Contemplating the United States at 250

At what ended up being my only 'real' graduation in June 1976, I received a certificate - and the first $100 bill I'd ever seen - from the local American Legion for being the 'best' or 'one of the best' history students in my class. I was proud, my Dad being my history teacher and all - and also shocked, as I had no idea it was coming. 

I share my graduation story not to toot my own horn; rather, I admit that, like many people, I've forgotten more of our country's history than I remember. How bad are things? 

According to a Cato Institute poll, "nearly half (46%) of Americans don’t know what America’s 250th anniversary commemorates. A little more than half (53%) correctly answered that it was the adoption of the Declaration of Independence." 

That's why it was so much fun to stumble on the Time Magazine Special 1776 Issue tucked in with some of my Dad's papers. According to Henry Grunwald, then Time's managing editor, the issue was "an attempt to reconstruct, with the tools of both history and journalism, and in our distinctive newsmagazine format, at least part of the life and soul of the events that gave birth to our nation." The issue was dated July 4, 1776.

Here are a few examples of what it covered.

• New Yorkers tearing down a statue of King George III on horseback, cutting off (and shooting) his head, and carrying it off, after having heard a reading of the Declaration of Independence; the statue was later used to make ammunition for the war effort. Resistance? Yeah, it's in our blood.
• A discussion of who in each state is allowed to vote, or more importantly, who isn't, including variables such as no Papists (Maryland) or Jews (NY), people who don't own property (12 states), or people who couldn't afford to pay for the privilege. That last part, having to pay to vote? Discouraged then, and illegal now, with poll taxes banned, even as we look at 'unofficially' implementing some if the Save America Act becomes law.
• Thomas Paine's condemnation of King George as "the greatest enemy this continent hath," echoed today by the varied condemnations coming directly from the White House almost daily, and from each party's followers to the other's, as the need arises.
• Some background on John Hancock, owner of the largest and most prominent signature on the Declaration; he was "one of the richest men in the Colonies and one of those most adored by the crowds. He is also one of the vainest." Remind you of anyone these days, a man with a giant signature, tons of wealth (growing every day), and so vain he had his name slapped on a living memorial to another person? 
• How the states created their own constitutions, filled with similarities - and differences, too. That continues today; regulation, taxation, education, social benefits, wages and pensions, and more are handled differently. Heck, in some states individuals can collect a bounty for spying on, and telling on, their neighbors, something that would never happen in other states.
• Concerns about the young nation's finances, including the shocking $15,000,000 debt of the Continental Congress; a trade deficit with England - and a trade surplus with the rest of the world; concerns about whether economic independence could be achieved without establishing a 'manufacturing society;' and the threats from inflation, caused in part by the costs of war. Is this "like Deja vu all over again," as Yogi Berra said? 
• Smallpox and whether or not inoculating soldiers was a good idea. Boston's leading physician, we're told, thought that inoculation was an 'infatuation' and a 'heathen' treatment. General Washington banned inoculation of soldiers (even as he ordered it for his wife) out of respect for the differing opinions of the states; he even threatened officers who chose inoculation for themselves with being "cashiered and turned out of the Army...as an enemy and traitor to his country." Again, we're seeing history repeat itself, with a ban on flu vaccines for the Hegseth army, until a major outbreak forced the shots to be restarted. 

In the closing essay, titled 'The Future of the Experiment,' there's a discussion of whether the states, "separated, moreover, not only by miles, but also by religion, customs, habits, and temperaments" can hold together; these differences, as well as history showing how hard it is to keep a vast empire together, were "already raising the specter of civil war - or wars - if the British presence is removed." The essay continued, 

Adding to the fear of anarchy is the fact that there are some Americans who oppose all central governments, even their own, and who view the Declaration of Independence as a declaration not against Britain alone, but against all large governments. Unity, for them, is a means and not an end...

Aside from all the military, political and economic problems, Americans must ask an equally important question: Is independence really justified? Are the principles, the view of man, underlying last week's Declaration valid, and can a commonwealth based on them endure?

...Perhaps the greatest peril to the future of the American experiment is that contending groups, properly encouraged to strive for their self-interest, will do so with such heedless vengeance that the needs of society as a whole will be forgotten.

The essayist concludes by posing a key question: Is independence justified - and will it work? Here's the answer:

The delegates in Philadelphia, and most of their fellow citizens, would answer yes - if man is indeed the rational, moral creature, capable of self-control for the greater good, that the Americans of 1776 believe him to be.

Fast-forward from the bicentennial year's look at 1776 to today, when we celebrate our nation's semiquincentennial in what feels like a deeply divided country, including over whether we even have anything to celebrate. 

People put so much time and effort into 'defining' things, whether it's trying to label 'the other side' or label each side's respective ideas. People argue daily about who is a 'real American,' who is a 'patriot,' and who is a 'threat to our very existence.' People gleefully report each other to law enforcement, to people's employers, or they dox them, causing all kinds of trouble, simply because they can't stand hearing another voice. I've been reported at least twice for social media activity.

There's an almost feral desire among political parties to cement their power and tighten their grip on whatever slice of the government they hold, regardless of how that impacts the country. Don't believe me? We have a president - right now - calling for changes that he thinks will ensure his party will be in power for the next American century, and that's not all that's going on. 

And yet? I love this country, even if I'm often driven nuts by the people in charge exercising power not theirs, those who refuse to exercise the power they have, and anyone who refuses to allow me the power I have as a citizen. 

I love this country, even if many of my fellow citizens - politicians, media people, influencers, and yes, people I'm acquainted with - think I can't possibly love America because I don't agree with them.

I believe in our founding principles of equality and the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. I believe we are a nation of immigrants. That includes my ancestor who came over on the Mayflower and the rest who started our various family lines here, and in my opinion, we need to remain one going forward. We are a nation of resisters, too, and need to remain one.

I believe we can continue our experiment and grow our nation, and that someone, somehow, will rise to the occasion, motivate all of us to become better Americans, and bring us back from what so often feels like the brink of disaster, if "man is indeed the rational, moral creature, capable of self-control for the greater good," as most thought in 1776, and as I remember most did in 1976 when I graduated high school.

Perhaps Thomas Paine had the right idea back then?

In the Progress of Politics as in the common occurrences of Life we are not only apt to forget the ground we have traveled over, but frequently neglect to gather up experience as we go.

In our 250th year and beyond, let's remember to do that, and to do it together. 

One Last Phase of Goodbye

The ancient lockbox always sat under the old slant-top schoolmaster's desk. The desk was a Christmas gift from Mom to Dad. She was a teacher when they met, and a couple years after he became a teacher too, she gave it to him, the desk lovingly stripped and refinished by her patient hands.

I've spent so much time in that lockbox over the past 20 months, going through their papers - SO many papers! Pictures from their childhoods, family birth and death certificates, taxes, scribbled genealogy notes, pension papers, pay stubs from the 60s, homeowners' insurance, car insurance, investments, taxes, wills, medical stuff, assorted licenses - and the deed to a house I've never lived in, but have lived with, for over 40 years. 

That house became mine when Mom passed in March 2023, and it's now been three weeks since I finalized the sale of what was called, on the 1981 survey, "The Drummond Estate."

Built in 1824, it was a little farmhouse with an outbuilding or two, and perennial gardens which, if memory serves, were a huge selling point. Mom and Dad had always admired the flowers on their daily trips to and from the schools where they taught. 

Over the years, the gardens changed; bulbs gave up after many years of bloom; raised beds replaced ground-level ones; herbs replaced flowers; flowering trees and shrubs, roses, more perennials, and more bulbs were planted, expanding the garden from its original spot in the east lawn to vantage points from windows in almost every room. 

Over the years, the house expanded from its original footprint, just as the garden had, as family members' lives and needs changed. With none of us in a position to take it over, for a variety of reasons, I've sold it to someone who will bring it up to date, allowing a family to move in and enjoy the gifts the Estate has to offer.

For a long time, even before Mom passed last year, it's been hard for me to see and feel the memories I had of the house. There are many reasons for that, including me putting up a protective shield to purposefully keep them out, and later to keep them from getting in the way of handling the estate (the lower-case 'e' is intentional), and spare me the pain of her loss, and Dad's 18 years ago next month. 

But as I walked the buyer and his team through the house, those memories started to sneak back in:

• staying in the tiny room at the top of the steep and narrow original stairs, as I described where the original house ended and additions began;
• the dogs having to be collected from the old house and driven back home (more than once, the silly pups) as I walked him around the yard;
• standing in the dining room, remembering running my fingers over the indentations in the old dining room table, where Dad marked papers for years with a heavy hand;
• looking out where Dad's little pumpkin patch (a fun field trip for Mom's elementary school kids) used to be; before that, the asparagus patch, and at some point, the Christmas trees, only a couple of which were ever harvested;
• the half-removed sidewalk leading to where the chickens made their home in one of the long-since-gone outbuildings that appeared on the survey;
• the surprise 50th-anniversary shade garden My Sweet Baboo and I planted where they'd see it every morning at breakfast; 
• the hours spent in the living room, packing little bags of herbs and spices for the booth at the Jordan Fall Festival, and singing 'Oh-ree-gano' to the tune of Handel's 'Hallelujah', leaving us giggling the rest of the night; and more.

I was surprised how much the house, emptied of Mom and Dad's worldly possessions, spoke to me. Moreover, I felt encouraged for the first time in a long time. Obviously, getting the house sold and all of the associated 'stuff' settled was a huge relief that I'd been looking forward to for over a year and a half. But it was more than that. 

If I could smile, misty-eyed, as I walked through the empty rooms for the last time, remembering where Dad's blue recliner used to be, where the stairs used to rise, where the schoolmaster's desk sat, looking out the kitchen window where I could see the moon rise, spots in each room where specific pictures used to hang, where laughing grandchildren used to open presents... there's hope. 

If the empty house, primed walls hiding the familiar colors, could awaken my memories with more smiles than tears, then maybe I can finally start putting all of the sadness, anger, frustration, pain, and guilt that have taken up so much space in my head and my heart behind me.

And maybe I can tackle the boxes of 'stuff' that came here that I've been avoiding, and the rest of the 'stuff' sitting in a storage unit that I've been avoiding even more. And maybe I can empty out that darn lockbox for the last time. 

Dad's schoolmaster's desk, the gift from Mom back in 1966? Yeah, that's here, and it will stay here until it comes time for someone to figure out what to do with my stuff. I may just keep the empty lockbox under it, for old times' sake. 

Another Phase of Goodbye

Wednesday, I stood in the floral department of my local grocery store, My Sweet Baboo by my side. Three bunches of flowers for $15 - a weekly special, according to the sign. 

There were a dozen or more buckets on the display rack, each holding a few bunches of different cut flowers, and it initially overwhelmed me, at a time I was overwhelmed by the task at hand. 

I touched, poked, and picked at them, picturing a kerchiefed older woman behind, or in front of, a market stall. Depending on where she stood, Ishe could be picking and poking and straightening her display, or picking and poking and rearranging it, searching for 'the best' of whatever she was shopping for. It made me smile, and gave me a moment to catch my breath before moving ahead.

There were several bunches of sunflowers to choose from. Mom loved sunflowers; she and Jen saved and planted seeds from ones they got at the market, and she delighted in their crop. There were a couple bunches with three flowers, or four. I kept picking and found a bunch with five. Whew.

What next? Alstroemeria - so pretty, another of her favorites. White? Yellow? Pink? How about soft red? Yes - those work! Baboo-approved, into the cart they went.

Most of the 'special deal' flowers were min-carnations, but that was OK. There were orange ones, reminiscent of Dad's traffic-stopping azalea that grew on the east side of the house. That's not a joke - people would stop to admire it, ask to take pictures of it, or ask if they could look at it up close. Yes, and yes, of course you can!  

There were burgundy-and-white ones, which called to mind the giant rhododendron, anchoring the other end of the east side of the house, another show-stopper they both loved. I was with her at the library one day, a few years after Dad had passed, and someone stopped to tell her how beautiful the two plants were. I listened as they chatted about the flowers, and life, and I had a bit of a happy tear in my eye as we headed back to the car.  

Ivory, and white, too - more carnations. They added light, and grace, as did she; the flowers different enough to add both to the cart. Teasel, sea holly, and statis; they're all stronger than they look, and while not classically beautiful like a perfect rose, beautiful nonetheless; into the cart they went, and then home, all of them into a pickle bucket on the porch.

Thursday morning, after my garden walk, I laid out the nine bunches of flowers on an old tablecloth on the porch floor, removed their plastic sleeves and the rubber bands holding their stems together, and I became the woman at the market, picking and poking and rearranging. I started with the sunflowers, anchoring each of the five bouquets I needed, trying to spread the other stems equally by volume, if nothing else. They weren't all the same, but that was OK. 

Neither are we - my brothers and me; my nephew; my uncle and my cousin. We are all different, too. Certainly, none of us are classically beautiful, but we are beautiful nonetheless. We are stronger than we look - we have to be, for what we've all been through individually and together - and for whatever is to come. 

On a rainy Friday morning, in a town that was her home for nearly sixty years, we placed our imperfect bouquets on Mom's casket and said our final official goodbye, sixteen years to the day after we said our final official goodbye to Dad. 

That part of it all, at least, was perfect. 

In Case You Missed It (v115)

Last week was one of those weeks. 

I had plans to get several timely posts out; I had made some progress on clearing out the drafts folder, cluttered with ideas dating back to last summer, for Pete's sake. And then life happened.

Instead of Wondering on Wednesday about politics, current events, and a couple of things that absolutely drive me to distraction, I was distracted by a frightening medical situation with my elderly mother, which ground writing - and pretty much everything else for the past several days - to a halt. She's on the mend, thankfully, and while things aren't yet back to normal, I've got time to share the posts that did go out, in case you missed anything.

For your Sunday School, I recapped two conversations from CNN's State of the Union. Jake Tapper had Reps. James Comer (R-KY) and Jamie Raskin (D-MD), the incoming Chair and Raking Member of the House Oversight and Accountability Committee.

On the Biden and Trump document handling issues, the Congressmen had distinct points to get across. For Comer? 

the key issue - because at the end of the day, as he puts it, there's only one issue... 

...this is the same type of investigation that the Democrats...launched and demanded happened to President Trump...   And we just want equal treatment here with respect to how both former President Trump and current President Biden are being treated with the document issue.

And Raskin? 

He didn't answer Tapper's question on why Biden's personal lawyers - with no security clearance - were searching in DC and Delaware for records, instead of the FBI or DOJ handling that. His understanding is that Biden's folks did the right thing. As to what the official procedure is, but he doesn't want this "turned into just a political football." 

... So, when my friend Mr. Comer says, we're just looking for equal treatment, that's all we're looking for. I think it's good that this is in the hands of special counsels on both sides...

My take on all of this? 

I was frustrated, of course... And, I'm not at all confident that we'll see anything other than politically motivated attacks for the next couple of years out of this Committee. 

For your Extra Credit, I went to the Meet the Press classroom to hear from Sen. Debbie Stabenow (D-MI) and former Deputy AG Rod Rosenstein, which was the more interesting of the two interviews.

Rosenstein, who previously said he wouldn't have appointed a special counsel for Trump's document problem, said

...Garland didn't really have a choice, unless the preliminary inquiry established that "there was no chance a crime had been committed." He said "that wasn't the case," based on what we know so far.

Jack Smith and Rob Hur, he said.

... are two professionals who spent extended amounts of time in the Department of Justice. They understand that their goal is to focus on the facts, and law, and apply department policy. And both of these men are not going to be influenced by political pressure.

They won't be influenced, but they will be attacked.

It's certainly true of these gentlemen, as it was with people like Ken Starr and Bob Mueller, that you pick people with sterling reputations who are known for being nonpartisan. But you're in the political arena where it's inevitable you're going to be attacked.

Of that, we can be certain. 

Back to distractions, for a moment. 

My mother's health scare coincides, almost to the day, with my father's passing sixteen years ago. I shared a couple of old posts about him last week.

Distractions of Dad tells of two unexpected events that in wonderful, fun ways reminded me of him. One came as I observed a couple in the grocery store.

... I saw a man start to toss something across a low display case to his wife, who was on the other side with their cart. He was gesturing with his hands, making a tossing motion, and she was gesturing right back at him, clearly indicating with both her facial expression and her hands that she wanted no part of his pitch and catch game. 

And just like that, I was back in elementary school, on any Saturday morning, with Dad, getting groceries. Let's just say that if anyone today did what we did back in the 60s and 70s they'd probably end up on the store's "Instacart Only" poster. 

The second distraction occurred when someone brought snickerdoodles - his favorite cookies - to work. It immediately reminded me of how my brothers and cousins responded to his annual gift from my aunt: a coffee can full of her delicious homemade snickerdoodles.

The second post was an early Wondering on Wednesday, and how my grandfather, my dad, and I are all victims of our own self-doubt, self-criticism, and our epic lack of patience. I had misplaced some papers - including some of Dad's writing from college, which

frustrates me, and in fact brings out the Dad in me. Patience with himself not being one of his virtues, he had a litany of mostly under-his-breath mutterings that I find myself repeating when I'm kicking myself for some minor failing or another...

I didn't find Dad's papers that day (I did, eventually), but I did find some of his dad's writing. 

So - my grandfather. My dad. And now, there's me: a third generation 'keep-the-day-job, try-to-be-a-writer' person, full of self-doubt, a mutterer and sputterer, apparently from way back. I'm wondering, this Wednesday, what Dad would tell me about his father, and his father's writing, and his own writing, and mine.

And I'm wondering, is this nature or nurture? Writer begat writer begat writer?

I still don't know the answer, and neither of them can tell me. Similarly, I don't know how many posts I'll get out this week; I hope you check back to find out. 

My Middle-aged White Lady Perspective: Just Like Bernie, I'm Not a Dem

On the day my Dad would have turned 90, I'm taking a step that I never previously considered taking, and that I would never take without discussing with him.

How I wish he and I were having a conversation about this, instead of me just talking to - and through - my heart, which is all I've been able to do in the twelve years he's been gone.

And while I admit it's not much of a birthday present - or maybe it is, I don't know, the jury's still out on that -  I'm dropping my registration as a Democrat, and at least for now, I'm going the "I do not wish to enroll in a political party" route.

I know, I know -- if I do that I can't choose the candidates that make it to the party line on the ballot, and that was something that my father - a Democrat, a teacher, an old-school community organizer - drilled into my head when I was years too young to vote. But - and this is the sad part - I'm fairly certain they won't miss me.

The Democrats are not interested in listening to me, and I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be interested in listening to him, either. He and I, we're blue dinosaurs.

The Democratic party has turned so far to the left I'm afraid they won't be able to turn back - and worse, I have no idea where on earth we're going to end up even if they can turn the car back towards the center lane. Even more than that, their positions are so polarizing that they could perpetuate the divide we have now, rather than bridging it - and could help ensure another Trump term.

Here's how I'd explain this to my dad.

Wondering on Wednesday (v75)

I'm so torn. Should I watch the inauguration, or no?

Don't laugh, I'm serious.

I'm as #NeverTrump today as I was in the beginning, from the Escalator Ride last June, throughout the whole insulting, name-calling circular firing squad that was the Republican primaries; through the gloom and doom Republican National Convention, the Democratic National Convention and its sharp contrasts with the Clamor in Cleveland; the presidential debates, the lies, the tweets, the absurdity, the outcome of the election, and the transition.

To watch, or not to watch, I wonder? Normally there wouldn't be a question. But this is not a normal inauguration, on many levels.

This Friday, inauguration day, will mark ten years since my Dad passed.  Regular readers may remember that my Dad was a teacher, an American History teacher. He and I played the current events game my entire life, it seems. I 'voted' with him, in 1968 when I was ten; I marked the multiple choice parts of his tests many times, and read essay submissions, the good ones and the ones laden with opportunities for improvement. And we talked, and we talked and we talked about news and politics and the process of news and the process of politics.

I remember the first inauguration he missed, the first one that I couldn't share with him.

Obama's inauguration, on the second anniversary of your death, was another trigger, as if it being January 20th weren't enough of one. That you missed this was almost unimaginable. The teacher in you, the democrat in you, the grump in you and the comedian in you would have had a blast with this whole campaign. It's kind of like people who died and never saw the Red Sox win the World Series or SU win the NCAA basketball tourney.

And now, as we prepare for the inauguration of Donald Trump, I'm wondering if it would be more respectful to him to watch, to pay attention to the spectacle in DC, or more respectful to something else entirely, something that he would appreciate more.

Would he watch, I wonder?

I don't have any idea what he would have done during this campaign. I've mentioned that a couple of times in these pages, wondering what he would have said about the New York primary, much less about the results of November 8th. Had he still been teaching, I think he would have quit; some family members agree.

Still, I wonder, this Wednesday, what I should do on Friday. I have the day off. I'm prepared (I think) to watch the inauguration, to talk to my Dad throughout the whole thing, to hear his guidance coming through, however that works... but I'm equally prepared, I think, to do something else.

I'm #NeverTrump, but I'm always #myfathersdaughter.

Should I watch, Dad? Would you watch with me? Or should we do something else?

The Waiting, on Thanksgiving

I'm sitting in my comfy recliner with a sleeping kitty on my lap, looking at the first of I'm not sure how many Christmas trees will be up before the end of the month, a steaming mug of half and half (coffee and dark chocolate almond milk) on the table, thinking about Thanksgiving.

Last year, we spent Thanksgiving with my family at the old farmhouse in Vermont where my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew live.  Everything was delicious: dinner; the conversation; wandering around outside with the dogs; my nephew's apple-launching gun; the fresh eggs we used to make French toast on Friday morning; the wide plank floors in the oldest part of the house, where our room was, at the top of one of those steep old staircases. We all took a walk up to the top of the hill before dinner, and I was reminded of another Thanksgiving hike, some 45-odd years ago.

My Dad and I had decided to take a walk one Thanksgiving; the turkey was in the oven and it was the start of The Waiting, that period of time that only happens once a year, at our house. It starts when the pale, cold turkey goes into the oven, then builds as the house fills with the aroma of the bird cooking, and ends hours later when it comes out, richly browned, juicy (never dry), bursting with flavor, and joins all of the fixings on the table.

We started out with a plan of sorts: we'd head around the corner and aim for the woods off Liberty Street, a short walk from the house. There were trails leading from the dirt road into the woods, carved by years of kids walking and running through the vines that hung thickly from the trees, crisscrossing the hillside in every direction. We wandered, following the trails until we came out of the woods, on the crest of a hill, farther away from home than we had anticipated, but not so far as to turn back.

If we go this way, Dad said, pointing generally south, we should come out near Yawney's farm on Brutus Road, and we can walk home from there. Sounds good, I think I said - because why not? It was Thanksgiving, and it was during The Waiting. So we walked and talked, although I don't remember what we really talked about. Knowing him, and knowing me, it was probably current events or sports or whatever show we were watching on television that year, or something in the paper. Maybe about school. Just conversation, father and daughter, teacher and student, walking through fields.

We crossed over an old barbed wire fence and low stone wall or two, meandering more west than south it seemed, longer than we thought we would. We were damp - it was November, after all, and we were walking through fields and brush and tall grass. I can feel my nose running, and Dad's handkerchief, and burdocks, and laughter. And I remember a point at which we decided we needed to 'get somewhere', because it felt like soon, The Waiting would be over, and Mom would not be happy if we were not back; we had things to do, Dad and I, when the turkey came out of the oven, and even before.

Onward we pressed, looking for some sign of civilization, and finally came out from a small grove of trees to see a house that we recognized. We had not gone south towards Yawney's - not so much. We had gone almost due west, and had come out on Pump Road, several houses away from where Mom and Dad's friends Ron and Doje Marks lived. It was our Aha moment - we are saved! - as we jumped across the ditch, onto dry pavement, and headed off up the middle of the road, making much better time now, to get to Marks' house, call Mom, and get a ride home. Surprise all around, I remember.

We were a mess - wet, covered with all kinds of debris (derbis, Dad always said) - but we were happy, and Mom wasn't too terribly mad (at least, not in front of me), and Thanksgiving was delicious - the dinner, the conversation, the wide plank floors in our old house, and my room at the top of the stairs at the end of a long, crazy, happy day.

We weren't able to make the trip to Vermont this year, so even though it's only going to be the two of us, I'm still cooking a full dinner. I'll get up and get my turkey ready in the morning, and then, I think I'll drag my husband out for a walk around the neighborhood, during The Waiting.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Wondering, on Wednesday (v45)

I've been looking for my father lately, as I do particularly around this time of year. Today marks nine years that he's been gone, and his birthday is next month.

Actually, what I was trying to find were copies of some articles he wrote when he was at Hamilton College. We had gotten them from a kind gentleman in the Alumni Office who was gave us the generous gift of Dad's alumni magazine obituary. Odd as that sounds - an obituary being a generous gift? - that's what it was, and I re-read the post every 'today' or as the mood strikes.

Hard as I've looked, I haven't been able to find the copies, which frustrates me, and in fact brings out the Dad in me. Patience with himself not being one of his virtues, he had a litany of mostly under-his-breath mutterings that I find myself repeating when I'm kicking myself for some minor failing or another - losing something being a prime example - about which, in reality, only I have any concern.

While I wasn't able to locate the particular collection of writing I was looking for, I did another set of family papers that has me wondering, this Wednesday.

Here's a sample of what was in the packet:

Dear Miss Oldring:

You suggested in your last letter that I send you my next story before I labored over it too much.  Well - here it is.

Notwithstanding your kindness, I feel that I have taken a terrible liberty. This is only the first typing and even a casual reading reveals so many glaring inadequacies that my conscience bothers me.

To plunge simultaneously into the light touch and more plot is quite an undertaking for a dour person whose temperament and training is so exclusively for clear exposition as against baloney.

So, I realize that I have got to do a lot of work on this. The dialog needs sharpening up and a cross-check with young folks. There's too much dialog. What plot there is needs more punch. Damn it all, the whole thing's lousy. Maybe it will show that I'm teachable. 

I hope business brings me to New York soon. You've been so kind to me; I want to buy you a lunch.  

Oh boy. Talk about muttering!

Miss Oldring worked for a New York literary agent, then called Harold Ober, Inc. still in existence today, and at one point, home to many famous authors. The letter was written not by my Dad, but by his father --  R. W. Drummond, the grandfather I never met.

A man who had a day job with Oneida Ltd., but who wanted to be more, wanted to tell stories and share them with the world. The man who, as president of the Board of Education, offered up words of wisdom to graduating seniors, encouraging them to be all they could be, even as he lived his 'double life' of executive by day, frustrated, self-conscious, highly self-critical writer by night and weekend.

My Dad had so much of his father in him, it seems.

He wrote, too: daily, on the countless essays and tests he marked in his career as a teacher, constantly offering feedback and encouragement, and of course, sometimes just the dreaded note that a student had completely missed the mark.

Stoking his passion - he had always wanted to be a reporter - he wrote articles for the community newspaper that served the little village of Jordan and the other western reaches of Onondaga County, while he had his day job and his volunteer jobs within the community. After he retired from teaching, he wrote for the school district newsletter, tracking down alumni in various professions years after graduation, getting them to talk about the value of the education they received at Jordan-Elbridge, and encouraging others through the stories. There was also his foray into poetry; given the observance of Martin Luther King Day this week, it seems appropriate to share his effort.

So - my grandfather. My dad. And now, there's me: a third generation 'keep-the-day-job, try-to-be-a-writer' person, full of self-doubt, a mutterer and sputterer, apparently from way back. I'm wondering, this Wednesday, what Dad would tell me about his father, and his father's writing, and his own writing, and mine.

And I'm wondering, is this nature or nurture? Writer begat writer begat writer? Or, frustrated writer nurtured a frustrated writer nurtured a frustrated writer? Maybe a person can be born with a nibbled-on pen or pencil in their hand, just as easily as with a silver spoon (or, famously, with a silver foot  in their mouth? Or do they pick up the pen, with awe or reverence, or at some point simply coming to the realization that a pen is not just for jabbing a sibling?

I'm not sure. Intrigued, but not sure.

There is one thing that regular readers may pick up on, and that's the obvious divergence of my branch of the family writing tree from by grandfather's.  It's my obvious appreciation for 'baloney' -- which I attribute to my father, with great love. In that regard, and others, this apple surely did not fall far.

I'll find the articles I was looking for, or I'll go to Hamilton College and read them myself, one of these days. We have an open invitation to do that, with some advance notice.

In the meantime?  I have some short stories to read.

Happy Father's Day, Dad

Dad,

Over the past few weeks I've received dozens of emails - at last count around 75 - having something to do with Father's Day.  Ranging from creative spam (Dad's day Cialis) to retail frenzy (buy this! no buy THIS!) to messages from politicians (the best was short & sweet from Governor Andrew Cuomo), they started arriving just around Memorial Day, about the time we would have been cleaning up from a cookout.

With you being gone (five years now), at first I found them all to be intrusive, and deleted most without even reading them. After all, none of them really fit my situation: what do to for Father's Day when your Dad is gone.  But as it got further into June, I started looking at them a little differently.

As I read the emails from hardware stores and sporting goods stores and home improvement stores and clothing stores and on and on, I was taken back to when I was a kid and going through the 'find the right Father's Day present' angst. I'm sure Mom remembers those days too!

I only remember on one present I ever gave you for this occasion. And no, it wasn't a tie, but that doesn't mean I didn't give you some over the years -- you had so many, all so very wide and colorful that if I were to guess, I suspect I may have had a hand in some of them. You were kind enough to wear even the most 'special' ones to school.

Once I became an adult, our Father's Day celebrations were cookouts or dinner at my house, with as many family gathered as possible; you and Mom would come over, the boys and usually some of your grandkids, and there'd be that buzzing, bubbling sound of family, people picking on each other and reminiscing and laughing too loudly about silly little things.

And there was always the US Open, around which I had to plan dinner.

I remember one year (after My Sweet Baboo and I got together) when everyone was out in the garden, playing croquet, taking pictures, looking for toads and bugs, except you.  You were inside, bowl of oyster crackers on the coffee table, cocktail in hand, watching the golf.  I remember asking Mom what was wrong, and her telling me there was nothing wrong, you were enjoying Father's Day. 

It was hard for me to understand how sitting by yourself watching golf while your whole family gathered outside was 'enjoyment' for you, but I learned to live with it, over the years, and remember coming in and sitting with you, with my glass of wine, watching Phil and Ernie and all the rest, and of course that darn Tiger Woods in his red shirt.  Together on the couch, with quiet conversation or sometimes just companionable silence, we enjoyed the time, until I had to go stir something or turn something or head back outside to see what was going on. You'd give my arm a squeeze, "OK Diz, see you in a little bit," and off I'd go, leaving you with a smile (and taking mine with me).

I'm thinking this morning that nothing would make me happier than to be able to sit and watch golf with you, or plan dinner around a sudden death playoff. And I'm remembering that one very special Father's Day present.  It was a little resin statue of a man which was popular at the time. He'd be dressed for different occasions, or different sports, with cute sayings on them.  In this one, he might have had a hot water bottle on his head or something, don't remember that part exactly, but I do remember what it said.

I Love You So Much It Hurts.

Happy Father's Day.

Distractions of Dad

Since my Dad died in January 2007, I’ve gone through what I figure are normal cycles of remembering him and missing him. Not that I don’t always remember and miss him – of course I do.  Most of the time, he’s tucked safely away in my heart; but occasionally I feel he’s sitting right next to me, walking along side of me, or looking over my shoulder. It’s happened twice in the last week, and both times it’s been the most marvelous experience.

The first time was Saturday at the grocery store.  I had left My Sweet Baboo in the cat food aisle and headed off in another direction, and stopped short when I saw a man start to toss something across a low display case to his wife, who was on the other side with their cart. He was gesturing with his hands, making a tossing motion, and she was gesturing right back at him, clearly indicating with both her facial expression and her hands that she wanted no part of his pitch and catch game. He kept trying, she kept saying no, and eventually he gave in and walked over to her, handed her the item, and went off to get something else.

I stood there giggling, and the woman looked at me as if I was nuts; after all, she clearly communicated that she thought her husband had been acting like a child. I apologized to her for laughing and told her it could be worse: when I was a kid, my Dad would roll cat food cans, paper towels, and whatever else he could get moving down the aisle, and my job was to scoop everything up and put it in the cart. Sometimes I missed; things would slide by, and Dad and I would laugh, go pick up the cans, and move on to the next aisle. I thanked her for reminding me of that fun; she smiled and walked away, and secretly I wished her husband would try my Dad’s favorite trick – tossing something across the top of the shelves, from one aisle to another! He didn’t try it often, but it was fun when he did.  (Note that we lived in a small town, with a small family-owned grocery store; I don’t think our behavior would be as well received in a larger store like Wegmans.)

Today it was snickerdoodles. One of my co-workers stopped by this afternoon with a container full of them. They were my Dad’s favorite cookies, mostly because every year at Christmas his sister would make some for him. She’d pack them in a coffee can, put on a pretty bow, and put them under the tree. At some point, we kids would sneak the cookies out from under the tree (preferably while everyone was in the room), and hide them. Even though everyone knew the drill, it was still fun to go through the process, coming up with more creative ways to steal, hide and then rediscover the cookies. One year my aunt made two containers, one for stealing, and one which she triumphantly handed to my Dad, a huge ‘so there, kids!’ moment. In the silliness that followed, my brother stole the second batch and hid that one too.  Another year, we actually left the cookies behind; I remember there was much feigned indignance for a couple of days after Christmas, which ended when the cookies were safely delivered.

Two wonderful memories, completely unexpected, and made that much more enjoyable as a result.  Thanks Dad, for the distractions.

The Weekend Trifecta 01/24/10

A trifecta is generally described as a type of bet where, in order to win, the bettor must pick the top three finishers in the correct order. Here are the weekend’s top three:

Stuffed appetizers. The appetizers were part of the whole Stuffed Dinner we put together for my oldest brother’s birthday. Making them was made all that much more enjoyable – in fact the entire event was that much more enjoyable - because my nephew Sam helped.

One of the appetizers, tomatoes stuffed with tuna fish, Sam indicated he wasn’t really excited about, because while he really really likes tuna fish, he’s not a big fan of tomatoes.

The second appetizer was stuffed celery. I put my Mom in charge of this one. While Sam wanted to help with, he’s not allowed to use a sharp knife until he’s a little older; right now, he’s a few months away from his seventh birthday. He thought his mom said he could use a sharp knife when he was seven, but his dad said not until he turned ten. Turns out he had the parents backwards, but with a ‘safe’ knife and careful supervision, he cut the pieces to size, putting a tiny mark in the side of the celery, and then lining up the knife to make the cut. He stuffed the ones with peanut butter, Mom did the ones with cream cheese, and a careful count was taken to make sure we had the same number of each, along with a ‘tester’ for each flavor. Peanut butter was a hit, earning a big grin and many "mmms" and "oh boys." The horseradish was a little too much for him, but the adults enjoyed it.

The last appetizer, stuffed potatoes, was almost too much for Sam to believe. I halved and roasted some small red potatoes, then we scooped out the inner potato leaving the skin intact; the innards were combined with some chopped green onion and some cheese, then put back into the potatoes and baked, served warm. Sam couldn’t figure out why I’d want to do this in the first place, but he helped scoop some and then he and Mom did the mashing – by hand – which he thought was pretty cool.

Stuffed Dinner. This is what started us off on the whole mission of stuffing stuff into stuff. My brother requested stuffed peppers for dinner, and we then got carried away. Sam, watching me stir the hamburger, rice, and secret ingredients, thought stuffed peppers was kind of weird. I explained that even Grandpa (my Dad, gone three years now) loved them and not only that; he called them stuffed ‘poopers’. Well, this was almost too much, peals of laughter as Mom and I explained that Grandpa always did the grocery shopping and he’d write down the week’s menu, always putting poopers instead of peppers. We mentioned that we missed little things like that.

Sam said, very honestly, “I miss him too. And I don’t get to have Boost anymore either, because it makes Grandma think about Grandpa and get sad.” Somehow, Mom and I managed to maintain our composure – not really sure how, but we did. I had forgotten that Dad used to share a Boost – called it a milkshake – with Sam, and was amazed that he even remembered. After all, he was three when Dad passed. Mom explained very reasonably to Sam why they don’t buy Boost any more, and that was good enough for him, and we moved on.

In addition to the regular stuffed peppers, we also had stuffed poblano peppers with Mexican corn, into which I had stirred a little hot mustard.

Sam’s job with all of the peppers was to do quality control. Since he couldn’t help (a sharp knife, again), he inspected all of the peppers to make sure there were no seeds left in them. He found a few that I had left behind, fewer that Mom had left behind, and then declared them "ready for stuffing stuff into."

We also had stuffed salad, a delicious fruit salad that Mom put together, then stuffed back into a halved pineapple and two melon halves. A little orange juice, brown sugar, and balsamic vinegar on the fruit helped bring out the flavors.

And for Sam and my teenaged niece, we stuffed some hotdogs inside crescent rolls, ensuring that there was something stuffed for all ages.

Stuffed dessert. This one was the silliest of all. I made a rectangular Bundt cake, then we removed most of the cake and stuffed it with a mousse made with Cool Whip, condensed milk, and chopped pineapples and their juice. Getting the mousse into the cake was easy; flipping the cake and mousse onto the platter without making a horrendous mess turned out to be fairly easy as well, once everyone left the kitchen. For Mom, the official family dessert server, it was a little more challenging getting everything served; next time, I think I’ll freeze the mousse.

It’s rare the Weekend Trifecta all occurs on one day, but Saturday had it all – it was a day stuffed to the brim with three generations of family, good food, and lots of fun. And I can’t wait to cook with Sam again!