Storytime

May 6, 2015             My ‘old man’, as he insisted I call him, had been dying for almost ten years now.  You would have thought this eulogy would have been written and rewritten and rewritten, but I never started it until last night.               He outlived the doctor who told him he wouldn’t see the end of 2014.             He outlived one of the largest recorded abdominal aneurysms.             And unfortunately, in his own mind, he outlived his usefulness.  Once he realized that he would be confined to bed, he said, ‘Fuck it.  That’s it.  I’m done.’  And in less than two weeks, he was gone.  And that’s how he wanted it.             I think it was about five or six years ago that I really pushed to get him to move in with my family and me downriver.  I wanted to spend more time on a daily basis with him while he was still able to get out and do things.  He teetered back and forth for a spell, but then decided that he couldn’t give up and move out.  He lived in a run town trailer park in Mt. Clemens, drove an old Chrysler, hit certain spots for breakfast, but mostly stayed at home with his cat.  I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to move.             What I didn’t realize then was what he couldn’t give up on.             He couldn’t give up on his long and valuable friendships with his two neighbors, Ray and Bill, who have been to me, over the years, a great source of comfort whenever I couldn’t reach my dad and feared the worse.  Thank you for that.             He couldn’t give up on his church family and all the friendships and desserts that resulted from that relationship.  I’m especially looking forward to those peanut butter cookies after the service!               He couldn’t give up his independence, no matter that the doctor “suggested” he stop driving five years ago.   He said, “It’s okay.   I stay in the right lane and go real slow.”   Then we all cringed as we watched him turn left out of Ravis (Travis?) one morning after breakfast and the entire road just about had to come to a stop for him.             Yes, he was rough around the edges, gruff and feisty, missing some teeth, and not concerned about wearing spot-free clothes, but once you made your way past that barrier, you were rewarded with the real gold that was inside.  He would do just about anything for you, but only if he liked you.              I remember one specific event in my life many years ago that changed my outlook of him.  He had been divorced for a number of years, and the 30th anniversary dinner at St. John Hospital was coming up.   He didn’t want to go alone.  I was a young hippie then, partying and thinking parents were a drag.  But I felt bad that he didn’t have a date so I agreed to go.  I can’t even remember if it was the standard rubber chicken dinner routine or something more fancy, but what I do remember is this:   when they finally announced my dad’s name to come up for his years of service award, he rose and headed to the stage in his tuxedo to a standing ovation.  I was amazed.  It was a very long ovation, and it turned out to be the only one that night.             When my dad came back to the table and saw the look of amazement on my face, he said, “You didn’t know your old man was so popular, did you?”             It was that moment that made me wake up and take the time to get to know the guy beneath the gruff.   I haven’t regretted it since.

He was a very, very young baby boy, and I, then 42, was an old, old first-time mom.  Only home from the hospital a couple of days, it was time to give him his first bath.  My husband, 11 years younger and someone who had grown up around babies, inexplicably let me take the lead.  This made no sense whatsoever.  I was completely inexperienced, and unfortunately, when the hospital nurses were teaching all the new moms how to give a bath, I stepped away to take a phone call from my husband, who was at work in a factory.  By the time I returned, the demo bath was over.  But I had successfully bathed myself for over 40 years, so how hard could this be? John poured warm soapy water into the baby bath tub on the kitchen counter, while I got Patrick’s limbs and trunk free of his two layers of tiny baby clothes.  We had all the supplies at the ready on the counter so I gently placed all seven pounds of him into the soap bubbles and immediately lost him.  He was not in sight.  I instantly panicked and grabbed down into the soapy water, splashing water everywhere and felt an arm but when I tried to lift him up, I could not believe how slippery he was.  His arm zipped right through my hand like I had no bones or muscles to grab him with.  I somehow got his head above water but I lost my grip, and kept trying to grab other less slippery body parts to get ahold of him.  There were no less slippery body parts.  He was panicking at this point, too, probably confused about suddenly being back in the womb, but why is it so soapy this time, and who are these crazy people?  All that was above water now was his face, and I was reaching for more baby somewhere, anywhere.  He slipped back under the surface when I tried to adjust my grip, and in a full panic now, I just grabbed his entire body under his armpits, hauled him up out of the tub that I am never ever going to use again and put him in a kind of hold that even an NFL tackler couldn’t break.  John threw the towels around us and we hurried over to the couch to dry him off.  My heart was still in atrial fibrillation but at last I could finally breathe.   All of this, of course, was John’s fault.  If he hadn’t called me at the hospital at that one critical baby-bathing moment, we all wouldn’t be soaking wet on the couch, my son wouldn’t need therapy in ten years and maybe even he wouldn’t scream when he was within two feet of the shore for the next five years.  I didn’t push bath time again for six months.  I often thought about getting a cat who could just lick himself clean.  Maybe Patrick could learn to do that.

It’s been years in the making but here we finally are. I read somewhere recently that writers should not hold back, should not save their best stuff for later, or for an upcoming book. Give it everything you’ve got and more will rise up. That hit me soundly, shattering all ill-conceived ideas of saving my stories. . . for what? I have no interest in writing a book, nor the time to devote to it. And since that realization, I’m overwhelmed with things I want to write about so now I begin. So instead of slogging years through a book and a publishing journey, I will use this web site to share the weirdness that is life, throw in a story no longer being held for a book, more recipes that don’t kill people (you’ll note none of my mother’s recipes are in this site), and will upload any articles that wind up getting published. This is going to be so much fun!

Feb. 6, 2021 I’ve teleworked at home for ten long months now and other than a few camping trips last summer, I’ve pretty much stayed at home.  Our 25 y/o son has also been at home finishing up a semester before grad school, constantly playing video games, yelling his head off for someone to “1B1 me, chicken, 1B1 me,” and critiquing every meal I prepare.  If I had to listen to that for another weekend, I was sure I’d go postal.  I asked my spousal unit of 28 years if he’d like to escape up north.  I received a resounding, “Hell, yes!” in response.   After 28 years at Detroit Diesel, John was ready to escape to anywhere as well. While I longed for the $275 a night log cabin with the claw foot tub, I settled for a studio cabin on 18 acres and 1,000 feet along the main branch of the Au Sable River at Finley’s Riverside Cabins in Grayling.  How I misunderstood the cabin’s location (25 feet from M 72 and 200 feet from the river) is beyond me.  I had planned on sitting indoors to watch the river and the wildlife, but all I could see were parking slots and the sparse traffic on M 72.  John wasn’t up to walking the property or any outdoor activities then (come on!  A wind chill of 2° isn’t so bad!!) so we decided to head back down I-75 to where his family has some cottages.  After catching up with our brother-in-law in Roscommon and admiring his newly finished pine family room, we headed back to the cabin to decide on dinner.   We weren’t sure yet about dining out although the restriction had been partially lifted, so we opted for a carry out from a new-to-us place, Ray’s BBQ, Brews and Blues.  We had the mumbo jumbo gumbo and the chili; both were excellent!  As it turned out, it was a good idea to get a carry out because at about the same time, their water line froze and the whole restaurant had to close for the night.     The next day I convinced John to take a quick walk through the property to go see the river.  I am a water person and need to be near it, in it or on it.  The property is situated on a 90° bend in the river and had a shoveled trail through the snow along the river, which made for easy walking.  There were signs all around of how much fun this place would be in the summer:  Adirondacks cozied up to the river’s edge, covered in snow; a patio table with four chairs with a great view inviting random butts to plop down; a large firepit with chairs all around waiting for more ghost stories; upside down canoes close to the launch site; and a large pavilion with picnic tables and an industrial size bar-b-que.  I noticed the owners had thoughtfully strung some small solar lights in the trees along the paths for night walking, and secretly thought I’d get John back out there later that night.   After our walk, we thought we’d head into town to go to the Au Sable Gift store, a moccasin / leather goods shop for a wallet for John, and then to Dawson & Stevenson’s Diner (the Coca-Cola museum/diner/soda fountain) for breakfast.  Supporting the local businesses is what’s needed now, right? so off we went.   Much to our chagrin, both were closed!  Back to the cabin we went and gathered our stuff for the 45-minute trip to the wineries on Mission Peninsula in Traverse City. On the way there, we stopped for lunch in Kalkaska at the Trout Town Restaurant, on the recommendation of a friend of mine with property in the area.  We were put in a dining room all to ourselves and enjoyed a couple of great meals (corned beef, swiss and horseradish for John with fries, and a small salad of mixed greens, chicken, dried cranberries, toasted pecans, cheddar cheese and raspberry vinaigrette for me, plus a lot of John’s fries).   We will definitely go back there, probably every time we drive through Kalkaska in the future.  We kept our masks on except for eating but really came in contact with no one but Jodi, our waitress, and she looked pretty healthy and energetic. Since our wine cabinet at home was almost empty, we just had to fill it up.   Our initial stop on the peninsula was Black Star Farms, the first winery you come to heading up Old Mission.  We didn’t need to have the tasting because this is our favorite stop and we already knew what we wanted.   Fifteen minutes and half a case later, we were back in the truck heading up to the next one. Chateau Grand Traverse was too full to get into.  We were not the only folks who thought this was a great way to spend a cold wintry day in Michigan.  With a limit of 25% capacity, it didn’t take long to reach that, so they were taking names and numbers and would give you a call when the coast was clear.  Rather than wait, we opted to head further up the road to Brys Estate, where they have the best strawberry wine slush on this good planet.   Unfortunately, we were informed that the wine that goes in that drink isn’t available until April; it was being made as we inquired.  To make up for my disappointment, I saw a merlot I thought I’d like for $10 only to find out at the register that I misread the sign and the 1 was really a 4!  Back on the shelf it went as I don’t like to feel guilty while I enjoy a glass of every-day wine. We decided to head back to Chateau Grand Traverse, put our name on the list and wait in the car.  John was due for a nap anyway, so about 20 minutes later, we received the call