiting that thaw can be awkward at closing time. 

Most weeks, I sit for an hour at church and solidify, then I spend the first part of second hour standing outside basking in the regenerating, (others might say cloying and oppressive,) heat of Oklahoma.  It’s a very pleasant time that I spend people watching—an activity that could be augmented by the addition of a bench.  But I understand that a chair might encourage exactly what a church is trying to avoid;  people feeling more comfortable outside the building than inside it.  

Church chic is a clothing challenge since I am compelled to wear thermal long underwear year-round.  It's an outdated fashion that hearkens back to the time period when women wore six petticoats and men withstood the chill by donning long underwear in the winter and leaving them to rot off in the springtime.  But I’ve made it work for me.  It’s not that hard to add a sweater to my ensemble, with long stockings and a wool cap and fleece throw.  

The church cold-challenge appears to be nondenominational; I’ve discussed this conundrum with my favorite survey group--the Walmart checkout line, and most women there are in agreement.  Churches can be frigid, some more metaphorically than literally.  I know first-hand that layering up protects, but it also prevents permeation and I’ve begun to ponder the value of shedding insulating layers and becoming more transparent.  Could God shine through me to others more readily?  And in this life, isn't that what I’m aiming for?  If only I didn't risk the chill.   

I've recently moved across the country and in my new church home, I've found a back row of support against the cold.  These are the white-haired ladies who, through age and wisdom, have shed the chill and have joined with me in my quest for warmth.   This particular Sunday is Mother’s Day and I’ve chosen fashion over wisdom.  I’ve donned a pencil skirt and Me, Myself and I spent the morning in the jacket-or-sweater debate, but I still have come to church woefully under-dressed.  

As I enter, I notice that the chapel has been pre-chilled and the thermometer is set at its coolest so I pick up my church bag and I make the trek from my front right corner pew to the left back bench, right below the thermostat.  I tweek it up two notches—not yet up to normal, just up toward normal and then I sit down.  Right in front of it.

 I’ve always found it interesting that the temperature of a church is affected most by those wearing the most layers.  I sit defending the thermometer and muse on the generalization that men are typically more warm-blooded than women and I wonder if it stems from epigenetic evolution...   I am comfortably considering my calefaction until suddenly I gird up my loins as the “suit” approaches.  He walks up, shakes my hand and says, “So I noticed you switched up the temperature?”  I grin and rehearse the entire argument that I’ve related above, ad nauseum.  He smiles and nods and I admire how well his eyes don't roll.  Then he moves on to greet more people and I sit warmed by the peaceful organ music.

 

I watch the congregation and note that most of the congregants are dressed for comfort and are wearing lightweights and shirtsleeves, but still I ponder on the meta-physical temperature in the church being managed by the layered.  I’ve spent years in leadership callings and I know that those days spent wearing the suit are definitely warmer when the pressure of leadership sweats you out.  But on a typical day, I suspect that most of leaders could benefit from a little more training in the leadership model that focuses on the well-being of others.   Perhaps all of us who are layered could be more understanding.  We could sacrifice ourselves and put other’s thoughts, feelings and discomfort at church before our own, not unlike another great leader of spiritual philosophy… Christ. 

Suddenly, I come to the conclusion that it must start with me. So, I sacrifice my comfort and my moment of selfishness and move to sit next to a person who is also alone and who may need to feel some warmth.  We may as well sit together in the overflow section. So there I am, watching as another suit walks over and tweeks up the thermostat. 

Oh I get it, I do.  I understand.  Maybe they ARE considering others first and are reacting to the furious-fan-frenzy-attack over in the menopause section.  (I skirted that flash of pleasure and skipped straight to the frigidity of the white hairs.)  The leaders may be more attuned to the feelings and comfort of others than I first imagined. 

            So it’s a matter of two things, my attitude and my motivations.  And the question for both of me may be, “Am I being more deliberate in considering others?”  It’s easy for me to pile on the layers and put up a shield against the chill, but in my church community, sometimes it’s about daring to go naked. 

That's My Reality, and Sometimes it Bites, and When It Does, I Write.  

The Man Plan -- (A Satire)

The Man Plan    

  

The men who lead our church youth group have an easy-going leadership style. They don’t get caught up in minutiae.  They stay flexible and just go with the flow.  

The male of the species plans with a laid-back attitude and I watch with awe.    Maybe it’s a gender thing that is uniform in church leaderships worldwide? 

Men don’t sweat the small stuff.  Women spend months on details like the  table centerpiece and the guys live “Let it Go,” long before it was a song.

In our house, the cool and calm planning attitude of man gets twisted by the whirlwind that is woman,  and when it does, the blustery moments usually result in tornadoes.

Like last night.  My husband tries to balance his natural man-planning with mine, the wifely PCD’r (planning compulsively disordered).  It was our weekly-annual planning meeting, and as usual, I took the lead.  

“There is a youth activity planned; Let me have our son explain it to you,” I say.

The son shuffles in and mumbles, “It’s our turn to be in charge of the Wednesday activity.” 

“Really,” the husband looks shocked, “Already?  Are you sure?” 

His response surprises me.  I expect the male to have a, “be cool fool, we got this,” attitude.  He must be channeling his femistique.  The guy knows that the boys and girls take turns overseeing the planning—and that means somehow his time and space  has warped six months and that rift has created a deep-down fissure that could prove treacherous.

I interject coolly, “It doesn’t matter.”   I figure if he’s switching up genders, I will too.

“No,”  he recovers, “It does matter.  It’s important to follow the calendared plan.”

Still,  I can tell the unfamiliar underpinnings are chafing.

    

“Well,”   I replied, “You are right, and if there were such a thing as a plan...” 

The importance of a plan!   I have learned this from my study of a compilation of leadership books that could be titled, “The Mindset and Element of the Seven Habits of  Leadership Skills”.   Every one of those leader-building books insist that ‘The End Will Begin’ only if it’s calendared. 

So I persist,  "Let me give you an imagined scenario of how the man-planning process would go.” And I began relating the story as I have watched it played out over my decades of experience in youth activity planning. 

And to enhance the experience,  I will attempt to write this performance in a duo of male voices as I did for him:  

------------------------------------------

(First, in the rich base tones of a radio announcer,)  "A day in the life of a male youth leader.  The alarm rings and the hand reaches for the cell phone and the eyeballs squint at the day's calendar.  Brainwaves begin  to roll in."

( My vocal pitch changes to treble,)

 “Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge of the activity tomorrow night?” as the man scans his smart phone.   “Whose week is it anyway?”

(Changing back to the Elvis voice.)  "And a distant memory from a planning meeting begins to struggle up  from the depths and belches a vague recall."

 

 (Back to the Sinatra voice,) “Seems like I heard the older group’s got it.  I heard they were planning something that sounded like fun.” 

(Bass,) "And the relief endorphins kick in."

(Tenor,) “Wow, great.  Wonder if they need help? I’ll text them tomorrow."  

(Bass,) "But then just as he’s rolling over, his calendar pings."

(Tenor,) “Oh, but I have that late meeting at work tomorrow.  I’m sure they will let me know if they need anything.  Yeah, they have my number.” 

------------------------------------------

Now, I’ve been using my voice skills, and my psychic man-channeling that’s been honed through thirty-some years of close marital contact, so as I wind down and slam the imaginary smart-flip phone shut, (because no one has ever effectively demonstrated the end of anything without a satisfactorily slam of something,)  I look at the man and his cub and say, “And that’s how it will go.”

“So honey,” I conclude in my normal voice, “I think that if you plan it, all will be okay.” 

My husband, the consummate critic of my acting skills, quirks a questioning eyebrow and says, “Maybe we just better be sure.” 

“Hey,” I counter the criticism , ‘ I cleared this activity months ago with the young women leader.” 

“Yeah, still…” his dubious mind balks at my unfamiliar faux-male casual attitude and he hesitates, proving his ignorance of  the critical component of church calendaring,  the addition of estrogen.   He turns to the budding planner, my son, the micro-male and says, “Who can you call?” 

“Well,”  I stifle the response that resounds in my head, “that would be me--the young woman leader.”    

I’m more than a little shocked that flipping out the female card hasn’t trumped and my mind races ahead to what deeper issue he may have that I haven’t already mentally considered and resolved. 

“Honey,” my husband, the long-term analyst-for-a-living rebukes, “I just don’t want to have to do this again in a month, if it’s not our turn.” 

Ah Ha!  And there we have it;  the real crux.  My mind leaps to a resolution and the drama drag queen begs to emerge.

“Oh, I get it.  Let me allay your concerns.  Let’s visualize next month, and imagine the thoughts of one of the other young men leaders,” and with a throat clearing, I drop back into my man-channeling persona. 

--------------------------------

 “Announcing a day in the life of a typical man.  Brainwaves begin  to roll in,” booms me.

My tenor, “’Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge of the activity tomorrow night?’ flipping open that magical smart/flip phone.   ‘What week is it anyway?’  

"And a distant memory belches a vague recall."

“I remember that great activity from last month and the guys planned it… so it must be the girls.”  

"And with that, all youth-activity-centered-thought ceases and the mind shifts to other world-related problems."

"The next month arrives and again youth-activity-centered thought belches," 

 “Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge tomorrow night?  Is it my week?  Ah, I recall that great activity … but it wasn’t last month as that was the girls, so it might be us...” 

"And the man pushes the button and says, 'SIRI, Text  the other male leader.'"
---------------------------------------------

Back in my own voice at home, in the kitchen, the husband watches enrapt with a slight smile on his face and I know that I’ve entertained.  

Then I wrap it up, “And every other month from then on,  that ‘great’ activity will be remembered and remarked upon.”

And the coup-de-gras--the last word?   I got it.    

"You may not have to ‘plan’ again for six more months.”   

And that's it, the earth-shattering brilliance of The Man Plan.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.  And When It Does, I Write.  

circa 2015

Refinement Parenting with Gratitude

     In one of the quotes of the great Roman philosopher Cicero, he mentioned that, “gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.” 

    That idea intrigues me. Gratitude is a virtue like kindness, loyalty, humility, forgiveness, honesty, trust and compassion, but what makes gratitude the greatest?  How is it the parent?

     I ponder a successful parent’s performance. I watch the example of my daughter and my two granddaughters-- born 16 months apart and I imagine her trundling and them toddling and I view the sampler of virtues that she personifies in her everyday parenting. 

    In the space of one face-time conversation, she is charitable with the one who wakes angry, compassionate to the teether, forgives the biter, exemplifies patience with the freeze-tag-hide and seeker, and she does it all with kindness and a cheerful demeanor. The responsibility of parenting has made her different—it has refined. 

     Successful parenting demands that we refine our virtuous selves. Each virtuous attribute we strive to attain offers a challenge, and requires mental and at times physical submission. Each builds on another, kindness, forgiveness, patience, compassion—each demands the tampering of flaws and tempering of the natural being and if successful, refines us to a higher mind, to deeper thought and to responsible communal action. 

     That is what a parent hopes for, through all of her own efforts—to raise virtuous progeny. It may seem simplistic, but in a drought of gratitude, none of the other virtues can flourish. Each becomes burdened by the all-consuming self-ness of pride. Patience becomes a matter of willpower, humility is demeaning, forgiveness is granted spitefully, compassion is condescending, and kindness becomes mere tolerance. 

     My daughter uses gratitude as a simple-yet effective way to persist through the doldrums of daily effort. Not only because each of her days are filled with gratitude, “I’m just grateful I caught it before it was a bigger mess,” or “before she fell further,” “before she dumped all of it together,” “before it flushed,” “before it crashed,” and my personal favorite, “before it started on fire.”  It’s a life that is filled with edge-walking excitement and she spends it in grateful supplication for the tender mercies of the Lord as she lives, “just in time.” 

Gratitude can ennoble when one is supremely thankful for one’s circumstances. And when her day ends with, “I’m so grateful they are asleep!” it is because she has reached the apex of the challenges to her strength of will. She has bested a mortal body that has spent its day becoming refined by sacrifice and love unfeigned. 

     And it is those parenting attributes that are what help us mere mortals begin to understand the penultimate virtue, Charity; the Pure Love of Christ.  

Dec 7, 2016

Proposing To The Parents

 “I’d like to marry your daughter.”  Those words slam like a gut punch, even when one is braced for impact, even after training and preparation, even knowing in advance--for years-- that this could happen.  When those words come – no amount of training can soften the blow.  It comes with the shock of a one-two punch.

Children do that, grow up, move on, and as a parent, one can only hope that they are prepared for the challenges of life, prepared to sustain a strong and successful relationship with someone else.  A parent hopes that a child has figured out friendship vs. love, but still we wonder. 

So, after reeling in shock, the critical question comes to the mind, “Why.”   

Now it is the fiancée’s turn to look flummoxed.  “Why?”  The question hung in the air and I clarified, “Why do you want to marry her?” 

The pain of my gut punch was still fresh and I wanted--no I needed--a salve, a balm of some sort, to soften the blow, to soothe the pain.  I wanted to hear something comforting like, “because I can’t function a day without her, ”or “When she is in the room I want to be next to her seeing what she’s seeing, feeling what she’s feeling, doing whatever she’s doing.” I imagined the quintessential, “My love is like a disease, pervading my every physical cell, overtaking my circulatory system, making my heart pump, my blood flow, my lungs heave, my breath shallow.” For was it not Plato that said, “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”  I never have, but Brian?  Hey, the man is an English major, a poet right?  This is what he does.

The guy’s been to college so I would have approved of a philosophical answer like Aristotle, “Love is composed of a single soul, inhabiting two bodies.”  Or something more in line with his Asian back story, perhaps from the Chinese philosopher, Lao Tzu, “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

All of these responses would have appeased my passionate nature, but instead I received the equivalent of  “because she and I work well together.”  “We feel strongly about the same things, that marriage is more than a contract, but that two people must have compatible goals, and an equal determination to work at marriage to make it succeed.”

“Really?”

I pressed him still, yet eased up, trying to give him an opening--an indication of what I was aiming for.  I said,  “I need to hear that you love her passionately, that you can’t live without her.” 

“Well...” in typical Brian fashion he continued,  “I’m sure I could live, but it would be really hard.”

I backed him into the corner with more jabbing, “But, she is the only one for you, your soul mate?” 

“Well...” 

Again?  Really!

He continues, “I don’t necessarily believe that such a concept is rational.”  

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I have heard the two of them discuss the philosophical nature of deep abiding friendships and eternal love and I don’t need an update.  

I press in now and I’m pounding relentlessly, “Then you could marry anyone and that would work fine,” and to his credit, much in his favor, he blocked the jabs and he did not cave.  

Again he was insistent, “I’m sure it would be possible to marry someone else and live life just fine, but I don’t want to, I want to marry Dia.” 

The passionate frustration in me peaked!  He was so being Mr. Darcey, both the literary protagonist and the physical man that I live with.  How do we do that—search the world over and marry our fathers?  He was also script perfect with Pride and Prejudice.  How does he seek to pacify and rationalize love and yet insult with intended generosity?

I’m unconvinced that this deep abiding friendship to which he alludes is enough to sustain a long-term relationship that must become what I feel is imperative--an unfeigned, relentless love.

Unfortunately, at that point, he opens himself up for the one-two punch. I  counter, “You’ve missed your calling, You should have been an accountant.” 

To be fair, he had, not more than ten minutes before, phrased his remarks for the benefit of the father of his love who is the critical analyst of the family and whatever was said,  Brian had passed with flying colors.  The dear husband, Mr. Darcey (spelled correctly) was convinced.  He was All In, although he still could have waited until 2014 to hand his daughter off. 

But, I am not appeased for I am the one who remembers that little face from first grade coming to me and looking up, insisting that she was ready to get married.  I asked that little blond head beaming with the beatific smile the same question, “Why?”

 And what was her response?  “Because he likes my art and he thinks I’m smart,” –already, the grown-up answer.  Even as a little girl, she understood that friendship first creates a place where love can grow, flourish, deepen and become eternal.   

In the early years of Brian and Dia’s friendship (back when I really liked him), I recall her phoning me after a day of skiing, “Mom, we just clumped in the door, I made it as far as the bathroom before exhaustion cut me down. I am so tired.  Brian is in the kitchen after putting up the skiis, drying out the clothes and starting the fire; he is now fixing supper.  How can I not marry that?” 

And I agreed.   How could a girl not marry that?  That act demonstrated another one of the great and important traits of Mr. Darcey!  Skiing!  No, I mean thoughtful consideration of others.  

In addition, as I have met the Sabey family, it comforts me to see the example of the entire family in putting first the feelings and concern for other’s souls.  It is deeply ingrained in their psyche and that tradition, from Mark & Lisa, their parents,  Grandma and Grandpa, aunts and uncles, including the children,  that is a balm to my heart.

 “Who, if not him?”  That was Mr. Darcey’s counter to me while I was still reeling from the bout.  Indeed, as I sought more peace in my mommy mourning, I reflected on Brian and Dia’s relationship. Brian has time and time again, over the course of their courtship these past three? four? five years, demonstrated the deep friendship that first considers the comfort of the other.  When he sent her off on the mission that was her heartfelt dream since childhood with a “There is a family in Hong Kong who needs you,” and then fully supported her on that mission with his weekly pertinent tales of his own mission lore, or when he encourages her to follow her passion for English, these are proofs of that deep friendship. 

Brian has never--and I must state this emphatically, and not reluctantly-- Brian has never done anything that made me doubt his suitability as that guy, the one who likes Dia’s art and thinks that she is smart.  He gives one hundred percent  because in a great friendship, such sacrifice is reciprocal and from that effort grows deep and abiding love.

And that is when you recognize that you can’t live (the same) without them. 

Most importantly, Brian has worked hard to win me over and I must admit there was one maneuver  that got under the defenses and totally tipped the balance.

The guy does windows.  

That's My Reality--And sometimes it bites. And When It Does, I Write

11-23-2012

Birthdays and Boys

"Mom, here's your present. Read the card first."

"Oh, Aidan. Did you make it?" I ask.

"Nah, but it's funny," Aidan says.

So I pluck the card off the top of the present and I open it.

It's one of my cards... that I made.

I look at him sideways. 

Certainly he knows I made it?

"Read it, Mom!" he insists.

"I must say you look fabulous." I read it, 

and then I open it to the inside. 

"And on my birthday you must tell me I look fabulous."

He laughs and laughs, and so I laugh. 

At him.

Finally he breaks off, "Funny, Huh, Mom?"

Yeah Aidan. Funny. On so many levels.

And I get the feeling 

that he and I will split the lemonheads 

that I bought 

for him 

to give me 

as my present.

That's my Reality and Sometimes It Bites.  And When It Does, I Write. 

9/10/10

Bus Stop Bureaucracy

Parenting is a mix of science, information and baggage--the impedimenta your parents loaded you up with that you will shuck off your shoulders onto your children. And I usually enjoy doing it. “My father made me do that, so you are going to."

Our family had a rule, you either learned to ride a bike before kindergarten, or you walked the mile to school each day. I was a tremendously uncoordinated child, so there I was, my five-year-old legs, trudging to school each day and trudging home. For a while my first-grade sister would take pity on me and pump me on the fender of her back tire—until it broke.

It wasn’t a bad walk, and even my short little legs could do it in about a half hour. We lived in a pretty cold place, it got to about ten below during the winter and as child number two in a long parade of nine, I didn’t always have hand-me-down hats, boots and mittens, but we always had coats.

The worst part of the walk was when Dad would drive to work and he would pass right by us in his heated automobile and sometimes he would wave. I thought that showed an extreme lack of regard for the wellbeing of children, even cruelty and while it may have built character, the character it built is the one that I’m trying to avoid creating in my own children.

This year, I’m watching as the school bus drives along the very street my son walks in the dark. The bus could stop where it has all his previous school years, right by our house and there it would pick up three other children, but instead, this year it drives right on past them. It’s really too dark to see if the bus driver waves. These kids do have hats and mittens and maybe even the best coats money can buy, but these kids have something I didn’t. They are smarter than I ever was and they have a higher disdain for irrational behavior. They can think of no reason for this lack of consideration—none except that it’s “the rule.” Intermediate school children of age ten and eleven are deemed to be able to walk a third of a mile, so the rationale is that they should be made to do so.  After all, what irrational stories would they have to tell their children if they did not?   There are other children that are younger than my son and so they now have to be driven down to the bus stop each morning—for safety concerns.

Just FYI.  Walking doesn’t build positive character. What is engendered in that five blocks and ten minutes is a moldering cynicism. It’s just long enough to form a credible theory against irrational bureaucracy. It’s another inevitability that I wish my son didn’t have to learn— that rampant bureaucracy plus the lack of reason equals total stupidity.

What I have learned is something I already knew. All of my effort to effect change with the school has made a difference. The bus stop has been relocated .03 miles closer to us. That means not only will the children on this end still have to be driven, but now the three who come from the other direction, will also have to be driven.

I’m reminded that when it comes to bureaucracy, it’s always best to leave well enough alone.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.  When It Does, I Write.

11-1-10