Waiting....

It's hard to feel good about a 3:30 AM telephone call. They're rarely very pleasant. Sometimes they're wrong numbers. I don't usually get angry about misdials, but I do think that if you're dialing a phone number in the wee hours, you should use all the care you possibly can.
Sometimes these calls are the result of drunk dialing. Usually, when somebody gets drunk and calls a friend, unless they're asking for a ride that will keep them from getting behind the wheel (all too rare), it's something that could wait. At least until morning. Frequently until the Second Coming. I have rarely said anything while drunk that I wanted to remember for posterity. I have often said things while drunk that I would like to remember so that I can get the apology right.
3:30 AM telephone calls often bring bad news. At work, I first on the alarm company's call list. If any of the alarms go off, I get the call. Motion sensor? I get out of bed, and drag myself to the restaurant. I get called when the coolers get too warm. I got a call that told me that there was a power outage at the restaurant (it took a lot of strength to keep from sarcasm then: "Thanks for waking me up. I'll bring some right down.").
Then there are the really bad news calls. The ones that tell you that something bad has happened to a friend or a family member. I haven't had any of those, but I worry about getting them.
This morning, at 3:30 AM, I did get a phone call, but it wasn't a bad news call, a wrong number or a drunk dial. It was my oldest daughter, calling to tell me that she's in labor. I liked getting that call. Now, though, it's more than seven and a half hours later, and I haven't yet received the follow-up call. I'll keep on waiting....

But.....

My son, Joey, as part of his education, has to read at least twenty minutes each day. Books. Ellie doesn’t yet – she’s just in first grade – but she will one day. I’d like to be told that I have to read at least twenty minutes each day. On a regular chair. “What does he mean by that?” I hear all the non-parents asking. The parents know, and I can feel them smiling and nodding. What I mean by that is on a regular chair - with cushions – not a porcelain one with a hole in the seat. If it weren’t for bathrooms, parents would never get any reading done. We can’t read when the kids are reading (I know how the non-parents think; I used to be one) because that’s when we’re cleaning up after dinner, folding laundry, checking homework, and doing all those things we don’t get to do when the kids are awake.

I know what to do – listen up, local Community Service Departments: Find an empty room in some building, and decorate it like a living room. You know; a few easy chairs, maybe a sofa, and some reading lamps. If the room could have a fireplace it would be a big plus. You could charge for it – it’s an adult reading class. Not a class for learning to read, but a class where you get to read, for forty-five minutes or so. There would be a waiting list.

Until then, novelists take note: Keep the chapters short. Other people have to use the bathroom, too.

I Like to Read...

It really should come as no great surprise that a writer enjoys reading, but the possibility exists that some of you may not think that way, so I just thought that I’d put it out there: I like to read. I don’t get anywhere near as much time as I would like to do as much personal reading as I want to do.
Personally, I tend to prefer fiction. Having just typed that sentence, I have to confess that I am fighting the urge to apologize for that. There is a mindset, often found in persons who perceive themselves as intellectuals, that fiction is a waste of time. When I turn on the television news – something I do when the kids aren’t around – I get a whole bunch of reality. I get news and insight from newspapers. I escape into a book. I want characters, not people.
What I really like is when the writing makes me believe that the characters are people; when I become so caught up in the story that I start to feel like I know the main characters in the book. When that happens, I can tell that the author is being honest with me – I know (or believe that I know) if the protagonist is acting out of character. I can also compare myself to the characters: How would I have handled that situation? Am I as honorable/dishonorable/honest/resourceful/wise as he is?
I love the way good writers find that they can use the English language. Non-fiction writing, I think, tends to be more restrictive in its use of the language. Fiction writers can “paint” more. I’m a big fan of Stephen King, and the way he puts words together is one of the reasons (another is his story-telling talent). In his novel The Stand, a character – a person – slips while climbing a steep slope, and King describes his fingernail as “peeling back like a decal.” I shivered when I read that the first time, and I’m still struck by the image. I guess horror, fantasy and crime fiction make descriptive imagery a little easier.
If asked to name a favorite book, I suspect that most people would probably name a children’s book. Maybe it’s because children’s books are more likely to be read repeatedly than adult books are. Maybe it’s because the magic in the written word is more real when we’re younger. I can’t choose a single favorite book, but most of the books that I would choose as favorites are children’s books. Some of them I came to know as an adult.
When I taught preschool, one of the things that I truly loved to do was read “chapter books” to the children at rest time. Imagine: the lights are down, they’re on their mats, and it has a settling effect. For the children, I mean. The kids would all tell you that I didn’t get to take naps because I had to keep an eye on them.
I got to pick the books (usually), so I knew that I, at least, would enjoy them, and generally speaking, the children did, as well. There was a pretty fair amount of repetition – the room’s population changed every year – but we read E.B. White’s three children’s books (Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, and The Trumpet of the Swan), Mr. Popper’s Penguins, Ruth Stiles Gannett’s Dragon books (My Father’s Dragon, Elmer and the Dragon, and The Dragons of Blueland) and A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner.
It’s important to read to children. That’s something that we all know, even if we don’t always do it. Our lives are busy – it can be tough to take even a few minutes of our days to sit and read a picture book to a child. But there’s always bedtime. Books are good calming tools. We have a pretty successful bedtime routine at our house. We read with a booklight – the kind that clips on to the book. The room’s lights are off, eyes are closed, and it becomes settling down time.
Another cool thing: Booklights and chapter books are great during a power failure.
Some cool trivia about two cool children’s books:
Dr. Seuss was commissioned by Houghton Mifflin to write a children’s book, but was given the stipulation that he could use only 225 words from a list of 400 words. The result was The Cat in the Hat, which contains 220 different words.
It is, perhaps, an apocryphal story that Random House publisher Bennett Cerf bet Dr. Seuss that he couldn't write a book using 50 words or fewer. The result was Green Eggs and Ham. Legend tells us that Cerf never paid up.
Something from a children’s book that should be a bumper sticker, a T-shirt or both:
“Some do and some don’t. You never can tell with Heffalumps.”
Finally, my favorite passage from Charlotte’s Web, which may be the truest thing E.B. White ever wrote:
“Mothers for miles around worried about Zuckerman’s swing. They feared some child would fall off. But no child ever did. Children almost always hang onto things tighter than their parents think they will.”

Daughters, Fathers, Dances and Valentines

Once again, my youngest daughter, Ellie, and I visited the Father/Daughter dance sponsored by our local community services department. This was our fourth time, and we once again thoroughly enjoyed ourselves – Ellie especially. As usual, she started talking about this year’s dance on the ride home from last year’s, and is already talking about next year’s. She dresses up and wears a corsage, and I wear a suit and tie, we get our pictures taken, and we go out for a couple of hours dancing. When she isn’t grabbing a snack, or playing with a friend, that is.

Eventually, though, she will take my hands and we’ll dance. When we dance she likes to spin (all of her dresses have to spin well – female readers and Dads of daughters will understand), and will occasionally mimic some of the dance moves that she sees other dancers do. Last year, the big move was to suddenly – and I mean with absolutely no warning – jump into the air and slide between my legs, while holding my hands. This particular dance move has been called “the Nutcracker.” This year, she would grasp my fingers and twirl. Unfortunately, she didn’t lightly grasp my fingers, allowing for graceful, painless twirling. Gripping my fingers tightly – as if to keep her from falling, perhaps – she spun. Sadly, my fingers have not yet learned to twirl on my knuckles, and I spent a few frantic moments trying to figure out how to best explain sprained fingers as a dance injury. I felt it safest to hold hands and jump up and down until I got winded. It didn’t take as long as you might imagine.

It’s fun to see the changes in the fathers and daughters who have attended the dance regularly. Obviously, the greatest changes are in the daughters. Youth ages more quickly and less painfully. I can see that as time goes on, Ellie and I will dance together less frequently. She’ll find her friends and hang out with them, requesting songs I’ve never heard of, and I’ll watch her laugh and dance with them. I love that she’s growing, and I’m proud of her independence, but…

Next year, we’re talking about inviting my married daughter and her daughters, too. That’ll be fun.

I’m writing this shortly before Valentine’s Day. I don’t usually write a about that particular holiday, mostly because I tend to believe that it’s a personal sort of holiday. It’s a day about love – romantic love, not the “your-fellow-man” (excuse me, I’m supposed to say, “your-fellow-person”) type of love. That’s kind of private. It’s individual, and no mass-produced greeting card is ever really going to fit. Neither is a bouquet of roses that are just like all the other bouquets of roses that exchange hands on Valentine’s Day. Not that any of that matters. We still send flowers and give cards and candy and all that. Of course we do. It’s Valentine’s Day.

Christmas is a holiday that puts a lot of pressure on women. We men typically let our wives do the bulk of our Christmas shopping – for our kids, our parents, and most other people we “pick up” (that is; have picked up for us) gifts for. On Valentine’s Day, the pressure’s all on us guys. Look at the commercials. Have you ever seen an ad that says, “Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. This year, why not surprise him with…?” Me either. Every jewelry store IN THE WORLD can be found advertising in print and on television. Are they trying to sell men’s jewelry (whatever that is)? No. They’re just trying to sell jewelry to men.

Frequently, they succeed, because we men are too afraid to not buy it. What makes us afraid? The women in our lives. Women have wildly romantic expectations for Valentine’s Day. Men have a different view of romance: “Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey. It’s top of the line, and should cut the time you spend vacuuming in half! Now, come on over here and show me how much you love it. Ow!”

When we’ve finished ducking the blows, we hope for an explanation. “What do you mean it’s not a very nice Valentine’s Day present, Honey? It’s red. Please stop hitting me!” And we don’t understand the frustration. Because we’re happy with the dinner reservations and the card you gave us. Or the power tools, or golf club or whatever.

It’s not that hard to buy a present for a man. Power tools don’t come in many colors, we’ve told you which golf club we want, and tickets to major sporting events are always wonderful. Buying for women is tougher. It isn’t enough to just buy a present. We have to buy the right one. We have to know what the right one is. So we ask her. And she says, “You should know me well enough to know what I’d like.” Just because she said once that she wanted that red vacuum cleaner, though, doesn’t mean that it’s the right present. She might want it, but not for Valentine’s Day. Gift certificates are impersonal (fine for guys, though - seriously). A sexy nightgown’s nice, but she’ll hold it up and say, “Is this for me; or for you?” [One day, I’m going to say, “Me,” grab it and put it on. I’m just like that. When I say that, I mean that I like to shock people; I’m not implying that I wear lingerie. Often.]

Look, I know that it sounds like I’m complaining, but what I’m really trying to do is explain our side. This is tough for us. We need to try to open the lines of communication. Help us – give us straight answers. And we won’t give you appliances.

Squirrels, Feeders and Food

A squirrel knocked down my bird feeder today. We're going to come to blows, that squirrel and me. Shouldn't be on the feeder in the first place. Big show on my bird feeder, all confident, but kind of skittish when it comes to roads, squirrels are. The problem is that a squirrel is afraid to commit. Watch a squirrel in the road sometime – it darts out about a third of the way across, stops, and then runs back about half the distance it ran the first time. Then it stops again, changes direction, and runs halfway across the road, turns back and takes three giant (squirrel) steps before running into the path of the truck coming in the other direction.

When that happens, what should we do? Well, let's face it. These are tough economic times. We all have to stretch our dollars. So, you might try this recipe for Easy Squirrel BBQ: Take 4-5 squirrels, cut into serving pieces, and Original Allegro marinade. Place meat in a large zipper seal bag and cover with the marinade. Refrigerate at least 1 hour, but overnight is better. Line a 9 x 13 baking pan with foil, making the foil big enough so you can fold over the top and seal. Place the meat on the foil and season with garlic powder, salt, pepper and Creole seasoning. Wrap the foil over the top and seal. Bake for 2 hours at 350 degrees. While the squirrel is cooking, pre-heat your grill. When squirrel is done, remove it from foil and place it on the grill. Baste with your favorite barbecue sauce. Grill over medium heat until sauce starts to get sticky. Do not overcook - you don't want the meat to get tough! Serve with your favorite side dishes.

NOTE: It's important – and so difficult – to avoid toughness when it comes to roadkill and other game. Here’s a handy tip: for wild game that is rough and tough in taste and texture try soaking it in a zipper seal bag with Coke, beer, red wine, pineapple juice or buttermilk. Except with the buttermilk add minced garlic, black pepper, salt, paprika, cardamom, or other spices to suit your taste. Squeeze out ALL the air and seal well. Keep it in the refrigerator at least 12 to 24 hours. If you have a meat injector you can even put the liquid inside the meat. Coke gives the meat a slightly sweet taste & really tenderizes it. Large pieces (roasts, ribs, shoulders, etc.) are best slow cooked. Check periodically that the meat doesn't dry out by basting or using a spray bottle with the chosen marinade.

“My kids won’t eat that!” I hear you say. You might want to try Squirrel Nuggets: You’ll need some squirrels – the amount depends on how hungry you and your family are. Clean and quarter the squirrels. Add to a large soup pot. Cover with water, beer or chicken stock. Add one large onion, two chopped celery stalks, two chopped carrots and peppercorns to taste. Bring it to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until meat is tender. Remove the meat from the pot and cool. Remove the bones, keeping the meat in nugget-sized pieces. In a bowl, mix some flour and beer together to a gravy consistency, season to taste with paprika. Dip the nuggets into the batter and deep fry to a golden brown. Serve with ketchup, ranch dressing or homemade plum jam for dipping.

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER: I do not expect to ever actually fight a squirrel. They're fast, and they can climb, so they're hard to catch bare-handed. I do not expect to ever actually prepare either of these recipes. It would be very difficult to feed my family of somewhat picky eaters roadkill squirrel, especially with gas prices on the rise. I could stock up, but I hate hearing my wife scream every time she opens the freezer.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!

It's my Mom's birthday, and I think that everybody should know about it.
Why?

• Because when I was younger and did stupid stuff, she scolded me, or punished me when it was appropriate and she loved me.
• Because she let me choose dinner on my birthday.
• Because she hugged me when my heart broke.
  
• Because she kept the cookbook that my second grade class (with Mrs. Frinsko) made until I was in my forties.
• Because when I was older and did stupid stuff she scolded me, or sympathized with me and she loved me.
• Because she likes the foods that I cook, which puts her a step ahead of my children.
• Because now that I'm an adult and I do stupid stuff, she sympathizes, and she loves me, and she hugs me when my heart breaks.
• Because she had six of us and still she tells us that we can visit her and Dad in Florida and stay at their place - even with the kids.
• Because she hugs my kids when their hearts break.
• Because she knew the difference between stupid stuff and a mistake - most of the time.
• Because she loves me.

So, Happy Birthday, Mom!

If you want to send my Mom birthday wishes, comment on this post. I'll make sure she sees them.

They All Smile in L.L. Bean Catalogs

And do you know why? They're getting paid, that's why. And they're wearing nice, warm clothing that they didn't have to pay for. Oh, sure, they have to take it off eventually, but they'll be indoors and toasty. If I sound bitter, I'm surprised you can hear it through the chattering teeth.
I left my house Tuesday morning at 8:00 am for an appointment. It was minus six degrees Fahrenheit, according to the dashboard thermometer. As I looked at that number, I thought, "Wow. It's ten degrees warmer than it was when I went to work at 7:00 am yesterday."
I said to my wife, when I came back inside after taking out the trash (for some reason a masculine job), "Perhaps the blizzard will warm things up a bit." Because that's tomorrow's weather - ten to fifteen inches of the white stuff - and it probably will warm things up a bit, although it's likely to be pretty cold when I'm walking behind my snowblower. And I'll be cold and wet and ready to go inside when the snowplow goes by and fills in the end of my driveway. And because I grew up in this town, I know the driver and he knows me, so he'll beep his horn and smile and wave and say "Hi!" And that simple gesture of friendliness, that driver's reaching out to an old friend even as he pushes hundreds of pounds of snow back into his driveway, that beep and that smile and that wave combine to fill me with that sort of liquid anger that makes me want to blow up everything that's big and orange.

It's not your fault, Bill, and I get over it.

I look on Facebook at all of my friends who have moved away and are pining for the rocky coast of Maine, and the glorious foliage, and the lakes, and the snow-covered mountains. Do you know what I've noticed? They've all moved away from the rocky coast of Maine, and the glorious foliage, and the lakes, and the snow-covered mountains. I bet most of them are someplace warmer.
I've thought about it. I've often thought that, when the kids are grown (does that ever happen? My Mom says it doesn't), I'd like to move to warmer climes. My wife has always said that she wouldn't move without the kids, and I've always told her that I'd miss her, but we can always e-mail. Even she's talking about it, now.

It's funny, though.

I don't think about it in the summer.