Category: Family

Misaphonia Anyone?

Studly suffers from the cruel, non-fatal, yet highly contagious condition known as “misaphonia,” more commonly called “hatred of sound.” Specifically, he cannot tolerate any type of noise associated with eating, i.e. crunching, slurping, smacking, etc. His condition is so severe that he can’t bear to watch those Kit Kat commercials where people crunch to the tune of, “Give me a break, give me a break. Break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar.”

No biggie, right? Wrong. No one can eat any type of crunchy fare (I.e. chips, popcorn, apples, hard candy, mixed nuts, etc.) in his presence without triggering his annoyance. I swear he once chastised me for eating a marshmallow too loudly.

The worst part? Studly has turned both of our children into misophones as well. Thank goodness they are both grown with homes of their own. Family dinners were once a nightmare. I’d take a bite and look up to find three pairs of eyes giving me different gradations of the “look” indicating that I was violating their code of crunchiness.

Nowadays I revel in eating by myself whenever the situation arises. I crunch and munch and smack my lips in delight. I even chew my ice with abandon. When I have the grandkids I assure them that dining can be fun, that a little smacking and crunching is allowed. Their response:

“Nana, can you please chew more quietly?” Well, maybe for them I can try.

Peace, People!

Use Your Words

Friends don’t let friends use words incorrectly. Just ask Studly. For the first 20 years of our marriage I was the unofficial grammar hammer in our home. Studly’s approach to academics in general, and English in particular, was much more on the laid back end of the spectrum; whereas, my approach tended toward the rigid. One might say anal. One might say unforgiving.

My children would not use bad grammar. My children would never resort to using double negatives. My children would never, ever use the word “ain’t.” I’m fairly certain I was successful in their training, since they both maintain that grammatical rigidity with their own children.

What I didn’t foresee was that Studly would glean grammar nuggets from me, as well. Yes, I’ve provided ever so polite constructive criticism of his English usage over the years, but I really didn’t think those lessons would become so rooted that one day he’d have the gall to challenge mygrammar. I don’t know whether to be proud or pissed. And, yes, I could have used a better word than pissed, but I wanted the alliteration. So there.

Peace, People.

Sometimes Handsome Just Ain’t Enough

When one has been married for 38 years one gleans a great deal of information about a spouse’s intentions from subtle verbal and nonverbal cues. How we work those cues to our benefit is up to us.

Case in point: Yesterday after golf Studly came in and immediately sat in his recliner. I knew from his posture that he intended to take a nap.

When he awoke he leaned over and gave me a kiss and informed me he was going to take a shower. I knew that was code for “meet me in the bedroom in 15 minutes for some mushy, married stuff.” Nailed it.

After said mushy stuff I knew he’d take another nap. Batting a thousand.
The nap was a short one. I knew he’d be hungry for lunch, so I wasn’t surprised when he opened the refrigerator and stared blindly into its depths as men often do. “I made chicken salad,” I said.” It’s right in front of you.”

He turned as if to ask a question. Before he could say anything I said, “Yes, I bought fresh bread.” Another question crept into his eyes, “and Cheetos.” I finished. He smiled.

Later that afternoon he asked if I wanted to do something. Now this one was tricky. He had on a ratty blue Indianapolis Colts t-shirt and old black golf shorts, so I knew he was thinking about working on our motorcycles or taking the car in for an oil change, but I wanted to go out for dinner and perhaps see a movie. I told him as much.

“Yeah, we can do that,” he said. “But I wanted to get the oil changed on my car first.” Ha, I knew it!

“Well, we can do that, too,” I smiled charmingly. “But you’ll need to change clothes first.”

“What?” He asked in that special innocent non-innocent way he has.

“Yep. If we leave the house with you dressed as you are we’ll end up eating at Whataburger and going to the $3 theater. I want a nice dinner and a first run movie.”

He gestured at his middle-aged face and body, ‘Don’t you think I look handsome anymore?”

I responded in my best Texas sweetheart twang, “Honey, sometimes handsome just ain’t enough.”

Studly changed clothes. We got the oil changed. We had a nice dinner at a Japanese grill–his choice, but I okay’d it. All was going according to plan. Right up until I realized we were mere blocks from the $3 theater. Well played, Studly. Well played.

Peace, People.

Dominique’s Day

Twelve years ago today Studly Doright and I became grandparents for the first time when our son’s daughter, Dominique Grace, entered the world. She was incredibly beautiful, a perfectly round porcelain-like face with wide open blue eyes that seemed to say, “Hey, I know you!”

From the first moment I saw her, the moment I first held her, I felt love beyond any I’d ever experienced. This tiny human, this connection to the future made my life complete in ways it had never been before. Ok, I was smitten. I didn’t want to put her down. I guess I would still be holding her if someone else hadn’t insisted that they wanted a turn.

As an infant she gave her parents fits. She didn’t much like to sleep, so many hours were spent trying to find ways to soothe her. I didn’t live close enough to help, and I felt pretty helpless listening to their woes. We might chalk their troubles up to payback, though. Her dad wasn’t the easiest infant to care for either.

As she became more autonomous, there was nothing that didn’t interest our Dominique. She loved, and still loves art and animals and kind people. When she was three the highest compliment she could pay a person was that they were so nice they even liked ants. She’s become quite an avid reader, as well, (that makes her Nana incredibly happy) and she can run like the wind. Have I mentioned that Dominique is still quite beautiful?

I cannot believe that she is twelve and a sixth grader. It seems like just a heartbeat ago that I cradled her in my arms and told her how much I loved her. She doesn’t really go for that mushy stuff these days, and that’s okay. Grandmothers have really good memories.

Since I’m not a grandmother who knits or bakes or sews, I’ve written stories for my grandchildren. Here is Dominique’s. It’s all true, except maybe the last line. Happy birthday, Dominique Grace. We love you more every day.

“The Girl and the Butterfly”

One little butterfly, orange and black
Circled the flowers in the summer garden.

One little girl, in red, white, and blue
Danced around the flowers in the summer garden.

“Here, little butterfly!” called the girl.

But the butterfly flew higher than the girl could jump,
And faster than the girl could run.

“Please!” said the girl.

No matter how hard she tried, the girl could not catch the butterfly.

“You must let the butterfly come to you when he is ready,” said Mama.

“I don’t think he will ever be ready,” sighed the little girl.

“Here, sweetheart, I have an idea,” said Mama. “Hold out your hand.”

Mama poured a drop of orange juice into the girl’s hand.

“Now hold out your hand and stay very still.”

The girl did just that.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And would you believe it? The butterfly landed ever so lightly onto the girl’s hand.

The girl smiled at the butterfly.

And after sipping the juice, the butterfly smiled back.

Peace, a People!

Close Encounters of the Bear Kind

My mother-in-law spent much of her childhood near Pie Town, New Mexico, growing up in the shadow of Poverty Peak. One day we’ll write her stories but I’m still learning this craft, and her memories are too wonderful to entrust to me just yet. So, this tale is mine, and it took place more than 20 years ago during my first trip to her childhood home.

The occasion was a Parker family reunion. Parkers from near and far had come together for a weekend at Moriarty, New Mexico, and then members of the Buck Parker clan, my mother-in-law’s branch of the family tree, went on to camp for a few days on the grounds of their old home at the base of Poverty Peak.

We were quite a crew. Mema (my beloved mother-in-law) and several of her siblings, their children, and great grandchildren, made the trip from Moriarty to Poverty Peak. All told there were probably forty of us in attendance, ready to camp, and hike, and explore the place the Parker siblings had called home during their formative years.

Now, I’m not a camper or a hiker. To me, roughing it means staying at a hotel without a concierge. If God had wanted us to camp He wouldn’t have built Wyndhams and Hiltons and Crown Plazas. But for the sake of Mema and the good of the family I’d give it a go.

One of the highlights of the trip was a hike to the summit of Poverty Peak. It’s not a huge mountain as mountains go, but to a girl from the plains of the Texas panhandle it was pretty daunting. Nevertheless, I, along with Studly, Mema, various uncles, aunts, and cousins, set off as a group to conquer the peak. We ranged in age from four to sixty-four with every age group well-represented.

Studly’s middle sister had a head cold and as we climbed she found it increasingly difficult to breathe. When the group came upon a clearing she decided to cease climbing and rest there until the climbers made their descent. I jumped at the chance to stay with her having decided five minutes into the hike that I should have left the hiking to those who enjoy such activities.

So for the longest time MO (the middle one) and I caught up on each other’s lives. There was a big, steep rock, at least four and a half feet tall, in the center of the clearing, and periodically one of us would climb up on it to sit a spell. We had plenty to talk about–kids, work, friends–so the time passed quickly and pleasantly.

When we heard a crashing in the forest we looked up expecting to see our intrepid explorers. Instead, we saw a big brown bear running at full speed straight at us! My first instinct was to run. Fortunately MO grabbed me, and somehow, magically, we found ourselves atop the rock. I’m not sure how we did it so quickly and effortlessly. I have long suspected that MO scooped me up and teleported us onto that rock.

I have to confess I played the role of blubbering fool to MO’s calm heroine. The bear was less than 10 feet away from our rock, swinging his big shaggy head back and forth, as surprised to find us in his forest as we were to see him in our clearing. Our situation appeared to be at a stalemate, and then we heard our kids coming down the mountain.

MO and I started hollering. Not yelling, not screaming, hollering. There’s a difference. We both could picture what might happen if a scared bear encountered one of our bite-sized children. The thought still makes me shudder. We got the attention of our menfolk (strong, manly men) and they came charging down the mountain, waving their arms and herding the bear away from us.

I’ve often wondered what might have happened had MO and I not been rescued by our group. Would the bear have given up and wandered on? Would he have chosen to attack? Would our bleached bones still be on that rock in the middle of a clearing on the way to Poverty Peak? I’m glad we never had to find out. One thing I do know–bears hardly ever attack at a Crown Plaza.

Peace, People!

Not Just Any Man

He was my daddy, and I was his little girl. Not biologically, but in every way that mattered. I don’t remember when he came into my life, I just know that he was always there when it mattered. According to my mother, I had Daddy wrapped around my little finger from the moment we met. Again, I don’t remember that. I just remember enjoying every moment I spent with him.

One of my earliest memories is of a time that Daddy and I drove together to a football game in Amarillo. From the age of four, I was Daddy’s football watching buddy. He taught me about first downs and illegal blocks, quarterback sneaks and Hail Mary passes. Living in small town Texas we were avid fans of the the local high school team, the Floydada Whirlwinds. We seldom, if ever, missed a game. Usually, we attended as a family, but on this occasion Mom stayed home in protest, saying it was too cold.

I vividly remember the drive to the game. I was standing in the seat next to Daddy (we used the old “parental arm” method of child safety restraint back then). Snow was falling in huge flakes, covering the road and making it hard for us to see. To keep me occupied, Daddy taught me to watch the odometer so I could count off the miles to Amarillo. Pretty soon, I could pinpoint a mile with my eyes closed. It seemed like a really long distance! According to family legend when we got to the game everyone was amazed that he’d brought me with him, driving into one of the worst storms in memory. My Nanny and Grandaddy were there and I snuggled into the warmth of my family to watch the Whirlwinds win. I don’t remember the cold, just the love.

Daddy managed the Piggly Wiggly grocery store in Floydada for many years. As soon as I was old enough I’d walk to the store–we only lived a couple of blocks away–to see Daddy and spend my allowance money. I got the hefty sum of $1 a week, coincidentally one could buy a 45 rpm record at Piggly Wiggly for 99 cents at the time, so I had quite the collection. No matter what he was doing, Daddy would stop and give me a hug and a kiss. If he wasn’t terribly busy he’d ask me to tag along. I got to go behind the swinging doors to smell the fresh produce as it came in. I got to watch the butchers cut meat with the huge slicer. I got to be part of his world.

That world continued to turn. Daddy had his own store for awhile, but when that didn’t pan out we moved to Dumas. The Piggly Wiggly chain closed its stores in Texas and Mom and Dad moved to Canyon and then several years later, to Abilene. My brothers and I had all grown up, moved away, and started our own families. Life was as it should be.

Then we lost Mom to cancer. After Mom passed away Daddy’s life changed dramatically. He was still working, so he could take some memorable trips. He took one to California to spend time with his sisters. He traveled to our home in Kansas and to the homes of my brothers. He’d take off and head to the casinos on occasion.

Daddy and I went to Ruidoso, New Mexico, one weekend for the most fun I’ve ever had losing money. I’d driven from Kansas to see him, and I hadn’t been at his tiny apartment for longer than 15 minutes before he said, “Sis, you want to go to the casino?” So off we went. Daddy hit a hot streak at the blackjack table while I lost at slots. Every now and then I’d wander by his table and he’d hand me a stack of chips that I’d pocket. He decided I was the best gambling partner he’d ever had since he actually took home some money. He took me to the horse races and told me I bet just like my mom, code for, “you aren’t very good at this,” but again he won some money and said I could gamble with him any time. That was high praise, indeed.

Then the grocery store Daddy had been working for closed with no advance notice. Studly invited him to move in with us. Our kids were grown by then and we’d been transferred to Florida. We had plenty of room and sunshine year round. Yet he declined. He didn’t want to be in the way. Finally Studly insisted. Daddy was sick and really needed to be closer to family. So, we had Daddy with us.

Those were great years. Daddy and I got to know each other as adults. He told me stories about his Navy days that left me speechless. Stories I cannot repeat here. Great Stories. He and Studly played golf as long as Daddy was able, and even after his COPD no longer allowed him to play he’d hang out in the garage and create the perfect bag of clubs for a particular course.

Studly earned a nice promotion that prompted Daddy to call him The Director, from that point on, and was transferred to Illinois, so while Studly worked, Daddy and I explored our new state. I started doing some substitute teaching and Daddy hung out around the house. He had his daily routines and a nice little pickup truck, but he spent a lot of time sitting on our front porch and interacting with our neighbors. No matter where he went, he made friends. And we got to talk. We still enjoyed our football games and he’d still make an occasional run to the casino in Peoria, but his lung disease was getting the best of him.

His last days were spent in the hospital. We had made arrangements for hospice care, and on the day before we were to take him home, he perked up dramatically. He and my brother Kelly and I had the best day. We talked and made plans. We reminisced and laughed. When Kelly stepped out of the room to take a call, Daddy said to me, “Sis, in case I forget to tell you, I really had a great time with you and your brother today.”

That night he had a stroke and he passed away the next evening. Today would have been his birthday. My Daddy, my love. I miss him every day.

Peace and Love, People.

Just For Gaffes (edited)

I owe my life to “I Love Lucy.” Not in any literal sense, but certainly in some sort of metaphysical way. Lucy’s propensity for doing the wrong thing at the right time set a disturbingly cool precedent for me back in the days when the television was actually a pretty decent babysitter. Lucy’s grape stomping, ledge climbing, chocolate wrapping legacy, if nothing else, gave me permission to be my goofy self with no, ok, a few apologies.

But Lucy wasn’t my only influence. My mom, Freida, and her younger sister, Nedra, lent their wackiness to my formative years, as well. Once while waiting to pick up a relative at the small airport in Amarillo, the pair scurried off to answer the call of nature inside the ladies’ room of the nearly empty terminal. It was late at night and they might have been a bit tipsy. Mom was in one stall. Nedra in another. Gas was passed. Loud and long and clear. Nedra, always quick with a witticism sternly admonished, “Freida!” A deep silence ensued. The kind of silence that indicates something is very wrong. A toilet flushed, a stall opened and closed, followed by the sound of footsteps leaving the room. Only then did Mom explode in laughter as Nedra realized she’d scolded a complete stranger for farting. The pair hid in the bathroom for awhile hoping the gas passer wouldn’t associate them with their bathroom behavior.

Once my Aunt Nedra and her husband Uncle Richard, along with my mom and dad were spending the night at my grandparents’ home. As was their habit at such gatherings, the men went to bed ahead of the women who liked to tell stories and laugh well into the night. After much silliness my Aunt said goodnight to Mom and my grandmother and went to bed. Soon after, my mom followed, but found her spot next to my dad, occupied. She started laughing and soon her mother joined her in fits of uncontrollable giggles. Groggily, Nedra asked, “Richard, why are they laughing?” My dad, who until then was sound asleep responded, “Maybe because I’m not Richard and you’re in bed with your sister’s husband.” Everyone but my grandfather thought the story was hilarious. It just pissed him off.

I’ve turned doing embarrassing things into an art form. Too many to list here, but one of my favorites(?) was the time I was having some sort of sonogram done. As I lay on the exam table the tech was instructing me to take deeper breaths, hold, release, etc. The doctor to whom I’d been referred had an odd name, something like Bozdagerian or Bodgazerian or Bogzaderian.

I asked the tech, “Just how do you say this doctor’s name anyway ? Boz-da-ger-ian?”

“Deeper” said the tech.

So I lowered my voice an octave and tried again. “Boz-da-ger-ian?” I intoned.

The tech started laughing. “That was impressive,” he said. “Now please take a deeper breath.”

I’m most apt to commit verbal faux pas, like the time I told a crowd of people that upon Turning 50 I had “embraced my AARP-ness.” Read that aloud and you will know why I was the butt of more than a few jokes that afternoon.

Then there was the time a drunken me asked a lady on the dance floor where the deejay was located. Coincidentally, she asked me the very same question. At the very same time. She even kind of looked like me, only drunker. I noticed dancers giving me odd looks. That’s when I realized I’d been carrying on a conversation with my reflection in a mirror. I told myself thanks and returned to my table. I never did find the deejay.

My mom always said I was just like my Aunt Nedra, but at least I’ve never slept with my sister’s husband.

Peace, People.