School Lunches

Our little elementary school had no cafeteria, so if you weren't a "walker," you carried a lunch box, paid a nickel for a little carton of milk, and ate in the classroom. I had a Peanuts lunch box and matching thermos. In those days, thermoses had glass liners, so they didn't usually last as long as the lunch box; if you banged your lunch box around a little too much on the way to school, you'd find shards of broken glass mixed in with whatever you had in your thermos. Most days my lunch box contained a peanut butter sandwich wrapped neatly in waxed paper, but once in  a while I agreed to bologna on squishy white bread with Miracle Whip. In the days before blue ice cold packs, my mom froze water in an old Bactine bottle and tucked that into my lunch box in hopes of keeping my sandwich cool until lunchtime. To go with my sandwich and milk, I had fresh or canned fruit and something sweet for dessert--usually cookies, sometimes little cans of pudding, or if I was really lucky, a Hostess Ho-ho! I loved those little foil-wrapped rolls of chocolate cake and white filling. To make mine last longer, I peeled off the outside layer of chocolate and ate that first, then I carefully unrolled the cake and ate it as slowly as I could. Our elementary school was barely a block from our town's main street, and kids who had money and a note from home got to eat "over town" at the Amber Grill. Eating in town was a rare treat in our family since extra dollars for hamburgers, fries, and a vanilla coke were few and far between.  But every once in a great while, usually when my dad was in charge of the lunch packing for some reason, we would unwrap our sandwiches and see a woven potholder tucked between the two slices of bread along with a dollar and a note giving us permission to go to town for lunch. Part of the fun of eating over town was stopping at Kenny Wilson's candy store on the way back to school for a pack of Sprees or a strip of Zotz candy to keep in your desk and nibble on during the long afternoon hours. Field trip days usually called for bagged lunches (no lunch boxes), and I suppose I usually took my lunch in a plain brown paper bag with my name printed neatly on the front, just like everyone else did, but one time--maybe it was the year my grade got to go to Old Economy--my mom decorated the front of my bag with a garland of flowers.  I loved that bag, not just because it was pretty and festive, but because my busy mom took a few extra minutes to make something special for me to remind me she would be thinking of me when I was on my field trip. It was the same with finding a potholder sandwich and a dollar bill in my lunch box on days my dad was in charge of things. He could have just given us the dollars and notes in the morning, but instead he took a few extra minutes to do something only he would do and made a memory that would last a lifetime. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but those school lunches were doing more than filling my stomach--they were etching a lifelong place in my memory, and they were teaching me about the kind of parent I wanted to be.

A Good Man

My dad was overweight for most of his adult life; he changed careers three times before settling uneasily into his job as a professor of education at YSU; he and my mom didn't get along all that well; and he suffered from depression, diabetes, and psoriasis. His was not an easy life, and yet he was a good man and a good dad. Although it's hard for me to believe now, there were a few times when we were growing up that I wished he'd go away and not come back. Yet I barely remember those dark days. What I remember is a dad who sat on the floor and played blocks with us, who made up bedtime stories about two hippopotamuses named Daisy and Lulabelle, who taught us to play four-square, who left packages of M & M's under our pillows on nights when he had a late class, and who gave us Friday night dimes to spend in town. When we grew up and left home, he supplied us with cameras, air conditioners, VCRs, and computers. He kept us connected with his Weekend Update emails and his frequent telephone calls. And since he didn't travel much, especially toward the end of his life, he made sure we knew we were always welcome visitors. As Father's Day approaches, I treasure the memories I have of my dad. Although he was far from perfect, just like the rest of us, he got the big stuff right: first of all, my dad was always in my corner--I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would go to bat for me if I needed him to; second, he believed in me--he thought I was smarter, more athletic, and more talented than I actually was; and finally, he loved me--completely and absolutely. So although it's been eleven years since I've bought a card or a gift for my dad on Father's Day, I am blessed every single day by the gifts he left with me.

Meatloaf for Dinner?

As I already acknowledged in an earlier post, I was a picky eater as a kid.  The list of foods I didn't like was long, but at the very top of the list was MEATLOAF, a meal we had way too often.  I don't know if it was the minced onions (another food right near the top of the list) it contained or its texture that I disliked, but I just could not eat it.  My dad, a meatloaf lover, used to offer me a quarter to take a bite, and even though a quarter could buy a lot of candy in those days, I don't think I ever took him up on it.  I know many people consider meatloaf to be one of the ultimate comfort foods, but I just don't get it.  And as far as I'm concerned, the only thing worse than meatloaf is a meatloaf sandwich.  My children never even got the chance to turn up their noses at meatloaf because, of course, I never made it for them, and poor Steve, who actually likes meatloaf, hasn't had it in thirty years.  So imagine my surprise when I saw a recipe for Mexican Meatloaf on my favorite cooking blog earlier this week and couldn't get it out of my mind.  I kept re-opening the post, trying to decide if I could actually bring myself to make meatloaf.  I finally decided to go for it.  Right this very minute it's cooking away in my little Crockpot, and it's looking and smelling good!  Now, I'll admit a slow-cooker Mexican meatloaf is a pretty far cry from the classic meatloaf my mom used to make (which involved Quaker Oats and ketchup and the aforementioned minced onions), and I can't imagine I'll ever travel that far down the meatloaf path, but for a recovering picky eater, this is a major breakthrough!

P.S. Dad, when I get to heaven, you're going to owe me a quarter . . .

Phone Calls

Today would have been my dad's eighty-first birthday.  Back in the old days when my kids were young and my dad was alive and well and retired with lots of time on his hands, he often used to call in the middle of the day.  I'd be in the midst of washing the dishes or playing with the kids or unloading groceries or doing any one of the many other activities that competed for my time and attention during those busy days of parenting, and the phone would ring.  I'd drop what I was doing and hurry to answer it.  "Hi, Babe," he'd say, "I didn't really want anything."  I'd try to keep the impatience out of my voice, but I'd think to myself, If you didn't really want anything, then why are you calling?  We'd chat for a few minutes while I'd make use of the long phone cord to finish folding the laundry or to make lunch, only half paying attention to the conversation, knowing he'd be calling again in a day or two, or even later that night.  I acted like I had all the time in the world left.  It's been more than ten years since I talked to my dad on the phone, and now that my own kids are grown and gone, I understand exactly why he called even when he didn't really want anything: he called because he missed me, because his house was empty and quiet, because he was lonely.   And I know exactly how comforting it is to hear your child's voice on the other end of the phone.  Talking to our kids reminds us who we are and who we were.  I wish I had understood that back in the old days.  I would have called my dad more often, and when he called me, even when he didn't really want anything, I would have stopped what I was doing and really listened to him.  I have no idea what heaven will be like, but I'm hoping for an eternity of golden afternoons to spend with my dad, talking about everything and nothing.

Gone Swimming

My dad never learned to swim.  Because of that and because he was big on safety, he wanted all of us kids to learn.  My earliest swimming lessons were less than successful--I clung to the side of the pool and cried.  But my parents didn't give up, and before long I was a swimmer.  I spent a majority of my summer afternoons at the town pool.  Although in those days, "going swimming" didn't really mean doing the backstroke.  It meant seeing how many somersaults you could do in a row underwater on a single breath, lying on a thin towel in the sun while talking to friends, going out to play in the park for a while, and doing can openers and cannon balls off the diving board.  It also meant sitting impatiently on the side of the pool with all the other kids for ten minutes every hour during the adult swim.  As I dangled my feet in the water, I watched the middle-aged women in their flowered bathing caps sidestroking their way across the pool; I used to wonder why they did it and what on earth was fun about those slow, steady laps they swam.  Well, now I am one of those middle-aged women.  My swim cap is black, not flowered, and I don't do the sidestroke.  But there I am, a middle-aged woman swimming calmly back and forth across the pool.  It started after a very stressful spring semester.  I was having trouble calming myself down, and for the first time in my life I had high blood pressure.  I had read that swimming was good for lowering blood pressure, so I decided to give it a try.  I started slowly, and before long I discovered I still really liked to swim.  I'm extremely nearsighted, so when I'm in the water with no glasses or contact lenses, I can barely see anything.  And when I'm doing any stroke other than the head-above-water breaststroke, I can barely hear anything.  So I once I'm in the pool, I'm in my own watery world.  The rhythmic strokes and the cool, soothing water did a lot to calm me down that first summer.  And the smell of chlorine on my suit and in my hair took me right back to my childhood.  Most of the time I swim at the college natatorium.  It's nothing like the pool of my childhood.   I don't meet up with friends anymore.  I don't jump off the diving board.  And I can't remember the last time I did a somersault in the water.  But once again I'm spending many of my summer afternoons at the pool.  Thanks for the swimming lessons, Dad!

Are You Staying Cool Enough, Babe?

We are on day three of temperatures near ninety degrees here in western New York.  Every summer we get several stretches of weather like this, and every summer I wish for central air.  Earlier this month, we went so far as to call for an estimate. “Let’s just see what it would cost,” I told my husband.  The answer: a LOT.  As it turns out our 120-year-old house is not well-suited for central air—something about no cold air returns upstairs and other things I don’t remember because I didn’t really understand them to begin with.  The bottom line is we’re back to fans and window units in two of the upstairs bedrooms.  Seeing an air conditioner in the window always make me think of my dad.  All the years we were growing up, he had one in his bedroom.  I remember feeling that blast of cold air when I walked in to borrow his scissors or to ask him a question in when he was working at his desk.  Years later when I had grown up and moved away, the first question my dad asked when he called on hot summer days was “Are you staying cool enough, babe?”  I wrote this poem a few years ago, and on this hot summer day I am thinking of my dad and of the way parents never stop taking care of their kids.

Are you staying warm enough?

he would ask when he called

on cold winter days

ever since he heard

that our dog's water froze

in her dish

in our cold New Hampshire

kitchen.

It only happened once

a long time ago,

but he never forgot.

"I'll send you some money

to help with your heating bill.

Turn your thermostat up a few degrees

I don't want the kids to be cold."

Are you staying cool enough?

He would ask when he called

during summer heat waves.

Despite my reassurances

of fans, backyard wading pools,

and sprinkler parties,

a second call came one summer day.

"Be watching for a surprise delivery.

It should be arriving soon. . .

Oh, I'll go ahead and tell you:

I got you an air conditioner.

You need one room to cool off in."

I wish I could call him today

to tell him

that a crazy hot June

drew us to the old air conditioner

that's been resting in the corner

of the bedroom through

several temperate summers,

buried under rolls of wrapping paper,

blankets, and stuffed animals

I want to tell him

how his grandson

lugged it up the stairs alone

and helped me wrestle it into

the window.

I want him to know that one room

is now blissfully cool.

But he's out of range

of phones,

of cold snaps,

of heat waves.

And I can't tell him

that although

we're warm enough in winter

and cool enough in summer,

I miss the asking,

and I miss my dad.

Wild Mint and Index Cards

Early in my parenting years, I read a quote that said something like "our children don't from us what we offer, they take from us what they need."  I can't remember where I read it or who said it, but I do remember that it offered me a bit of comfort because the task of preparing my little ones for life seemed daunting--how could I possibly teach them everything they needed to know?  Yet the quote reminded me that it wasn't a one-way street and that my children might get what they need in spite of me rather than because of me.   Well, as my kids grew older and got ready to strike out on their own, the fear set it again--Had I done my job? Were my kids ready to face the world?  Then I thought back to my own parents.  There were some basic things they taught me directly—like how to iron a pillowcase and how to balance a checkbook.  But most of the other stuff I picked up by watching them.  Big things like how to live out your faith and why it’s important to work hard.  And little things like how to recognize wild mint along a creek bed and why it’s a good idea to keep index cards on hand. Did I know everything I needed to know when I moved out of my parents' house?  Nope, of course not.  In fact, there are still plenty of things I don't know.  But I took what I needed from my parents and then I figured things out as I went along.  And I have to trust my kids to do the same.

More Things I Keep Under My Bed

Although my dad had many health problems throughout his adult life, his death at age 70 came with little warning.  When he died, I learned that no matter how old you are, you’re never ready to lose a parent.  In the years since, I’ve learned that you never stop missing the parent you lost, and you never stop thinking of things you wish you could tell him.  At first, I saw him everywhere—in a stranger’s shuffle, in a colleague’s gray head, in the faces of my children.  I also talked about him to anyone who would listen.  And I wrote about him: poems, journal entries, stories.  Before we left town after his funeral, I took pictures of his room, especially his little office area: desk, chair, bookcase, file cabinet.  I also gathered up a few things of his to keep: one of the plaid short-sleeve shirts he always wore, the red chamois shirt he’d been wearing over Christmas, a New Testament that belonged to him and had his name scrawled inside in his distinctive handwriting, one of his pocket knives, a pair of black leather driving gloves he’d been wearing that still held the curve of his hands, a silver pen light he’d used for years.   I also took the contents of the file marked “Mindy” from his file cabinet; among other things, the manila folder held cards I’d made for him, postcards I’d sent from camp, notes I’d left for him or tucked into his suitcase, an index card with my various addresses written on it, and a green triangle made of poster board to which I’d taped ten silver half dollars and given to him as a Father’s Day gift once.  When I got back home, I put all of these things in a little flowered duffle bag, along with the sympathy cards I’d received, the obituary from the newspaper, and a poem I’d written and read at his funeral.  Every once in a while during that first year, I unzipped the bag just a little and breathed in the scent of my dad that still clung to those shirts.  In the years since then, I haven’t opened it at all—until today.  The bag was covered in dust, so I carefully took everything out and washed the bag.  I’ll tuck everything back inside as soon as the bag is dry, and I’ll put it back under my bed.  And for the rest of the night and the rest of my life, I’ll think of the dad I had and all the things he gave me that don’t fit in the little flowered bag: memories of playing blocks and four-square and push-the-button; strong, abiding faith in God; an uncompromising model of honesty and integrity, security that comes from knowing someone was always in my corner; and the strength that comes from knowing I was a well-loved child. And I'll do my best to pass these things along to my own kids.

Tea, Toast, and Razor Scooters

Sixth grade was a tough year for my son—too much tedious homework and too little joy.  I told my dad about his struggle on the phone part way through the school year, and he suggested that we offer him a reward for making it through a tough situation.  Any time he had an overwhelming amount of homework on a school night, he was supposed to mark it on the calendar, and at the end of the school year, he could trade in all of his frustration for a reward: something big, my dad said, something worth working for.   We decided on a Razor scooter, something my son had been wanting that we couldn’t afford.  There was one catch: no complaining.  Many nights that year, my son stomped down the stairs, made an angry “x” on the calendar and stomped back up, but overall, life was more peaceful.  And now, instead of remembering a bad year in school, he remembers a clever, loving grandpa.  I needed some help solving that problem, but most of the other little troubles of childhood, I could fix with tea and toast or a colorful Band-aid or a night of pizza and videos.  One of the hard things about being the parent of adult children is that now when they are sad or sick or lonely or frustrated or heartbroken, I can’t fix things—the troubles are too big or the pain too deep.  I can pray for them and encourage them.  I can listen and offer advice.  But mostly they have to get better or figure things out on their own. I realized, though, when telling this story, that when my dad found a way to help my son through his sixth grade year, he ended up helping me, too.  So maybe my days of fixing things for my kids aren't completely over either.