We Continue the Journey We Started

Got to thinking about Dad last night, and a dream he had.

He was standing on the bank of a river. Across the river, he could see Mom walking, very slowly, using a walker. He watched her walk for a bit, struggling on the rocky trail. Then she saw him, turned her course and plunged into the river. The walker went tumbling and he watched, helpless, as she struggled in the rapid water.

But she came out of the water, climbing, then walking with ease. She came up to him, kissed and embraced him, and together they continued their journey on the same side of the river.

We continue the journey we have started.

Farewell, Mr. Sallis

“Mind how you go, Gladys. Best of luck from all us pigeons.”

-- Norman Clegg, bidding farewell to the pigeon he released after the funeral of Compo Simmonite

 

Peter Sallis may be Norman Clegg. He may be Wallace of the Wrong Trousers.

 

But to me, Peter Sallis will always be a connection to my father.

 

I have to admit it was Compo Dad likes most, with his scruffy clothes and insatiable admiration for Nora Batty, aside from her wrinkled stockings.

 

But as Dad sat and watched and laughed at Compo’s shenanigans during his weekly viewing of Last of the Summer Wine on PBS, it was often Cleggy I noticed.

Now Clegg, like Dad, is gone.

 

Clegg, the quiet, often mousy man, caught in the middle of Compo and Foggy – Last of the Summer Wine will always be Clegg, Compo, and Foggy – is the man I noticed most. He so wanted life to be quiet, to be left to him to putter away his remaining years. He never had much fun in life, or so it seems – he claimed his light of passion went out when he was all of twenty-three). He’s much like me, I think (except my light’s still going, fortunately enough). Happy to go along with Compo and Foggy, but certainly happy when the adventure was over and he could have a pint or a cuppa.

 

He knew he was a pigeon, and quietly relished it.

 

Yes, he was part of a trio that never really grew up. But he was more often than not the adult in the room, even if he was impish.

 

Kinda like Dad. Dad never really grew up. Even in his later years, he wanted goats in the back yard. He loved driving his 1948 Ford truck, or his 1985 Nissan ZX, or the ’47 Willys Jeep we had – in which I learned to drive, even if Dad was the one shifting the gears.

 

Dad was the kind of quiet guy who quietly knew everyone.

 

I hear a lot of Dad in Norman Clegg:

 

Vicar: How’re you keeping?
Clegg: Me bowel’s playing up a bit. God moves in mysterious ways.

 

Clegg: It used to be a tradition here if you were hungry you could knock on any door and without a moment’s hesitation they’d slam it, straight in your face.

Compo: Well, that’s that got to do with owt?

Clegg: Huh, just shows they had character. Now we’re into an age of compassion. The world’s full of folk hating folk for hating folk.

 

Pearl: How long have you been interested in balloons?

Clegg: Oh, it’s just a passing fancy.

Pearl: Well, I hope it passes a bit quicker than some of Howard’s.

Clegg: Basically, it’s just to keep me occupied until my skateboard comes.

Happy Birthday, Fritz

Dear Dad,

I still have the bricklayer's tape measure. And the trowel. and the hat. There are other bits of odds and ends of yours that I have -- a handkerchief, your father's railroad horn, just to mention a few.

But more importantly, I have what you taught me. Or at least I'm working toward having it:

Compassion. You saw a lot in your life, many things that have made people hateful and bitter. You saw your homeland taken in war. You saw prisoners of war and refugees. You knew hunger and fear. But they never drove you. You came out of your experiences the better, wanting to help those in need, even when you didn't have much yourself. I'm sure I don't know all the sacrifices you made providing for eight children. I have only three, but I know what I've done for them. And I know what I have done for them, I learned from you and Mom.

Desire. I look at my own kids reading, learning, growing, and sometimes, it's frustrating. Especially the reading -- they get so buried in books I can't get their attention when I need help. I was probably like that as a kid. Buried in books. Always wanting to learn something new. Because you did. One of the things you provided in our home was books and a desire to learn. I hope I pass that desire on to my children, because in them I see reflected the upbrining I had, and that is a monument, I hope, you enjoy seeing.

Faith. I know you grew up in a different religion, and even after you joined the Mormon church, had many things to say about the furvalente Mormonjes. But I recall that day in the temple when we were there with you -- your four sons. What a fine day that was. Ad I recall you saying that you felt like church was the only place where the devil couldn't get you. I remember that, sitting in the chapel, walking the halls, seeing all the familiar faces. I feel like I'm at home. And I know it's my job to bring that feeling home to my own family. Just like you did.

Love. You never gave me reason to doubt  you loved me, my brothers and sisters, or my mother, no matter what inventions my teenage mind might have come up with. Maybe I look back with rose-colored glasses -- but that's as it should be. Because maybe there were times you thought I was a real pain in the butt. But I never heard you say it. And I don't think I ever felt it.

Patience. What goes for love goes for patience. I wish I had your patience. That's one I'm still working on the most -- maybe it's the one I lack the most. But I have wonderful role models in patience in you and Mom.

Hard Work. Yes, I moaned a lot about work as a teenager, working with you and then Al in construction. You put up with me far longer than you should have. And even after I left construction for what I thought I wanted to do, it took me ten years to figure out that even work I enjoyed doing is work if I go at it with the wrong attitude. You worked at a job you knew you could do and that kept us in a house and in clothes and food and books and pretty much everything we wanted, and I rarely heard you complain about it. You probably complained a lot on the inside, as I do now, but you rarely said it aloud. And that left an impression on me. And it's something I hope I can pass on to my kids. I'm grateful now for the boxes and buckets of nails and screws and other bits that I keep, following your lead. I'm grateful for the tools you left me, but I'm far more grateful for the opportunities you gave me to use them and to learn from you. I'd be far less handy around the house, in my own bumbling way, if you hadn't caught me by the neck and taught me a few things when I probably wanted to do anything else in the world but be there.

Parents put up with a lot. Maybe they think that if they can thump the skulls of their thick children long enough, they might learn something. I know that's the attitude you had. And you were right.

I love you Dad. And I miss you.

Happy Birsday

I know next to nothing about writing songs. 

That should be evident, as I also display amply on this blog I know next to nothing about writing fiction or poetry.

But I do know this: The “new” Happy Birthday Song being championed this week by the Free Music Archive sucks rocks. 

Don’t believe me?

Here it is.

And the alternatives.

 

Don’t listen to the second-place winner. Even through the ukulele, it’s ultimately unlistenable.

Or the third one. The tune reminds me of those dreary bluegrass songs (and dreary bluegrass groups) you’d hear in a period movie like O Brother Where Art Thou.

And Disc 2 of 2: Sounds like a reject from the Portlandia Gentle Music Festival. Though it does have a surprise humor element to it. I probably would have voted for that one.

There are reasons the ubiquitous Happy Birthday song has stuck around for so long. It’s simple. It’s repetitive. And, above all, it’s short. Worst part of any birthday party to me is the inevitable singing of the birthday song. And the inevitable re-singing of the song because somebody wasn’t in the room and didn’t get to sing the first time, or (this happens a lot at my house) the kids want to blow the candles out again. And again. And again.

Why do we need a new birthday song? Royalties, I suppose. But that only affects folks who want to sing the Happy Birthday song in some commercial venture, as the author of the Slate article concedes in the last paragraph.

Honestly, there are better ways around those royalties than any of the dirges in this contest.

Short, repetitive, and peppy. That’s why the Happy Birthday song has lasted so long, royalties be damned.

 

And no one -- but no one -- can beat my Dad singing the original Happy Birthday song with his Dutch accent: "Happy Birsday to you . . . "

Brother VanWinkle

This was me at church a few weeks ago. Literally and figuratively.

Thanks, Dad

A long time ago, Dad loaned me a scraper.

I was doing some plastering or something. I think. I don't remember. But I needed some tools and Dad said I could use his.

I got the work done and kept the tools at my house, thinking after a while I'd get them returned to Dad.

I never did get them back. Dad died in August 2000, and I still had his tools at my house.

I kept them and used them. The others, one by one, wore out or fell apart and had to be discarded. But the scraper. I still have it. Just used it today, in fact, to help me pull up some loose tiles in the kitchen floor, then to mix and apply some thinset so I could replace the tiles.

Every time I use this scraper, I think of Dad. The scraper was worn and rusted when I got it from him, and I've kept it in that worn, rusty state. But it's still useful. Whenever I plaster, or work with tile, or paint, it's right there with me, doing all sorts of useful things.

I'm grateful to a Dad who helped me learn how to work, though I'm sure there were times he rolled his eyes at the results of my work or wanted to stop his ears at all the complaining I did about having to work.

Maybe one day I'll be like this scraper -- like Dad: A bit worn, rusty, and showing my age, but always there when useful work needs to be done and always doing it without complaint.

Thanks, Dad.

Big Book of Dad Doodles

Yeah, once and a while I get bored and do some doodling too.

Apologies to Gary Larson for this one.

Scary Sulky Halloween

Ironically, this is how Lexie spent her Halloween, aside from the scary-sulkiness at the window thing. Yeah, she was sick. We thought she was going to have things pulled together for the evening, but she hurled just after she got her costume on this evening.

She and her mom were going to have a quiet evening at home while I took the boys to their Oma's house for a Halloween party, but when we got to the bank so I could get some cash for some post-party grocery shopping I couldn't find my wallet. I felt like a fool. I had no pockets, because I was wearing my own Halloween costume at the time -- a pink bunny suit a la Ralphie Parker. So there I was in the parking lot of the credit union, little bunny tail hanging on my butt as I bent over, looking all over in the car, on the ground, trying to find the wallet. Called Michelle. She couldn't see it at home either. Drove home. Searched the driveway and the street from our house to the post office. No luck. So Michelle bundled up the sick Lexie and drove us to Idaho Falls for the party. And she found the wallet too, wedged in an odd little pocket in the center console.

But we had fun. And we don't have to cancel any credit cards or get me a new driver's license. And we're hoping Lexie feels better in the morning.

That Dream . . .

That dream, by the way -- from Considering How to Run, Part XXXIII – is a real dream my Dad had several years back.

He died of congestive heart failure ten years ago this August. I like to think he’s somewhere now, tinkering with all those old cars.