A Story

When I about 14 years old, I accompanied my mother to the Mayfair Market, a mile or so from our house. When we exited the store, there were fire trucks with lights and sirens driving by.  I said, “Wouldn’t that be funny if they were going to our house?”  (I didn’t mean funny Ha Ha, more like funny peculiar)  What a surprise when we saw them turn down the streets towards our house.  When we rounded the final corner, there they were in front of our house.  (You know you always think even then, that they must be at the next door neighbors house, not yours.)

When we got there the Fire chief told  my mother that the walnut tree in the back yard had a fire.  (That’s the tree with the tree house in it.)  My brother, Denny, told the firemen that his crystal radio started the fire.  (There is no electricity or batteries in a crystal radio and NO power of any kind in the tree house.)  The Fire Chief told my parents that he found dried walnut leaves rolled up in newspaper for smoking and that’s what started the fire.

- Karen

Happy Fathers Day

Happy Father’s Day – What a great group.

Not sure where this picture was taken, but it was in 1983, since Vicki is a baby. 

Love y’all.  Mom

To

This tiny little word pisses me off lately. It's so final. Birthdate to Deathdate. Look at it! So arrogant and smug! So powerful! It's like it had some responsibility in determining the day that Dad and anyone else would die.

A lifetime of happiness, sadness, joy, heartache, accomplishments, failures, marriage, children, etc. all summed up in two little letters. That's a life between those two dates. The word "to" just doesn't do it justice. I'm not sure what should be there instead, but a dash doesn't seem to make me so angry.

A dash lets you wonder wonder what happened between those two dates, it's very open minded and doesn't judge. It allows the friends and family left behind to place some memories there and feel as if they are still a part of the life of the person who has moved on.

So I'm requesting that when I die, you please use a dash. I'm not giving that nasty little word any more notches on it's bedpost.

Jen
(I realize that I must be angry at something else entirely, but I'm not sure what that is, so this is what you get!)

Can I just try again, please?

I'm not the type to give up easily.  I have remarkable patience for frustrating little games.  It took me days and days to accurately follow the instructions to solve a Rubik's cube, but I did it.  When I had my first natural birth and I didn't glide through gracefully like I had imagined, I had to try again-- the 2nd time was a great experience.  I don't throw in the towel.  I try again.

The past four years between me and Dad were almost entirely silent.  I was unhappy with the situation but I didn't know how to proceed so I did nothing.  I was uncomfortable talking to him when I learned he had cancer, and only called a few times.  I ignored the nagging feeling urging me to reconcile and find a way to be helpful and supportive.  I reasoned that I had my hands full with 5 small kids and was 800 miles away anyway.  I waited too long to write some important things down in a letter and he didn't have the stamina to read through it.

Can I please try again?  I can see how thoroughly I botched this thing and if I could just take another crack at it I'm confident I would knock it out of the park.  Who's running this operation anyway?  Give me a minute and I'll talk my way into another chance.  I'm good like that.

I need to try again.  I'll do it better, I promise.

Dad, I'm sorry.  I am sincerely and terribly sorry for us both. . .

-Wendy

The Mechanic

June 4, 2011

THE MECHANIC  cont.

We had moved to the San Fernando Valley in the fall of 1959. It was much more like being in the country. People had large lots where they could have animals and it was a more laid back style of living. Denny had long since given up his beloved tricycle in favor of a real two wheeler. He had earned the money on his own by doing odds and ends of chores, and bought the bike with his own money. Obviously, he eventually broke it, took it apart, fixed it, broke it again, fixed it again, etc., etc. By the time he was just barely ten, he had become bored with the bike and wanted something a little more meaningful, a little more advanced, a little more challenging, if you will.

He bargained with his mom and me for a motor scooter. The deal was that if he could come up with one half of the money by selling his bike and/or working for it, we would pay the other half. The deal was done and it seemed like no time at all before Denny came up with his share of the scooter. His mom and I had to struggle a little harder. We soon found an old "Cushman" motor scooter, if I remember right. Denny tore into that thing with a vengance and got it running pretty good too.

Remember I said that the lots where we now lived were big? Ours wasn't very wide; only 72 feet, but it was very long, 517 feet. As part of the "Deal" Denny couldn't ride the scooter on the street. However, behind the house and immediate back yard was the rest of the lot; about four hundred feet. Denny cleared the weeds and any other debris from the entire perimeter by the fence and that 950 foot rectangular length became his test track and his personal race track. You should have seen him go around that track. He scared the crap out of his mom and me, so we just had to quit watching.

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF "THE MECHANIC"

Papa