What My Father Gave To Me

My dad was descendant from Nordic and German stock, which translated into English means that he worked extremely hard at everything he did. Although achieved later in life, I get my work ethic from him.

In high school, he wasn’t much into sports, but could outrun most of the track team. He did high diving, until he broke his eardrums. I could always picture, in my mind, all six feet of him jack-knifing from 20 feet in the air. He was an excellent swimmer and tried to teach all of us how to do the crawl. I wasn’t much interested in learning how to swim properly; I was more interested in climbing onto his stomach as he floated there on his back with even his toes sticking out of the water. I get my buoyancy from him.

At 19, he enlisted in the Marines. Looking dapper in his uniform, he met my mom at Cal Berkeley at a social event. They danced, and romanced, and later they wrote. The jitterbug was his favorite. I get my sense of rhythm from him.

After the war, he came back and, with a fever and temperature of 103, was married to Margery May Fowler, his redheaded true love from Berkeley. They moved to Seattle, where, on the GI Bill, he went to the University of Washington and got an Electrical Engineering degree. He had wanted to be an architect and work with his contractor-father, but his dad had died suddenly of a heart attack a few years earlier and his dream of building a business with his dad had died as well. I get my ability to overcome adversity from him.

They made plenty of friends during these early years in Washington, and for entertainment, they would flip their living room coffee table on its side, and all sit on the floor to use it as a net for balloon volleyball.  I get my playful nature from him.

After college, he was hired by Pacific Bell, and entered on a management “fast track”. As our family grew so did the number of times we moved: Washington, California, Washington (where I came along), New Jersey, New York, Oregon, Washington, Oregon, Washington, then, finally, Oregon. He was able to hold us all together even though our roots were not allowed to grow very deep. I get my wanderlust from him.

Higher and higher in management he went. This had its perks for our family. We got the first Princess phone, the first push-button phone, the first intercom connected to a phone system, eventually we each got a phone in our own room; we got to see what silicon discs were cut from, we got to see the first micro-chips; the wonders never ceased. I couldn’t wait for each new invention to make its way into my dad’s hands to be shared with our tiny minds.  I get my tech savvy-ness from him.

One of my fondest memories is of watching my dad construct a train table for “us”. This was a massive affair made from two-by-fours and plywood. It cleverly hinged in the middle so that the whole thing could be easily folded up and rolled out of the way. He spent hours gluing grass and roads. He constructed little houses, tiny train stations, miniature car garages, and small stores. Trees of different species were selected and placed.  Tiny villagers were hand-painted in the many hues of ethnic diversity. Ahh, the smell of those model paints was intoxicating (probably literally). I’m not sure about my sisters, but I claimed a favorite house, car, and even miniature people. Each item had a special place on the table and I remembered being insistent that each time we set it up everything had to go back where it belonged. I get my attention to detail from him.

Eventually my dad retired but things did not slow down for him. Not only did he spend many hours on various boards and committees, but also had a role in a cutting-edge technology start-up company. Imagine storing information from your computer on a thin round disc that could be erased and written on again! Too bad it was before its time. This technology (CDs and DVDs) eventually hit the market about 8 years later. My dad was always ahead of the curve. I get my entrepreneurial ideals from him.

I could stand before you today and talk for hours about what an outstanding father, mentor, and friend my dad was. He always had a smile and hug for anyone he met. His generosity was epic, his capacity to love, endless. He laughed with us and allowed us to drag him on “adventures”. He once let us talk him into trying some toffee, which, after one prolonged un-sticking of the first bite, pulled the bridge right out of his mouth. In true form, he laughed right along with the rest of us. I get my joy and appreciation for humor from him.

There are other traits and talents that my father had that I wished I had acquired: patience, tolerance, acceptance, the ability to complete tasks, ambidexterity, a low golf handicap, the ability to tan, and last but not least, the ability to do the crawl.

He is one-of-a-kind and will be missed by everyone who knew him. He played with us, he taught us, he respected us, he laughed with us, he encouraged us, he applauded us, and he supported us. We could not have asked for a more loving father and all of us are truly blessed to have had his influence in our lives.

Making sense of the census

I am dutiful and law abiding. That is why, when I got my census questionnaire in the mail and reading that it would only take me ten minutes to fill it out, I sat down immediately and divulged all of my intimate secrets.

How many in my household? One, plus two dogs I consider my babies, and way too many crawly things. Income? Yes, but not enough. Heritage? Yep, got plenty of that. There. Done with that… and there it sat, on my table for another week. Then I realized there was free postage on that envelope. I scooped it up and dropped it in the mailbox. Finally, a citizen in good standing. I could now say that I helped build schools, playgrounds, hospitals, roads, improved the infrastructure of my community, and left my genealogical footprint.

So, why was there a flyer on my front door yesterday saying that “Michael” had stopped by from the Census Bureau to help me fill out my census? Oh, maybe because in my rush to utilize Federal dollars to mail a letter I forgot to actually place my filled out census form into it!

Educational level? Apparently wasted.

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Casualties of the road

One smashed and battered baseball cap lying in the middle of the highway is not an uncommon sight. Sighting two in a single day as I made my way downtown was a little disconcerting. Oh sure, I've lost my share of gas receipts out the open car window. First, it lifts up and flutters around the cab of the truck tempting me to grab it. Then, it is swiftly whisked out of the moving vehicle by 50 mile per hour gusts that slip inside the car as I make my way down the highway.


Convertibles and open car windows are a logical by-product of a subtropical tourist-destination in the pacific. I've seen everything from ball caps to pieces of luggage littering the side of the road at some point or other. 


I, myself, also lost a hat once while driving. But I had a valid excuse for not picking it up: it disappeared. I was tooling down the road at 50 mph in my Jeep Wrangler, with the top down, just minding my own business and enjoying the view. Then, without warning, the car in front of me decided to slow down to make a left hand turn off of the highway. I was very close behind that car so I slammed on my brakes. An interesting thing happens when you do this in a short, wheel-base car. It starts swerving left, then right, then left as you try to overcompensate for every previous turn of the steering wheel.  I ended up swerving into the oncoming lane and completing a 180 degree turn, ending up nose-to-nose with the car I was trying to avoid. It all happened in less than one minute and when my jeep came to a stop I burst out laughing ; my daughter, in the passenger seat next to me, burst into tears. Yes, there I was without my hat (I never even felt it leave my head), in a near-fatal accident, entirely intact and without any scrapes or dents, staring at two tourists who sat in their car, staring at me, looking like they were in shock.


Maybe it is not so much that my hat disappeared as that I needed to swiftly get turned right-way-around on the highway and just get out of there. No damage done, except to everyone's psyche. Oh well, what is one ball cap in exchange for an undamaged car and no injuries? A fair exchange, to be sure.


I'm hoping those ball caps weren't lost in a similar fashion as mine and that a playful gust just grabbed them off and discarded them on the road. I did whisper a prayer of thanks, once again, as these little mementos raced under my car tires.


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Chemistry in the kitchen

Yesterday, as I was brewing up a batch of Goat's Milk & Honey soap, I realized that there is a very fine line between being a scientist and soapmaker. In fact, I would go so far as to compare soapmaking with the lost art of alchemy. 


Alchemy, as you might know, is commonly referred to as the medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold. Upon closer inspection of Webster, the second definition of alchemy is the power or process of transforming something common into something special. This term definitely fits the bill!


I take common oils and cleverly mix it up with a caustic solution of something that could burn through skin, nails, and unfortunately, commonly enough, esophaguses; and end up with something that is gentle enough to use on a baby's bottom.


But yesterday's scientific experiment almost went out of control. As I was pouring the lye solution into the oils, something went "kerplunk" and splashed toward me. Yes, I was wearing my glasses, but I dodged back and the splash hit my shirt. Whew. Only a drop of oil. Lately, I've been using a Hot Process making my soaps, which is kind of tricky when using a recipe that calls for milk. You want to avoid getting it too hot. Even adding the lye to the water/milk solution has to be done carefully and slowly as to not curdle the milk.


Anyway, onward I went, pouring all of the ingredients into my huge crock pot, giving it a good mix, and leaving it to start it's chemical process called "soaponificaiton" (the reaction of the oils and the lye). I peeked under the lid every once in a while to make sure it was coming along nicely and when the allotted time was up, I was disappointed to see that the oils were still separated. 


"Oh well," I thought. "I can whip it all back together with my hand blender", which is what I did. I then turned around to assemble my mold, and when I turned back the mixture looked like a boiling, churning, hot, brown, mass, rapidly expanding and rising up and over the sides of the pot, streaming down and splashing across the counter (and my recipe book). I quickly grabbed my potholders and pulled the crock out of the base to try to start cooling it down. Once cooled, I had to hand stir it until it mixed back together. I quickly poured it into the mold and let it be. 


Aah, alchemy. The perfect combination of temperature, ingredients, timing, and luck (I mean skill). Luckily, unlike making gold, soap is forgiving, and the batch turned out beautifully. I'll be making plenty of notes about this batch attempt as soon as I can pry my recipe book open again.


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Lawn in your loo

This is called the Moss Carpet. It is designed by Yanko Design who's motto is "Form beyond function". Real moss is actually embedded into this mat, and they figure the humidity of the bathroom will keep it alive.


How therapeutic is that?! Fresh out of the bath you can snuggle your toes into the fresh moss; standing naked on your own private lawn.


If I had this tiny bit of real estate, I'd have to keep the bathroom door locked at all times. I share my life with two canines who would squat on this square quicker than you can say, "No! Bad dog".


This idea got me pondering, though. I think I could couple this mini-garden with one designed for my walls. A nice fungus collection including mold and mildew with a wispy frame of cobwebs. Maybe I can make my recalcitrant housecleaning work in my favor. "Oh that? That is a new piece I like to call 'Dank Decor'".


So anyway, if they are serious about designing carpet that is only 4 sq. ft. of moss, they should consider installing an entire lawn inside my bathroom. I could get my weed-whacker in there once a week, maybe set up a little putting green. Maybe they could make it out of wheat grass and I could graze on it every morning to get my daily dose of vitamins and minerals. I could nap in there on my personal Field of Dreams. The possibilities are endless.

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The straw

Recently, I have been tested to the max. Not in the intellectual or physical sense, but in the psychological and patience sense. Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, one more thing happens to test my ability to hold it all together.


I'll have to be careful about how I put this mini-rant because it could happen that the person (people) involved may read about it and I don't want to offend them. In fact, I won't go into details at all, suffice it to say that my life has been a living hell trying to get something accomplished in a timely and efficient way.


I have been made to look the fool by passing along unfulfilled promises, had my hopes lifted only to be dashed lower than they began, and even at the eleventh hour, I have been let down, yet again.


Meanwhile, I dealt with the stress of bringing 20 new field workers into our team, suffered the debilitating  pain of a broken tooth with a root canal, juggled three contractors and got them to work for promises, and now, finally, my back has been broken. Not literally, but in the camel sense. You know, the final straw. 


I'm not sure why I am suffering from a truly sore back, but I am hunched over like a 85 year old floor scrubber. I think my will has caved in and is no longer providing the stamina that my spine needs to stand erect. Beaten down, jaw throbbing, I am no longer able to hold my head up to say, "Yes, I can"! 


I start out thinking that if they can put a man on the moon, surely I can get these things accomplished. But in the end, one little measly straw, one trivial and seemingly unimportant thing rears its ugly head just high enough to quietly whisper in my face, "No, you can't".


Tomorrow is a new day. Work continues. I'll roll out of bed, brush off the straws of yesterday, and start all over again.

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I'm much better now...

I am dedicating today's blog to all of you who keep putting off going to the dentist. I know that I risk sounding a bit like a hill-billy-hobo-schmuck by announcing that I have not had my teeth checked for about, ummm, well, too long. Thus, I spent this last weekend in agony and  paralyzing pain from my broken molar.

Yes, I hate to harp on this subject. And, yes, I could have made an appointment right after the first time I blogged about it. But, no, I never did and I am paying the price ten times over for my transgression.

After digging in my cupboards and searching drawers and shelves, I finally located some temporary pain relief: tablets of 800 mg of Ibuprophen. Hallelujah! But that relief was only temporary. Once you reach a certain pain threshold and try to hold the fort there, Pain often goes for the stealthy Judo move and somehow manages to knock over the fragile barricade of comfort carefully constructed around the afflicted area.


So today, sounding as pathetic as I could (which wasn't hard), I called the dentist. Could they get me in today rather than have me wait an eternal three days for a scheduled appointment? No, but they could help with "pain management". I liked the sound of that.


A quick trip to the pharmacy has now resulted in a fairly happy camper. Vicodin is my friend. As long as I stay away from anything hot, or cold, or slightly either side of body temperature, I'll be okay.


The moral of this lesson? Floss daily. Brush at least twice a day. And, for gosh sakes, go to the dentist and take care of anything that needs taking care of. Your mouth will thank you. Literally.

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