tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6392598393515842192024-03-24T23:09:58.316-07:00The Musings of a TGtM: Thrifty, German-teaching MommyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-26726829853601678932015-06-16T19:48:00.001-07:002015-06-16T19:48:25.280-07:00The Bittersweet Feeling of Graduation<b id="docs-internal-guid-773b6252-ff69-936e-0bb6-03b28845b5d9" style="font-weight: normal;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every year it’s the same story. Every year, the same sentimentality. Seniors are suddenly struck with a fever of nostalgia and begin to realize that they are moving on to a bigger part of their lives. They realize that they are moving on from high school. Every year, they make the same promise.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I promise I will come visit you.” “I will definitely keep in touch with you.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And every year, it isn’t true.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It comes with the best of intentions. In those moments, as the graduates swim in a sea of joy and love, they want to embrace everyone metaphorically and physically. They want to hold on to every happy moment they are living. They have grown used to seeing teachers they love on a regular basis. In their heads, they really will come back and visit. What they don’t realize is that they have no idea where the journey they are about to begin will take them. They are off to places that they haven’t yet discovered and lives that have not yet been sewn together. And just as with everything else, with time, the desire to come back will flicker.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">During those final days of high school, the connections made are still so current and present that it seems impossible that they would ever actually go away. For years, students have a built-in way of seeing their friends every day. Just as you see your siblings because they live in the same house that you do, you see your teachers because they exist in the world you take part in each and every day. It isn’t until you enter grown-up life that you realize that real connections and relationships take a lot more effort and something extra beyond the happenstance of living in the same school zone. If you want to keep in touch, you have to step out of your regular routine and make time and energy. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As teachers, though, we are used to it. As I said, it happens every year. Also, we, ourselves, have been there. We were once those eager graduates, making promises while on a high of success. And yet, it still saddens me a bit when I hear the promises. I can see further ahead than the newly-christened adults in my classroom. I know that after the summer they will head to a new destination to begin the most important journey of their lives. I know that they will make dozens of new friends and many of those people who signed their yearbook will begin to fade. I know that they will spend their vacations home from college with the ten high school friends with whom they still correspond. I know that they will be reprimanded for coming into the high school building even if they do attempt to make contact. Ultimately, I know that once they embark on the rollercoaster that drives them away from high school, there is no turning back. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meanwhile, I will return at the end of the summer to begin the process all over again. While they head off, I stay in the same location and march on as always. I will hang up the photos that we took in June, laugh about an old story, and maybe even tell it to my new group of students. I may come across an update on Facebook that tells me a little about what is going on and even get tagged in a status update or two, as my graduates trudge through the mud of college language classes. I will reread the thank you notes and the declarations that say that I have changed their lives. It is enough to know that they are out there somewhere, leading their lives with success, and that maybe I had a little part in that. It has to be enough.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And a decade later, maybe I will still be following them on Facebook. Maybe they will have a baby or become the yearbook sponsor at the private school where they are teaching now. Maybe they will travel to Germany and use the limited words they still remember or spend a year there, perhaps now speaking a better accent than me. The joy of being a teacher comes from being allowed to get to know so many amazing lives.. It is the ability to watch the world grow for the better and see the human experience blossom organically.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I will keep coming back. I will keep playing my role in the process. I will continue to pull back tears as my seniors hug me on their way out the door on finals day. I will keep putting myself out there for them to get to know, laying my heart on the line, knowing that a couple years later, they will walk away and I will likely never see them again in person. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s just what a teacher does. </span></div>
<br /></b><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-46162686517627763752014-03-31T18:35:00.003-07:002014-03-31T18:35:30.879-07:00Wet and Wild European Vacation: Part 2- Bending the RulesPerhaps one of my biggest pet peeves about my dad when he was alive was that he always seemed to think that the rules didn't apply to him. For everyone else, rules were rules; for him, they were merely suggestions. And he had every right to make suggestions as to how those rules could be changed specifically for him. <br />
<br />
He was worst in restaurants. When you sit down at a table, there is a piece of paper or a small binder that the waiter hands you, from which you choose your meal. They call this "a menu." Often, my dad looked at the menu and then decided that he wanted something that was not printed there. On Emerald Isle, there was an Italian place called Trattoria. It had a variety of pastas, but for whatever reason, it didn't have a Pasta Carbonara. For whatever reason, Dad decided that this was suddenly his favorite thing to eat. "I wonder if they have a carbonara," he mumbled to himself. Tilting my head in annoyance, I said, "Is it on the menu, Dad? If it is not on the menu, they don't have it."<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, when the waitress came over to take our orders, he asked. When she said no, he began to order a meal step by step that turned out to be a carbonara. "Do they have the long thing noodles? They can use those and then make a cream sauce... They must have the stuff to make one." The waitress told him she would talk to the chef and returned a few minutes later, telling him that, yes, they could make the carbonara. He became such a regular there that soon, he would start his order by asking who was doing the cooking that night. When he got his answer, he went on to say, "Just tell him that Hans is here and would like the carbonara."<br />
<br />
When it came to paying, they apparently charged him something different every time, depending on which manager or owner was there. What else would you do if you have a customer ordering something that you don't have priced?<br />
<br />
These kinds of things were a regular occurence in our family. Making the kids lie about our ages to get in free to sites. Taking pictures in art museums because he was pretending he didn't understand the signs written in a foreign language forbidding it, although the foreign language was Dutch. So I shouldn't have been surprised when he tried to pull his same old tricks on our trip to Europe.<br />
<br />
After our stay in Passau, we had to head over to Prague to meet up with our Slovakian friends Kajo and Karol. Dad told me the next morning that we were just going to drive, instead of taking a train. I didn't think anything of it, hopped into the car, popped in the CD that Glenn had made of songs from Dirty Dancing, and we were on our way. As we got closer to the border, I noticed a flyer from the rental car on the floor at my feet. Absentmindedly, I picked it up and started reading it. Suddenly, I came across an infographic that clearly stated that rental cars that were from Germany were not allowed into any country that had previously been communist. The bumper of a European car sports a sticker that reports the country from which it hails. Thus, there was a sticker plastered along the back, reading "DE" or Deutschland. For thieves in perhaps poorer European countries, this often works as a red flashing light saying, "Steal me." <br />
<br />
Innocent me, I thought initially that Dad hadn't realized this fact. However, when I made him aware that we weren't going to be able to get into the Czech Republic with the car, it didn't faze him. "Eh, I am sure they don't know that at the border. That is just rental companies trying to cover their own asses. I'll take the risk." Yup, that was Dad. <i>That rule? Oh, they didn't intend me when they wrote that. </i>I don't remember if we had further discussion about whether we should actually be attempting this, but I do remember what happened when we got to the border patrol. <br />
<br />
The border guard checked our passports with no issue, but then asked my dad to wait just one moment. My stomach began to churn, as minutes passed without the guard returning. Dad said nothing. Finally, the guard came back and asked if this was indeed a German rental car. When he said yes, the guard informed him that they wouldn't be able to allow him into the country. Dad feigned shock. "What?? That is not what they told me at the rental car place. They told me I would be fine." From there, there was a polite back-and-forth until the border guard asked Dad to pull through and go into a side parking spot where they sometimes asked people to wait. He was going to call the rental company and doublecheck. Dad still didn't say anything, but I could tell that he sensed victory and was beginning to feel smug.<br />
<br />
In my rearview mirror, I watched the guard on the phone, gesticulating with his hands and pointing toward our car. After five minutes, he finally came back and apologized to my father. "I am sorry, Sir, but they said there is absolutely no way that you are allowed into the Czech Republic in this rental car." He even pulled the shade down that was right above my dad's head and showed that there was a sticker there that showed which countries were forbidden for this car. I am sure my dad was well aware of this sticker being there, but he apologized and claimed once again that there had been a misunderstanding. As we made a U-turn and headed back to the Passau, it was my turn to feel victorious. Finally, Dad had not gotten his way. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiL6Ihyc_hJhbfYqQishzYCHKarajKlnuUOSPzTM313jKh8156NSPvGm5TqnVeWpUqqVbNy86ED0ej7AmEjk1lUxPjOZdx9b8Y-4xj14Wp_VBVvK9HzYbXeAGi8mnk73cw0xiaHs2Syyw/s1600/Czech+Republic+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiL6Ihyc_hJhbfYqQishzYCHKarajKlnuUOSPzTM313jKh8156NSPvGm5TqnVeWpUqqVbNy86ED0ej7AmEjk1lUxPjOZdx9b8Y-4xj14Wp_VBVvK9HzYbXeAGi8mnk73cw0xiaHs2Syyw/s1600/Czech+Republic+003.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our fancy first class seats</td></tr>
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Taking the train, though, proved to add a little more fun and intrigue to our journey. We rode a first class train and I am pretty sure we sat in seats that were more of an upgrade than we had bought. Regardless, we were alone in the beautiful car. Then, we got to the end of the line for the German and Austrian trains and things were different. The train wasn't quite as modern. No air conditioning or fancy maroon seats. No glass panelling between train classes. <br />
<br />
When we got to the border between Germany and the Czech Republic, we found ourselves changing trains at a station that literally sat on the border. It was in the middle of nowhere and was relatively run down. Dad thought it was hilarious that he had to inform me that in order to go to the bathroom, he would have to cross over into the Czech Republic and then return to Germany once he was finished. The station, itself, looked a bit shabby and run-down. As always, this seemed like the perfect photo op for Dad. He <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RSk8gKNeSJ_KvZd44n42E9pKRacl7dys7YFXZYb_zgmOivF8TqfJGMq52D_khhvfqbNEYh227z_Dub8iNt7lgE9vTq0hmR60FPCEw_MT9CFoXzHkO2-8Jebb1O_C5306IkesLQz6bPs/s1600/Czech+Republic+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RSk8gKNeSJ_KvZd44n42E9pKRacl7dys7YFXZYb_zgmOivF8TqfJGMq52D_khhvfqbNEYh227z_Dub8iNt7lgE9vTq0hmR60FPCEw_MT9CFoXzHkO2-8Jebb1O_C5306IkesLQz6bPs/s1600/Czech+Republic+001.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing on the border at the train station</td></tr>
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pulled out his nice camera and told me to smile. Just as he got ready to take the shot, a grubby looking Czech woman neared Dad and, I believe, tried to explain that she would take our picture. From the looks of her, she most likely spent a lot of time sleeping in the station and didn't seem to be the most trustworthy soul. She didn't speak English and when she reached for the camera, he just looked toward her and yelled, "No! No!" For the rest of our wait, he and I huddled on the platform and periodically inched away from her, clutching our bags. The resulting picture from the situation showed just how uncomfortable I felt in that moment and just how uncomfortable I had felt earlier in the day at the border station in the car. Thankfully, it was the only such face that I made on the trip. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqBLPzIAkk1R18MKThKXcJ255qGUbgsiS27JFMX9OoUp_DqexEuOeHHb9SCYsMeK5vcQ2O-wPHmf_7POcgzsy7fOiqyvLn2OE3bpCDYtKC7KtG-OdID-9CXCsNs95FE3D_lAPVPfsmd0/s1600/Czech+Republic+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqBLPzIAkk1R18MKThKXcJ255qGUbgsiS27JFMX9OoUp_DqexEuOeHHb9SCYsMeK5vcQ2O-wPHmf_7POcgzsy7fOiqyvLn2OE3bpCDYtKC7KtG-OdID-9CXCsNs95FE3D_lAPVPfsmd0/s1600/Czech+Republic+002.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking uncomfortable and mistrusting of the scary woman<br />who wanted to steal Dad's camera</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-63841957134625537032014-03-31T07:27:00.000-07:002014-03-31T07:27:12.990-07:00Wet and Wild European Vacation: Part 1-- The Great FloodWhen I took a trip with my dad to Europe in 2002, I had no way of knowing that I would be taking part in a little piece of European history; at least a piece of European meterological history. The trip was a gift to celebrate my graduation from UVA with an undergraduate degree. To highlight my degree being in German, we planned to travel through both southern Germany and Austria, and meet up with Slovakian friends of ours in Prague. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEuMuT0GJSNGF22LL1hRLYQWgika2-7YcMCF61ggpwvj05-Ve8cMq-GBDTJLAQOTqD8AfM-9Pk3YwZLtdm4EX2Lg7M6sJ6Co3kBRlzGu86-wI_IP5Vcmri54A203pu_yg77tXviyU5YI/s1600/DSC_0363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEuMuT0GJSNGF22LL1hRLYQWgika2-7YcMCF61ggpwvj05-Ve8cMq-GBDTJLAQOTqD8AfM-9Pk3YwZLtdm4EX2Lg7M6sJ6Co3kBRlzGu86-wI_IP5Vcmri54A203pu_yg77tXviyU5YI/s1600/DSC_0363.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A picture from later in our trip, when we visited a castle with <br />
Slovakian friends</td></tr>
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Travelling with Dad was like a tour of the bed and breakfasts in the area. After having spent a career in Marriott and Hilton hotel rooms, he always intended to experience the life of a town by staying in a small family-run place. Often, we booked the next city's "hotel" room from the one we were currently in. Then, he would find out the restaurants where the locals were eating and would frequent those. He fully believed that if you traveled somewhere, you should try to see it the way somewhere who has lived there their entire life would see it. Granted, he did this while bellowing in a loud voice, donning khaki shorts, and taking pictures at every turn. His own personal mix of tourist extraordinaire and local yocal.<br />
<br />
Along this vein, the trip started innocently enough. Small fun moments. A church on every block. Dad pushing me constantly to use my German as he mocked me, saying that I didn't really speak German. At one restaurant in Regensburg, he tried desperately to show me that he could speak to the waitress in her native tongue too. He asked me how to say "What is on tap?" so that he could look knowledgable to her. Ask her, "Was ist am Fass?" The waitress walked up and asked what he wanted. He puffed out his chest and said, "Was ist am Fass?" In response, instead of listing off a number of beers, she began the slow process of explaining to him in German the concept of a beer being "on tap." Something along the lines of, "Well, we have a big keg under the bar and there is a pipe that runs up..." Laughing to myself at his look of confusion, I had to break into his attempt at lingual glory. "No, no, no," I said to her in German. "He actually wants to know which beers are on tap." <br />
<br />
It was also in Regensburg, ironically, that it started to rain. (For those of you not multi-lingual, "Regen" means "rain.") We rushed back to our hotel, jumping as much as possible from one canopy to another to stay dry. The next day we headed in our rental car to Passau, a city that was located on the edge of a peninsula and touched three different rivers at once. Within a day of being in Passau, the high waters began. It had been raining for a while at this point, and a city that was basically in the middle of three rivers didn't stand a chance. One of the main attractions of the city was the exact point where the land touched all three bodies of water. We walked down toward the staircase that took you down to the bank, but stopped in our tracks when we saw that the staircase led right into a pool of water. Judging by the nearby sign that was firmly and permanently planted into the ground, this was not a rare occurence; it warned of possible high waters in the area. Thus, we crossed over in our car to the other side of the Elbe river, drove up a hill and viewed the point from afar. We were shocked to find that it wasn't just that little part that was underwater; it was an ever-growing part of the land. One of my favorite pictures shows Dad standing next to a restaurant, umbrella over his head. A small stream of water runs down the street between he and I in the photo. Outside the restaurant is a sandwich board advertising the day's special: "Fresh Fish from the Sea." I had to wonder if they were just stepping outside and reaching down into the flooding waters.<br />
<br />
"Good thing we are heading out of town tomorrow," Dad said, making reference to our plans to catch a train to Prague.<br />
<br />
The next morning, we drove to a parking garage to park the car until we could come back for it about a week later. German rental cars are not allowed into previously communist countries, as found out in another anecdote to be told later. To get to the garage, one took the main road, drove down a ramp, drove down the street a bit, and then drove back up a ramp into the garage, that was housed underneath the local Marriott. Thanks to his membership in some elite Marriott Club, Dad had gotten the okay to leave the car there for free.<br />
<br />
We met up with Kajo and his dad Karol in Prague and actually did stay in a Marriott this time. The fact that it was actually an old castle renovated made it more acceptable. The dining room was lined with suits of armor and it was located in an old part of the city. Kajo had stayed with our family as an exchange student when I was 16, because his original host family hadn't worked out. If we hadn't taken him in, he would have had to abruptly head home to Slovakia. Because of Dad having swooped in and helped him, Kajo's family was eternally and generously grateful. In fact, I am pretty sure that his dad paid for most of our stay in Prague.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZB-hGUYaJdtQATjCJsTMst6PTTJwd6HmK6Dc0ndDfKpvoyI9IP0RvPRK_XTHQx3pSuupmlLzdbi-05vwcC81raHYAyyAXF1Ij2Nlj3UYgwOGrHw3agypOUjCMjeVOV97ZqM0Sm4VqbM/s1600/DSC_0362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZB-hGUYaJdtQATjCJsTMst6PTTJwd6HmK6Dc0ndDfKpvoyI9IP0RvPRK_XTHQx3pSuupmlLzdbi-05vwcC81raHYAyyAXF1Ij2Nlj3UYgwOGrHw3agypOUjCMjeVOV97ZqM0Sm4VqbM/s1600/DSC_0362.JPG" height="320" width="212" /></a>Once again, the first couple days of the stay were pretty normal. We saw the Charles Bridge and the gorgeous Old Town, where every building is a work of art. Kajo and I dealt with our fathers getting drunk together one night. And sure, it rained a lot while we were there, but the realization of what was to come was slow. Much like Passau, Prague is located on a river. It is on the Vltava, which eventually merges with the Elbe. News had begun spreading that the Elbe was flooding at other locations, and that it was headed toward Prague. On the last day in Prague, the waters in the river were definitely higher and faster. Waves crashed and there was little space under the bridge. Cafes that were down by the river closed as their patios took on water. Workers around the city were beginning to stack sandbags on the banks to try to protect the ancient and awe-inspiring structures. Tourists everywhere were standing and watching in awe, taking pictures of Mother Nature in action. City officials began to suggest that those same tourists leave town sooner rather than later. Although the original plan had been to spend another full day in Prague before taking a train out to Slovakia to visit Kajo's house for a few days, the dads decided that maybe an early departure might not be a bad idea. <br />
<br />
Thank God we did. When we watched the news from Kajo's living room, we found that the dining room that we had eaten in for days, was underwater, as was much of the city. Major damage was done to some of the oldest buildings in town. The people of Prague were waiting for the whole thing to pass. In later years, I used the flood and the stories from Prague to teach about weather phenomenon in my classroom. I told about the fact that the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/2193483.stm" target="_blank">Prague Zoo</a> had to airlift elephants and hippos to save their lives. I told the story of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaston_(seal)" target="_blank">Gaston the Seal</a> who was assumed dead, but was found upstream hundreds of miles away. I showed how the city of Dresden, also on the Elbe, did its' own impression of the movie "Waterworld." The best part was that I was able to tell it from my own perspective. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I saw this same location in a Time Magazine picture<br />
later in the month, but there was a wall of sand bags where<br />
the people are standing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The thing that later shocked me was how little my American friends had heard about this MAJOR European event. They had heard that there was a "little" flood. However, they knew nothing of all the destruction that had come with it. It was one of the first times that I realized how insulated our news could be in the US. <br />
The flood led to one last kink in our vacation plans. Because we had fled to Nitra, Slovakia, we had avoided the largest problems. After our few days there, we suddenly realized that we would need to go back to our rental car soon. Our rental car, which was in Passau. Passau, which was at that moment, largely underwater and whose streets had become canals. In addition, the trains we needed to take weren't running as they should because they ran directly through the affected area. Dad called the Marriott in Passau and found out the garage had a tight door that sealed all the cars inside. Phew, at least the car was okay.<br />
<br />
Kajo's parents generously volunteered to drive my Dad and I over to Vienna, Austria, so that we could work out something with the rental company there. Austria was meant to be the next leg of our trip, so this was a perfect decision. After many hours on the road, they left us at the airport there and we walked up to the rental car desk. "How may I help you?" asked the worker in a heavy accent.<br />
<br />
"We have a problem," started Dad. "We rented a car in Germany and left it parked for a while in Passau and now we can't get back to it. The car is fine. We called the hotel where we parked it and they said that it is fine and locked in a garage, but the garage is just underwater right now. So, we need a new rental car."<br />
<br />
The woman, who was clearly just a minion, widened her eyes, stared at us for a moment, and raised her finger. "Ummmm, give me a moment. I need to talk to my manager. This has never happened before." Leave it to Dad and I to bring a brand new situation along with us. Always causing trouble. In the end, they took our keys and gave us a new car. I assume they went and got the car later themselves, but the shocked look on their faces when we went to their counter was just the whipped cream and cherry on top of an ice cream sundae of a vacation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-66672398074107729382014-03-27T20:00:00.002-07:002014-03-27T20:00:46.997-07:00Daddy's Little Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZPH6UlF02jaYy-tzPPi7BSekepuWdykI_Djs1KUm3KymfGdaH8rI7k42hljXFbKw0ys0ZtFhcCPmond5U44_i41aWMvoyX1-ihLD_Fyr3prGowhfbFt0IEs2WT05wLWZG7d07_V0kfg/s1600/little+me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZPH6UlF02jaYy-tzPPi7BSekepuWdykI_Djs1KUm3KymfGdaH8rI7k42hljXFbKw0ys0ZtFhcCPmond5U44_i41aWMvoyX1-ihLD_Fyr3prGowhfbFt0IEs2WT05wLWZG7d07_V0kfg/s1600/little+me.JPG" height="308" width="320" /></a></div>
Being the baby in the family, it really isn't surprising that I would be labelled "Daddy's Little Girl." I can still hear his voice when I called after my spleen surgery last September, feeling like crap. My parents always knew that when their phone rang around six or seven, it would probably be me, calling to get some comfort from an aching belly. Dad picked up the phone and after hearing me say, "Hello?", he groggily said, "Hi, Princess." Granted, after a few minutes, he passed the phone over to my mom, the true curer of ails, who echoed with, "Not feeling well today?" However, it was when I heard the tenderness in my dad's voice that I started to tear up.<br />
<br />
I think Dad always knew that I would do anything for him and likewise, I always knew he would do anything for me. My brother Jim always pointed out that I could get anything I wanted; all I had to do was turn on the waterworks and my dad would turn to mush. I will be the first to admit this is true, but I will also be the first to say that I didn't like that. As a person who prides herself on being a strong female, capable of getting what she wants because of her persuasive abilities and intelligence, I tried very hard not to fall to pieces with Dad. I even remember once or twice when he would say he was going to give me something and I would say, "No, no, I don't want it just because I am crying. I want you to want to do this for me."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihi1mMO5LyiA1cTWjxKj7ZGPZtH9WxxtB3AqTxtqxs5weXeIKc92BVUe4RgxM0ovqswmR_zoRHMoJIRm2SP_5eYqJCFlCZYukpulFWUwpBdaaJ5SKXOje1aBw415j5Laf1vmoCSfjlMxc/s1600/dying+eggs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihi1mMO5LyiA1cTWjxKj7ZGPZtH9WxxtB3AqTxtqxs5weXeIKc92BVUe4RgxM0ovqswmR_zoRHMoJIRm2SP_5eYqJCFlCZYukpulFWUwpBdaaJ5SKXOje1aBw415j5Laf1vmoCSfjlMxc/s1600/dying+eggs.JPG" height="151" width="200" /></a>Although I am sure the bond goes back to when I was a baby, I think that I could pinpoint a time in my own memory that that bond became extremely tight. As a teenager, my mother had a major health issue that caused her to have to go to the hospital, leaving my dad and I to fend for each other. As I told him when I said goodbye to him for the last time this past September, "You and I have been through some tough shit together." With all my siblings grown and moved away, Dad and I stuck together to help my mom as much as we could. Despite my being a teenager, he worked to shield me from any pain and confusion I might feel. <br />
Even as he put all his effort into helping Mom, he always had an arm to put on my shoulder too.<br />
<br />
When I was sixteen, my dad came into my room and told me one day that he would be going to John Hopkins University for some breakthrough surgery because they had found that he had melanoma. A mole he had had his entire life had suddenly started changing and they needed to see if it had spread to other places in his body. He and mom had waited to tell me about it because they wanted to see just how bad it would be. He assured me that it wasn't a big deal and the doctors were pretty sure he would be fine. Perhaps because the only time I had dealt with cancer was when my Oma had died of it a couple years before, I didn't get too worried. However, the night before he was set to go to John Hopkins, in one of my late evenings/ early mornings up, holding five conversations simultaneously on AOL Instant Messenger, I made Dad a sign. On a white sheet of paper, I drew a giant heart with crayon and wrote the words around it, "I love you, Daddy." In the corner was the date. I got a piece of tape from my room and crept over to my parents' bedroom door that was slightly ajar. As I listened to their harmonious snoring choir, I reached my arm around the door and taped the sign to the back of it, so it would be the first thing he saw in the morning. <br />
<br />
In time, the surgeons and oncologists found out that the divet that they had taken out of Dad's shoulder with the surgery had gotten all the cancer and that nothing had spread to his lymph nodes. They had luckily caught it early. In fact, he was one of three patients to undergo this new surgery/ testing at Hopkins. When Dad went back for his follow-up a year later, he asked, "So how are those other two doing anyway?" The doctor suddenly looked grim. "Oh, um, they didn't make it."<br />
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Even though his cancer was gone, Dad kept the sign I made him on the back of the door to his bedroom until the end of the time that they lived in that house. When he and my mom moved to their house in Emerald Isle, he retaped the sign on the back of the bedroom door in their new house. <br />
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Seventeen years after I made that first sign for him, I regretted to find out that I had cause to make another. About a year ago, he had a strange pimply thing on the back of his neck. Being ever vigilant about these kinds of things, he got it checked out, only to find out that the melanoma had returned. The doctors weren't worried about it, so he said. Once again there was a new treatment that he was going to be having. A drug that was administered in the same way as chemo, but was quite as harsh on the body. He described it like Pac Man; a drug that was programmed to come in and only eat up cancer cells. In a phone call that included an eerie degree of foreshadowing he said to me, "There is a whole huge list of possible side effects. The worst possible side effect is death."<br />
<br />
Me: "Way to be dramatic, Dad. You could basically say that about everything. Isn't death a side effect of life?"<br />
Him, with a chuckle: "Yeah, I know. That is definitely true."<br />
<br />
The day after he told me, I sat down with my two children and decided that we needed to make him a sign. In big letters, we wrote, "We love you, Dutch." (Dutch is the nickname that my children had for my dad, rather than calling him Granddad.) Jamey used his inherited art ability and drew some pictures and signed the bottom. We sent a photo immediately by text and minutes later the phone rang. On speaker phone, Dad told Jamey how much he loved his sign. "You have to send it to me. I want to hang it on the back of my door, right underneath the one that your mom made."<br />
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The last time I was at my parents' house and I went into their bedroom, I smiled on my way back out of the room. Sure enough, on the back of the door hung two signs. Up top was my first sign, dated 1996. Just below it was the new sign, dated 2013. When I get the chance to get things from my parents' house to keep, I really want to have those two signs. They are a symbol to me of the bond that Dad and I shared. The love that I put into making the sign in the first place and the love he showed in keeping it up for all those years.<br />
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Sure, when my dad died, I was in my 30's, but I have to admit that I still loved cuddling with my "Daddy." I wondered sometimes if it was strange that I didn't mind laying next to him on the couch or curling up with him when I was feeling sick. When it comes down to it, though, I find that really don't care if it was strange. I was and always will be "Daddy's Little Girl" and I don't care how much mocking I get for it.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-19107647991513993532014-03-21T19:24:00.003-07:002014-03-21T19:24:31.003-07:00The Girlfriend who got hit by the trainBefore my mom, my dad apparently only had one other serious girlfriend. I am sure that I have heard her name, but I don't remember it. I do know that this other girlfriend was part of the reason that my <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My parents, dressed up for my uncle's <br />
wedding</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
dad actually flunked out of the first college where he went to school.<br />
<br />
In talking to Mom on the phone the other day, she started naming universities and upon request for clarification, I found out that I had had my facts a little off. My dad DID go to the University of Waterloo, but he flunked out. The girl was a distraction, apparently. He also had issues with the language barriers. <br />
<br />
For ages, there is only one story that I have heard about this other girlfriend. It isn't really a story so much as a momentous event in her life. Apparently she was hit by a train and lived. It is a story that has so stuck in my head that I generally refer to her simply as "The One who got hit by a train."<br />
<br />
The last time I was talking to Mom, this woman came up again and inspired a humorous exchange.<br />
We were in the midst of a discussion about my dad's academic history and the fact that he failed out because of a girl.<br />
<br />
Me: "Oh, was that the girlfriend that got hit by a train?"<br />Mom: "Yes. Well, I mean, I don't know if she actually got hit by a train. I just always say that."<br />
Me: "Mom, you made that up? You just made up that she got hit by a train?"<br />Mom: "I think it might have happened. She couldn't have been hit that hard anyway if she lived."<br />
<br />
Coming from someone who has been battling a lot of anxiety and sadness lately, this conversation made me laugh.<br />
<br />
My parents actually saw that girlfriend a couple years ago during a reunion. They were on their 40th Anniversary Canadian tour and had heard about a reunion of old classmates. They decided to go. When they walked in, there sat "The Girlfriend." She had an oxygen tank and, in my mom's words, "Didn't look well." Although they mingled with many people, my dad spent a couple of minutes just with "her." She still fawned over him and put her hand on his arm when he told a funny joke. She didn't seem to want to turn him loose during the party. When my mom retold me the story, she said, "I think that maybe she regretted letting him go. I think she may still be a little in love with him." <br />
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<em>Aren't they all, Mom.... aren't they all...</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-60434107461610684522014-03-20T17:14:00.000-07:002014-03-20T17:14:20.538-07:00The Constant New GirlWhen I tell people that I lived in five places before the age of twelve, the initial assumption is that my dad was in the military. Although my dad loved to wear shirts that said things like "CIA" and "Marines" when he went to work out, he had never actually been part of any armed forces. For a reason that I am still not certain that I understand, when I note that he was in telecommunications, people nod in understanding. <br />
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Before I was born, my family lived in several different provinces in Canada. Ontario, Quebec, Nova Scotia. This meant that all the moving that I experienced in the US, my family experienced in our northern neighbor. I remember hearing a story after my family had moved from Quebec back to Ontario. Jim was in kindergarten and was very shy. Because of this, he didn't talk much in class, but the teachers all thought that he just didn't speak English. He was almost added to a special class to help him develop his speaking skills before he came out of his shell.</div>
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This time of being the "new kid" was definitely nothing that I didn't know about. From what I understand, my dad's job was generally sent to a location where there was a need for some reorganization and straightening out. He came in, set up a new system, got everything running smoothly again, and was then sent to a new ailing location. In general, any one assignment lasted between two and four years. And so my journey in childhood went as follows:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
-Born in Raleigh, NC</div>
<div>
-At age 4, we moved to Littleton, Colorado</div>
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-At age 8, we moved to Cary, North Carolina</div>
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-At age 10, we moved to Longwood, Florida</div>
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-At age 12, we moved to Oakton, Virginia</div>
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My reaction to the moves changed through time. When I was closing in on the age of eight, my dad called me into the kitchen and pulled me onto his lap. Being Daddy's Little Girl, I jumped up. He had a nervous look on his face as he said, "How would you like to move to North Carolina?"</div>
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At the age of eight, when I was still happy to follow all orders from my parents, the answer was simple. "Okay." My brother Jim, who had just graduated high school wasn't quite as excited. He thought that when he had accepted the invitation to study at North Carolina State University, he would be escaping his parents and gaining some freedom. Little did he know, we were following him on his path.</div>
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By the time we were moving from Longwood to Oakton, I was fully in "middle school attitude" and swore my parents were ruining my life. I had formed strong friendships and was full of drama. I even convinced myself that my dad had told me we would be moving back after another couple years. No such promise was ever made, but somewhere in my head, it had been whispered. This was the only hard move I had to make and once we were in Oakton, my mom decided that she wanted at least one of her children to go to just one high school. Another benefit of being the youngest.</div>
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<div>
Change of this nature was very difficult and seemed like a wholly negative thing. My dad swore up and down that it would make me a stronger person, but it sounded simply like some line he fed me to me to get to me stop complaining. It wasn't until I was an adult that I could admit that he was right. As strange as it may seem now, our moving so much was actually another gift that my father gave to me. </div>
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Because my surroundings were constantly changing, I had to learn quickly how to adjust to fit in. Being the "New Girl" was always a sink or swim situation. It didn't occur to me then that every time I joined a new group, every time I started a new job, every time I moved into a new house as an adult, I would once again be "the new girl." A situation that would cause some to flounder was old hat to me. </div>
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<div>
A student once commented to me that I was so confident and strong. She wanted to know how I had gotten that way. I told her that in my life, I hadn't had a choice. My childhood was a flow of changes. It was easier to learn about my new surroundings and then figure out how I fit into it. After so many times having to start new and still being able to return to the same level of friendship and comfort, I quickly realized that almost any situation is "doable" if you find the right way to approach it. </div>
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I also question whether my ability to understand so many different types of people is a result of exposure to so many different places of living and personalities. The culture of living in Colorado is different from Florida, for example, which is most definitely also different from life in Fairfax County, Virginia. Everywhere we went, I came into contact with different thoughts and viewpoints, and different approaches to doing things. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am sure I told my Dad that he helped to make me who I am by bringing me to all these places, but I am not sure if I every blatantly thanked him for having us move so often. If we hadn't I wouldn't be who I am today. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-25656078948383994042014-03-19T03:13:00.002-07:002014-03-19T03:13:31.244-07:00The World's Greatest EducationAsk anyone in my family and they would vouch for the fact that I was spoiled as a child. Being the youngest by seven years, I not only got the spoils of being the "baby", but for quite a while of being an "only child." When my sister hears about some of the things I was allowed to do and things that Mom and Dad didn't question, she says, "You can thank me for that." In retrospect, I am not afraid to admit that I could be a bit of a brat. <br />
<br />
However, one way in which I was proud to have been spoiled was in all the travel that I made at an early age. The summer before my freshman year of high school, at the age of thirteen, I took my first trip to Europe with my parents. We went to London, Paris, Holland, and Belgium. It was a whirlwind tour in which I got to do such things as see "Cats" on its original stage, eat chocolate crepes under the Eiffel Tower, and visit with Dad's aunts. When I was in tenth grade, I was given permission to take a class trip to Germany. The summer between my junior and senior years, I studied abroad for three months in Bavaria. This is all not mentioning the European graduation trips that I got to take and my study abroad in college in Holland. <br />
<br />
I know what you are thinking. What a spoiled brat. To that, I say, that, as the youngest, I was fortunate enough to live with my parents well into my dad's success and to a time when he was able to enjoy it more. I just came along for the ride. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrJXgLzJ3kWbW4ocjgnclpCi7e5KR-y1hvgX1hJ87tZHUYLCXsglvOqKJCV4Ov8u05aDcqdgeoyt5k6ftxee1sAzdeuAGpJh2od1c2NDG5hQNh_cBUPJFjmI8_CP2uJekBucYh0hek2s/s1600/flfamtusks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrJXgLzJ3kWbW4ocjgnclpCi7e5KR-y1hvgX1hJ87tZHUYLCXsglvOqKJCV4Ov8u05aDcqdgeoyt5k6ftxee1sAzdeuAGpJh2od1c2NDG5hQNh_cBUPJFjmI8_CP2uJekBucYh0hek2s/s1600/flfamtusks.jpg" height="219" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not all our trips were to Europe. Here is a family trip to<br />Florida</td></tr>
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Through all of these experiences, though, there was one mantra that my dad always instilled in me. Disregarding the obvious importance of going to school, he always attested that "Travel is the best education." If you want to learn what the world is like, you have to go out and experience it. If you want to learn another language, the best way is to go to that country. Learning in books gave a definite appreciation and love for things, but to truly <em>learn</em> about them, you have to go and see them yourself. <br />
<br />
When he told me that when I was a teenager, I just nodded my head and said, "Okay." However, the more I saw of these distant places, the more I began to realize how broad the world was and how different other people can be. It gave a deep appreciation for the lives of others and for the idea that it is better that no nations are the same. <br />
<br />
Beyond academic learning, travelling is a personal learning experience. In getting around a foreign place, you must learn to rely on yourself in a whole new way. You are forced to face situations that had earlier only been nightmares or imaginings. Initial fear led to nervousness and tentative problem-solving. Eventually, when solutions occurred, it brought in a new sense of self confidence. <br />
<br />
Perhaps because he was from Europe, himself, it always seemed important to him to show us that part of the world. As each of us finished high school, Dad began the tradition of taking that graduate alone on an overseas trip. We pick the countries; he plays tour guide. It was a win-win.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzIkd13XgMg33GzTs2Y6EidJMhyKeM2pVoxKP412uz57GHtQ6tUeW1WGHK4U371IdPqwsVPibwQyy3SSkOVEYcRBF5Z_vlMhHF2EdlvuGdm3Uuu1G_WWUPCTGN_eVlSuqZ-_-gbkwarpA/s1600/sf2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzIkd13XgMg33GzTs2Y6EidJMhyKeM2pVoxKP412uz57GHtQ6tUeW1WGHK4U371IdPqwsVPibwQyy3SSkOVEYcRBF5Z_vlMhHF2EdlvuGdm3Uuu1G_WWUPCTGN_eVlSuqZ-_-gbkwarpA/s1600/sf2.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I was still really young, my dad took my brothers on a<br />couple trips, like here to San Francisco.</td></tr>
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<br />
As an eighteen year old who didn't see eye to eye with my father, my sister decided instead to go to Canada and revisit family on her own. I only know bits and pieces of the trips that he took with each of my brothers to Europe. I believe there is a photo of Jim doing a hand stand in front of the Eiffel Tower. <br />
<br />
There is also the story of Bryan and Dad's hotel room in London being robbed. In the days before safes in the hotel rooms, the two went out to grab some dinner. When they returned, they found out that a number of rooms had been robbed and theirs was among them. A day or two of work and a couple visits to the embassy and they were set to go again. Each day, they packed up all their important possessions into a little blue Eastpack backpack and headed out. Randomly throughout the day, Dad would stop Bryan and say, "Do you have the little blue bag?" In fact, in vacations for years to come, when Dad wanted to doublecheck if we had everything, he simply asked, "Do you have the little blue bag?" No matter that generally the bag was not blue or that Bryan wasn't always there when he asked. It had become like an idiomatic expression in our family. A sentence in "Van Welzen-ese" for "Do you have your purse?"<br />
<br />
When it was my turn to go on the trip, my mom finally spoke up and said, "Hey, you have been taking these kids on all these trips and I have never gotten to go. I want to come this time." Once again, we visited Holland, but also ventured down into Germany. We visited with my host family in Bavaria from the time when I was sixteen and saw all the usual sites. It was fun to show off my growing language skills for my parents, although my dad still maintained that he also spoke German. He worked for Siemens for years and had made numerous trips to their headquarters in Munich. When we got into a cab in that city, and he was able to relay to the cabbie where we wanted to go and ask some basic questions, he turned to me and said, "See, I speak German."<br />
<br />
Me: "You weren't even talking in sentences, Dad."<br />
Dad: "But he understood me, didn't he?"<br />
Me: "Okay, say something else."<br />
Dad: <em>(with a smirk that betrayed that he had been caught) </em>"<em> </em>Uh, das ist nicht for de Finger poken und Mitten grabben."<br />
<br />
Being the spoiled child that I was, I got to take not one, but two trips with Dad to Europe for graduations. In 2002, I graduated from UVA and my mom decided that it was unfair that I had never gotten to travel alone with Dad. She released us with her blessing to go and do this. This time, we headed to southern Germany and Austria on a two-week tour of as many cities as possible. It was one of my favorite trips and abounds with enough stories for its own blog entry.<br />
<br />
When I look back at it, although it may have seemed like a rich kid kind of thing to get to do, I know that this travel has helped to make me who I am. It was important to Dad that we know that there was more out there than our own little bubble of the universe. I also see it is an incredible gift on his part. He was in a place in his life where he could expose his children to all these places and ideas. He had the money to afford it and perhaps he realized that we might not always be able to do that for ourselves. Indeed, as a teacher married to a teacher, there are no funds for us to visit Europe in spite of the fact that we are both German teachers. When I think of that, I cherish the fact that my dad took the time to provide us with this education. <br />
<br />
He taught us how to navigate in a foreign country or even just an airport. He instilled in us an appreciation for the places outside the shores of "Murica". He taught us not to fear the unknown; rather to jump right in and just give it a try. He taught us how to educate ourselves through experience.<br />
<br />
Every now and again, I loved to throw Dad's mantra back at him. It came in especially handy after he found out that I had studied abroad in Holland for six months without transferring back any credits. He grew angry and lamented the amount of money he had spent for me to galivant around Europe. Although I know he was proud that I even had the desire to go abroad, he still felt obligated to complain about the loss of money.<br />
<br />
Me: "I didn't go to Holland with the intention of transferring credits anyway."<br />
Dad: "That is obvious."<br />
Me: "I went to Holland to learn Dutch and learn about the country. If you can't see that it was one of the most important and amazing experiences in my life, then I don't know what to say."<br />
Dad: "Yeah, yeah."<br />
Me <em>(with a winning smirk)</em>: "Anyway, Dad, isn't you who has always told me, 'The best education is travel?'"<br />
<br />
<em>HA! Gotcha on that one!</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-70034907377855631002014-03-18T04:35:00.004-07:002014-03-18T04:35:55.781-07:00Passion and CallingsI am inspired by a friend's blog to contemplate the idea of finding your passion and calling in life. So often is there discussion of "What is your passion" when referring to a healthy mental state, that I have pondered this same thing. When I became a teacher, I thought I was doing it because I needed to find money. Well, that was surely true, I always intended for it to be an intermediary career until I figured out a way to my real passion. I even said to a couple people things along the lines of "While I am a teacher" or "I'm a teacher for now." It took me a couple years to admit to myself that perhaps this was my calling. After all, who hopes that their calling is a job in which you are horribly underpaid, largely over-worked, and wholly <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xtAiFpMsRo9OINQDICtzwTJdBEHAkrE4J_BzGnKPTJlRzM6bkmhr_6f092Bopwa55wy_Y9viRaC8zZkCWZZAFeNuucLok0TvwxX58eJm_8W8TMkLCAWX6rLAE2iD-MzUAmuSeZt6-s4/s1600/2006-03-21+-+469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xtAiFpMsRo9OINQDICtzwTJdBEHAkrE4J_BzGnKPTJlRzM6bkmhr_6f092Bopwa55wy_Y9viRaC8zZkCWZZAFeNuucLok0TvwxX58eJm_8W8TMkLCAWX6rLAE2iD-MzUAmuSeZt6-s4/s1600/2006-03-21+-+469.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A picture of me, "on the job"</td></tr>
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unappreciated? I also always had the feeling that my dad felt like I could have done more. <br />
<br />
It was actually after a "Curriculum Fair" at school that I finally pieced it all together. At this Fair, we were made to stand at a table and pedal our program to the upcoming freshmen and other parents who were walking by. Generally, what ended up happening was that a couple of current students would come by with their parents or the parents would come by on their own. We would chat and talk about plans for the next year. At other times, there were middle-schoolers who had begun looking excitedly toward high school; they were in German 1 and were overjoyed to meet one of the teachers they would have in the coming year. After a slow start, I left for the evening, beaming from chatting with excited parents, making small talk, and just generally interacting with nice people. <br />
<br />
I trotted out to my car with something of a skip to my step. I felt like I was on a high. I was singing in the car, happy as could be. Suddenly I stopped myself and thought<em>, Why do I feel so excited? I am leaving the school at 9 PM and I feel overjoyed</em>. Then it hit me. I love people. I love talking to people. I love helping people. I love interacting and seeing other people smile. People are my passion.<br />
<br />
From there, it only made sense that teaching would be my calling. What a fantastic opportunity to be constantly surrounded by people. More than that, I actually got to be a part of making people into their future selves. <br />
<br />
My husband has always noted that I have an easy way with others. I am able to smile and chat and get along with pretty much anyone. "People love your mommy," he once told Jamey.<br />
<br />
My people skills are easily one of my favorite traits that I inherited from both of my parents. When I look at all the progress that my father was able to make in his life, I know that it is largely because of his ability to talk to others, to get along with them, to make them see what he was thinking. It was the way that he got people to agree with him all the time; it was how he always got his way with things; it was how he was so often able to bend the rules. More than anything, it was what made people love him.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg608rW7ePKsqTak1jd-5EALBtV-0xmnPBNkhcj77_hMZd1kViFfPHpuxdxEWxObjqyftRtg9NGGSnDHJl8w-QQbAmFo7kMu-09iqTPeb-cjnx5cISb5YF9MrgGgINQFy-C8EPnxPu26pQ/s1600/cruise+sweden+0900509+052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg608rW7ePKsqTak1jd-5EALBtV-0xmnPBNkhcj77_hMZd1kViFfPHpuxdxEWxObjqyftRtg9NGGSnDHJl8w-QQbAmFo7kMu-09iqTPeb-cjnx5cISb5YF9MrgGgINQFy-C8EPnxPu26pQ/s1600/cruise+sweden+0900509+052.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging out with friends on one of the many cruises that he<br />organized</td></tr>
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<br />
Even after he had retired, he had to be out there among people. For a while, he worked at a local nursery selling turf. In Emerald Isle, he became President of the HOA. He organized cruises among his neighbors. For him, it was never about the work. It was about the people. He had a passion for people. (And maybe for attention, too.)<br />
<br />
I wonder if my dad understood my passion for teaching; if he recognized that it was more about my love of helping other people than it was about teaching German. During our political discussions, I felt like he didn't really understand what education was all about. He didn't understand how it works and the amount of time and effort goes into it. Although I mentioned it to him repeatedly, I wonder if he really understood that for me, it wasn't about the money. When my dad died, there was one thing that did give me comfort, though. <br />
<br />
After hours of watching "Long Island Medium" and believing that our loved ones are all around us, watching us as we go through our lives, I was suddenly excited because I knew that my dad could come and see me teach now. Finally, maybe he would get it. Maybe he would realize just how much goes into education and how much of themselves the good teachers give to their students. Finally, he would be able to watch me doing the thing I loved the most and just be proud. It was a strange sense of validation for me after so long of striving to be sure that my dad wasn't just proud of me, but respected the career I had chosen.<br />
<br />
<em>Hey, Dad, just as with any principal or other observer, you are welcome in my classroom any time. </em> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-3896796304242379722014-03-17T07:56:00.003-07:002014-03-17T07:56:32.020-07:00The Montreal Scoop<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvzU427hRIJ9EV1D4FiZXWAwiOsttMNnx5Uvi33aowrfSt78R52DXVs1xZQZMDZPmi5U-eptiJixTwTc1uUWWT1uAjrlYFrtoxTI7ggmvfGI7KjCOVeeVUUgiZXHqc_QAB9I4ft0dhsI/s1600/2003-01-23+-+506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvzU427hRIJ9EV1D4FiZXWAwiOsttMNnx5Uvi33aowrfSt78R52DXVs1xZQZMDZPmi5U-eptiJixTwTc1uUWWT1uAjrlYFrtoxTI7ggmvfGI7KjCOVeeVUUgiZXHqc_QAB9I4ft0dhsI/s1600/2003-01-23+-+506.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of a few times that they had snow on the beach </td></tr>
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On a snowy day, I am inspired to write about the flaky stuff and think back to memories of my dad in the snow. For me, most of these come from the time we lived in Littleton, Colorado for four years. At the time, I was only around five years old, so I was generally not allowed to go out when we got giant snowstorms. I clearly remember one storm, in which I was allowed into the garage to watch it, but not venture out because it reached above my head. I also remembered walking to our neighbor's house across the street, except for me, it felt more like walking through a giant maze with walls towering over me. Those were also the days when my brothers scared the life out of my mom by piling up the snow, climbing onto the roof, and then jumping down into it. I believe they only did that once.<br />
<br />
When it comes to childhood images of my dad in the snow, though, the most prominent memory deals with the enormous snow scoop that we had and which he trotted out whenever a front came through. Having lived in Montreal, Nova Scotia, and Ontario, it was natural that my dad would have the "Monster" of all snow scoops. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://archive.perfectduluthday.com/scoop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://archive.perfectduluthday.com/scoop.jpg" width="200" /></a>It looked a little like the picture to the left, except that it was about a third wider and twice as tall. In our family, it was referred to lovingly as the "Montreal scoop" or at least in my mind it was. While all those around us pulled out their flimsy shovels and scrapers, Dad pulled the Montreal scoop out of the rafters in the garage and got to work. It was kind of like his own personal snow plow. From what I understand, it was quite the workout. <br />
<br />
With snowfall this year measuring into 9 inches and even 16 for one storm, I find myself wondering what became of the Montreal shovel. Although they had one or two incidents of snow on the beach, I am almost positive that it didn't make the move to Emerald Isle. This leads me to believe that it was sold off in a garage sale before my parents' final move together. Darn. We could really use it about now.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-76023138672137858132014-03-16T19:10:00.001-07:002014-03-16T19:10:08.411-07:00My Japanese Dutch Father<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrC1zC35U6ahRLXYa_H4LEZ1TS_7IpBZRSfIX1M3MJaI0169aKak8HZsGDIaOJ1oM0TG1ZfpxdYDWbHtHCI4rCu0yDkJTghQr__OqhgETabYxc9oQ90mDIPUCh_e6iYkxEZJAhNcxw2rY/s1600/camera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrC1zC35U6ahRLXYa_H4LEZ1TS_7IpBZRSfIX1M3MJaI0169aKak8HZsGDIaOJ1oM0TG1ZfpxdYDWbHtHCI4rCu0yDkJTghQr__OqhgETabYxc9oQ90mDIPUCh_e6iYkxEZJAhNcxw2rY/s1600/camera.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad on a trip with the requisite camera<br />
bag</td></tr>
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Being someone who embraced travelling as a way of learning about the world and of relaxing, it is natural that one of Dad's favorite accessories was a camera. However, the extent to which he adopted a camera as practically an appendage was a little much. At some point when I was growing up, my <br />
mother and sister developed the nickname that my father was "Japanese Dutch", thanks to the frequency with which he had a camera around his neck.<br />
<br />
Up until the day he passed, my dad had a camera bag in his closet with at least two cameras in it. Even when he already had a bunch, he had to get a new camera because it was smaller or the newest "cool" thing for techie's. He so desperately wanted to be a "techie." One of his latest purchases was a Digital SLR and this definitely made him feel like he was in the big time. He called my brother Bryan, who held the unspoken title of "Artist" in the family to discuss it and ask how to use it. He also asked a friend of his how to use it. In all the complexity of his fancy camera, the farthest he ever got was to put it on "the P" and "it will shoot whatever you need." He, himself, acknowledged that he didn't need to do anything extensive, but he still felt like one of the "Cool Kids" for having the nice camera.<br />
For every vacation he took, he came back with hundreds of photos. This was bad enough pre-digital, but once he had the ability to see the photo he had taken and possibly retake it, the sky was the limit. After any cruise that my parents took, you had to be prepared on your next visit with Dad that you would need to dedicate a good hour to going through all his photos. With every photo, too, there was a story. It took all my love and patience to set aside my disinterest at seeing a dozen photos of a cruise ship and a cavalvade of European churches, and find some kind of comment to make. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7mNvf8Q0UBG5fpExUB745XSV6En1jPfBYVm6mPjF9_qd4zL6qNb2VB3JQ6RzllXNuOrxTyuKx2Vpgj60xrAEE_G1yrFSYGt4GcxPBrDHA98bIXy0Zdmun_F83ud-aa7qluSTQOK7kFs/s1600/thrilled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7mNvf8Q0UBG5fpExUB745XSV6En1jPfBYVm6mPjF9_qd4zL6qNb2VB3JQ6RzllXNuOrxTyuKx2Vpgj60xrAEE_G1yrFSYGt4GcxPBrDHA98bIXy0Zdmun_F83ud-aa7qluSTQOK7kFs/s1600/thrilled.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As always, Jim and Bryan look ecstatic to be taking photos</td></tr>
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Looking back on a trip that our family took to Canada when I was younger, you can find the same picture from three different angles with three combinations of people. "Okay, everybody together." "This time just Lissa and Mom." "This time just the boys." And in every one, my brothers looked equally as excited as the last; that is to say, not at all. <br />
One of Dad's biggest habits was to find the most inopportune times to take pictures. He had a number of pictures from trips with my brothers in which they were just coming out of a public restroom. I recall a picture in which I am pretty sure my brother's girlfriend is breaking up with him at a 4th of July picnic. The moment before he was about to walk me down the aisle, he pulled a tiny camera out of his shirt pocket and took a selfie of us. The moment we sat down to Thanksgiving dinner, he would cue us to take a photo. Bryan and I sat next to each other, laid our forks on our plates, and looked up with a smile. "No, no, look natural. Don't look at the camera." <br />
<br />
"Do you really want a picture of us eating?" Bryan asked. It seemed, indeed, that he did. One year, Bryan had grown so tired of this photography that he bulged his eyes out, held up an enormous fork-full of food, and did his best imitation of a wild animal devouring his meal. <br />
<br />
In fact, my dad's attempts at capturing natural moments were so overtaken with photography that they became wholly unnatural. At Christmas, we all sat around the tree, and I ran over and hugged Jim for giving me a present. I launched my five-year-old self at his teenage frame in a bear embrace that practically knocked him over. Dad swooped in with his camera. "No, wait, hug him again." Jim just looked at Dad wryly. "The moment is over, Dad." <br />
<br />
When we all went and met Jim's oldest son Max for the first time when he was a baby, we huddled around him with ooh's and aah's. Dad handed my mom the camera and took Max into his arms. He sat down on the wide green sofa and called for me to come sit next to him. "Just kind of sit behind me a little and look down at Max. Mary, you stand above us and get a picture." We all got into positions and sat. Luckily, it was easy to sit stock-still and just stare down at the adorable newborn. But when a minute passed and my mom hadn't taken the picture, my dad piped up, "Did you take the picture, Mare?"<br />
<br />
"I am waiting for you guys to look at me."<br />
<br />
"We aren't going to look up. Just take a picture of us looking at Max."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZU-uHSX6mQQb-u3I3HgRvMfrtrTwxS6Gq_kkmTwA6K-S_jjxdAeuN-zkdHt4kSgVtaiatcGJ6KjxRKDaTiCFmVHVRVfqMgG30pbDbPv-6gYJjJQLykJTt5m24ve0vrSmRYJM_1XftfBY/s1600/family+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZU-uHSX6mQQb-u3I3HgRvMfrtrTwxS6Gq_kkmTwA6K-S_jjxdAeuN-zkdHt4kSgVtaiatcGJ6KjxRKDaTiCFmVHVRVfqMgG30pbDbPv-6gYJjJQLykJTt5m24ve0vrSmRYJM_1XftfBY/s1600/family+1.jpg" height="200" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Generally, the only person following his rule of <br />
"Don't look at the camera in family photos" <br />
was my dad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUSbd8ifaVy2b6XUP4LD7gqyj45MdgIYM-a5CQy4n_bBYcSGhswVMeHDLoFLC00AHy_9WLjXxr2mEypm_BOwHB_loUAyq-a0oS9bzTeWMgFovpj8v39fKQIw2HjAzKOzftsVwTkvxc3A/s1600/family2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUSbd8ifaVy2b6XUP4LD7gqyj45MdgIYM-a5CQy4n_bBYcSGhswVMeHDLoFLC00AHy_9WLjXxr2mEypm_BOwHB_loUAyq-a0oS9bzTeWMgFovpj8v39fKQIw2HjAzKOzftsVwTkvxc3A/s1600/family2.jpg" height="136" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
This, of course, was my dad's favorite technique for candid photography-- posed candid photography. He would gather a group of us together, tell us exactly where to stand, and then say, "Okay, now just look at each other like you are talking." Our first attempt at posing would be rejected, "No, just look natural." <em>Look natural in the positions where I posed you.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
The result was usually family photos that look like catalog photographs. Beautiful family, happy people, but obviously posed. It still always made Dad happy.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the way, this trait has rubbed off on two of us. Bryan is a pro with cameras, having a degree in graphic design and even worked as an aerial photographer for a while. As the yearbook sponsor at school, I am obsessed with finding the perfect candid shots. During one of our session decorating the golf cart for the 4th of July parade, I constanly had a camera around my neck, even as I was cutting through red pool noodles and threading them with fishing line, in an attempt to turn the cart into a crab. Every couple minutes, I stepped back to take a couple shots. My dad was doing the same. Finally, as I leaned over Jim, who was toiling over how to keep the noodle arms stationary as we moved, he looked at me with my camera and Dad with his and said, "This family needs to work more on making history instead of just recording it."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-50686795404103462822014-03-15T05:04:00.002-07:002014-03-15T05:04:28.172-07:00That's not how it happened...One of my greatest pet peeves comes from the way other people retell stories for which I was a part. I know it is a natural inclination to want to embellish and make a story more exciting than perhaps it was. I know most people don't quote what people said verbatim because they don't always remember. I am sure even I do it now and again as a storyteller.<br />
<br />
However, if I was present when something happened and then my husband retells what happens but misquotes and misrepresents the facts, it drives me crazy. Call it the curse of my photographic memory. Also, it usually involves conveying me in a different light than how I saw myself, or implying that something was my idea when it was actually someone else's. <br />
<br />
Yes, Glenn does it all the time and I try my best not to speak up, push my glasses up my nose, and say, "Actually, that is not what happened." It can have a certain way of draining the fun out of an anecdote. I have had a lot of practice suppressing this urge because my father also had an enormous habit of embellishment. And some of my his favorite stories to retell... and retell.... and retell involved me. <br />
<br />
One story that I am sure that I heard at least once a visit to his house came from my time in Holland. As an international student, I went to a bunch of different weekly meet-ups with the others "of my kind." On Wednesdays, for example, we all used to gather at a place called Einstein's. It was a bar by the time of evening we got there, but it was also a really good restaurant. We packed the place to the point where there were no tables at which to sit and barely an aisle in which to walk.<br />
<br />
When Dad came to visit me for a weekend, he requested that we go to a place that I was going with my friends on a regular basis. We decided to go to Einstein's for dinner. We had a phenomenal Thai dinner with yellow curry. So good! It wasn't anything special. Just dinner at a restaurant, like millions of people have every day. That is NOT how my dad told it. <br />
<br />
"Have I ever told you about the time that I visited Lissa when she studied in Holland? She took me to this place called Einstein's and told me she had been there once or twice. When we walked in, the guy at the bar spotted her and yelled out, 'Melissa!' It was like going to a bar with Norm. Then when we sat down and the waiter came over to take our orders and said, 'Your usual, Melissa?' I was like, 'How often do you come here?'"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuVvZMxecdA-6wXynpYyUcGLqeKj58T4JV1vISoySQ4LKfsdSNJLPNXp6-RjAZRSwve0xC4Re5iIC1X135G_qqsTYycBe2W6rpjU1FSazvqIUN-i3cPToeZ6op5n2IZ6RkaYHSdBK8PE/s1600/dad's+toast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuVvZMxecdA-6wXynpYyUcGLqeKj58T4JV1vISoySQ4LKfsdSNJLPNXp6-RjAZRSwve0xC4Re5iIC1X135G_qqsTYycBe2W6rpjU1FSazvqIUN-i3cPToeZ6op5n2IZ6RkaYHSdBK8PE/s1600/dad's+toast.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am sure that the "Einstein's" story was part of my<br />dad's toast to me at my wedding.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Granted, my dad's version made me sound infinitely cooler and far more popular. I should have just let it go and basked in the glory of my newfound fame. Yet, I couldn't let it go. The first time I heard the story, I immediately responded with "That is not what happened." Even when my dad tilted his head at me, silently asking me not to protest, I did.<br />
<br />
After a while, when he started to tell the story, I whispered in the direction of the listeners. "This never actually happened." Finally, after a while, so as not to spoil my father's fun, and because I realized it was inconsequential if my parents' neighbors thought I had gone to bars a lot when I was in Holland, I just shook my head in silence to react. (After all, I actually had.) <br />
<br />
When I was a teenager, he had taken the story about my one trip to traffic court and made me sound like a female Perry Mason, swaggering into the room with a pant-suit to rival Hillary Clinton and a swinging briefcase. I had received a ticket for cutting through the AT&T parking lot on the way to school in order to avoid the horribly long light at the intersection of Chain Bridge Road and Jermantown. Dozens of Oakton students did it every morning and I simply became a follower. I honestly didn't realize that it wasn't allowed. One morning, we were surprised to find a cop waiting to ticket each and every one of us who cut through.<br />
<br />
Upon going to court, I informed the judge that I honestly didn't know that it was illegal and that I immediately stopped doing it. Apparently a bit of my dad's power of persuasion had rubbed off, because they threw my ticket out and informed me that my plea was something called "Nola contendere." It was basically a way of claiming ignorance. To say my Dad was proud of my victory is an understatement. I had become a chip off the old block, worthy of a great story. So he turned it into one.<br />
<br />
"And she walked right in there and told them that she was enterring a plea of 'Nola contendere.' The judge was so impressed that she knew about it that<br />
<br />
he didn't have to hear anything else. He threw it out immediately."<br />
<br />
This version was close enough to the real thing that I didn't protest too much. However, I wished that I could have seen the image of me that he had in his head from that day.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhqUlDUazDttdiJSpn_YGjUT9GTxOVgQ1quE95RhtLbhjUL5QKG2g0asmdKLkK4OB70aaYWr0B9P_LNYA3PmDNSlRFnMcQoqSIrwZfWCag-mM1y7ZXzObIxaeTwaFcM6gapA3IaQYpqI/s1600/with+young+max.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhqUlDUazDttdiJSpn_YGjUT9GTxOVgQ1quE95RhtLbhjUL5QKG2g0asmdKLkK4OB70aaYWr0B9P_LNYA3PmDNSlRFnMcQoqSIrwZfWCag-mM1y7ZXzObIxaeTwaFcM6gapA3IaQYpqI/s1600/with+young+max.JPG" height="293" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even babies (like Max) had to laugh at his stories.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
All in all, my dad was known for his storytelling. I think that it was generally accepted that he wasn't really telling the story just as it had been. He hadn't really "driven through a tornado at Sebring with Jim." He also hadn't been "attacked by a crossing guard trying to sell him some kind of Gatorade." I hope to God that he hadn't actually gotten from Emerald Isle to Northern Virginia in just under five hours. (It takes my family at least 6.5.) However, when you saw the light in his eyes as people gathered around him, turning all their attention to him, it was hard to put down his glee. We had to content ourselves simply with a roll of the eyes and an admonishing shake of our heads.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-72178191801036317222014-03-14T11:35:00.000-07:002014-03-14T11:35:29.643-07:00No gelato at 9 AM? WHAT?Any given family has its own mix of traditions and ideas that create a family culture. Sometimes it centers around religion or an organization of which the family is a part. For my parents and three siblings, two aspects of our "family culture" pop immediately into my head.<br />
<br />
1. You must be sarcastic. <em>(more on that another day)</em><br />
2. Ice cream is the food of the gods.<br />
<br />
A single peek into my mom's freezer on Emerald Isle on any day, at any time reveals at least four different types of ice cream. This is not an embellishment for the sake of story-telling. This is a fact. It also isn't taking into account the larger freezer that she has downstairs on the first floor. I wouldn't even want to try and guess on how many cartons were down there. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUDEXbR3rZ_NfJXAYiEpUuknPRos5XX7K_JP63faK2g8iDd-5dlBsshJWNhxE_buHpba-6MTjVmcxKBYJ7T6yv9txMkB6NJX2TBye5r5Jt-GfSC9pOFWlO6A2EAgQ4ZuzfTCuvFP0YVVk/s1600/barcelona+mallorca+0206+040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUDEXbR3rZ_NfJXAYiEpUuknPRos5XX7K_JP63faK2g8iDd-5dlBsshJWNhxE_buHpba-6MTjVmcxKBYJ7T6yv9txMkB6NJX2TBye5r5Jt-GfSC9pOFWlO6A2EAgQ4ZuzfTCuvFP0YVVk/s1600/barcelona+mallorca+0206+040.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a break for gelato while in Barcelona with Mom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For our family, ice cream is not a simple after-dinner treat; it is a way of life. And I place the blame for this fact squarely on my father's shoulders. Even now, when I pass the ice cream section, I have to stop myself from buying some Rum Raisin or Black Cherry to have in the freezer for when he visits. When he was still alive, a quick trip to the store was always needed before he came up to see us. Generally, Glenn and I don't keep ice cream in the freezer; for me, it is because I know I will just keep pigging out on it until it is gone. That is usually a day or two.<br />
When my dad was told that he had to start taking Lipitor and watch his cholesterol more closely, I thought that might finally be the cue for him to cut back on the ice cream. I was wrong. While he was, indeed, much more careful about eggs and large portions, there was no cutting back on ice cream. Around 8 PM every night, he waited for a commercial, walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a small dish. He opened the freezer and began digging through it. Inevitably, he let out a sigh of disgust, as he removed item after item from the jam-packed freezer, trying to find his rum raisin. Finally, he threw his hands in the air and yelled, "Mare, where did you put my ice cream? It was just here last night."<br />
<br />
Her response was usually something like, "Did you look behind the box of waffles?" It was followed by the sound of rummaging and things falling to the ground. After another minute of grumbling, my mom would release her own sigh of annoyance, and walk to the kitchen. <br />
<br />
"I don't see it anywhere. I don't see why we have to have so many things in the freezer."<br />
<br />
Mom leaned to pick up a frozen block of chicken or a bag of peas and swat him away. "Just get away; I'll find it." A couple seconds of rearranging and generally she found it in an obvious spot. Whenever he went into the freezer or fridge, he had a habit of "man looking".<br />
<br />
The next night, this same situation generally happened again.<br />
<br />
In all his travels to Europe, my dad began to consider himself an ice cream connesieur. I even found a travel journal from a trip he took with my brother, in which he had made a chart of all the countries they would be visiting and a grade report and comment area. I believe the highest marks went to Germany. Of course, over there, it is actually gelato and miles better than anything similiar in the US. <br />
<br />
On a European trip with Dad, there was actually no time limit to when you were allowed to have ice cream. One of his favorite stories about a trip that he and I took to Germany and Austria is actually about ice cream. I have heard it about a thousand times, and I still don't remember it happening the way that he told it.<br />
<br />
Apparently, we were in Linz at the time and had headed out into the town to get some breakfast. Heading down a stone-covered road, one of the cafes already had their gelatto counter open. As Dad would tell it, he suggested we forgo the usual breakfast and just have ice cream. "She wouldn't let me have ice cream for breakfast in Linz; can you believe it?" My response was to feign shock at the story and say, "It was nine o'clock in the morning. You can't have ice cream that early."<br />
<br />
Having a Dad who was a die-hard ice cream fan came in handy on any vacation, but also occasionally at home. It was easy to blame him for missing treats. One weekend, my mom headed to the freezer to have a chocolate popsicle, only to find an empty box. My friend Laura and I were still lurking in the kitchen, when my mom looked at us. "Who ate the last popsicle?" I shrugged my shoulders innocently and went to get a drink. <br />
<br />
Mom closed the freezer quickly and yelled to my dad in the next room over. "Hans, did you eat the last popsicle?" When he bellowed back with a "no", she said, "Oh yes, you did." <br />
<br />
"No, I didn't. I didn't have one today."<br />
<br />
At this point, she became completely mistrustful. "Hans, I saw you eat it!" A tone of seriousness had come over her.<br />
<br />
Before my mom turned her hunger/ anger on us, Laura and I crept out of the kitchen. I wiped my face to be sure there was no evidence of the popsicle I had just eaten still on my face.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-17800930261601735272014-03-13T06:30:00.002-07:002014-03-13T06:30:14.512-07:00Go, go, Speedracer!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSD7zwS1gchCvVqzpUIIw8QGvjmWbCCSDu5aDVe3CVVcM87iI_2TnlNzC2ySwSQlOWY7YPQDghIrl0V2GKByFy0pbOm8MKA2El58aIXbyKDOVd-YomuuBF5m7AGpkDE2en8REew_omkk0/s1600/flintstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSD7zwS1gchCvVqzpUIIw8QGvjmWbCCSDu5aDVe3CVVcM87iI_2TnlNzC2ySwSQlOWY7YPQDghIrl0V2GKByFy0pbOm8MKA2El58aIXbyKDOVd-YomuuBF5m7AGpkDE2en8REew_omkk0/s1600/flintstone.jpg" height="258" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even in this car, my dad probably would have sped</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One would think my dad was an excellent driver. After all, he had a perfect driving record. If a cop were to pull him over for following to closely, or perhaps even driving too fast, they would pull up his record to see that he hadn't had a single ticket. Or had he?<br />
<br />
In truth, my dad had a reputation for being able to get out of speeding tickets like no one else you will ever meet. It drove my mom crazy. Every ride with him in the car elicited a gasp from her, as he swerved down the highways and dodged traffic. He took turns quickly. He followed closely. He was almost always over the speed limit, in fact. And rarely did a ticket stick long enough to show up on his record. She occasionally joked that she wanted to just lean over in the car and beg the cop who pulled him over to just give him the ticket and punish him for his smart-ass ways.<br />
<br />
Whether it was true strategy or coincidence, my dad managed to get only a single traffic ticket at any given time in any given county. For example, there was a period of time when he and my mom drove up from Emerald Isle every week to work at Betty's Azalea Ranch. The six hour drive took them through numerous counties and two states. On one trip, he was pulled over on Interstate 95 in Green County, North Carolina.<br />
<br />
The cop walked up to the window, where my dad had his license and registration at the ready. As he leaned down, my dad flashed a smile. "I apologize for speeding, officer. I'm usually much more careful. In fact, I've never even had a speeding ticket."<br />
<br />
After a short chat, the cop went back to his squad car, spent a few minutes punching information into his computer, and then reapproached my dad's window. It was the moment of truth. My mom and dad were looking for opposites results. In the end, it was always my dad that got his way.<br />
<br />
"It looks like you are right. You don't have anything else on your record and because this is your first time, I am going to let you off with a warning."<br />
<br />
Dad nodded graciously and said, "I really appreciate that." After another brief moment of small-talk, Dad headed on his merry way, scot-free.<br />
<br />
On another such trip, Dad was not so lucky. He was pulled over twice. On the way up from Emerald Isle, he was pulled over in Henrico County near Richmond. The cop wasn't quite as generous and went ahead and gave Dad the ticket. Strike one. My mom was beside her self with pleasure.<br />
<br />
On the way back home to Emerald Isle, he was pulled over again. This time it was in a county in the northern section of North Carolina. If the cop had known that he had been pulled over days before, he probably would have been pretty harsh. However, when he looked it up, it only showed the record in that one county. He let him off with a warning. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, it wasn't just as simple as the cop seeing he had a clean record. Luckily, as I have mentioned before, my dad knew how to smooth talk. He was very apologetic and profusely promised to never do it again. And as long as he could manage not to get pulled over twice in one county, he was usually okay. <br />
<br />
That being said, there were a few times that he didn't get away with it. However, even then, there was a simple solution. If he went to traffic school, they were willing to erase the blemish. Let's just say, he was a pro at traffic school, and as soon as he "graduated", he was back to a clean record.<br />
<br />
While I can joke about all this now that he is gone, when my dad was still alive, it drove me insane. Now and then, he would make some remark about having dodged dozens of tickets. He once pulled out a card from his wallet that was signed by a local police officer, that basically said, "Hans is okay. Let him off with a warning." (His hairdresser's husband is a police officer and had given it to him as a joke.) He claimed he actually used it once. I'm not sure I believe that.<br />
<br />
In general, though, whenever he bordered on bragging, I glared at him and said, "I'm so glad that you are so proud of breaking the law and driving dangerously." This type of chastisement just worked in his favor, though, because he was ultimately saying those things just to push my buttons. For some reason, he found it amusing to try to get a rise out of me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-53422831858111393492014-03-12T08:12:00.002-07:002014-03-12T08:12:33.183-07:00The True Nature of my FatherIf I had had to guess who it would be that would give me great comfort through words after my father's death, I am pretty sure I wouldn't have named a mechanic that I had never met before. And yet, when I think back to that week, it is indeed my dad's repairman who shed a new light on the legacy that my father was leaving behind.<br />
<br />
I first talked to Roy as I saw on my parents' front balcony. I had been charged with calling people who may not have heard about the news to inform them of Dad's passing. Among them were people like "Dog Debbie", who cared for their dog when they were on vacation. Then there were people from the gym that my dad went to, his hairdresser of ten years, friends that dated back thirty-odd years. And then, there was Roy. <br />
<br />
Roy was my dad's mechanic and more than that, he was just a buddy. Whenever Dad went on his daily errand run to the post office, he would also pop over to see Roy, whose shop was across from the street. Sure, he sometimes had car problems, but generally, he just came to shoot the shit. Once again, he had found a comrade in someone who also helped him out at times. When I told Roy about my Dad, there was immediate silence and shock. "I just saw him last week and he was fine," Roy said. It was the same reaction that everyone around the island had had. <br />
<br />
The next day, I unexpectedly had the chance to meet Roy. My sister and I had both noticed that the steering wheel on my mom's car seemed stiff and we wanted to get it looked into. While my mom visited the hairdresser next door, I popped over to Roy's Automotives. The garage doors were open, but I didn't see anyone. I strolled into the open area and called out a "Hello." <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3W5koGm62Y9xMSeVQBwP1v7uvMkmgSHzzDbRM9tTUGqbPRHX0b-C05mSogFpM04Pj89fWJqfDfedJqAaBDX5q_cyleLrP9X7IXlkwhAr7eUEbajjB25RH1nJdkoD56_NP6xU96uc0gGc/s1600/landsendluau061805+034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3W5koGm62Y9xMSeVQBwP1v7uvMkmgSHzzDbRM9tTUGqbPRHX0b-C05mSogFpM04Pj89fWJqfDfedJqAaBDX5q_cyleLrP9X7IXlkwhAr7eUEbajjB25RH1nJdkoD56_NP6xU96uc0gGc/s1600/landsendluau061805+034.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With just the smile on his face, Dad found a way to just make<br />
you happier.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
From behind one of the cars being repaired, a short Southern man came out. He looked at me questioningly and I said, "I'm Melissa--- Hans van Welzen's daughter. We spoke on the phone yesterday." Roy immediately broke into the obligatory sympathy and notice of shock, just before laying out a question that I now find wraps up who my father was.<br />
<br />
"What are all those people going to do without him?"<br />
<br />
My first thought was that he was referring to the Meals on Wheels route that my dad ran every Tuesday. I assured Roy that my dad's best friend was going to take over the route. He nodded, but continued. "But what about all the other people that he helped? I don't think that anyone realizes just how many people he helped. Not even your mom."<br />
<br />
Although I knew of my dad's general generousity, this still took me aback. Roy went on to inform me that my dad was known around the shop for helping out anyone who was in there and needed help. It didn't matter who they were; he had helped. One summer day, a tourist had had to drop off their car for an emergency repair and was stranded at the shop. My dad offered them a ride wherever they needed to go. A time or two, a family would be in there to pay for a repair and came up a little short. My dad would anonymously offer to pick up the rest of the bill. Roy didn't go into further detail, but the look in his eyes told me that the list of those who Dad had helped was miles long. It is a moment that I will not forget for the rest of my life and caused me to suddenly think back to my father's life as something other than "The Boss" or "The Dad" or "The Smartass." Taking the forefront in my mind was my dad, "The Giver."<br />
<br />
My brother Jim and I had had a discussion the day that Dad died in which Jim expressed to me that when you got down to it, everything that Dad did was ultimately about giving. All his acts were to go towards caring for others. Once upon a time it had been his parents. Then it was his children, and very often, it was my mom. Naturally, along the path to his own success, Dad would want to help those whose stories hadn't ended as triumphantly as his own.<br />
<br />
Just as with any man who has acquired some kind of wealth, Dad helped his family. Those unable to pay bills. Those looking to start their own companies. Those who were just struggling. However, somehow it means more to me to look at all the people that he helped who could very well have simply been strangers. This kind of giving requires no obligation. It is giving simply for giving sake. For the love of others.<br />
<br />
I wrote yesterday about my dad's tradition in wrapping gifts, but there was another holiday tradition that he had. Dad was very picky about the charities to which he gave money. He vetted groups to see who was really getting the money. He probably believed one too many bad news reports. However, there was one group that he always trusted: The Salvation Army. My mom tells me that one year just before Christmas, he looked up the address of the local Salvation Army branch. He wrote out a check with a good amount of money, walked into their office and handed the check over to the secretary. The money looked at the check in shock. Without too many more words, my dad just walked out. The next year, he did the same. And in all the years to come. In time, the secretary came to recognize him and enjoy his yearly visit, although she never really knew who he was. <br />
<br />
My dad also believed in taking care of those who took care of you. Every December, he pulled out a bunch of envelopes, and tucked a note and a check into each. Not a huge amount; just something to point out that he was thinking of them and thanking them. The hairdresser. The garbage men. The recycling men. The mail deliverer. The newspaper delivery man. Jim at the Post Office. And of course, Roy.<br />
<br />
Now, it takes a generous man to give money to those around him to help them out. It takes another kind of man to give joy, companionship, and zest for life. As for that man, I saw him for the first time at visits to some of the oldest houses in the Emerald Isle area. <br />
<br />
I don't really know what drew my dad to begin to do Meals on Wheels. My guess is that it came through church. All I know for certain is that one visit, when I came to the Island, my dad asked me on a Monday night if I would go on his Meals on Wheels route with him the next day. Tuesday morning, we woke up, packed a giant cooler into the pack of the suburban that he drove at the time, and headed out to Captain Ed's. There we filled the cooler with dozens of styrofoam boxes that reeked of fish, cole slaw, and some other sort of dish. We also filled drink trays with cups of sweet tea-- the official drink of the South. And then, it was off.<br />
<br />
One by one, my dad visited the houses of people that were well into old age and who lived alone in the area around Swansboro. For a couple, he simply left meals by the door and knocked. We sat in the car and waited for the person to come out, smile, and wave. Generally, though, the meal was accompanied by a visit from my Dad. <br />
<br />
In spite of racking my brain, I can't for the life of me think of the name of the first woman we went to see. I do, remember, though, that she lived in a brick house of the main street through town. We walked up the ramp next to her house, brushing aside ferns and houseplants and enterred the screen door out back. After knocking and calling out, "Hello?", a weak voice rang from the back. My dad set down the meal in the kitchen and ventured to a living room that seemed to have been adapted into a downstairs bedroom. On the bed sat an old woman, whose face literally lit up when my dad enterred the room. He walked over, took her hand, and rubbed it between his own for warmth.<br />
<br />
"How you doin' today?" he asked her. He struck up a conversation that touched on her health and a visit she was expecting later in the day from her granddaughter. As they continued chatting, I couldn't help but look around the room at the dozens of pictures hanging everywhere. Marriages, children, grandchildren, homes. It was a history displayed for everyone. As we left, she asked one last question, "Where is that beautiful young lady you usually have with you?"<br />
<br />
My father beamed with pride, as he said, "Mary stayed home today so that I could bring my daughter."<br />
<br />
One by one, we went to a string of houses. One by one, I began to realize that this was not just a box to check on a list of "Things to Do for Others." My father knew these people. He knew their families and what they needed. He knew their histories and stories. Most importantly, he knew that they needed more than a styrofoam box with some fish and chips. They needed to feel loved.<br />
<br />
There was Dino, who lived in a trailer park and spent a lot of his day building models of cars and airplanes. He always seemed to have The Price is Right on when we came by. Dino was apt to get bladder infections and needed a specific kind of tool to help from a specific drug store. It was my dad who drove out to get things from that specific drug store for him.<br />
<br />
There was Brooks, who was over 100 years old and had once been a law professor. Brooks couldn't talk much, but my dad would never leave until Brooks came out onto the porch to get his meal and wave hello.<br />
<br />
There was another guy who was young, comparitively, but mentally handicapped and lived on his own down a road that seemed permanently pocked with potholes. Getting to his small house was like offroading. As we approached his door, Dad warned me that he sometimes made off color jokes because he didn't realize there are some things that you shouldn't say. <br />
<br />
My favorite of all was Mrs. Norris, or as I referred to her when talking to Dad, "The Polyester Pants Lady." We enterred Mrs. Norris' house from the back door and walking in was like being transported back to the 1960's. The appliances seemed to be the same, the dishes were aged, and even her clothes didn't seem to have changed since the Disco Era. She was a super skinny older woman with a brightly patterned button-down shirt and somewhat tight polyester looking pants that looked homemade and were generally an odd color, like purple. The top usually didn't match with the pants, either.<br />
<br />
Just as with the first woman, my dad enterred, hugged her, and took her hands in his. Mrs. Norris was quiet until you started asking her how things were. At that point, she gave you a run-down on plans for the day, when her various grandchildren were coming to visit, and what didn't seem to be working right in the house. When she told Dad that the oven seemed to be off, he offered to come back in a couple hours and repair it for her. She told him that her grandson had already agreed to come in the afternoon. "He just wants to come over and drive that Ford Mustang you have covered up in the garage," Dad said, as he gestured to a tarp covering something out back.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Norris laughed quietly and put a finger to her lips. "Shh, don't tell my daughter. He isn't supposed to drive it, but I love it when he takes me for rides." <br />
<br />
After twenty minutes of chatting, and another couple hugs for both of us, Mrs. Norris released us to go. When we paused at the stop sign at the end of the road, I noticed that the road on which she lived was named "Norris Road." My eyebrows furrowed as I asked about this apparent coincidence. My dad replied by telling me that Mrs. Norris and her husband used to own all this land for miles around. Her son still ran a nearby farm nearby and she still lived in the house that she had shared with her husband. <br />
<br />
"These people," Dad told me, "are the history of this place. They were the founding citizens in this area. They founded Swansboro."<br />
<br />
I loved those drives with my Dad. I loved the chance to just talk him and me. More than anything, though, I loved seeing that soft side of his personality. To these people, my dad was not just a volunteer or a delivery system. He symbolized the good in the world. He came to these people who had virtually been left on their own, who had so few visitors, and for a half hour at a time, he lit up their life. He listened, he encouraged, he made them laugh. The food was the least of the nourishment that he provided. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEZBbCRozjnVTDVmvfDzPJ2p3BZ9U6l7LuNZP1USbB5o0_KZ8R9Hxz3lSlWZPAeCw5mldYJw4TOHPTGX5WbUuJhDwzVQW1veHLITCnlCAaGhUDFQWhePpEThtyVmpMLYKejC8mE2e3AQ/s1600/dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEZBbCRozjnVTDVmvfDzPJ2p3BZ9U6l7LuNZP1USbB5o0_KZ8R9Hxz3lSlWZPAeCw5mldYJw4TOHPTGX5WbUuJhDwzVQW1veHLITCnlCAaGhUDFQWhePpEThtyVmpMLYKejC8mE2e3AQ/s1600/dad.jpg" height="320" width="181" /></a>I remember one visit where I sat in my car, as my dad went in to talk to one of his "Ladies." On the way over, he had been telling me about health problems she had been having and that he would go in for a few minutes to see her. As he closed the car door behind him, I felt tears welling in my eyes, thinking of how much love I felt for my dad in that moment.<br />
<br />
After all the years of him bugging and annoying me, as a parent does, it took seeing him through the eyes of these elderly people to appreciate the enormous heart that dwelled inside my dad's body. Those are some of my favorite memories of my dad because I know, without a doubt, that the man that delivered that food-- that was the true nature of the soul inside my dad. <br />
<br />
I think of all those things as I live my day-to-day life now and I strive to honor it. I continuously push myself to find simply ways to give love to those around me. I don't have the means that he had to make grand gestures, but I also recognize that it was the small gestures that made the bigger difference. And when I think of Roy's question of "What will all those people do?" I want to tell him that now all "those people" out there will have me to try to fill in the gaps.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-58550940995535143952014-03-11T06:33:00.001-07:002014-03-11T06:33:49.194-07:00A can of tennis balls for me? You shouldn't have...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and Sue at Christmas time.</td></tr>
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It seems that so often men have a tradition surrounding Christmas gifts. Every year on Christmas Eve, my father-in-law calls upon my husband and, in the last couple years, my son, and the men of the family go out shopping. Apparently, this event goes back to my husband's childhood. For my own father, it wasn't the buying that happened on Christmas Eve. It was the wrapping.<br />
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Shortly after dinner, as the rest of us settled down on the couch or by the tree, Dad slipped off upstairs. We heard the click of the door closing and the faint murmur of a television being turned on. Sometimes it was an hour, but usually it was a couple. Once, I dared to open the door and I heard the familiar, "HEY!" and my father threw a blanket across a bunch of gifts.<br />
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Finally, after the last item was wrapped, Dad thumped down the stairs with a giant pile of gifts. One by one, he laid them there and when he stepped back, he gave silent permission for us to dive under the tree. Regardless of the fact that my brothers were much older than I, we all still shook and rattled the packages that bore our names. We had already surveyed the gifts from Mom that were there and there was always some excitement at the sudden appearance of so many more things. Even my Mom would peek at the latest additions. Even she didn't know what my dad had wrapped up.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the kids with Dad for Christmas</td></tr>
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In the most memorable year of gift giving, Dad decided it would be fun to play a little trick. At the age of ten, I was the first to grab at an oddly shaped package with my name on it. It was obviously two items wrapped together. One seemed like a metallic cylinder and it clearly had some object inside of it. When I shook it up and down, it clearly sounded like a can of tennis balls. I turned it over again to check the name. Yup, there it was. "To Melissa" written in Dad's cursive. Almost insulted, I spun my head in his direction and demanded, "Why would you get me tennis balls?" His only answer was to smirk and walk away in silence. That year, in fact, I was unable to figure out any of the gifts.<br />
<br />
The next morning brought the moment of truth. My dad would <em>have</em> to tell me why he had bought me tennis balls. I was always the first person awake, but had learned years before that I needed to wait until my brothers were up. One was a teen and one was home visiting from college. They definitely needed beauty sleep. Once they were up, the next step was waiting for Mom to steep a pot of tea. Finally, after what seemed like hours, we all settled down in the living room. Dad pulled on his red Santa hat and pulled up a chair next to the tree. No one else was allowed to distribute gifts. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our own little elf</td></tr>
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He reached under the tree and picked up a box for Jim, my oldest brother. Jokingly, Jim shook it next to his ear and tucked his finger underneath the seam of wrapping paper. As he pulled the paper away, his glee twisted into confusion. "What the hell?" he said. When he turned the package back over, he noticed another label. This time, the label said, "To Bryan." Jim turned to Dad. "I guess that one wasn't for you after all," Dad replied smugly.<br />
<br />
Bryan unwrapped a layer too, but once again, there was another layer of paper. Finally, the present came to its recipient-- Mom. As Bryan handed it across the couch to her, Mom tilted her head at our "Santa." "Hans, what did you do?" This time his silent smirk was accompanied by a shrug.<br />
<br />
One by one, we found out that Dad had wrapped each of his gifts not once, but twice, three times, or the occasional four times. One present actually made the rounds to each and every one of us before ending up with Bryan. Another present was wrapped only twice, but after the paper was removed, we noticed that there was a note scrawled in Sharpie on the box. It was a box from the Warner Bros. store with Bugs Bunny emblazoned on the white cardboard. Dad had drawn a bubble from Bugs' mouth, with the words, "Ehhh, sorry, Doc. This one is for Lissa."<br />
<br />
Granted, it took at least twice as long to unwrap all the gifts that year, but it was also twice as much fun. As annoyed as my brothers may have seemed, even they had to admit that it was fun. When you think about it, half the excitement of Christmas is ripping open the paper anyway. And that mysterious package of tennis balls? It was actually racquetballs and it was for Jim.<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
Beyond strangely wrapping presents, Dad was also the person who gave me some definitive proof of the whole "Santa" myth. I was nine. We lived in Cary, North Carolina. The unravelling of my childhood fantasies started when I was playing in my parents' bedroom. I was tossing a beanbag around as I lay on their bed and watched TV. Somehow, the beanbag went under the bed. I laid over the side to grab it and glanced under the bed, where I found an interesting discovery-- wrapped Christmas presents! No one could really expect a child to find that and just ignore it. I reached under and pulled one out. Sure enough, it had my name on it. However, the part that startled me was that it was labelled "From Santa." I quickly shoved it back under the bed, in an attempt to unsee it. <br />
<br />
The next day, I was playing in the craft room in the basement. It had a big island in the middle of it and when I opened one of the doors of the island, I noticed that the whole structure also seemed to be packed full of gifts. Once again, the labels all bore the name of "Santa". My suspicions were highly piqued. This was definitely strange. The final straw came the next day.<br />
<br />
I headed into the living room with the tree for my daily examination of the presents under the tree. One never knows when a new item is going to appear. Sure enough, there was a medium sized package that hadn't been there yesterday. I picked it up and looked at it and immediately gasped. It was another one to me, from Santa. Keep in mind, it was only December 23rd. My mom heard my sound of alarm and peeked her head around the corner. <br />
<br />
"Are you okay?" she asked.<br />
<br />
I looked up at her and informed her that there was a Santa present under the tree. There was no question of why. There were no accusations. It was a silent statement to let her know that I "got it." Regardless, when my dad heard me, he joined us as well, and innocently said, "Oh yeah. An elf dropped that off with a note. Apparently Santa wanted me to put that one out early for some reason. He sent it along." As if that should be self-explanatory, he then left the room.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later, however, I heard the hushed voices of my parents arguing in the kitchen, as though I couldn't hear them. "Why did you do that?" my mom demanded. My dad was a little better at talking in a whisper and unfortunately, I never could clearly hear his words. However, the point was made. This was something that wasn't supposed to have happened. <br />
<br />
After that day, we never really talked about Santa or the revelation. It was just kind of an unspoken truth. My guess is that as my dad realized that I was suspecting, he wanted to ease me into the truth and let me figure it out for myself. It was his passive aggressive way of letting me know the truth.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-66329335132016278382014-03-10T06:16:00.001-07:002014-03-10T06:16:36.319-07:00Ebay KingYou would think that a man who spent his entire life selling telecommunication equipment and fiber optic cable would know a thing or two about technology. If the man to which you are referring is my dad, you would be wrong. It was I who set up the only personal email account that he <em>ever</em> used. (Might I note, as well, that in the year 2013, my father was still refusing to give up on AOL.) His method of typing was that old school henpecking, in which you use only your two index fingers.<br />
<br />
In spite of all those things, though, he was a pro at one website-- Ebay. My dad started on Ebay at a time when it was still relatively new. When he discovered that there was this new method of <br />
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obtaining model cars from all over the world for relatively cheap, he was in heaven. When we still lived in Oakton, several of the model car dealers were so close, that he didn't even have to items shipped. He just made a new friend by driving across town and picking up what he had bought.<br />
<br />
His Ebay-ing didn't go into overload, though, until he was completely retired and had the time to sit around on the computer all day. It was then that he began to develop strategies too. When he found an item he liked, he put it on his watch list, but did not bid. Instead, he waited until the last day and then perched like a lion watching a gazelle. In order to test the water, he placed an initial bid, with no intention of winning yet. Then, he set the oven timer for five minutes before the end of the sale. So many times did I think that my mother was cooking something, only to find out that it was just another sale about to end. <br />
<br />
The beep of the oven timer sent my dad back to his chair at the desk. Then, he moved over to his stopwatch that literally counted the seconds to the end. He pre-typed a final bid and wait. With five seconds left, he clicked the submit button. Like an eagle swooping down, he stole items from unsuspecting bidders all the time. When you saw the glee on his face after he won, you knew that this had easily become his favorite game to play.<br />
<br />
The more Dad bought, the more he learned the system. Soon, he wasn't just buying; he was also selling an enormous amount. It was the perfect give and take. Whenever my mom complained about the money he was spending, he was quick to point out that he was just using the money he had made from selling. That never stopped her from pointing out the high frequency of little packages that were dropped on their doorstep. <br />
<br />
Any time a delivery of a small box was made, she didn't bother to wonder what it was. She simply brought it in and laid it next to the computer. At Christmas time, when the boxes came in, sometimes he wouldn't even bother to open them. Instead, he was known to quietly hide them under the tree, behind actual presents. <br />
<br />
Then, on the 27th of December, when my brother's and my family gathered with my parents to open presents, we slowly worked our way through all the goodies under the tree. Dad played the roll of Santa, distributing gifts. Inevitably, we could come upon a box with no label. He looked toward my mom, "Who is this one for, Mare?" She shook her head and reported that she hadn't wrapped that one. He turned it over and over in his hand until he suddenly remembered. "Oh yes," he said, "I remember what that is. It's for me." Only my father would buy his own present on Ebay, wrap the box with Christmas paper and put it under the tree.<br />
<br />
The biggest upside to his increased Ebay use was the friend he made in the midst of it-- Jim the Post Office Man. My dad visited the post office generally once a day. He still had the PO Box that they had acquired when they were building the Beachhouse, and he used Ebay as an excuse to keep it. It was his home base for selling and receiving. Usually around midmorning, Dad stacked up all the packages he needed to send out and prepared to jump into the car. The first stop on these daily errands was always to visit Jim the Post Office Man. On such a small island, anyone who lives there year-round is recognizable as a local, but my dad was an especially usual customer. He and Jim exchanged political thoughts and jokes. Whenever there was a rule to be bent, Jim would bend it for my dad. <br />
<br />
Then, at the end of every year, Dad gave Jim an envelope with a Christmas card and a little "something extra" as a present. He gave this sort of monetary gift to all those who did some kind of service for him. He always liked to be sure that all his "accomplices" were well taken care of.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-68761195732934601982014-03-09T07:02:00.001-07:002014-03-09T07:02:19.564-07:00All cars: SmallWhen it came to cars, my dad's obsession reached beyond simply life-size cars that one can drive down the road. Perhaps the larger part of this fascination was his collection of model cars. By the end of his life, his collection had multiplied into the thousands. It reached from ceiling to floor in his office, from wall to wall, and even filled dozens of boxes in the closet of his office. It was basically a museum.<div>
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If I reach back to his childhood, I know just who to blame for this car-collecting monster. Her name was Mrs. Bink. I don't really know a lot about Mrs. Bink; only what I have heard in the morsels dropped here <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2EvB5SyIPf0PetmwU8vOOOTvfEMDFiFCiE1_afuzA9dfA9E9RPDhc1bCb9laE638Ii_GbIt2X0935-ysOsSwkq6vNu0e-Mz_l3G8lxjp9EA0qOjkuQnMbA_Hu5HU_bpb43WVICm2tT0/s1600/little+red+car.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2EvB5SyIPf0PetmwU8vOOOTvfEMDFiFCiE1_afuzA9dfA9E9RPDhc1bCb9laE638Ii_GbIt2X0935-ysOsSwkq6vNu0e-Mz_l3G8lxjp9EA0qOjkuQnMbA_Hu5HU_bpb43WVICm2tT0/s1600/little+red+car.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although not a model car, this was one of my Dad's<br />first cars</td></tr>
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and there. She was the landlady of the building where my Dad's family lived in the Hague. She didn't have any children, herself. As my mom describes it, Mrs. Bink instead adopted my dad as "her pet." She saw in him the potential for something more. She took him on excursions, invited him over to her downstairs apartment. She even gave him a gift or two of a toy car from a company called "Dinky". </div>
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In fact, years later, one can still find the small decaying yellow boxes labelled with red letters spelling out "Dinky" scattered around the room in Dad's office. There was one big lesson that Mrs. Bink taught involving these cars-- one should always take care of their cars. Thus, while most children were rolling their Dinky cars along the floor, making noises, perhaps crashing them into each other, my father put his toy cars on a shelf. He learned about them, studied them, dusted them. One thing he didn't do was play with them.</div>
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What started as a child's collection, expanded exponentially. Studying the cars that were in his collection led to studying cars of all kind. On my last trip to Emerald Isle, I found a marble journal scrapbook that my dad had made when he was 13. Each page displays pasted articles and ads from magazines. Cars that he dreamed of owning. Next to many articles was his handwriting, telling what the cars were and when the article had been printed. </div>
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Once he had enough money to really start buying toys cars, his knowledge of all types of cars was immense. A couple times, he tried to explain to me the marks of certain models. He tried to impart his wisdom on me, but being a teenage girl, it just didn't quite stick. In Colorado the collection was a single bookshelf in the living room. In Oakton, it was a wall-sized cabinet with glass display cases. In Emerald Isle, it was an entire room. We all referred to this room as "The Car Room". At other times, my mom sarcastically referred to it as "The Inner Sanctum".</div>
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It is always fun to see someone's reaction when they have never been in The Car Room before. On one of the first trips that my nephews Zach and Matty made to the Emerald Isle Beachhouse, we lost track of the boys. One minute, they had been dashing around the halls of the house. The next, there was silence; and if there is one thing a mom can tell you, it is that sudden silence is rarely a good thing when it comes to young kids. We ventured upstairs and noticed the door was open to the Car Room. All at once, our eyes got wider and we rushed in. While one of the boys, at the age of five or so, was simply standing in the middle of the room, gazing around in wonder. The other, who was 4, had noticed a car he liked and had rolled it a little until it fell off the shelf. My brother Bryan rushed forward, inspecting the car that had fallen, and putting it back. He kneeled down to Matty's level and told him the lesson that we had had all had to learn and teach our own children. "I know these cars are cool, but they are only for looking. If you want to come in here, you have to have a grown-up with you. Granddad doesn't like people touching his cars."</div>
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When my cousin Richard came to Emerald Isle for my dad's funeral, his reaction was actually not much different, although he was several decades older. He had heard tales of the infamous Car Room, but this was his first actual visit. When he walked through the doorway, he was immediately transported back to the awe that a little boy often feels when he walks down his favorite toy aisle. </div>
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Generally, the door to the Car Room is left closed, to keep out the eager hands of small grandchildren. Standing in the entrance, straight ahead is a full wall covered in cars. Bookshelves line the entire length, each shelf covered in dozens of tiny cars, all of which are now covered with a minimal veil of dust. Behind some cars are pictures cut from magazines of the actual cars. Atop each of the bookshelves are more custom-built shelves fitted so that they will reach exactly to the ceiling. On the walls perpendicular to these are a couple shelves hung on the walls with larger models.</div>
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At first glance, the collection just looks like a mix of every type of car with no organization. However, if you move closer, you might see the intricate way they are put together. One shelf is dedicated to the winners of the 1970-something 24 Car Race in Le Mans, France. Each of the top ten winners is lined up in order, at a tilt and behind them is a photo of the winners lined up on the actual day of the race. Another shelf holds a specific type of Ford; another is Mustang's. Everything is a story upon which my dad could spend hours. "You can tell the year of this one by the stripes down the side." "This model had a different type of headlight than the other years. You can see that here." "This was the only year that this particular company won Le Mans." In fact, I would say that this room is a visual encyclopedia of the history of cars.</div>
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More than any of his other possessions, this massive collection is my father's legacy. For years, each time that a male heir was born, he would eye them and wonder if one day, they might like to inherit it. One by one, as they didn't immerse themselves in the world of cars as he had, he would look to the next. Now that he is gone, we are faced with a very real decision. What do we do with this room? None of us even has the capacity to know as much about these cars as my father did. It was his life's mission; the end result of 70 years of reading magazines, going to car shows, hours on Ebay. Studying, practicing, fixing cars. In the words of "Wayne's World", <i>We're not worthy</i>. </div>
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In fact, the only thing that I have ever wanted was one of his Dinky's. Yes, that's right. In the midst of hundreds of model cars from the last half century is a shelf with cars that look truly antique. Although they are dusty, they are still impeccable. They are the original set of cars that Mrs. Bink gave to him. The night before we were to leave the house after my dad's funeral, my mom let each of the grandkids present go up into that Inner Sanctum and pick out one car to take home. When it was my children's turn, Mareike was drawn immediately to the one car that she spotted that was pink. Jamey chose one just next to it in blue. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwZI4nOfaKqyj1yGRhf7QipDiPHvpJjon4NhurnQpnoxbWwicIt_4n3VwhLFmQwdrfP4LMj8kNnjkiW3keNwg54TEWjLdp2D_ukZl0_qXdksovI1HeSKDsNPmTfyJYFToK6O6nNzvdT8/s1600/DSC_0261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwZI4nOfaKqyj1yGRhf7QipDiPHvpJjon4NhurnQpnoxbWwicIt_4n3VwhLFmQwdrfP4LMj8kNnjkiW3keNwg54TEWjLdp2D_ukZl0_qXdksovI1HeSKDsNPmTfyJYFToK6O6nNzvdT8/s1600/DSC_0261.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cars that my children chose from Dad's collection</td></tr>
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When I saw the two they chose, I couldn't have been prouder. They had both chosen from that original collection of Dinky's. My brother Jim pulled them aside, playing his role of managing all of Dad's belongings. He sat in the nearby green armchair, and pulled Mareike and Jamey over to him.</div>
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<br />"I want to tell you guys something. These cars are very special. I want you to understand that these aren't for playing. These were some of the first cars that Granddad ever had. They were very important to him. So, every time you look at these cars or hold them, you can know that he is with you."</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-14457100312315537662014-03-08T07:51:00.001-08:002014-03-08T18:07:35.476-08:00All Cars: BigTo say that my dad had a love of cars would probably be the understatement of the year. I remember a time when we lived in Oakton, Virginia, that we literally had seven or eight cars on our driveway, <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7EG8a3POGeTzFSkscvDH54GE11_V_Gxlbb8fTmWxoFivuAhgXIrgAqgQOMmfu7kESj-8s6wafG9Hkb-Gyt5xE88Lhdvk4gyFmjBk0EaTKL3XdRKABG3fZv_APTE0V7tnH5XoZn8Tw5I/s1600/179300_487932606126_3743582_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7EG8a3POGeTzFSkscvDH54GE11_V_Gxlbb8fTmWxoFivuAhgXIrgAqgQOMmfu7kESj-8s6wafG9Hkb-Gyt5xE88Lhdvk4gyFmjBk0EaTKL3XdRKABG3fZv_APTE0V7tnH5XoZn8Tw5I/s1600/179300_487932606126_3743582_n.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the 7 cars my dad owned, when we lived in Oakton. <br />
Sadly, I only ever got to drive my Mazda Protege.</td></tr>
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all owned by my father. (It was a long driveway and a big garage.) As he got older and more successful, he found ways to enjoy the hard-earned spoils of his labor, and his favorite way was through collecting cars-- both big and small, toy and drivable. I blame two people for his obsession with cars. One was my Opa.<br />
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My father's father, or Opa, was a mechanic by trade. When they still lived in Holland, this was his job and it wasn't uncommon that my dad would go along to the shop and learn the in's and out's of all things automotive. However, those lessons were just water, feeding the seeds of an interest that had already started years before. <em>(For more on that seed, see my entry tomorrow-- All Cars: Small.)</em><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and one of his many cars</td></tr>
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Once they moved to Canada, Opa got a job as a mechanic again and Dad used the knowledge he had built to start his own side business involving cars. While still attending high school, he bought up a beat-up old car-- a 1959 Jaguar. It was the kind of car that someone had simply given up on. For a young kid with little money and a strong work ethic, though, it was a project. Indeed, he built the car back to its original glory and painted it British Racing Green. Sure, he drove it to school and showed off his nice car, but ultimately, he sold the fixed-up car for a profit and went on to buy another that needed to be fixed up. <br />
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High school wasn't always the easiest place for him. Being an immigrant who was new to the culture, he was sometimes teased for the way he did things or how he talked. However, he wore a smug smile as he began driving to school in cars that his peers could only imagine owning. By the time he finally finished high school, around the age of 20, he had built himself a nice nest-egg of money. It was, in fact, an issue about which he always suspected his father was slightly jealous.<br />
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When Dad ultimately became an engineer and went into telecommunications, care for cars became more a hobby than a money-making technique. Sundays were the time when he trotted each one of the cars out onto the driveway to wash it, scrub it, clean it, brush out the tires. The time to take care of "his babies." In fact, I think it was his own way of relaxing. <br />
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Nowadays, I can't even remember all the different cars that we owned over the years. Among the ones that come to mind though are the "Silver Bullet", "the Dream Machine", and the Mercedes that I deemed the "Easter car" because it seemed we only drove it to Easter mass in the spring. I always thought it funny, too, that he had to keep his Porsche Boxster plugged in so that the battery wouldn't die from lack of use. <br />
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One car that I do always remember, going back all the way to the house in Colorado when I was five, was a 1959 Jag. Granted, it was not the same one that started his "car career", but he always had a soft spot for <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowX7jugjPcnWxqFlA3T1aRQU4822l4TJJOgHi8hEnKaZmEpbToZoXb-Yrd5onU6Sgbpm9vwwawZoCmlbYLkvowF2x9AbuWSRWBocNpZ1RZjSygksBWSEkl4zfNvMwNhyPtq3EIXx_g3g/s1600/jag.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowX7jugjPcnWxqFlA3T1aRQU4822l4TJJOgHi8hEnKaZmEpbToZoXb-Yrd5onU6Sgbpm9vwwawZoCmlbYLkvowF2x9AbuWSRWBocNpZ1RZjSygksBWSEkl4zfNvMwNhyPtq3EIXx_g3g/s1600/jag.JPG" height="165" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">working on the jag</td></tr>
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that model. The one that took up residence in our garage first was a dark blue Jag. There were patches where the painted was a little flaky. It smelled distinctly of maple syrup on the inside. It had the aura to it, as though the ghost of some James Dean-type character was hanging out in the back. When people asked about whether or not Dad drove it, I mistakenly told them that it was missing an engine, when, in fact, that truth was that it only lacked a battery. <br />
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Dad had a dream of taking this car and renewing it to its former glory and, of course, painting British Racing Green. Of course, due to lack of time, this never happened and decades after he bought it, after at least three moves around the country, the tires eventually went flat and it couldn't even be brought out for its weekly washing. It simply held up its spot in the garage/museum and retained the license plates of states we no longer lived in. <br />
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In Oakton, he decided to add another Jag to the mix. This one was from the 60's, I believe, and was painted a shiny white. In fact, almost every car that my dad ever owned was white. If you asked him why, he always had some scientific answer that dealt with the amount of heat a white car absorbed in comparison to a dark car. Regardless of the reason, though, it became a running joke in the family. <br />
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My dad's cars were like additional children to him. God forbid we ever did anything to them. When my sister got her first car, she had taken it out for a drive and got a large dent in the right side. She was immediately filled with panic and called my mom. Having lived their entire married life with this car craze, my mom advised my sister to drive the car home and park it on the far right side of the driveway, with the dent facing the neighbor's house. That way, you wouldn't notice the dent unless you actually walked around the car. <br />
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Luckily for my sister, the trick worked. Dad never noticed and the next time he was on a business trip, Mom took it to be repaired. She, herself, had been the brunt of ridicule for the occasional scratch, scuff, or ding. She had learned how to avoid it.<br />
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When I look at all the cars my dad has had, I can see how it would be easy to write him off as a rich snot, if you didn't know him. My reaction to those kind of people was always to say that he had earned it. Every penny that went into those cars had been earned with blood, sweat, and tears. They were the product of the determination and perseverence that he showed in amassing a fortune. They were the trophies to remind him of what he had accomplished. As for that '59 Jag, it was most certainly a reminder of his origins and how it had all started.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-4657161411541725582014-03-07T06:58:00.001-08:002014-03-07T06:58:19.723-08:0057 VarietiesOne of my favorite stories that my mom has told me from the time my parents were dating has to do with a favor that my dad did for his in-laws to-be. My dad was never one to just simply do a task. Sometimes he made it FAR more complicated than it needed to be. Sometimes he oversimplified. If he was lucky, though, he found a way to turn his task into something funny.<br />
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At the time, my mom's family lived in Kitchener, Ontario on Heinz Road. In fact, their address was something like 74 Heinz Road. When they needed things done, my dad was happy to help out. One day they noticed the number that was painted on their house was looking a little old. "Could you possibly get up on the ladder and just repaint it for us?" they asked. As usual, he was happy to oblige.<br />
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<a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQM0pivnqInEiTPTe9sx-2wQ2UIwKDVpQ2ztGx4NGLs97bW8cCTAw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" class="rg_i" data-src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQM0pivnqInEiTPTe9sx-2wQ2UIwKDVpQ2ztGx4NGLs97bW8cCTAw" data-sz="f" name="pOLPqPkgAViSMM:" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQM0pivnqInEiTPTe9sx-2wQ2UIwKDVpQ2ztGx4NGLs97bW8cCTAw" style="height: 165px; margin-top: 0px; width: 220px;" /></a>Once he was up on that ladder, though, mischief began to cloud his judgement. <em>I wonder what would happen if I painted the wrong number on the house. I wonder how long it would take for someone to notice.</em> On top of that, there was the added bonus that they lived on Heinz Road. Thus, when he went back up to do his task, he opted to "change" their address to 57 Heinz Road, echoing the popular condiment. It was, in fact, several weeks until my grandfather noticed. Luckily, he had a sense of humor.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-37089836754983245512014-03-06T03:02:00.000-08:002014-03-06T03:05:09.608-08:00Stars in Stripes in a Golf Cart Parade<br />
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When my parents retired to Emerald Isle, North Carolina, the family began to develop a whole new set of traditions. On December 27th every year, my brother Jim, his three boys, and my own family would all meet up at my parents' house and celebrate an "East Coast Kids" Christmas, denoting the two of us who still lived within driving distance. For 4th of July weekend, we would all meet up again to watch the fireworks on the sand. Most importantly, though, for all the times that the family was there together for that week in the summer, it became tradition to take part in the Annual Land's End Golf Cart Parade.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The overachievers in the neighborhood and their golf cart float</td></tr>
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Living in a community at the beach, it seems par for the course to have a golf cart to get around the neighborhood, no pun intended. Thus, rather than having a parade with floats of pick-up trucks or convertibles, a challenge is laid out to decorate your cart in a given theme and trail around the streets of Land's End, waving to families sitting on their decks with sweet tea and eating breakfast. Children wrap their bikes in streamers of red, white, and blue. Babies show up in strollers covered in American flags. One family, whose patriarch is a retired engineer, always outdoes everyone by buying up the lumber supply at the local Lowe's, creating a super structure around their golf cart, sewing homemade costumes, and sweating their way through the parade route. One year, they created a covered wagon. Another year was a presidential limo, with all the flanking family members dressed as Secret Service. This was a moment to put your patriotism on full display. It often seemed that it was the cheesier, the better.<br />
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My family, however, is incapable of simply going the pure patriotic route. Sarcasm and creative reinterpretation are kind of fundamentals for us. When the theme of "Stars and Stripes" was declared, my dad would have been happy to plaster stars all over the golf cart and duck tape several American flags to the posts. He had become very sensitive to the proximity of the nearby Marine base. Meanwhile, this strategy was just too simple for my brother and I. We needed to do something that would make us stand out.<br />
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And so was born, our convenient retooling of the theme to "Stars in Stripes." Using black duct tape, we put bars from the roof to the base of the golf cart. We bought constable hats for my three nephews to wear. We created signs with our arrest numbers to wear around our necks. We even created a mix of jail-related songs to play as we rode through the neighborhood. Most importantly, though, each of us took on the persona of a star who had been arrested. My lean husband put on a white buttondown and red bowtie, created a spike in the front of his hair and rode a bike to become Pee Wee Herman. My brother raided my father's closet of a Hawaiian shirt and pulled on a frazzled blond wig to recreate the infamous arrest shot of Nick Nolte. For the first time in my life, I got to be a brunette, as I carried a Saks Fifth Avenue bag, impersonating Winona Ryder. My brother's then-wife stretched the meaning of the word "star" by carrying a chihuahua and becoming Paris Hilton.<br />
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As we rode through the route, we could see the divided opinion on our float. People cocked their heads, studied our costumes, caught a couple lines of "In the Jailhouse Now" as it wafted from the back of the cart. Then one of two reactions would come. 1. A smile would burst out and they would lean into their nearest family member and point in our direction. 2. They would lean into their nearest family member and simply shrug their shoulders in confusion. <br />
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When it came to rewarding the prizes, we patted our own backs on how clever we had been and were sure that we would win. Turns out that patriotism always wins that parade. We got an honorable mention.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our "Christmas in July" float</td></tr>
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Another year, when the theme was slightly open-ended, we confused everyone again by using Christmas decorations to create a "Christmas in July" float. We won another honorable mention. In time, our decorating the cart in an interesting way was more about us having fun as a family and less about winning a prize. We had long learned that that was never going to happen. The preparations for the float began a little earlier every year and brought true excitement to my dad's life. One year, I hadn't even been at the house an hour before my dad said, "So what are we going to do with the float?"<br />
<br />
Last year, I felt extreme pressure because I was going to be without my wingman; Jim wasn't going to be arriving until July 5th. I may be smart, but when it came down to it, all our cleverest ideas had been his. The theme for the parade was "The 50 States." My dad and I sat around the kitchen table brain-storming. This had to be something simple; we didn't have much time. Finally, we decided the best thing would be to pick one state to represent. Something that could be symbolized and presented in an obvious way with items that we could buy cheaply at the last minute, but which still showed a twinge of humor. And so, when my mom and I went grocery shopping, we picked up two bags of potatoes so that we could be Idaho. Alas, they weren't packaged in big burlap bags, as we had hoped. Not one to give up on a good idea, my dad headed out to the store himself and asked to speak with the produce manager. He pulled him aside and inquired about the packaging that was used to transport the potatoes to the store in the first place."They come in big brown paper bags," the manager slowly answered.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-h-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/t1/1013740_10151512576456127_1939159856_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-h-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/t1/1013740_10151512576456127_1939159856_n.jpg" width="213" /></a>Yes! Just the answer that my dad had been hoping for. "What can I do to get ahold of a couple of those big bags?" He explained our family project, made a new friend, and arrived back home with two huge thick paper bags that reeked of potatoes.<br />
<br />
On July 3rd, my husband, my dad, and myself got to work. We made chains of potatoes with a needle and fishing line. They draped around the roof of the cart and along the back rails. We taped one of the two large bags to the back bars of the cart, even though we were saddened to see that the potatoes had actually simply come from Canada. For those who needed the obvious explanation, we created a sign to state that we were meant to be Idaho. Lastly, to appease the patriotic gods of the neighborhood, which included my father, we added at least five different flags on the edges. As my dad led the parade in his cart, he beamed with pride of our creation.<br />
<br />
Although the parade was a highlight of the July 4th festivities, the piece de resistance of the affair was getting to see my father dress up as Uncle Sam. I always found irony in the fact that my Dutch-born, Canadian immigrant father was asked to play the role of one of the main symbols of our country. However, as the HOA president, it was part of the job. <br />
<br />
I remember the first time I came home to find a polyester red, white, and blue outfit hanging over one of the bar stools in the kitchen. "What is that?" I asked. From the computer, my mom looked up and said, "Oh, your dad has to play Uncle Sam in the parade and lead everyone in the Pledge."<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad and my son last July 4th</td></tr>
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Ah yes, there was the kicker-- the Pledge. When he entered a second later, I squinted my eyes toward him and asked if he even knew the Pledge of Allegiance. "Of course I do," he responded. "I had to learn it to become American." <br />
<br />
Having grown up saying the Pledge every day, I took advantage of the fact that everyone knows it. It wasn't until that moment that I realized that it wasn't just something learned by osmosis. Sure, Dad had memorized all the words of the Pledge. However, beyond just the words, there is a cadence to the recitation that cannot be written on paper. So when Dad obliged my request that he say the Pledge, it became clear that he didn't actually know where the pauses went in the verse. He didn't know which words to emphasize and at times, he didn't even remember the full lines. His clear voice turned into a mumble. "Dad, we need to practice," I said.<br />
<br />
Practicing was obviously one way to go, but when he insisted that he had it, I realized that he must have another strategy. That led us to Independence Day. "Uncle Sam" stood atop the Clubhouse steps, children, parents, and grandparents looking up at him. With a bullhorn in his hand, he announced that before the parade began, we would be reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Then, he glanced down at the cute elementary school kids, standing with their decorated bikes and said, "How bout I get some of these kids up here to help lead us in the Pledge?" <br />
<br />
Sure enough, four or five small kids came up and flanked him on either side. We all put our hands on our hearts and began. "I pledge allegiance... to the flag..." The strange thing was that after that first line, my dad's voice seemed to fade, allowing the high tones of the children to take over. Standing in the audience, I smirked and shook my head towards my dad<em>. Smooth move, Dad. No one can resist cute kids. I see what you did there</em>.<br />
<br />
Frankly, it shouldn't have been a surprising move to me. He had been doing the same thing for years at the dinner table. When it was time to say our dinner prayer, he clasped his hands together, began, and as we all joined in, his voice turned into a mumble. The best was when my mom finally caught on to this. <br />
<br />
"Hans, you do know the words to the prayer, right?" He looked at her defensively, saying that of course he did. "Okay," she continued, "whey don't you say it for us tonight, then?"<br />
<br />
<em>Well played, Mom, well played.</em> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-76299447684216579762014-03-05T09:34:00.000-08:002014-03-05T09:34:23.715-08:00The Boss' DaughterBy the time I was to an age when I was retaining my memories, my dad had risen to the level of being "the Boss" in his office. Once he had reached this level, he enjoyed it so much that he never really came down from it, even in retirement. No one who knew my dad can deny that he loved being in charge. When he was giving orders and delegating, he was, simply put, "in his element."<br />
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Being the boss' daughter definitely came with perks. In her eulogy, even my sister, remembered a time when she went into the office with dad on a weekend to make a long distance phone call to family back in Canada. Although he could have done this at home, it was so much easier and cheaper to just go in to where he worked. After all, they got long distance for free.<br />
<br />
One of the first times I remember going into the office with my dad, I was probably around five or six; a cute little tow-headed blonde, skipping alongside, holding my Daddy's hand. Just a simple walk through the hallway elicited the kinds of "awww's" and "Look at her" comments that I now get when I go anywhere with my own daughter.<br />
<br />
Shortly after we went into his office and he set me into his tall leather chair, he said, "I have to run and talk with someone for a few minutes. Will you be okay here?" He placed some paper and pens in front of me and set me to work coloring. A second or two after he walked away, my dad's secretary poked her head in. When she saw me at the desk, she jumped back for just a moment. <br />
<br />
"Well, you certainly aren't Hans!" She stepped into the office and began to chat with me, ask what I was drawing. Suddenly he leaned back out the doorway, looked both ways and slowly came toward the desk. She leaned in a little and said, "Do you want to come get a treat from the vending machine?" My face beamed and I took her hand to follow her down the hall. We returned a few minutes later with a small bag of Hershey Kisses. <br />
<br />
Just in time for me to destroy the evidence, my dad came back to check on me. "You doing okay in here?" I nodded quickly. "I just have to check on one more thing." And once again, he disappeared into another office.<br />
<br />
Wouldn't you know, after a couple more minutes, another secretary came into the room. "Man, are you cute!" she declared. Just as with the other, she came over to check my drawing, and just as with the other, she offered to go get some sweets from the vending machine. "We don't have to tell your dad." I bit my lip to hide my beaming smile and followed her down the familiar path. This time I got M&M's. <br />
<br />
After another successful disposal of the evidence, my dad returned. He congratulated me on how well I was behaving and asked if I wanted something from "The Cookie Jar" before we left. In time, the "Cookie Jar" became infamous in our family. Much to my chagrine on that first visit, this was not a literal container full of sugary goodies. It was more like a cabinet of schlock behind his desk. He opened it up and I got to choose from things like pens, tshirts, and drink cozies with the Northern Telecom logo. As kitschy as this may seem, getting something from the "Cookie Jar" became a highlight of going to Dad's office.<br />
<br />
Years went by and once I got to the age of postboards and projects, my dad's office became a veritable Office Depot at my disposal. Heading in on a weekend to make color copies for cheap. Planting myself at his secretary's desk after hours to type up a report and print it on good quality paper. The statement, "Well, there are really hiring them young," became somewhat of a cliched declaration.<br />
<br />
Being in charge afforded my dad to practice another of his great skills-- schmoozing. Throughout his whole life, he had this inate ability to simultaneously irritate people with what he said and still get them smiling and loving him. This is probably part of the reason that he became the VP of Sales. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the term schmoozing holds a very negative connotation and I am sure that for some people out there, my dad was nothing more than a Schmoozer in every symbolic sense of the word. To so many, though, I always thought of my dad as the kind of boss that people wanted to work for. There is a picture hanging in our house from a pie-eating contest early in the 80's. It was apparently cut out of a company newsletter and features him, his face slathered with whipped cream, baring his chest. In a photo album I have seen my dad, sitting in a dunk tank. With his white athletic socks pulled high, a sweat band circling his forehead, and his short corduroy shorts on, I know this was also from the 80's. Lastly, there was once an article showing him walking the factory floor where we lived in Florida. He stood with his arm around the shoulders of the older women working the line. Their heads were tipped back, and you could almost hear the guffaws escaping as my dad told some joke or other.<br />
<br />
What set my dad apart from some bosses that I have had in my life, is that beneath all the schmoozing and charming, he really did care. Most of his workers were very important to him and he wanted to get to know them. He wanted to help people.<br />
<br />
By the time, my dad retired around 2001, the thrill of being in charge was so engrained in him that he could never let it go. He was an executive through and through. Whether it was designing the layout of the kitchen in the new house, down to the placement of drawers or demanding three quotes for each vendor for my wedding, that streak in him was hard to give up. It shouldn't have been a surprise, then, when he ran and won the title of President of the Homeowner's Association in his neighborhood in Emerald Isle, NC. <br />
<br />
He made new rules about how old you had to be to drive the golf carts in the neighborhood. He created a Dutch-style dike and pump system to keep the neighborhood from massively flooding when big storms and hurricanes came through. He tried to organize a Road Rally. Sure, there were plenty of people who disliked my dad in the neighborhood because he wasn't afraid to yell at those darn teenagers who were doing things like riding skateboards behind golf carts as they went over hills. Sure, he had neighbors genuinely going to the press, when he opted for the community to take part in a deer hunt that was happening all over the Island to cut down on the enormous deer population.<br />
<br />
When it came down to it, though, he was always just trying to do what he felt was right. When he died, I was astonished at the number of people on Emerald Isle who knew my dad. People came up to us everywhere on the streets of the community, telling me how much they loved my dad and how kind he was. Even the mayor and town planner for the entire island sat down with us one day, telling us how much they admired my father. Dad tended to exagerrate his importance in any given situation, and it wasn't until that week that I spent mourning him that I saw that he really did know tons of people on the island. And whether it was that Town Planner, the local mechanic, hairdresser, post office worker, or real estate office agents, they all regarded him as someone who always knew what was what.<br />
<br />
Slangwise or with its traditional meaning<em>, once a boss, always a boss. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-72189566329162847502014-03-04T06:45:00.001-08:002014-03-04T06:45:37.103-08:00Rij jij of rij ik? From my understanding, my dad did at least try to teach my sister a little bit of Dutch as a child. A few words here and there. However, in a situation where he was working a large part of the time and my mother, who didn't speak any Dutch, was the main caregiver, the goal of making my sister bilingual seemed too daunting. Thus, the attempt was short-lived. <br />
<br />
That being said, there was one Dutch children's song that stuck around until I was growing up. My mom had heard Oma sing it so many times, that she was able to learn her version of the lyrics. Granted, these were quite different from the original, but the melody stuck in my head for years to the point that I learned it myself as a young mom and sang it to my own children.<br />
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Beyond that, the only Dutch word that I knew for years was "Schott" because it is the pet name that Oma called me. I used to wonder why she was calling me "Scott" with a rattle of phlegm, but as I grew, I came to realize that it was actually the word for "Sweetie" or "Treasure." I think of her now every time I call my own children, "Schatz", which is the German version.<br />
<br />
In all the years since I became a German teacher, my dad had to have mentioned at least once a month that "Your grandmother would be rolling in her grave if she knew that you taught German." He didn't really mean it; it was one of the hundreds of ways that he knew he could push my buttons and pester me. My response, in turn, was threefold.<br />
<br />
1. If they had offered Dutch in eighth grade at Franklin Middle School, I certainly would have taken it. Alas, they did not.<br />
2. If he had taught me Dutch as a child, I would have been able to speak it.<br />
3. I was also the only one of the four children who actually went on to learn Dutch as an adult.<br />
<br />
I remember clearly the first sentence I learned of my ancestral language. We had gone out to Macaroni Grill or whatever restaurant it is that lays paper on top of the table for drawing. My dad and I were entrenched in doodling on the paper and somehow, the conversation turned to my desire to learn some Dutch. When he realized I was serious, he sat up a little straighter and began to think for a second. <br />
<br />
The sentence that he wrote on the paper looked initially like a random mix thrown together: "Rij jij of rij ik?"<br />
The "ij" is basically the last of the vowel sounds in Dutch and he proceeded to draw the syllables out of me. To a bystander, the sentence probably just sounds like someone slurring their English, which is all the more appropriate when you find out that it means, "Are you driving or am I?" As a teen at the time, it seemed like an innocent question, but I found out later that it was a standard statement between friends when they had been out at the bars. <br />
<br />
As a German major years later at the University of Virginia, it seemed a no-brainer to everyone that I would study abroad in German. However, I had already spent a summer abroad in high school in Bavaria and saw college as my last chance to fulfill a dream-- to live in Holland. Thus, I opted not to study in a German-speaking country; rather I headed to Leiden University, half an hour from Amsterdam by train, for six months.<br />
<br />
Finally, I was afforded the chance to immerse myself in the culture that had produced my father. I ate croquettes with abandon. I hopped on the train every weekend to visit a different city. I bought a bike and rode from town to town on the flat land. Most importantly, I took a month-long immersion course in the language before my actual college classes started. In fact, my German came in quite handy and when classes started, I was planted in an actual college course of students trying to learn Dutch and proved myself an advanced learner.<br />
<br />
Somewhere in the middle of my stay, Dad had to make a business trip over to Munich and took the opportunity to stop in for a weekend to stay with me. Although I can't remember exactly his face when he saw me so deeply planted in his homeland, I do remember the pride I felt in showing him "my" Dutch city. We ate at all my favorite spots. We bought Stroopwafel straight from a vendor at the local market. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and I eat some breakfast outside the market</td></tr>
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<br />
(Most people know Stroopwafel as those little waffle cookies that are filled with caramel and packaged in a faux Delft blue tin at the local World Market store. This was the real thing. At the stand, there was a giant cauldron of a honey/ caramel mix. The seller flattened out a fresh waffle cookie in a press the size of a dinner plate, sliced through it quickly with a knife. Then, with a swipe, he spread the oozing goodness from the cauldron between the two waffle cookie halves and handed it over.)<br />
<br />
When I came back from Leiden, I got my transcripts for the experience, and it was then (apparently) that my dad found out that none of the classes that I had taken in Leiden would be transferring back to UVA. To this day, I am sure I must have told him that beforehand, but he always insisted I had not. Having enterred UVA with 30 credits from high school, I could afford to go abroad for a semester without transferring classes back. Besides, as I pointed out to him, I hadn't gone to Holland to learn about the works of Patricia Highsmith, Second Language Acquisition, or any of the other courses that I had taken. I had gone to learn Dutch and to live in the Dutch culture. Regardless, until the day he died, he named this adventure, which he proudly discussed with friends on a regular basis when I was around, "The Great Boondoggle."<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the years after I studied in Holland, I became well versed<br />in cooking Dutch food. Here, Dad eats a beet salad that I<br />made for him.</td></tr>
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Although the initial shock of finding out about the Boondoggle was probably also anger-filled, I know that secretly, he was proud to finally have a buddy with whom he could discuss things like Vla (Holland's version of drinkable yogurt), beet salad, croquettes, and with whom he could have a couple secret word games. One Christmas, as we discussed a present for my mom, he and I resorted to Dutch, invoking the annoyance of my brother who was present. "Now that just isn't fair. You can't do that!"<br />
<br />
<br />
Over time, my Dutch didn't stick quite as well as it could have. Because of Dad's perfectionism and his tendency to correct my attempts, I moved away from speaking with him a lot. As any language teacher can tell you, without practice, the skills will fade. After a few years, he would tell people with a smirk that I hadn't <i>really</i> learned Dutch. <br />
<br />
However, I am happy to say that after he was gone, I finally got the last laugh. About a month before Christmas, my mom approached me with a project that my dad had once embarked upon and never completed. Years before, he had bought a copy of the last adventure of Tin Tin to be given to my Tin Tin-fanatic brother Jim. <br />
<br />
(For those unknowing, Tin Tin is a Belgian-invented comic book character, whose tales would eventually become a movie by Steven Spielberg. When the author of Tin Tin, named Herge, died, he was in the middle of writing one last adventure. Per his wishes, the comic was never completed, but eventually published as it was as a final gift to fans.)<br />
<br />
My father had bought a copy of this unfinished comic to give Jim. The only problem was that the book was in Dutch. As with so many other projects, Dad had <i>started</i> to translate it. There were thin sheets of tissue paper between the pages with handwritten copy. As a Christmas gift, my mom wanted to finally give this book to my brother, and she wanted me to finish the translation.<br />
<br />
Always up for a challenge, and being the kind of geek who actually takes joy in translation, I accepted immediately. With a little help from Google Translate, I got through the 42 pages of comics in about two weeks or so. I was actually shocked at how easily it came to me. Words that I don't know that I had ever seen before twisted themselves into English in my brain. Sure, my fluency in German helped a lot. However, I also get the feeling that maybe Dad's spirit was standing right behind me, whispering answers into my ear. <br />
<br />
Regardless, when I gave my brother the gift at Christmas, I beamed with pride. Not only because I was able to fulfill a wish that my father had had. No, I had finally found a way to prove my ability to speak and understand Dutch.<br />
<br />
<i>Can't speak Dutch, eh, Dad? Yeah, well I just translated an entire book! So there!</i> <br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-46210903520453260752014-03-03T09:52:00.002-08:002014-03-03T09:52:47.194-08:00Oh, no, my parents are aliens!My husband has this joke that, much like a hockey game, I have three halves to my heritage. There is the Dutch half of my gene pool, which comes from my dad. There is the Canadian half of me, that comes from my mother. Then, due to my birth in Raleigh, I have the third American half. Personally, I point out that I have no actual American blood in my body and was actually conceived in Canada. In fact, I still possess my Canadian Citizenship Card, albeit with a picture in which I am around three years old.<br />
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For a long time, I was the only American in my family. Up until the point when my parents became naturalized, and my dad decided to begin forgetting that he was an immigrant. In fact, there were times in the last couple of years, when he had his incessantly prattling news channels on and was talking about immigration policy, that I would squish up my face, turn my face to him and say, "You do remember that you are an immigrant too, right?"</div>
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I am, in fact, very proud to be the child of immigrants and to claim the title of genuinely being the first American in my family line on both sides. Back on one of my many first days as the "new girl" in school, I remember distinctly bragging about it in a slightly odd way. I sat at lunch with the people who had been assigned that day to be my friends and thought it would be really cool to just look at them and say, "So, did you know that my parents are aliens?" </div>
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No qualifying statement, no context. Just a bold statement on my first day at lunch to say that my parents were aliens. I was met with awkward looks and raised eyebrows. "They are not," one girl said, staring at me like I was the weirdest new girl ever. "They are!" I declared. "They have cards that say that they are aliens." In time, I came around to explaining that they were from another country, but to this day, that may have been one of the most socially awkward ways that I could introduce myself.</div>
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Regardless, over the years, I have slowly learned more about my parents' early life abroad. I often reflect that I wish someone had had my Oma (grandmother) write down more of her stories of the "Old Country" before she died when I was eleven. Off and on, I asked my dad about his time in Holland, but he preferred not to talk about it, and seemed to have forgotten some of the details of the stories anyway. I always vowed to pry it out of him and alas, it is too late again.</div>
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What I do know, though, has always been inspiring to me. He was born in the beach town next to The Hague/ Den Haag. A town whose name was actually used as a code in WWII because the Germans couldn't pronounce it the way it was meant to. When someone was suspected of being a German spy, they simply asked them to say the name of the town "Scheveningen" and their pronunciation would be their judge.</div>
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When he was born, there were still two more years left in the War, and I remember bits of stories in which he was horribly hungry. Oma once said that he tried to eat some wax fruit. Once the war was over, he and his friends were told explicitly NOT to go play on the beach. "There may still be bombs buried in the sand." With the devilish gleam that he wore even into adulthood, he nodded agreement, but confided to me later that they still went anyway.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZrHO7Ua-5kTTWcIK7J0kx1YQTbRLhD4PDJyKzB58dn4z0gSWSECzZJ9Gk7lcMKM2CneTmHdIgl_7IzCro6UhSAymdTbRBlMVV6xYiydiU3GCxQOjcI8FMIlIzxW7afA1Yi6q7Ku1EvQ/s1600/2005-08-18+-+503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZrHO7Ua-5kTTWcIK7J0kx1YQTbRLhD4PDJyKzB58dn4z0gSWSECzZJ9Gk7lcMKM2CneTmHdIgl_7IzCro6UhSAymdTbRBlMVV6xYiydiU3GCxQOjcI8FMIlIzxW7afA1Yi6q7Ku1EvQ/s1600/2005-08-18+-+503.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The family in the Old Country. My dad is right in front, second<br />from the left.</td></tr>
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At the age of fifteen, his parents decided that they wanted to find a better life for their children. They packed their belongings, said goodbye to family, and headed on a boat over to Canada. In an attempt to go a school project once, I tried interviewing my dad about the journey, but, being male, he had few details and simply said, "It was long. It wasn't fun. It was just a boat."</div>
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It was in Canada that the man that I know as my dad slowly began to develop: the leadership, the independence, the drive for success. More than anything, though, the effort to take care of everyone around him and make himself invaluable. When they arrived, my dad was really the only one in the family who spoke any English. My aunt, who was much younger, apparently knew a couple phrases, but when it came to daily life, they all looked to him.</div>
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Oma often waited to go to the market until he was home from school. Opa took him along when he needed to ask about jobs. I personally believe that it was seeing his parents so reliant on another that seeded in him the deep need to develop a different kind of life for himself and his eventual family. Come hell or high water, he would rise above his beginnings and prove himself. </div>
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Even beyond the days where he was the boss at work, owned eight cars, and had a large house in one of the richest counties in the nation, this drive never stopped. His need to excel was branded onto him. In fact, even when it comes to the circumstances of his death, I know that drive to be in control was there. </div>
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His final days went very quickly, but even the doctors were surprised that he passed as soon as he did. To me, though, it was not a shock. My father was not the type of person to allow himself to lay helpless in a hospital bed. Sure, he liked to be waited on his entire life, but he needed to be controlling why people were waiting on him and what they did for him. He was also not someone who ever wanted to be a burden on his family. He was the one who took care of all of us; it was never meant to be the other way around.</div>
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Thus, I take comfort in my firm belief that as soon as he knew that my sister was there to take care of my mom, he controlled his own destiny and chose to leave us. Even in the end, he was thinking of what was best for us. Whether he spoke the words or not, it was his final message. <i>I don't want to be in the way. I don't want to burden you. Let me get out of the way and you can take care of your mom.</i></div>
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That was just who my Dutchman father was.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-12868435728072631342014-03-02T05:01:00.002-08:002014-03-02T05:01:57.159-08:00No Man is an IslandThe story of my father is an interesting one, but I feel it important to mention that I couldn't tell his story without intertwining it with the story of my mother. In spite of his personal opinion that he was Superman, Dad secretly knew that he was nothing without my mom, regardless of whether he ever admitted it or not. While he was out working toward his Masters back in the 70's, she was home taking care of the three children they already had. When he repeatedly came home to report that the family was going to be moving <i>again</i>, it was my mom that supervised the packing and unpacking of every single box. On a more basic level, when my dad wanted something for breakfast, it was my mom that cooked it. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFi3fRfpHnQfy027QRA23xBHssvA-EAhaMnzyFtNPLNQ_t_PsU7DAC0cWDMRsHHkMTEcRUVOBHWhZIZIxpdBh4KZNaSPw-M9BF0xVdXmVgrHqNLOq9YLvGu2cXuQi1GYTQ1r_KK8gFuAo/s1600/carowinds+couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFi3fRfpHnQfy027QRA23xBHssvA-EAhaMnzyFtNPLNQ_t_PsU7DAC0cWDMRsHHkMTEcRUVOBHWhZIZIxpdBh4KZNaSPw-M9BF0xVdXmVgrHqNLOq9YLvGu2cXuQi1GYTQ1r_KK8gFuAo/s1600/carowinds+couple.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a><br />
I must write a disclaimer to my mom, that if I mix up some facts in their story, I must apologize. I am working on the memories of stories that I have heard retold. Our family history is like one of Grimm's fairy tales. It has been passed down through verbal retelling and not written in any book.<br />
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If I trace their story back to a single object, I don't find myself at a romantic object or a symbol. It all comes back to a simple box of index cards. At the time, my father was a college student at the University of Waterloo in Canada. He lived with a house full of guys. All of them working towards becoming engineers as he was. All of them eager to go out with ladies and have a good time, as all college guys are eager to do. <br />
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In order to maximize their dating possibilities, my dad and his friends had a system down. If they dated a girl and it didn't work out well, they would write her name and number on an index card and place it into a little box. Somewhat of a group "little black book", if you will. Thus, if an event came up and they needed someone to go with them, all they had to do was search through the little box and find a candidate. <br />
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My dad was, in fact, not the first of his friends to go on a date with my mom. However, when his buddy Al had gone out with Mary Heit, there just hadn't been a love connection. He thought she was really nice. A student at a nearby teacher's college. Rail-thin, just like my dad. Spunky and full of energy. Just not for him. Instead, he filled out a little card and told his best friend Hans about it. <br />
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I do not know much about my parents' dating history. Tales of my dad having to do some kind of work up in the colder northern territories of Canada and sending letters back to my mom. The occasional prank by my dad. Photos of them at the beach and sitting in front of Christmas trees. Nothing concrete. However, I do know that Al was the best man at their wedding. They were married for 46 years as of last year. <br />
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A year after they were married, they had my sister. Three years after they were married, they had my oldest brother. Six years after they were married, they had my second brother. At that point, they realized, three kids in five years would do them for a while. All of this happened, as my dad worked towards getting his Masters in engineering from Waterloo. By day, he worked his job at what I believe was named "Bell Canada"-- the telecom company. By night, he went to classes to reach the next level of his education. In the end, he never got that degree, not that it hurt his future any. <br />
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Through it all, though, my mom was his rock. After having my sister, she stopped teaching her first graders to concentrate on the job that would be her life's work-- mother, caregiver, a consummate jack-of-all-trades in the world of helping other people. They moved a good number of times in Canada, and by the time they moved to the US in 1980, and had the last of their four children (me), she was a professional at directing movers around the house and seamlessly relocating.<br />
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As my dad went from lowly worker to his eventual ceiling of Senior Vice President of Telecommunications, it was my mom who was the CEO of the house. If she hadn't cooked, my dad would have survived on the only meal that he could cook-- fried eggs. If she hadn't done laundry, he would have had nothing to wear. If she hadn't been there to guide all the children, he would have been paying a LOT in daycare bills. Frankly, if she hadn't been there to clean up his trash, the house would have turned into an enormous trash can.<br />
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In fact, my brother and I once did an experiment with my dad when my mom was out of town for a couple weeks. We began to notice that when my dad had trash, he didn't quite have the energy to push the lever that opened the trash compacter. Instead, he would simply place his trash on the counter directly above the place where the compacter nestled in the counter. We pointed it out to him and he brushed the comment aside. <br />
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The next day, Bryan and I promised each other not to throw away Dad's trash. We would simply leave it on the counter until it became too much and he finally put in the effort to open the trash compacter and throw it away. At first, it was just a little pile. We were sure he would get the message. When a couple days passed and it was simply became disgusting, we were forced to cave and realize that sometimes you just can't teach an old dog new tricks. <br />
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Thank God that old dog always had a wife there for him, who happened to know all of the tricks.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My parents visit the University of Waterloo on a 40th anniversary tour<br />of sites from their past</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-639259839351584219.post-28051468632262311172014-03-01T13:25:00.001-08:002014-03-01T13:25:20.140-08:00Celebrating my father"He may have been a pain in the ass, but he was my dad." <br />
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After thinking it over for a long time, that is the line that I have decided is going to open the book of short stories I someday intend to write about my dad. I knew that I wanted to write one for him, as soon as I realized that there was no way I would be able to stand up at his funeral and give a eulogy. Sure, I would have loved to do it, but once I took a step back and thought realistically about myself, I knew that I would breakdown after only a few words. Instead, I decided, I would play to my strengths and make a book documenting some of the amazing things from his life. <br />
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When I thought about what I would have said to my dad, a rush of snapshots flashed through my mind. Quotes, sites, stories, even tiny glimpses into who he was in the years before I lived and in the time when I lived away from him. Verbose as I tend to be when I write, I knew that a simple eulogy wouldn't be enough to capture everything that I had to say. Suddenly, I realized why the speech that my dad gave at my wedding reception was so damn long.... He couldn't narrow down his love any more than I can.<br />
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As with so many projects that I hatch and must discard for lack of time, I began this book of stories, but was forced to set it aside in place of my school's yearbook deadlines, lesson plans, recommendations, grading papers, and simply taking a breath to read a book. Not to mention having to shift my attention to the two munchkins constantly calling out with, "Mommy, would you please just play with me?" <br />
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Cue the entrance of March and the Slice of Life Challenge. What a wonderful opportunity to simply require myself to write. Sure, no one is forcing me to do it, but with this writing challenge floating out in the ether, I feel the need to accept it. What a perfect space to throw out some of my stories without posting the whole book. Finally, I can begin my "eulogy" to my father.<br />
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While initially I wanted to retell the story of my father's death through the images in my mind that piece together to form the experience that I would call as his passing, I realized that those first moments are something just for me. Something not to be relived with others. They are moments that I carry with me forever, but which will bring no good from reliving.<br />
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At the same time, I find myself skipping instead to the many positive images, if you can call them that from the week that I spent at my mother's house after he was gone. For me, life isn't really a long story, but a string of intense emotions and visions, which each symbolize a piece of my life.<br />
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-The peace I felt as I sat in my brother's living room, having just met his new girlfriend, knowing that this was what was best for my dad.<br />
-The warmth of sitting on the outside deck, as I dialed number after number to inform them of the news, as I was filled with the love that people had for my dad.<br />
-The overwhelming pride that enveloped me when I met my dad's buddy and mechanic, who immediately said how much like my dad I am. What do you mean, I asked him? "The smile on your face. There wasn't a day that Hans came in here that he wasn't wearing a smile on his face."<br />
-The vision of our family, sitting around the kitchen table, the night before the funeral. Cousins who I hadn't seen in decades, circling the table that my parents have had since the year I was born. The bottles of wine that we passed around, as we made the kind of smart-assed remarks to each other that Dad would have made, had he been there. (Not to mention the 100% confidence that he actually was there, huddling in the corner, pleased with himself that he had managed to get his family together-- a lifelong goal.)<br />
-The flutter of a yellow butterfly near the street, just as I mention that my dad is playing some supernatural trick on me by hiding my favorite flip-flops. The same flutter that I saw stream through one of the family pictures we had been taking the day before after the funeral. The same flutter that I had been noticing for days.<br />
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These are the moments, along with so many others, that come to me when I think of that week. Strangely, I felt strength and joy as I was given the chance to come together with family and revisit memories of older times Sure, there was sadness, but sadness is not the feeling that Dad would have wanted hovering too much. <br />
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In the months since he died, people have repeatedly told me how strong I am and marveled, but to me, this is natural. There is no other way to be. I get this from my Dad. He would have said, "Look, there is a problem here. Let's not dwell on it and wallow in self-pity. That isn't going to help us. Let's figure out a solution and move on."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad, in typical Hans style, tries to steal my daughter's<br />just weeks before I have to say goodbye to him.</td></tr>
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And this echoes the way I have chosen to live my life. One has only so much energy to give out in life and we get to choose where to use it. You can choose to spend all your energy on negativity, hate, sorrow, and usually things that you can't change. OR you can choose to embrace the positive, the joy, and celebrate what you are given. <br />
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So, in this instance, I choose not to dwell on the tragedy that has befallen my family. It doesn't help. I choose not to wallow in the sadness of having lost my father. I choose to celebrate the moments that I had with him and the effects that his passing has had, namely bringing me closer to my siblings and my mother. To me, that is a much healthier way to live.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7