My dad is the best. He shows up around here now and then (I mean, I tell you stuff about him, but also he reads — you know), because I have a lot of stories that make better sense if you know the dad. Anyway, he’s good. And I’ll tell you why. Or at least some of the why. Now. Ready? Okay.

My dad is funny. Snort funny. (Okay, well, he snorts. Usually in response to something ridiculous or ironic. My kids call this the Inappropriate Laugh, because it is possible that Husband and I each have a different laugh that comes out when possibly no laugh should.) He isn’t the kind who tells jokes, but the kind who finds them. In print, like The Far Side, which brought him decades of laughs (because you can go back and read them over and over, right?) and in various books of various intellectual levels. He loves Harry Potter, especially the wordplay and the names. He probably laughs at the Iliad and Sophocles. He gets stuff that only True Nerds get. And it makes him happy. Which makes me happy, too.

My dad is musical. He taught himself to play the guitar one summer while he was watering lawns for a summer job (that may be totally untrue, but that’s the story I remember, and hey, this is my blog). He sat under a tree and picked out gentle hippie music which may or may not have hidden drug references, but which also made, in the future, excellent bedtime songs and campfire music. He’s sung with cool choirs, including the one time when he sang with some Cincinnati chorus AND CAROL CHANNING. I know. I love me some Carol Channing. Oh, so much. He used to take us to see plays and he’d sit on the edge of his chair, soaking up the goodness.

My dad has a freakish memory. Mostly for people, but also for obscure literary references. I honestly think the guy remembers every person he’s ever met. He knew all my friends in High School, and still remembers them and asks after them. He cared about them. That’s where the memory comes from, I’ve decided. He meets someone and gets Invested. So he remembers. Cool, right?

My dad loves good food. He’s a great cook and baker and maker-upper and eater. We do have a good time together. Surprised? I thought not.

My dad is a linguist. Besides speaking carefully (which he does) he also knows loads of languages. Even some dead ones. And what’s cooler than speaking dead languages? I know. Nothing is.

My dad is a caretaker. He always took good care of us. And he took good care of my mom. And after she passed away, he’s taken very good care of my Mimi and her parents and pretty much everyone else who will let him. He’s a nurturing man — and I’m pretty sure that most of the world’s problems would diminish down to specks if we nurtured the characteristics that make a nurturing man. He’s a gatherer. He loves to have people around. He loves to organize dinners, lunches, breakfasts… any excuse to bring people together, especially if it involves food. (Where did I get that, again?)

My dad is a worshipper. He loves his Heavenly Father and Jesus. He loves going to church. He loves studying the scriptures. He loves serving and working and helping and living the gospel.

My dad is a reader. He loves books. He has a broad range of tastes which has broadened to include YA romantic comedy, since I started writing it.

My dad is a grower. He loves plants. Mostly ones you can eat, but also ones that look pretty or smell good. He loves the dirt. And compost. Lots of compost. (He also showers. Good thing.)

My dad is an awesome grandpa. He gives each of his 40+ grandkids so much personal attention that I’m pretty sure they all think they’re his favorite. He lives 4+ hours away from the nearest ones right now, but he’s still involved, knowing sports schedules and concert plans and plays and tests. He tutors his grandkids in French, he sings with them, he gets so excited when they tell him what they’ve been reading. He works with them. He listens to them. He cooks with them and eats with them. He’s been known to cry with them when the tears are called for, and he cheers and cheers for them.

And my dad cheers for me. It’s a pretty great thing to have someone who can find all the best things to say, at all the most needed moments. He thinks I’m great. And I think he’s great.

Happy birthday, Dad. I’m so glad there’s you.

And here it is.

Once upon a time, we lived in Oklahoma. No, I am not making that up. We lived there for 51 weeks. And we loved everything, everything about it. Everything. (Except the job.) (And the weather.)

Oklahoma is a lovely, wonderful place. As long as you have air conditioning (check), a zoo pass (check) and a creek in your backyard (check). Oh, and friends with teenage kids so you can leave your small girls and go out to eat (check, again). Lots of eating in Oklahoma.

So this creek in our backyard was a source of constant adventure. It was a slow-moving, creeping sort of creek, just busy enough to make some noise, but not scary for the small children to explore. (I thought.) There was this huge, flat submerged stone that showed itself during a long, hot summer and became a perfect place to stand and discover wildlife. Which seemed like such a good idea.[1]

But guess what. Go ahead. Guess.

We didn’t have to stand in the creek to discover wildlife. Wildlife occasionally came to us. In the form of ducks. In the spring, when the redbud trees reminded us of all the reasons to live in Oklahoma (see above), ducks began hanging out on our back porch. Six or seven of them. And we’d feed them leftover pancakes. To the point of training them. No kidding. The ducks got so used to our leftover pancakes showing up on the back porch that they’d come knocking if the cakes weren’t there. Really. They’d come right up to the back kitchen door and peck on the glass with their duckish beaks.

“Hello?”

“Breakfast time, isn’t it?”

(Note: Ducks prefer pancakes to bagels. FYI.)

After breakfast, the ducks would get amorous. Oy. I know. Small children, welcome to the Circle of Life. [2]

Fast forward a few weeks, and only the green-headed boy ducks came for breakfast. What happened to the brown ones? the kids wanted to know. Oh, they’re nesting. Babies soon. Won’t that be fun?

Yes. Oh, yes.

Fast forward another couple of weeks. Babies. Oh, the cutest little yellow puffballs you’ve ever, ever seen. They breathed these little chirping sighs that would just make us insane with their cuteness. We’d sit beside the creek on our tri-leveled porch and watch them paddle by. The mamas and the daddies would take turns coming up to the door for breakfast. We delivered, these days. To all seven babies.

Wait. Six babies. And a few fewer adults.

No. Now five babies. And three adults.

Um, four?

Three babies? No adults? What’s going on here?

It really didn’t take that long for us to understand the Circle of Life playing out in our backyard. Some of those huge Oklahoma snakes were snacking on our babies. And possibly their parents. Vengeance was only a matter of time.

Husband, in a Herculean effort of Pet Rescue Bravery, borrowed a pool skimmer from the Gardening Neighbor. And we sat in wait for our remaining babies to float by.

Rather, make that Baby.

One lone baby.

Out came the skimmer. Into the creek went Husband. Into the skimmer went baby duckling[3]. Sort of screaming, I have to admit. It was one of those moments when we have to tell a smaller creature, “this is for your own good — trust me” but we feel bad anyway.

The internet (yes, it was around even then) had told us that baby ducks like cracked corn, wheat, and  oats. Um, okay. So I put some cornmeal, some oatmeal, and some whole wheat flour in a little pan. Then I put some creek water in another pan. Then I put both pans in a box. Then Husband put the baby duck inside, too. And we watched the baby duck whistle and peck and splash around in apparent relief. I can just see it from baby duck viewpoint: Two small human faces, peering over the edge of the box, two larger human faces, above the small ones. All smiling in a manic human manner. Stop looking at me, humans, and bring more cornmeal.

Everyone knows that a baby duck needs a name. So, Husband named our duck. Mabel Huntington. Do not ask me why. I cannot tell you. [4]

Everyone also knows that a baby duck needs a teddy bear. So, Husband bought Mabel a bear.

Wait. We didn’t know that? Well, the marketing department at PetCo saw Husband coming, then. There was a huge sign. Huge. It said, and I quote, “Birds Love To Snuggle!” Below which was a display of dozens of tiny teddy bears. Husband picked the cutest one, by far.

And brought it to Mabel.

Who adored that bear. And I am being so completely sincere. Even though I may have raised my eyebrows way up high in wonder that someone IN THE ADVERTISING PROFESSION could get snookered by an advertisement for something so unnecessary, he was right. Mabel snuggled up to the teddy and sacked out. With his/her fluffy little yellow head in the bear’s lap. Oh, heck. It was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, duck-and-bearly speaking.

After a few days, we determined that, although we were pretty attached to the duck (and teddy bear) living in a box in our garage, there was probably a better way to raise this sweet thing. So we made some phone calls. To some of the nicest Oklahomans in the state. Finally, a wildlife rescue place agreed to meet Mabel. I drove her there, her box in the front seat of the Honda, kids safely belted into carseats in the back. The nice wildlife people told me that they’d be happy to do any kind of rehabilitation that Mabel might need and then help him/her to find his/her freedom. That many of the rehabbed ducks would choose to make a permanent home in the pond on the premises. I explained that she wasn’t hurt, exactly, just in mortal danger from the snakes and turtles that were making a habit of snacking on baby ducks in our backyard. Then I explained about the teddy bear.

Silence. Lots of it.

Then a slow nod. Riiiiight, lady. The duck loves the bear. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

I walked back to the car, watching over my shoulder as the brown-clad wildlife rescue worker hitched box over hip and walked away, toward Mabel’s future.

(Dramatic Pause Here)

After a few weeks, we took the Kids to the “museum” on the property of the wildlife rescue people. It smelled of taxidermy and dust. Many stuffed snakes. And live ones. But what I most remember was the possum. Oh, holy mercy. It was placed on top of a glass snake cage (which I’m sure has some manner of technical name ending in -arium, but I don’t care) so that it was, as I turned around, face to face with me. The possum reminded me of all the reasons I won’t ever have a possum for a pet. That, my friends, is a frightening creature. It was white with pink beady glass eyes, which, on its own is scary enough. Because it looked like a hugely overgrown lab rat. But the teeth. Oh, the teeth. There were a million of them. A million, at least.  Sharp ones. Its mouth was open, displaying all the fang-ed wonder. I suppressed both the cries and the gag reflex and shepherded my children out of the room.

We found a brown-clad rescue worker, who laughed when we mentioned Mabel the Duck.

“I remember you,” he said.

(Strangely for me, I couldn’t say the same.)

“Folks, when you brought the duck here that day, I wondered if you were crazy, what with you fixin’ to leave the duck with a toy.” (People in Oklahoma love the word “fixin’” — trust me on this one.) “But you were right. That duck still sleeps with the teddy bear snuggled up right next to her.” (She was a her. Apparently.)

Husbandly Vindication.

We asked to see Mabel. He brought her out. She was at least twice the size of the teddy bear now, and brown and awkward and lumpy.

Gorgeous, I mean.

The Kids couldn’t believe this was the same duck. Then the worker showed us the bed. With the teddy bear inside. The bear that Husband had known, KNOWN would make the duck safe and happy. This little bear was loved up. Nips out of his ears, covered in… something aromatic, matted and completely adored. For a guy who doesn’t like animals, my Husband sure knows how to take care of an accidental pet.

—

[1] Did you know that snakes live in Oklahoma? They do. And pretty much every single poisonous snake in the northern hemisphere wants to live in Oklahoma. They’ve never, ever read “Grapes of Wrath” apparently.

[2] I may have been heard to open the door and hiss at those amorous ducks, “Hey, there are little kids around here. Take it under the bleachers, why don’t you?”

[3] Telling it this way, it sounds a lot less… wet than I remember it.

[4] Just kidding. Of course I can tell you. Mabel Huntington lives upstairs from Mr. Kreuger and complains that her pipes don’t bring her heat, or water, or something. Mr. Kreuger is convinced that she’s lying for attention. We (heart) Jimmy Stewart.

I inherited a lot of traits from my dad, including but not limited to freakish memory, long phone calls, and a love for cheese and red meat. But I didn’t get the green thumb. Which occasionally makes me sad. I try. Often. I spend way more money on plants and gardeny stuff than I ever save on actual edible produce. (*boo*)

This year I let myself off the hook. I didn’t plant anything. In fact, in that spirit of honesty, I’ll tell you that I haven’t actually managed to weed out the garden yet. But. I have a couple of volunteers. We’re eating a lot of chives, because they come back. Over and over. Yea! And their flowers are so beauteous. We’re using chives where normally we’d use green onions and everyone’s pretty glad about it. Also, the lettuces I planted last spring, but they never grew? Remember those? Surprise! They’re coming up now. So hooray for the surprise benefits.

Yesterday at church, Brother Bob asked us if we wanted any spinach. Um, hello? I guess, yes. So we went over there and he cut off a bunch of gorgeous greenies, and I ooh-ed and aah-ed over his growing things, and he also whacked off a bunch of rhubarb for us. I told him to leave the leaves on, because I had to go all Miss America pageanty and wave to the Kids while holding this incredible bouquet of rhubarb. We went home thinking how grateful we were that we could reap the benefits of someone else’s work. Thanks, Brother Bob.

So this morning I made a pie. A strawberry-rhubarb pie. I haven’t had one of those in at least 25 years. And it made me miss my mom like very few things do these days. I don’t know if my mom loved-loved strawberry-rhubarb pie, but she made it, and I ate it with her. She would have been proud of my pastry today, you know. It was a thing of beauty, if I do say so myself. We just cut into the pie, and only Kid 1 ate her whole piece (well, I did, too), and she laughed and said, “Well, Mom, you and I can eat this pie.” And my heart was happy-sad and I wished again that Mom was here to know my Kids. Because she’d think they’re delightful, I guarantee it. She’d crack up at Kid 3′s sense of humor. She’d be jealous of her hair, too. She’d swoon over Kid 2′s Vivaldi abilities. And she’d snuggle up with her in a blanket on the couch. She’d answer all of Kid 4′s questions, even when she knew he was only asking to keep her talking. She’d practice his duets with him, too, because she had the skills to do that thing. She’d hold her own hands together over her heart (that physical manifestation of *squee*) when she saw Kid 1 sing on stage, I know it. She’d practice songs with her, and help her work through tricky harmonies. And she’d pretend to be amazed at all the kid-ly braininess, when really, she’d pretty much expect it.

And every day, when I work on this Mom business, and sing songs to my kids, and read them books (with the voices)and bite my tongue when the unkind/impatient/snarky remark wants to escape, and when I say, “B-flat, b-flat,” and cook meals every day, I’m reaping the rewards of her seed-planting. Thanks, Mom.

Is thirty-seven really that old? My Kids think so. They’re quick to reassure me – “You’re cool, Mom.” But it’s the following eye-roll that sort of negates the compliment, you know? My knowledge of obscure eighties music might win me points with some of the Kids’ friends, but it always comes back to “Wow. You’ve been around here a while, haven’t you?”

Yes. Yes I have.

I recently reported that I’m annoyed with my old-lady eyesight. Update on that: I was waiting for Husband to meet me for lunch last week. I went into a bookstore and browsed through a section of biographies and memoirs, which I don’t read enough of these days. I would read a back jacket copy, put the book down, and read another jacket cover. After seven or eight of them, I looked up toward the exit door. And I couldn’t find it. I knew it was roughly that-a-way (the shafts of sunlight were a pretty good clue) but I couldn’t see the door. At all. I stood staring at it for a while, and it gradually came into focus. Whew. I was simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Which is pretty much where I live these days.

And then there’s movies. I love movies, remember that? I love going to the movies. I love watching films at home. I love it. Really. But why is almost everything c-r-a-p now? I think it’s because I’m old. My Dad said once (or maybe a thousand times) that a PG-13 rating translates to “Guaranteed to offend your mother.” Oh, shoot. I’m that mother. But I have to say, as offended as I’m likely to get by a PG-13 rated film, I stay far away from anything R-rated. It’s one of those commitments I made a long, long time ago that has proved itself useful to me. And now that I have teenaged daughters, I am glad I’ve stayed true to my commitment. Glad, that is, until “The King’s Speech” came out. I pounded my fists and whined. I moaned. I may have even cried. I got on every one of those websites for parents that tell you precisely which material you might find objectionable and why. I shook my head at ratings people. I moaned some more. But when it came right down to it, I said, “Here is my choice. It’s a movie that is – by all reports – stunning and uplifting and spirit-building. Except for that one scene. And even then, it’s only language. But there’s the principle of the thing.”

Principles.

Sheesh.

And so I didn’t see it.

UNTIL… the film company re-released it with some comically non-creative dubbing in That One Scene, which brought the rating down to a solid PG-13. (Which, under the circumstances, totally did NOT offend this mother.)

I went. I saw. I cringed for poor Bertie. I shook my head in wonder and awe at Mr. Firth. And Mr. Rush (oh, my). And Ms. Bonham-Carter. I cheered (inside). I adored this story and this film and the acting and the historicity. (I think that is a real word. Even though I might have made it up if it’s not.) I wasn’t even tempted to reach up and pull the camera down to actors’ head-level (like maybe Husband was).

And I was glad I’d seen it. And I was more glad that I’d waited.

Is that a sign of being comfortable in my old skin?

Speaking of my old skin… Oh, must we? No. We needn’t. So let’s move on.

For most days in the past several months I’ve replaced 2 meals with green smoothies. Want to know how much weight I’ve lost?

None.

Not a bit.

It kind of makes a girl crave some caramel popcorn, if you want to know the truth.

—

Question of the day? How can you tell he’s a King? (If you choose to answer, keep it PG-rated, will you?)

–

Also it’s raining. Not snowing. And daffodils are coming. I see yellow parts. Yipee.

But I’m not doing it.

We’re all about  honesty here, are we not? So you should know that now, even as my four Kids are all in school all day, every day, I am pretty darn satisfied if I come up with 1000 words a day. And that is fine. I’m also relatively satisfied when I come up with 500 words on a busy day (the kind of busy day where there is a movie to watch and some popcorn to eat).

I may or may not have told you (okay, I know I didn’t tell you, except one of you) that I’m working on an early-chapter reader book. This means that the total word count is between 7,000 and 11,000. Yeah. Total. And instead of finding myself finishing a draft in seven to eleven days, I have discovered that a really short book is very hard to write. Every word counts, do you know what I mean? I get a little paralyzed by it, to tell you the truth. An some days it can take me several hours to reach 500 words. (This may be normal, but it isn’t normal for me.) Kind of like pulling teeth, but I bet I could pull 500 teeth faster than I can write these 500 words lately. The words matter a lot. I can’t write a day’s worth of total garbage and say, hey, I’ll just delete it tomorrow. Not when it’s 10% of the whole book. *Shudder*

So I’m learning a new skill.

It’s called patience.

I hate it.

—

Listen. Do you smell something?

That’s the wheat bread I just pulled out of the oven. Here. I’m using my arms to waft some of the wheaty-goodness scent your way. You’re welcome.

Rules: I have to eat a piece right now, while it’s still really too hot to touch. Hang on. I’ll be back in a minute.

—

Have we read Georgette Heyer? I have heard over several years that she is a great Regency Romance writer, ala Miss Jane Austen. I’m midway through my first try of a Georgette Heyer, and I have a semi-formed opinion that the connection with Miss Austen is all related to Regency timeline. And possibly witty dialog. But Ms. Heyer is a cliche fiend. <–I wrote something else right there but I changed it, because the words that came to mind were unladylike and possibly a little blunt for me. But holy cow. The slang and cliches are in every sentence. Every one. It’s like doing mental calisthenics to read a page or two. Not that there’s anything wrong with mental calisthenics. But I’m not sure I’d use Ms. Heyer’s name in context with Miss Jane’s. Feel free to disagree.

—

I live in a town where it is impossible unlikely to find a paperback pocket-sized French/English dictionary. Alas. Poor Kid 1 and her enormous, borrowed-from-grand-pere, hardback dictionary. No kidding. It’s the size of my well-read copy of Les Miserables (the copy is in English). She can’t fit it in amongst her many school books. I may have to leave town this week to seek out an actual book store. *sigh*

—

And, finally, since it’s November, and some of us are all about the gratitude in November, I’ll end each post this month with a few things that I am thankful for today.

* Flip-switch fireplaces

* Excellent Wusthof bread knives

* Piano teachers with all kinds of patience

Sometimes, when I was a kid, people would ask me, what does your dad do? and I would answer with my seven-year-old studiousness, he’s a strategic planner. I worked hard to remember that, and I used it as often as I could (because even then, I loved me some big words). But between then and now, I’ve had a lot of occasions to answer that question… differently. Because my dad has been a lot of things.

A lot.

But when people ask me now? I tell them he’s a teacher. And a gardener. And that seems to fit. He loves to teach. He fills his heart up with his university students. He cares about their success in his classes and also in the important-er parts of their lives. He loves to teach. And he loves his garden. He tells vegetable stories like I used to tell toddler stories. (Wow! Look how big they’re getting! Can you believe the precociousness of my cauliflower?) He thrills that he can leave boxes of excess produce in the church kitchen, and that it will all be taken and eaten.

A teacher, and a gardener. Sound like Anyone Else you know? Like the One my dad seeks to emulate in his daily life, always putting God’s will first, always seeking to serve others, always willing to submit to the Lord’s plan. My father, walking in the footsteps of his Savior, the master teacher. A teacher, and a gardener.

And there’s guilt. Because I’m not there. I’m not standing with the family, surrounding the hospital bed. I said my last goodbye over the phone. How tacky is that? I wasn’t holding Husband’s hand while he watched his dad go Home. And I should have been there, of course. So, guilt.

And then there’s excitement. Giddiness, even. Because I get to be a Star. Our play (“Joseph”) opened Thursday. Dad W. passed away Friday morning. We performed Friday night. And tonight. And tomorrow, and next week, and it’s SO FUN and I really, really love it.

And I don’t know how to feel that all inside this one heart.

And it’s hard to balance it all. My head would explode if I tried to feel it all at the same time. So I have to take a breath and remember: It’s time to feel this. It’s okay to feel that. And I let myself compartmentalize it all so I don’t just dissolve.

Is there a word for that?

Mothers of small children are rarely trained in the arts, but are required to perform at the drop of a hat (or the onset of a tantrum) various musical numbers, frequently accompanied by proscribed dance moves which will be sorely missed if forgone or misapplied. In our house, these spontaneous shows occur at set hours (before and after naps, during station breaks on PBS, and while snacks are being prepared) as well as on demand at random intervals throughout the day, and at all times in the car.

This command performance, though tedious, is not the least pleasant part of my parenting regimen. I love to sing, and teaching songs to children is a great language training tool. We live in a “singing house,” which has always been one of my visions of homey happiness. We sing together as a family. All of us. Even those of us who can’t.

Husband, for various reasons, can’t carry a tune in a tin pail. But by the grace of the Lord and a miracle of childhood adoration, our babies don’t seem to notice. Of course, that can’t last; and by the time they hit three or four, stuffing fingers in ears is a common sight. But in the tremendous toddler years, nothing beats a snuggle and a song with Daddy. Even if that song stays on the same note throughout and the words are improvised on the spot.

I wish every tired mom of a two-year-old could know the joy and delight of turning away from the dishes in the sink and catching a glimpse of the man she adores stretched out on the couch clutching – not the remote control and a beverage – but that precious child. The one who spent two hours in the tub followed by thirteen seconds with a magic marker and now looks as if he has possibly never been bathed. The child who asks for Spagettios with such a cute voice that her mother temporarily forgets the darling’s tendency to wear in her hair what she didn’t use to fill the pockets of her overalls. The one who picked up the phone during Mommy’s sixty-second shower and dialed Fiji or Athens or Riyadh saying, “Hewwo, Gwandpa. I wuv you.”

The sight of that sleepy little head cuddled into Dad’s chest turns the headaches of the day into at least comic relief, and at best golden memories to savor over the years – accompanied by the beautiful sounds of an off-key lullaby. Thank Heaven for Daddies who love their kids (and their wives) enough to take their moment on the stage.

*I wrote this little tribute thing a few years ago and just came across it. Lucky me.