31 posts tagged “family”
Eighteen years ago today I got married, providing the last laugh for a lot of people. I was the one who had forsworn marriage, at least until I was 50. I was so sure of it, I'd made several bets on it.
Never paid up, because I'm cheap like that.
I'm all Endicott now. Paying the bills, washing the plates, upstanding as hell.
I ain't complaining. I got a good deal.
The little guy to the left there turned 5 this week. On the one hand, nothing spectacular right? Somebody turns 5 every day. On the other hand he's family. My first cousin's son. His great-grandfather was my grandfather. I keep trying to figure out if that makes him my second cousin or my fist cousin, one time removed.
Which is neither here nor there.
He has a great smile, just like Valerie, his mother. I was 16 when Valerie turned 5, being that I was 11 when she born.
Do you see where I'm going here? Someone whose diapers I used to change, whose very first steps I witnessed, who my dad slipped a little wine when she was teething (and screaming her head off) so she'd sleep... has a 5 year old. She also has a college degree and a husband and some new fangly adjunct professorship or something.
Good God I'm old. Terrifyingly old, careening in quick fashion for my inevitable date with The Reaper.
Which again, is neither here nor there, right? Every day somebody dies, somebody is born, and somebody turns 5. We try to mark the days and make the best of all of them.
So, happy birthday Jonathan. And many happy returns.
Make sure your grandmother never hears about that wine thing.
I'm showing my age but I can't get over communicating around the world instantaneously. From near a war zone no less.
The pic at left was taken on the tarmac in Texas.
Then there's missing work. I'm no company man by any stretch but... I dunno... unless I'm incoherent and near death's door I feel "bad" for calling in sick (as opposed to "calling in slick" once a year to frolic and detour with S.O.). It feels like I'm "cheating", like I'm not pulling my weight.
Then there's the lousy disposition I develop when I'm sick. My wife says that I get a bit grizzly and more than a little whiny. Part of it is that, being a Mama's Boy, no one can pamper me like Mama used to. She used to fluff the pillow just so and feed me crushed ice and 7 Up. She used to read me stories and sing me to sleep.
Yeah I know it's an unfair comparison and I'm a grown man who ought to know better. But I'm sick. Remember? I'm not thinking clearly.
The other part? Well that has to do with wasting a perfectly good day off being sick. Simple as that. Who can enjoy a day off when they're half drugged and achy with a nose that's all slimy and runny? Can't even get into the eleventy fifth viewing of "The Empire Strikes Back."
Anyway. I called in sick today after spending half of last night with chills and a low grade fever. The doctor says it's a virus and "it'll run its course soon enough." But my ears are inflamed and my nose is sore from wiping and I've about sneezed my head off. I'm taking the vitamins and drinking the tea and my wife is taking good care of me.
But man I'd offer a vestal virgin for a glass of crushed ice and 7 Up and a bed time story.
He was wearing short pants the first time I met him, a little over a year old, him and his twin. Just learning to climb stairs. I remember when he got braces, teasing him over his prom pics, high school graduation, West Point. I copied my entire Richard Pryor collection for him waaaay before I should have. Took him and his brother to see the first Austin Powers Movie waaaay before I should have. We share a love of Conan The Barbarian and root beer.
My nephew, Lieutenant Dhayn Tarver ships out for Qatar tomorrow.
I'm very proud.
But it's a mixed blessing, bittersweet. I'll leave it at that.
For his part, he's completely focused. Knows what's what. Even planning on working on his Masters while he's overseas.
We talked a little while ago. I know that where he's going is not in thick of things, but it's still "that part of the world." And the Iranians are seemingly getting bolder.
He was completely at ease. I tried to be. S.O. kept her voice from quivering until she got off the phone. Before she hung up, she told him to "keep some sunshine your face."
Generally I define the phrase "winter fun" as an oxymoron of the highest order. The idea of "having fun" at temperatures below 45 degrees F is, well, nutty. The only activity I engage in during the winter is waiting for spring. It's not that I dislike winter (much), it's just that Michigan winters last so long. I mean really -- we can get snow here from September through mid May. It just wears me out. More so for my blushing bride, who said to me the other day, "I'm tired of winter!"
The season was but 5 days old.
Each year when the mercury dips below 70 my significant other pulls out the long underwear. She's got a full length Nanuck of The North "wooly bully" coat that she wears full into June. We play thermostat ping pong until well after Easter. And I usually sweat out at least 3lbs a night from the heavy covers she keeps on our bed. She only leaves the house for emergencies.
Today we went snow sledding with our good friends the Arthurs. There's about 18 inches of powder on the ground and the temperature is 25 degrees. Perfect weather for polar bears. Not so much for S.O. and I.
We had a ball.
Naturally The Artist was in heaven. Being "the family daredevil", no risk is too great for her. And even I managed to tamp down my natural disdain for cold temperatures. Besides I love speed, and the hills were fast.
To my surprise and delight, S.O. -- after much consideration and calculation ("just how fast will we be going?") -- deigned to take a ride with me. The run started out smooth as silk, but somewhere about the middle of the way the front edge of the sled dipped into the side of the hill. We didn't wipe out but we kicked up a cloud of snow to rival the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. I was snowblind for the reminder of the way.
We must have been a sight; a swirling ball of snow and ice swooshing down that hill; me coughing up snow in the front, S.O. calling upon the Lord behind.
We had a good laugh at the bottom.
I'm not saying she's ready to train for the Olympics but my wife is already talking about buying some new sleds.
I can't begin to tell you how much fun it was. Kerrytown House is a very intimate setting with a seating capacity of perhaps 50. And we had front row seats... for $20/ticket.
Yeah you heard me
I wasn't sure how well The Artist would do. She's usually pretty good "out amongst the English" and very patient. But she got a little fidgety at the Ramsey Lewis concert a few weeks ago. She did her best to be polite and all but it's tough when you're 8 and your parents are all into something that might be a wee bit over your head.
Watching Robert Hurst on bass was like watching someone caught up in Rapture. I felt like he would burst. Or I would.
When I saw Donald Walden walk in before the show, I had no inkling that he might be a musician, let alone the leader. Very unassuming guy. In truth they all were, but Walden gave the impression that he was just there to catch the show. He peeked around the corner at the stage at first. Didn't even ascend it until a couple other musicians had. I heard him joking with pianist, Barry Harris, that he "liked to play fast." Fortunately nothing was lost in translation. His phrasing was precise and clear.
I love this music. Though I didn't always appreciate it. In my younger days, it was just "that old time-y dance music" my dad and uncle used to listen to, especially Uncle Bo. Let Basie get to swinging and he'd grab the closest female in range for a trip around his basement floor. God that man could dance. It hit me Saturday night that this music is dance music. Hell my feet couldn't keep still. Room full of obviously (I'm assuming) left-leaning college intellectual types and I could barely keep still. Chair danced my natural behind off. I had to. Randy Gelispie's enthusiasm was infectious.
I couldn't stop thanking him.
My Little Reason For Living has informed me that she really doesn't care for the pseudonym I've been using for her. For that matter, neither does her mother (My Other Reason For Living).
So from here on she'll be referred to as either Little Person (which she came up with) or simply, The Artist.
That is all.
A post from the old Themestream days. Razor ought to remember this one:
We met TC and Jean through one of my uncles. TC was my uncle's cousin or childhood friend, I can't remember which. In any event they were drinking buddies. Jean was pretty and plump. She had long black silky hair. Everybody said she looked like Chaka Khan. She was also pretty ditzy which made it easy for TC to lord it over her. They had a couple of kids as I remember. Perhaps it was TC's drinking and his penchant for dominating women that caused him to grab my mother that night at his kitchen table.
I don't recall why we were there. We never even saw TC or Jean unless it was at my uncle's and I don't believe we'd ever been to their apartment before. I remember I was around 13 or 14 at the time so Daddy must have been dead. I remember that it was hot, unbearably hot. The air in the apartment, smothering and oppressive. They had neither air conditioning nor fans. So why were we there?
I seem to recall that Ma was running some errand or other for my aunt. I'm foggy on the details. But there we were, sitting at that table, sweltering. I remember not wanting to be there, loathing every minute of it, and being a little afraid. TC was huge. He had arms big as tree trunks, linebacker shoulders. And like I said, he was more than a little intimidating.
So I remember the mixture of joy and relief I felt when Ma stood up to go. That is when TC grabbed her by the forearm, with one hand, and just held her. With his face betraying no emotion, he just stated flatly that he was not ready for her to leave. I stood from where I had been sitting, making a show of kicking back my chair and looking menacing, saying nothing, which really didn't matter because I didn't exist as far as he was concerned. I was big for my age, probably 5’10” 140 lbs. or more, but big as I was, I was no threat. Ma remained still and firmly but calmly told me to sit down. In the same tone she began to speak to TC.
I don't remember what she said (I really wish I could) but she talked to that fool for about 30 minutes (seemed like all night) until he let her go. But while she talked I scanned the table for something to hit him with, a plate, a bottle - maybe a fork to stick in his arm. For her part, Jean sat in her chair at first fussing, then simpering. When TC finally released his grip we got up and left as if nothing had happened. It's odd, but Ma and I never spoke of it to each other, not even that night. As if discussing it would have made us even more vulnerable. I don't think she ever mentioned it to my uncle.
Not long after TC and Jean got sanctified. Jean would get the Holy Ghost and shout for days at a time. TC started preaching and speaking in tongues.
There are still days when I wish I'd hit him. Proving once again that my mother's generation is more civilized than mine.
Intrepid Explorer: What's that?
Me: Deer droppings I'd imagine.
Intrepid Explorer: Ooooh Gross! Don't touch it!
Me: I hadn't planned on it.
During our travels we turned up 2 beer bottles and a Pepsi can thrown carelessly at the edge of the woods.
Intrepid Explorer: People really are rude.
Me: Yup.
