Ya buy ’em books…

An elementary school I drive by daily is emblazoned with signs announcing their ongoing book fair, and I will admit to a bit of nostalgia.  An only child, books were my constant companions, and book fair time at Horace Mann Elementary in Minneapolis meant my usually-not-overly-indulgent parents were willing to drop a few bucks at my behest.

Good stuff, Maynard.

I tried to indulge my own kids to an extent every time a bookfair rolled around, but those were different affairs – much more than books available for purchase.  Now, as a New Orleans teacher for the past nine years, I have encountered even more of the whole Scholastic book-selling-cases-on-wheels operation. A few years back, I was working at a K-12 charter school.  One afternoon, the delivered carts and cases full of books and related paraphernalia was pretty well in place in our school library, and I got to browse a bit. Many of the young adult titles and series looked familiar, and it was nice to see that many of the various series I remember from their younger days are still around, with new some titles in the series, to boot. (The gang from Click, Clack, Moo: Cows that Type are still going hilariously strong – bless ‘em.) There was also an admirable selection of classics.

As I roamed our makeshift Barnes and Ignoble, one of the selections on the ‘Adult Bestsellers and Cookbooks’ table caught my eye. It was a cookbook entitled “9 x 13:  The Perfect-Fit Dish – More than 180 family favorites to fit America’s most popular pan.” For the record, had I been asked ‘name America’s favorite pan’ I would have answered, “Sauce”.

Only in America: a cookbook predicated on a specific size of pan.

Sorry, but I couldn’t see this in the same vein as crock-pot cookery, or Dutch oven cooking like we did in Boy Scout days. This is something else entirely. The phrase ‘lame gimmick’ came to mind.

The blurbs on the back cover of the book are intended to be, one supposes, enlightening. To wit:

“A 9×13 pan can do everything from roasting a chicken to baking brownies!”

Really?

But there was more…

“Feast on comfort foods you grew up with, including Beef Stroganoff Casserole and Tuna Noodle Casserole.”

Sure, let’s recycle the gastronomic 1950’s – only in the correct sized pan! Let’s also salvage the word ‘casserole’ from the culinary dust heap. (Personal, two-part aside: 1. I hail from the Midwest, where the term ‘hot dish’ reins supreme over ‘casserole.’ 2. I know of very few people who would make a hot dish in a 9 x 13 pan.  That is what ‘casserole’ dishes are for, Chucklebunnies.)

So continueth the back cover hype:

“Revel in new flavor twists such as Cajun Mac and Cheese and Chocolate Chipotle Brownies.”

Chipotle brownies? Last guy I knew who put spicy herbs in brownies ended up getting two years probation.

But there was additional hype – and we haven’t even left the cover of the book yet:

“Dig into potluck pleasers such as Smokin’ Tetrazzini and Herbed Chicken and Orzo.”

‘Smokin’ Tetrazzini’ falls somewhere between ‘Cajun blackened’ and ‘left under the broiler too long’ while Chicken and Orzo is shorthand for ‘chicken-and-schizophrenic-starch.’  Is it pasta? is it rice? Is it crawling around your plate?

Then there are the recipes – no! Wait! The cookbook opens with a helpful ‘Pan Comparison’ page in which they compare 9×13 pans, covering various and sundry pluses and minuses.

‘Glass or Stoneware’ 9x13s have more pluses than ‘Metal’ 9x13s – but also more minuses; ‘breakable, cannot withstand sudden temperature change’ among them. (Pyrex or Corning Ware anybody?) Chief plusses include ‘Clear glass makes it easy to monitor browning’ and ‘Shows off beauty of gelatin or layered salads’ (except for stoneware, I guess) and then my personal favorite glass-or-stoneware ‘plus’:

“Some pans come with lids.”

Golly, what will they think of next? And why haven’t those pesky metal 9×13 manufacturers gotten on this ‘lid’ bandwagon? They don’t have it listed as a metal ‘plus,’ so one wonders.

And we can’t forget our third category of 9×13 pan, the ever popular…

plastic?

Plastic pans? Containers, maybe. Vessel, receptacle, canister, holder are all reasonable possibilities. But plastic pans? As we like to say in our household, “I don’t think so, Tim.”

The authors state that while plastic 9x13s are ‘good for no-bake recipes, refrigerator salads and freezer desserts’ they do allow in the minus column that they ‘may not be used for baking.’

That’s news you can really use, though there is not a word said about lids and plastic nine-by-thirteens. The authors need a Tupperware intervention, stat!

A bargain at $16.99, even without reading the actual recipes.

Just out of curiosity, I wondered what the book sold for elsewhere, and clicked over to Amazon, where I found not only the edition of the cookbook that we will be selling, but also this rather curious entry:

9 X 13: The Perfect-Fit Dish (In Memoriam Volume III Exclusive Edition) In memoriam?
Volume III?
That is a lot of commemorating.

I kid you not -new and used editions available…but that’s all on-line. Curiously, no mention of just who is being commemorated via cake pan.

Though $16.99 for a 9×13 pan cookbook seems pennywise, but pan foolish.

Hey, it’s all for books for the kids, right?

Photograph of Christmas Past

Some  years ago, I decided to pick up a few extra holiday dollars by taking a part-time job as a shopping mall Santa in suburban Minneapolis. As I was neither the natural size, age or type (nor naturally hirsute enough for the role) I wore a roll of foam rubber beneath my suit, silver nylon beard on my chin, and ended up working mostly the mall’s lower-traffic hours – late morning, midday.

On a very quiet Wednesday afternoon in early December, I was sitting there in my big Santa chair chatting with my college-student, elf-for-the-day Susie, and grad-school photographer,  brookdaleholiday2Jen. They, like me, were simply making some extra holiday cash, we were rookies, all. This particular day, we hadn’t taken a picture in an hour or so, though we did a lot of  waving and yelling ‘Merry Christmas’ to assorted passers-by, and took pictures of  each other. As the three of us chatted about school stuff, I looked down the nearly deserted mall and saw a sight not really of the season: walking down the center of the mall was a tall, young U.S. Marine, in full dress blues; along side of him was a petite, middle-aged woman.

It quickly became obvious they were headed right for us.

Elf Susie walked cheerfully back to the gate of Santa Land to greet the pair, and I straightened up in my throne and smoothed out my beard – although I wasn’t sure why as I didn’t see any kids. I watched the young Marine, who glanced around nervously, while the woman spoke to Susie.brookdaleholiday1

“O.K. Santa! This young man is next!” chirpped Susie merrily, as she swung open the little white picket gate for the youthful Jarhead to pass, as Jen took her spot behind the camera. The Marine walked up to me and I greeted him with my usual “Ho-ho-ho” shtick, to which he replied quickly, coming to crisp, serious attention, “Merry Christmas, sir.”

Their story was short, sweet, uncomplicated. Unless you are a twenty-year old Marine.

The young man was an only child, U.S.M.C. Corporal home on leave, and his widowed mother was very proud of his recent accomplishments: a marksmanship award, three ribbons and a training award. Having her only son home for the holidays was a huge thrill, and, per what the young Marine told me, and what his mother shared with Susie and Jen, she wanted only one other thing in the world for Christmas: pictures of her son in full dress blues.

With Santa Claus.

The young Marine told the young women had no idea why this particular setting was so important to her, but it was. So thus began a suddenly interesting Wednesday afternoon, just the five of us: Susie, Jen, proud mom, Santa, and the Marine.

This was in the days before digital photography; our pictures were the time-consuming, one-shot-at-a time, Polaroid-you-stick-in-a-cardboard-frame variety – and the young man’s mother wanted nine of them to send out to relatives all over the country. My arm around his waist, the young Marine sat awkwardly but patiently at attention on the arm of Santa’s throne, glancing around nervously.

After the first picture was snapped, he staged whispered to me, while staring directly at the camera, “I’m really sorry about this, sir.”

I smiled, quietly chuckled “ho-ho-ho” as Jen readied the next shot. “Sorry about what?” I asked, robustly Santa-like.

brookdaleholiday4“About doing this, sir. It’s my mother’s idea. I’m a little…uncomfortable.”

“Ho-ho-ho!” I bellowed.

I didn’t much look the part without help, but I could sure play it.

The scene played out, the Marine finally getting comfortable enough to lean into my shoulder a little bit, as Jen continued to focus and shoot, reminding us to smile – which the Marine did only slightly less uncomfortably with each shot. We sat there, his mother beaming with pride while chatting with Susie the Elf, me ho-ho-ho-ing-it-up and trying to help the guy out. After a few shots, I whispered to the young Marine.“O.K., I know this feels silly, but it’s making your mom really happy.”

He glanced at his mother, smiled slightly. “Yes, sir.”

He was loosening up a little, though that was countered a bit as by now as a small crowd was gathering, eyes wide; guess it’s not every day you see a Marine sitting on Santa’s lap. He smiled self-consciously. I made more Santa-small talk while Jen snapped away. “Grow up around here? Afraid you’re going to see somebody you know?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir,’ he said, staying focused on the camera, “I graduated from Park Center.” which was a high school within walking distance of the mall.  I nodded, ho-ho-hoed some more, asked him a few more questions, reminded him a couple more times about how his mother was smiling, talked sports with the young man, while Jen finished getting all of the pictures to the mom’s satisfaction.

It took fourteen shots to get the nine pictures the Marine’s mom wanted (I saved a couple of the botched extras; they were wonderful.). As his mom was paying Jen and newly Marine-smitten Susie (from the looks on the women in the crowd, she wasn’t the only one) finished sliding each picture into its candy-cane-and-reindeer-motif cardboard frame, the young Marine stood up, turned toward me, started to salute but then stuck out his hand to shake mine.

“Thank you, Santa, sir.” He said crisply, with just a hint of relief, in what I think was proper-holiday-Marine-etiquette.

Then, bag of pictures in hand, proud mother and dutiful, loving son walked off, arm-in-arm back down the mall, as the smiling crowd quickly dispersed.

To my understanding the young man was probably breaking protocol by wearing his dress blues in such a setting, but in the years since, I’ve gotten the opportunity to tell this story to quite a few Marines. Younger Jarheads tend to dressbluehatlook at me   quizzically, apparently pondering the obvious ‘what ifs’ if their own situations. Older Corpsmen mostly nod, smiling proudly.

All have agreed it’s a pretty unique take on ‘Semper Fi’.

As for me, every year around this time I read newspaper or magazine articles about mall Santas, the at times heartbreaking requests they get, the funny things kids say, that sort of thing, and I think of twenty-minutes on a long-ago afternoon in a quiet mall.  Sometimes in conversation someone will start talking about the best Christmas they ever had, or the favorite present they ever received.

Those articles and conversations always make me think of one of the best Christmas presents I ever had a small part in giving.

brookdaleholiday3

Disguised as good ideas

It is Halloween season, and as always, I hope to be invited to a costume party.  So far, my mailbox remains Charlie-Brown-on-Valentine’s-Day empty, but I am hopeful.

Just in case, some costume ideas are in order – if not for me, maybe someone else can get some costume_party_iiiideas.  This being a political year like no other, I’ll stay away from any of that craziness.  That whole scene is scary enough without my participation.   If I do end up getting invited to a costume party, it would be in concert with my wife, so  it would seem that a couples costume of some sort would be worth considering.

She would probably cast a more dubious eye on the concept.

There are a world of possibilities that go far beyond renting Yogi and Cindy bear costumes (too old school)  Antony and Cleopatra (too pedestrian) or Grant Woods American Gothic (too dangerous, see: pitchfork) plus, I  am not shaving my head, so that’s another nada.  F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald have potential, but Scott was clean-shaven and I don’t think I want to go there, though I could see my wife Amy as Zelda.

Maybe if we still lived in (their and our) native Minnesota
Maybe is we still lived in (their and our) native Minnesota
250px-grant_devolson_wood_-_american_gothic
The pitchfork would be a party liability, safety wise, though it would be handy to hold multiple hors d’oeuvres

In the past, Amy also shot down going as the best couples costume idea that I have ever seen.

Some years ago, I was at a costume party with some friends, and there was a young couple there that nobody could quite figure out at first. The young man was about six-one, dressed in a tight-fitting, dark brown body suit; the woman was a good foot shorter, very petite, and was wearing a snug white body suit stuffed with foam rubber. They each had a rectangular piece of cardboard with dots on them attached to their backs, and periodically they would have people stand back so they could run to the center of the room and embrace. They were, of course, a s’more.

Ehhh…no.

Back on the literary front, I could try to talk her into going as the Venus de Milo and me as Ernest Hemingway, her biographer, billing ourselves as the “Original Farewell to Arms” – though the Venus get-up would probably impair her ability to easily partake in any culinary delights or  libations.

We would probably  just have to go as separately costumed folk, sans connective theme. In fact, Amy might just prefer that.

There are options, of course.

If I could find a pair of grey long johns and some knee-high red wool hunting socks, I could glue dollar-store Barbie dolls all over me and go as a chick magnet – though with recent political events being what they are, I think I’ll file that one away.

I do have an old, red, shortcut tuxedo jacket that passes as a matador’s uniform – though I would need some sequins or a Bedazzler. That could be fun as the evening progresses and people get a bit more…loosened up. I could walk by with a swoop of my cape and a pseudo-Latin dialect,  telling  pretentious-sounding people, “That is bull! Ole’!”

Probably not.

Contemplating costume ideas, I took a good look at myself in the mirror and that’s when it came to me: Sigmund Freud! Let the beard grow out a little bit, add some gray, get a big cigar, a pocket watch and a nice vest from Goodwill, then brush up on my best Viennese dialect. I can walk around introducing myself: “Hell-lo. I am Doctor Zigmund, Freud. I understand you are having zum trouble vith your zex?”

There is your conversation starter.

This seemed workable, so I dug up a picture of Freud and then went looking for one of myself to use in this blog post. Taking most of the family photos leaves me out of most of them, so my pickings on the ol’ hard drive were rather slim, and none too complimentary, save one.  And there was my costume idea:

Mardi Gras Sigmund Freud. freud-2

Vest, cigar, Viennese dialect – I could wear crinolines instead of pants; very southern in a Freudian slip sort of way.

Or is that mixing too many costume metaphors?

This whole thing is still a work in progress, so I am very open to suggestions. Please act now; this operator is standing by.

Everything is on the table

Our kitchen table is an heirloom in training. Sitting here, with

Sitting alone at the table with open notebook, a pen and a fresh cup of coffee in the early morning light of day I can, with an angular glance, see the extensive preparation and practice that it has already put in. At a mere fifteen years, the table is hardly an antique – yet its smooth, blonde-maple surface is already pockmarked with the memorable nicks and ruts left by stray  100_4990utensils and homework-prodding pencils – stray treatises and Christmas letters.

All embossed in memory and maple.

My wife and I assembled the table the first night we lived in a rural, southwestern Minnesota Victorian we had just moved to from big-city Minneapolis; a new board-with-legs for our small-town fresh start. It fit perfectly in our new, multi-windowed, breakfast alcove; perfectly seating the four members of our family.  Our boys, then seven and three, were tucked into sleeping bags in the bare living room, as our furniture still in transit. We labored to assemble the table, determined to have a place at which to properly commemorate our first meal together in our new home and community.

The last screw was secured in the final chair leg just after two a.m.

Today, when the sunlight smothers it, you will see the signs of the life the table has nobly earned in service to our family. Worn spots mark each place setting. Plates and bowls of china, paper, and plastic have been repeatedly set down, slid around, eaten upon, picked up again. A knot on one end of the table has dried out, a small crack has now settled into a browned notch out of the edge. If you put your face close to the table’s edge and look at its surface, you can trace the hard-scrabble pencil indentations of the two boys who completed their homework each night 100_49891while mom or dad prepared dinner. Look very closely and you can find a worn two-digit, kindergarten math problem overlaid with something more algebraic, more recent.  The ancient nine-plus-three-equals-eight-no-twelve is still bold from the pressing of a hot dog-diameter pencil; the more recent equation made by a more elegant and confident ink pen.

The table has made its way south with us.

A million small lines zigzag the surface;  swooping  in graceful curves atop the maple, resembling a vacant skating rink in January. Every member of our family has triple-axeled this table countless times to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ of each of the others. It is a spot of triumph, of place of individual and group confession, reflection, renewal. It has hosted countless meals, endless discussions, prompted numerous revelations; it has echoed the laughter of day-to-day  100_4986life, heard the solemnity of nightly prayers of thanksgiving and praise, sorrow and intercession. It has been spilled on, bumped into, lived on, all the while quietly, steadily,  and smothly  supportive.

It has served us well.

Some eight years ago, we uprooted our brood again – this time to New Orleans. The table that once bore mostly pedestrian, traditional Midwestern fare has become attuned to hosting more exotic and at times experimental and quirky  meals of gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish.  I am certain the resulting changes in dietary spills and slops has only served to enhance the preservation and aging process of the maple; a seasoned patina – the spice of memories – add character to the worn wood

The table is loyal; it has been almost exclsuively devoted to our immediate family; guests have always necessitated a shift to the more expansive dining room version. I do not know how long we will live here in this house, this city; I do not know where the next stop on the journey might be.

I do know that the inexpensive-when-purchased, still not priceless, D.I.Y. table will accompany us.100_4979_00

Our college and high school boys who once needed help to scootch up their chairs now find little elbow room to spare, and the chairs creak a bit beneath their more considerable heft. Still, neither of them has asked if we will ever get a new kitchen table, or why we just  can’t eat in the dining room. The table has adapted nicely over the last few years from a haven of group work, to more solo time with family members; a boy with a bowl of cereal and spread out newspapers or school project is now more common than then the full-fledged mealtime family foursomes of the past.

The table also spends more time sheltering aging dogs seeking the relaxing companionship of their older boy’s stocking feet –  adept as they have become  at absent-minded petting.  Both dogs are equally content to lay there, soaking in affection, less time frenetically awaiting dropped crumbs from younger, less observant boys,  who used to provide ample treat-pouncing opportunity.

Mealtimes are cozier than they used to be, though this is just a phase of sorts. Our eldest son is almost through college, and his periodic sojourns home usually find us in the living room, munching pizza and binge-watching Netflix. Mealtimes for three of us frees up some of that vaunted and coveted elbow room, though probably to some occasional chagrin on our part.

Another school year and the table’s adaptability will again be tested,  as the term ‘table for two’ will be de rigueur.

Someday the table may serve in an entirely different capacity – maybe a first-apartment-hand-me-down for one of the boys, or maybe someday many years down the road and to the 100_4977puzzlement of a spouse, a much-wanted keepsake for one of them.

Not that they are likely to ask about its eventual fate now, but if they do I can just tell them, to their confusion and my satisfaction, that this little kitchen table is, indeed, our heirloom in training.

First letter to a new grandson

It’s hard to believe it has been four years since I first penned the missive below.  But it has been. My grandson Felix turns four on Tuesday. In looking back over my initial thoughts at this wondrous event…well, not much has changed. Except everything has.  All for the good. Time flies, and flying with Felix?  That is not flying – it is soaring.  Happy birthday, dude.
Love,
Grandpa Mark

*    *    *    *

11/18/2011

Dear Felix:

First off, let me welcome you to this wild, wonderful world. Yeah, it has issues – always has and always will. Maybe as time goes by, you’ll be one of the ones fixing the problems. Still, it’s a great place to hang for the next century or so. Make it count for something.

Your parents have been really amazing awaiting your arrival – later than predicted as it may have been. Though you were something of a surprise, they have embraced you from the get-go with more gusto than I would have thought, and we are quite proud of them.

That gusto and clarity of purpose says a lot about both of them. They have been very impressive. Let this be your first  life lesson from grandpa: don’t under estimate people…especially the ones you love.

Your parents are really quite remarkable, both as individuals and as a couple. Your mom is my daughter, so I obviously know her very well. She’s pretty cool, and she chose well when she chose your dad – he is very cool, too. I take a fair amount of pride in her making that choice, though I can take absolutely no credit for it. Pride in your kids is something special to experience, Felix; pride in your parents is a wonderful gift, and I hope you have, hold and treasure it.

You’ll come to love them both as much as we all do, more so, in fact. I’m sure it  took you all of about, oh, say twenty-five seconds, once you got past that where-the-heck-am-I entrance-disorientation.

Felix, you are being born into a theatrical clan; your mom your dad are true theatre geeks, just as I was and as my father was – though neither my father or I have or had the depth and breadth of the passion that your parents do. Along with that passion comes a whole unique cadre of like-sentiment folks that are your parent’s friends and peers and that are eagerly waiting to embrace you. Let them.

You have grandparents to whom you are the first such member of your new family generation. They will attempt to spoil you. Allow them the privilege. Being first also means you will be a leader of your generation. When the time comes, lead with purpose, compassion and a sense of humor.

You have two teenage uncles who are also eagerly looking forward to getting to know you. They have favorite toys and movies and loads of life experience they want to eventually share with you; they plan on showing you the ropes, and how to be a guy. They’re both pretty good at that in some very different ways, so let them teach you what they know. Someday you’ll be able to tell them “Its okay, fellas – I got this” and fly solo. But in the meantime, take advantage of every moment of them that you can. And always keep their numbers on speed-dial.

Their old wooden trains and blocks (Will and Sam aren’t that old, so the paint is safe and all) are boxed and handy for when the time comes. Low-tech, I know, but I can’t wait for the day when they show you how to fit together those train tracks, and stack a few primary color squares and rectangles. They can’t wait, either.

I know; in time. We’ll get there. Let’s get started with some grandfatherly advice and stuff you need to know:

First of all, have faith. Need proof that there is a God? He has blessed us with you, your mom and your dad. Proof that God also has a sense of humor? He has blessed you with all the rest of us.

Remember to say ‘I love you’ frequently – to pretty much everyone. And mean it.

You can be tough and be gentle, often simultaneously. It is not as difficult as some would lead you to believe.

Roll with what you’ve got, improvise when you need to. Admire the finished product no matter how cumbersome it looks or functions.

Oh, your mother hates The Princess Bride. We’ll have to watch it at our house.

Moving on….

There is a popular phrase about not being constrained in life, and living in the moment: ‘Dance like no one is watching.’ It’s good advice that, as your grandfather, I heartily endorse. Even if, like yours truly, your dancing looks more like a man being attacked by a swarm of bees than it does dancing, pretend nobody is watching…and then dance even harder when you know that people are watching.

While we’re on the topic, there was a very popular song a few years back by Lee Ann Womack, called  I Hope You Dance. The song includes these lines:

“I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean;
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens…
promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance,
I hope you dance…”

Amen to all of the above sentiment, kid. I really hope you don’t sit out too much in life, and that you’ll always try to dance. And sing, too. Maybe you could use a more contemporary take: treat life-like every day is commando-karaoke.

Okay, as metaphors go, that last one may need some work. But its good practice now to start realizing that not every pearl of wisdom you get from me is going to be fully cultured.

While we’re on the topic of music, there are some songs you should know, and I’ll try to teach them to you. (Your dad is the musician; he’ll be able to take you places with music I never could. Enjoy that ride.) That being said, there are best learned as grandpa/grandson duets and CD singalongs. Puff the Magic Dragon, for one, Marvelous Little Toy for another, and Where Have All The Flowers Gone? Oh, and The Unicorn. Your uncle Sam likes really that one, so I’ll try to get my Irish dialect back on track for you so we can all do it up right. We may have to turn that duet into a trio act.

About music. Someday when we’re driving in the car, I can see the family rule about the driver choosing the radio station or CD getting bent for you, especially once you start riding shotgun. It’ll be your call, of course, but it would be nice if you developed a taste for the 1960’s. Your mom really likes The Monkees, and other good stuff from my era, and she also shares my affinity for The Rat Pack; Frank, Dean, Sammy. I think you are genetically predisposed to some Sinatra-coolness factor anyway so it should work out. Cross-generational music appreciation is something we are definitely used to and in favor of in this family. Savor it.

Your dad has a wide range in musical tastes, so you’re likely to experience a lot, musically. Take it all in…from all of us. But always march to your own drum beat.

But you know, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you decided you liked jazz…and The Beatles. We can work it out as you get a little older.

I do have one inviolate music-in-the-vehicle rule; there are certain songs that you cannot change stations or tracks during, or turn the car off on…EV-VER. Hey Jude and Let it be are on that short list along with Turn, Turn, Turn. And, of course, American Pie. If we are just getting home from somewhere and we hear Don McLean start in with the opening trill “A long, long time ago…” on the radio, we will circle the block twelve times if need be to get in all 8:14 of American Pie.  Deal with it.

Felix, don’t ever be afraid to ask for help or advice; the world is not always a do-it-yourself-at-all-costs endeavor. There is strength in numbers…and usually better stories to tell and people to share them with once it’s over. Share the experiences of life.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t be independent, far from it. But here is a little secret you should know: the best kind of independence comes from self-assurance, and self-assurance comes from the confidence to know yourself and your own limitations and know that there will always be others who have knowledge and expertise you can utilize. Seeking out the counsel of others is a sign of strength, not weakness. Anyone who tells you otherwise has little of the former, tons of the latter. Ignore them.

By the way; although the lesser version is generally palatable, real cheesecake is made with ricotta cheese, not cream cheese.

‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer – so every once in a while you can surprise them with a big, sloppy smooch on the cheek.’  That’s a grandpa paraphrase. You may encounter the original version; mine is more…functional.

Another popular adage you might hear is “Eighty percent of life is simply showing up.” Now while I mostly see the value in that, I think the advice I have given your mother for years is even more applicable to life in general: “Be good…or at least be prompt.”

Oh yeah. Your mother (and probably the rest of us) will periodically and inadvertently introduce you to the growing and evolving thesaurus that are ‘Luckerisms’ – our family’s own, rather unique set of catch phrases and interjections for all occasions. For example, by the time you are old enough to understand what a ringing phone is, you’ll have also learned the correct thing to yell out across the house in response. (“Somebody get that – it might be a phone call!”) When riding in the car with your mother and stuck behind someone at a stop light, you’ll also learn something about traffic light colors most people don’t ever  think about. (“Only one shade of green in this town, buddy!”) Like I said, it’s a thesaurus not a mimeographed handout.

“Oh yeah, baby grandma.” That one will someday be explained to you by Will and/or Sam.

I hope you are able to blaze your own trail to the things that satisfy you in life. I’ll try to be supportive, even when and if I don’t understand where exactly it is you’re coming from. Hey, it’ll happen. But I’m always open to trying new things and different points of view. Hopefully you will be, too.

Dude; spontaneity rocks.

Another key item: people will always think they know what’s best for you, even when they don’t. Follow your gut instincts.

While we’re talking about self-awareness, don’t ever confuse bravado with taking a stand on principle. You can always be Don Quixote. Just make sure you have a fully capable Sancho Panza along for the journey, someone you can always count on to come up with sharpened lance and a well-rested mule.

Inspire loyalty.

You’ll always need some down time along the way. When you’re not blasting your way through life, you should know that porch swings and reclining chairs are great venues for grandpas and grandsons and sharing things. Things like sunsets and summer evenings, fall afternoons and spring rains, a cold Coke or some sweet tea, good books and chats about…stuff. Guys stuff and, you know, other stuff. Porch swings and recliners are also excellent stuff-contemplation vehicles.

Of course, Coke…not Pepsi.

Recliners are especially good places to hang and watch and listen.

Music of all kinds. A Prairie Home Companion, CNN, Turner Classic Movies. The Marx Brothers, Spongebob Squarepants and all three Toy Story movies. The original Star Wars trilogy. Rocky and Bullwinkle, the Three Stooges, Davey and Goliath. A little Vivaldi is nice sometimes, as are sports. Baseball, football and hockey, to be sure. Basketball only if you insist. Hey, it’ll still be my recliner.

Recliners and porch swings are also the best spots for stories that we can make up on our own. And also good spots for a choice a corned beef sandwich on good rye bread. With mustard. (Just needed to fit that sandwich in here somewhere.)

By the way, porch swings are very neat places to hang out and take naps on during rainy days – with or without a grandpa. Better with, but that’s one of those you can also savor on your own whenever you get the chance. While naps on rainy days are great, walks in the rain might just be greater. We will have to go on some rainy-day quests for the perfect puddle.

And, contrary to what your mother (and my mother and  most any mother says) puddles are cool. So is mud.

Porch swings are also good locales for learning the finer points of brief literature: limericks, haikus…nursery rhymes the ‘Lucker Way.’ When the time comes your mother can explain what Old Mother Hubbard really went to that cupboard for and I’ll take it from there.

Along with porch swings and reclining chairs, there’s a lot to be said for small boats. Fishing ranks right up there as a good stuff-sharing and story-telling time. Fishing is also one of the few times in life when people expect you to fib just a little bit. Take advantage of such times with nature, and always keep in mind it’s called ‘fishing’ and not ‘catching’ for good reason.

Speaking of fishing, there is another piece of homemade advice I distribute fairly freely. ”Always strive to be like the biggest, fattest bass in the lake – know when to not take the bait.”

Restraint and that whole gut-instinct thing come into play here. You’ll figure it out.

There are a few secret wishes I have for you; I hope you like baseball. And going camping. And pizza. Annnnd…cheeseburgers. Not the lame, limp, fast food variety but some top quality, inch-thick, pressed-by-hand, fresh-off-a-grill cheeseburgers. And be creative with the cheese, Felix; there is far more to life than just processed American. Taste it all.

And somewhere along the line you’ll get to learn and taste a little something my grandfather taught me many years ago; the joy of dipping a sugar cube into a cup of coffee, then sucking the coffee back out of it. Mmmm-mmmm. You’ll find it’s the little things, Felix, that make life so special.

In closing, you should know that as you grow up you’ll hear many wild and wacky stories about your family. If they sometimes sound too outrageous to be true…you’re probably being too much of a skeptic. Embrace your familial eccentricities. Grow with them. You’ll learn to love them and those us who possess them. A little head shaking in disbelief is okay – as long as you keep smiling through it and don’t ever do it with disdain.

Single best advice I can give you, Felix? Hang out with grandpa whenever you can, for as long as you can. You’ll learn stuff. But I’ll learn so much more and you’ll teach me. It’ll be exciting for both of us.

We’ll start to get to know each other soon, the rest we’ll work out as we go.

Oh, and have somebody print this missive out and put it in a ring binder for you. We’ll be adding to it as time goes by. ;-{)

Kids these days

You just never know how my students are going to react.

The new semester began this past week, and I have two completely new sets of senior English students to deal with and hybrid speech class of holdovers and newcomers. I like the freshness of two new classes – especially since this is the final semester for my seniors. It should be interesting.

Sure is starting out that way.

Two week one incidents at relatively opposite ends of the spectrum stand out to me in large part because I believe they both stem (at least in part) from a picture of my grandson.

Lucker_Opening_Day_Pp SLIDE 1On the first day of any new class I show a PowerPoint presentation that outlines my classroom policies and procedures; it also has some personal info about me, contact information and a few stray tidbits of stray oddities or bits of humor, just to keep my students attention.

This year’s version features a couple of pictures of my grandson Felix, who turned two in November. The first shot is on the first slide: a close up of Felix waving WITH HIS LEFT HAND and the title WELCOME TO MR.LUCKER’S CLASS!

Felix makes it all seem quite inviting.

There are a couple of other Felix shots scattered through the twenty-one slide blockbuster, including a simply gratuitous slide labeled ‘OOOH – ANOTHER PICTURE OF MY GRANDSON!’ Not that I am showing any grandfatherly overkill here, but I also used the ‘welcoming wave’ shot as the desktop wallpaper on my laptop; OOH ANOTHER PICTUREwhenever I am hooked up to my Promethean board (all the time during the school day) and I have nothing else feeding, there is Felix waving at everyone.

The reaction to the PowerPoint was predictable: ‘awws’ and ‘ohhhh, what a cute baby’ predominate, along with the also predictable, “Mr. Lucker, that your baby?” Which then prompts the brief, personal background segment of our introduction, teacher-to-new class.

One young woman was not so charitably inclined toward my little presentation.

Upon running through my list of family notables, I simply note that I have three kids, “ages twenty-nine, eighteen and almost fifteen” which prompted a rather forceful “Why there so much time between them?” from the girl. A bit taken aback, I replied that my daughter is from my first marriage, the boy from my second.

“You should have stopped.” Her tone showed annoyance.

“Ummm…”

“You shouldn’t have done that. You should have stopped after the first one.”

“Okay…” Even some of the other kids were looking at her in bewilderment. I had obviously struck some visceral chord in the young woman, but I just kept on with the presentation, answering the mostly innocuous questions the kids had about me, asking some of my own about them.

The girl remained silent the rest of the class.

As for the other females, a number of them were quite animated upon leaving at the end of the period; two informed me point-blank (and with some pride) that they had babies, another mentioned her baby sister, a couple of more added random comments about liking babies, and wanting one of their own…someday.

That was all on Monday.

On hall duty outside of my classroom on Thursday, one of my new students approached me, smiled and directly but politely asked, “Mr. Lucker, do you have one of those little refrigerators, like a dorm-room size one?”

“No I’m sorry, I don’t.”Some more things about me

“Oh. Do you know of any teachers up here on this floor that do?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll ask around. You need it to keep your breast milk in?” (I knew she had been using restroom breaks to pump.)

“Yeah, it only keeps for an hour or so at room temperature, so I am looking for a place to keep it til I go home.”

“Let me ask around a bit. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thanks, Mr. Lucker.”

We put this one directly into the ever-bulging ‘conversations-I-never-dreamed-I’d-have-until-I-have-them’ file.

DesktopwithFelixpicShe has refrigerator options in another building across our rather expansive campus, but we are working on getting something squared away in our building to save some time and minimize being out of class. She is genial and greets me warmly every day, a do a number of the other young women in the class. The other group of seniors I have is pretty much the same, though without the extremes in reaction – though one young woman in that class told me she had a baby, and another has mentioned her baby in conversation about other, un-child related topics.

I attribute my new semester’s surprisingly open and free-flowing dialogue with my female students to those pictures of Felix, and I figure I have maybe another year or two of classroom mileage out of his cherubic countenance and bonding with my teen moms and assorted others.

A picture is worth a thousand words – or, sometimes, just a few well placed, well-chosen ones.

Firsts and Foremosts

Quite an eventful week around the ol’ Lucker Hacienda.

The excitement began last Saturday evening with the arrival in New Orleans of grandson Felix, all the way from Minnesota – with his mom and dad in tow, of course. Saturday also happened to be the lad’s first birthday, though his arrival was more a gift for us as we hadn’t seen him (save our periodic Skype sessions) since last Christmas.

Suffice to say, he has grown up quite a bit.

Now an active, verbal-and-at-times-forcefully-so toddler, Master Felix has an engaging smile and personality – and energy to burn. After a two-day car jaunt, Felix was in pretty good spirits, but was a little apprehensive about these grandpa/grandma folks. But after a good night’s rest and a little more familiarity, he readily came to his grandpa – for short stints. By Sunday evening he was eagerly hanging with grandpa and/or grandma. Uncles Will and Sam, too.

On Monday, mom and dad headed out to do some sightseeing in the French Quarter, leaving Felix in our care. Utilizing a nifty all-terrain stroller borrowed from friends, we (Felix, me, Grandma Amy, Uncle Sam) took a two-mile walk, picking up Sadie from the groomers before heading back home.

This greatly pleased Felix, as he and Sadie had become best buds almost immediately upon his arrival. Seeing roughly eye-to-eye, Felix and Sadie made an immediate connection and decided that each was pretty cool. Sadie (a.k.a ‘The Big Floppy Dog’) is a very easy going, 61 pound-canine who loves attention. When that attentiveness comes from a one year old who likes to hug, tug and pat on her back with both hands – all the better, apparently.  Aside from the fact that Sadie is a licker who loves to go for the human face at every opportunity and that Felix attempts to reciprocate, the bonding of boy and dog has been a real joy. My favorite sight is when Sadie is

“Belly up to the Sadie bar, boys”.

just standing there, and Felix walks up and puts both his hands on Sadie’s back and they both just stand there. I call it Felix’s belly-up-to-the-(canine)-bar pose

The far less laid-back (energetic still at 10.5 years) Lucy the rat terrier has also been the beneficiary of Felix’s affections, but she doesn’t sit still long enough to partake much – though she does show her jealous side when Sadie is getting allllll the attention. No matter Lucy’s flightiness, the ‘Big Fwoppy Dog’ follows and flops with Felix on an ongoing basis.

It’s not just fun time for Felix here in New Orleans.

When announcing plans for their Thanksgiving/birthday jaunt to see us some months ago, I pseudo-sternly informed daughter Lindsay, “Now if you think you guys can just blow into town, leave Felix with us and go off gallivanting around New Orleans on your own…you’re absolutely correct”!

And they have done some of that from time to time (a shopping trip here, a lunch date there) but not without some slight separation anxiety which has been easily overcome by responding to mom-texts with a curt ‘O.K.’ or ‘We’re fine’.

Hey, this may be our first grandchild, but this aint our first rodeo, as they say.

A few weeks before Felix and family were set to arrive some friends of ours who have a ‘weekend getaway’ condo (‘Condeaux’ in the local vernacular) in the French Quarter graciously offered it to us for them to use for a night or two during their stay. The place is small but incredibly charming (think antiquated, 150-plus year old building with old brick and adobe, gaslights in a courtyard charm and then quadruple it) and apparently the old slave quarters of the original home, but is now a fine mix of old world magic and modern amenities.

I informed Lindsay of our friend’s gracious offer a week before their trip, and she was excited for the opportunity, duly noting that it would be their first full night away from Felix, and hoping/warning that we were/should be ready for whatever that might bring.

We got this.

Their stay was set for Tuesday night, and we would drop them off and get them settled so as not to have to worry about parking or other logistical issues. A nice deal for all concerned…but there was a twist to the plan.

On Sunday Brad accompanied me as I drove to pick up the borrowed stroller, and the conversation quickly took a uniquely curious turn, as Brad informed me he was going to propose to Lindsay, and asked for my quasi ‘approval’, which was immediately and gladly given. He then went on to tell me how this had been in the offing for a while, and that hearing Lindsay tell of the condo-in-the-Quarter opportunity just made the plans all come together.

Serendipitous, it was.

So the simple evening get away turned into something much more (successfully, I might add; she did say ‘yes’) for all concerned. A memorable and romantic evening in the Quarter for Lindsay and Brad, a fun and mostly uneventful night for Felix alone with grandpa and grandma. A visit to see the Christmas lights on nearby Harrison Avenue followed by a trip to Creole Creamery for some yummy small-batch ice cream: caramel apple pie for Felix and I and grandma’s red velvet cake that he also got to partake.

To our friends the Petersons, as they say in the theatre, “Thanks for the use of the hall”.

An interesting sidebar: when going to pick up Lindsay and Brad at the condeaux  I had to park around the corner. While walking to their door, I noticed one of New Orleans ubiquitous bronze plaque historical markers (the city is older than the country, remember) on a neighboring building. Stopping to read it as I usually do, I found that the home there was owned by Tennessee Williams. As Lindsay and Brad are both theatre buffs, and as Lindsay once played Stella in a production of Streetcar Named Desire, the discovery added a nice finishing touch to the whole affair.

More than serendipitous, I think.

This has been a week of a lot of firsts with Felix: first stroller walk, first Christmas lights, first ice cream, first overnight stay with grandpa and grandma. We have also had quiet just-Felix-and-grandpa time early morning; have a little breakfast, drink some coffee, cruise the Internet. Just us. Felix also got his first Tonka truck this week – the big dump truck. A little overkill, I’ll admit…but a boy’s first Tonka truck should be a good one. A big one. From grandpa and grandma.

And much to my great enjoyment we shared grandpa’s traditional Thanksgiving morning breakfast: coffee (milk for Felix) and a steaming bowl of freshly made sausage turkey stuffing (don’t worry – there is plenty left to cram in the bird). I’m sure there are more firsts to come as his week here winds down.

So now here we are about to celebrate Thanksgiving, and it’s Will’s seventeenth birthday, to boot. And Will provided us with a milestone of the non-Felix variety yesterday when he drove the family to Winn-Dixie for our pre-Thanksgiving shopping trip, his first trip as a permitted driver. Seventeen Thanksgivings ago we were hospital bound with the month-premature Willi Newman Lucker; now a goatee-clad driver of the family grocery-getter.

Plenty of thankfulness to go around.

For family. For Will, for Sam, for Felix, Lindsay and Brad. For my wife Amy. For friends and family. For mom, who celebrated ten years of being cancer-free this year. For difficult but gratifying employment. For good friends. I could go on.

In the Lucker household, the day has little to do with football or ‘black Friday’ sale plans. Except that maybe Felix and I can do some of our first football watching. After he gets a crack at his first turkey drumstick, after we find his first wishbone…

Thankfulness in abundance.

Hard to disguise

For like only, ummm….maybe the third time in my adult life, I am invited to a Halloween costume party. A real, honest-to-goodness, grown-up, sophisticated-folks costume party.

Ahh, what to wear, what to wear?

A colleague of mine, Ms. Smith*, is throwing this little soiree, and extended the invite to my wife and I verbally a few weeks ago just to make sure I didn’t schedule anything else on that Saturday night before Halloween, so it seems like kind of  big deal. Last week, in passing, Ms. Smith told me that the party would feature a pomegranate martini fountain. This week, I received the formal invite: printed, with their own envelopes. Very nice card stock, not a cheap, clandestine-school-copy-machine summons.

The pressure is on.

Not only is it one of the rare times I have actually been invited to a real, grown-up costume party, it’s a New Orleans costume party. That can be a pretty big deal here; between Mardi Gras, and the general theatrical nature of the town, people dress up in costume a lot. That might sound silly or odd to someone not from here, and I won’t even try to explain it. Suffice to say, Mardi Gras permeates life in New Orleans twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five, and I would be willing to be there are more costume shops per capita than most anyplace else in America outside of Hollywood. Maybe even including Hollywood.

I need a good costume, so does my wife.

I don’t see us going the costume shop route, for budgetary reasons, but there should be enough creative gumbo in this household to conjure up some sort of outstanding masquerade mojo. Ms. Smith is a fellow English teacher, and knowing her, I’m pretty sure this bash will feature a pretty literate, fairly eclectic crowd, so even a little more obtuse costuming concoction will probably be well received.

That allows some creative…flexibility.

This also opens up a world of possibilities that go far beyond renting Yogi and Cindy bear costumes, Antony and Cleopatra (too pedestrian) or Grant Woods American Gothic – I am not shaving my head, so that’s out, too. F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald have potential, but Scott was clean-shaven and I don’t think I want to go there, though I could see my wife Amy as Zelda.

Amy also shot down going as the best couples costume idea that I have ever seen.

Some twenty-odd years ago, I was at a costume party with some friends, and there was a young couple there that nobody could quite figure out at first. The young man was about six-one, dressed in a tight fitting, dark brown body suit; the woman was a good foot shorter, very petite, and was wearing a snug white body suit stuffed with foam rubber. They each had a rectangular piece of cardboard with dots on them attached to their backs, and periodically they would have people stand back so they could run to the center of the room and embrace. They were, of course, a s’more.

My wife immediately said exnay on the white body suit thing.

Back on the literary front, I could try to talk her into going as the Venus de Milo and me as Ernest Hemingway, her biographer, billing ourselves as the “Original Farewell to Arms” – though the Venus get up would probably impair her ability to easily partake in the martini fountain, so maybe not. We may just have to go as separately costumed folk, sans connective theme. In fact, Amy might just prefer that.

There are other options, of course.

If I could find a pair of grey long johns and some knee-high red wool hunting socks, I could glue dollar-store Barbie dolls all over me and go as a chick magnet.

I have most of the components of a Charlie Chaplin costume my dad used back in the late 1950’s – most importantly, the vintage black derby. That also opens up the possibility of Stan Laurel, but then we’re back to the clean-shaven thing. I once played Groucho Marx and have the mannerisms and dialogue down, so that has potential; I could temporarily chuck my goatee and simply overdo the grease paint moustache.

I also have an old, red, shortcut tuxedo jacket that passes as a matador’s uniform – though I would need some sequins or a Bedazzler. That could be fun as the evening progresses and people get a bit more…loosened up. I could walk by with a swoop of my cape and tell pretentious-sounding people, “That is bull! Ole’!”

Yeah. Probably not.

Contemplating costume ideas, I took a good look at myself in the mirror and that’s when it came to me: Sigmund Freud! Let the beard grow out a little bit, add some gray, get a big cigar, a pocket watch and a nice vest from Goodwill, then brush up on my best Viennese dialect. I can walk around introducing myself: “Hell-lo. I am Doctor Zigmund Freud. I understand you are having zum trouble vith your zex?”

This seemed workable, so I dug up a picture of Freud and then went looking for one of myself to use in this blog post. Taking most of the family photos leaves me out of most of them, so my pickings on the ol’ hard drive were rather slim, and none too complimentary, save the Mardi Gras get up at right. And there it was:

‘Mardi Gras Sigmund Freud’.

Vest, cigar, Viennese dialect – I could wear crinolines instead of pants; very southern in a Freudian slip sort of way. Or is that mixing too many costume metaphors?

This whole thing is still a work in progress, so I am very open to suggestions. Please act now – this operator is standing by.

“Yes, we have no bananas”. But we do have the trees.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HygopC4S5W0    I am always on the lookout for good deals, and while driving around New Orleans one early August Sunday, I spied a potted palm tree sitting on a curb with a sign that said ‘Free Banana Palm.’

Deals don’t get much better than that.

A palm tree to decorate for Christmas is something my wife had an expressed an interest in, but while they are in plentiful supply in these parts, they are rather pricey. (O.K: in the interest of full disclosure, since moving here, she has wanted an inflatable palm tree to put Christmas lights on. But for me, why go plastic when you get the real thing?) I had been periodically hunting for a palm, but the ones I had located for free on Craigslist were in the 15-20 foot tall range and were free “if you remove it”. As I am more lumberjack than catch-and-release arborist, this was an option I had passed on numerous times.

Free, in a large pot, was right up my alley. Well, somebody else’s street, actually.

As I couldn’t get the thing into my van solo, I returned home, put our trailer-hitch platform on the van, and recruited my sons, aged 13 and 16 to help capture the beast in the wild and return it home for transplanting in our front yard.

Let’s just say, at first glance the boys were…dubious. Said thirteen year old Sam, “And we want this thing because…?”

But after some rather, uhh, creative, sweat-inducing tree wrangling, we got the vaunted (and heavy) potted banana palm home. Actually, it turned out to be four banana palms; the big one in the center of the pot, and three smaller sprouts in varying stages of growth. This was an even better deal! Four for the price of free, save a little sweat equity. Added bonus: some other funky, sub-tropical flowers had also taken root in the pot. Sweet!

Once home, my wife shared the doubtful look her sons had donned just a few minutes before upon meeting the tree(s). Nonetheless, within a couple of days I had the big palm from the center of the pot transplanted on the boulevard in front of our house, and was then immediately confronted by family members all asking the same question: “Why’d you plant THAT one?”

Though the largest, most mature of the four, the one I chose to transplant looks a little worse for wear. As sixteen year old Will said, “Its dead. Or about dead.” I didn’t think it that critical, as there were some new, small green shoots poking out of it. I likened it to the Christmas tree Charlie Brown and Linus bring back to the Peanuts gang in ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ – it just needed a little T.L.C. ala Linus and his blanket.

Unconvinced looks were again shared by wife and progeny.

One key reason I planted that particular tree (besides its being the tallest) was that I thought it had the potential to rebound nicely out of the pot and actually in the ground. Plus, I planted it to fill up a hole where an old tree trunk had been decaying and sinking since Katrina took out the original tree itself. Knowing that even dead trees can have extensive root structures that can regenerate, I figured the banana palm would take root and (hopefully) thrive. Transplanting it was quick and simple, except… required being staked down just to keep it upright. I began to see that my family’s skepticism may have been justified.

Over the last month or so, we have watched that scrawny little banana palm do pretty much nothing but survive.

I trimmed off the dead and broken leaves, and the one primary leaf (yeah, singular leaf) that remained perked up a bit, but that was about it. The new little green sprouts stayed that way; new and little. But like with Charlie Brown and Linus, the little tree seemed to be growing on my own FamilyPeanuts. Jokes about its appearance were made on a fairly regular basis by sons and wife, though they were interspersed with grudging admiration for the banana palm’s tenacity. So I decided to just call it CBT (Charlie Brown tree).

Then, last week came hurricane Isaac, and a three-day evacuation for all six of us (including both dogs). Upon our return to our New Orleans neighborhood, we saw plenty of storm damage, including some very large trees that were ripped from the ground and thrown about just blocks from our house. This increased our anxiety about our home, as we had no idea what to expect. With trepidation and collective breath held, we turned onto our block…

…and there was our little banana palm, still standing, in front of our undamaged house.

Much to the amazement of Will, who’s incredulity only increased as we saw the toppled fifty-foot pine across the street that fell into our neighbors yard, “How could that stupid little thing stay standing through a hurricane?!”

How indeed, with no blue blanket wrapped around its base.

I quickly explained the whole small object/wind resistance thing using the mast of a ship analogy: with the sails down, there is little for the wind to catch, but with the sails unfurled, the wind has plenty to get hold of. (He is taking physics this semester, so he got it – at least on a scientific level.) But Will was even more shocked at the survival of CBT when he noticed the pounding our neighbor’s elephant ears plant and our whatever-it-is-I-got-from-Leslie-and-Ina’s-yard plants took.  Coleslaw on stems, basically, was what those plants were – just a few feet away . But our CBT was still hanging tough. Will just shook his head.

Now that we have been back a few days, have cleaned up the sticks and other stray debris, and since my school is still closed a few more days, I thought it would be a good time to finally swap out CBT for the more hearty of the other three still in the pot.

But CBT seems to have other ideas. The dang thing has taken root.

A tree that two weeks ago needed bracing appears to have hunkered down against Isaac and settled in for the long haul. It does not want to budge. This morning I removed the rope tethers, and it stayed standing upright. I grabbed hold of CBT and shook it; it barely wiggled. I shook it more vigorously; it stood there, defiantly.

Upon further inspection, I noticed that there is some fresh green down toward the bottom, some bark is growing back, and the leaf (yeah, still just one leaf) shredded by Isaac has started to regenerate nicely. I think CBT is gonna be A-O-K.

That still left me with another banana palm that was showing some signs of vigor now that his pot had more room, so I figured we can get him going in his own little plot of real estate and see what happens. As of today, our second little banana palm (as yet unnamed) has been transplanted a little further on down the boulevard from CBT. The new model stands at 45 inches tall as of today, but I’m willing to bet most anyone a burger at Bud’s Broiler that a month from now, on October sixth, that newly relocated banana palm will stand 55 inches tall, same height as me.

Provided we don’t get any more hurricanes.

By December, I am hoping that one of our two palm trees is hearty enough to help fulfill my goal of giving my wife a real, decorated New Orleans Christmas palm tree. So, with apologies to Joyce Kilmer:

I think my wife will have no qualm
stringing lights on her new banana palm

Below(L to R)  What my wife initially wanted to hang Christmas lights on, what we are trying to achieve, what we hope to avoid.

x

Like Son, Like Father, Like Wow, Man

“You young kids and your crazy ideas.”

That’s a phrase my thirteen-year old son Sam uses dryly when a topic comes up and I refer to something from the past, or throw in some sort of archaic phrase like ‘groovy’ into a dinner table conversation.

One of Sam’s favorite treats is a cold Dr.Pepper; so much so that he has, on a few occasions, been given twelve packs of the stuff as a birthday present. We limit his consumption of pop to just a couple a week, usually our Friday night family ‘Pizza Picnic,’ and/or if we are at some special event or gathering, so it really is a treat for him, and a gift that keeps on giving.

The other night at dinner my wife and I were discussing coffee, and Sam got to musing about how when he was an adult, he didn’t think he would drink coffee, and would probably stick to Dr. Pepper and root beer as his beverages of choice, adding, that maybe sometime, somewhere along the line, he would want a hot beverage of some sort, but didn’t think it would be coffee.

“Well” I said, “You could always heat up some Dr. Pepper. It’s pretty good that way.”

“Dad, who would ‘heat up’ Dr. Pepper…or any kind of soda?” as he shook his head dismissively.

“We did with Dr.Pepper. Put it in a pan and heat it up, add a lemon slice.”

An incredulous stare and cocked eyebrow were, for a moment, his only response. Then, “Annnnnnnd why would you do that?”

“Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“This was your idea, I suppose?”

“No. They marketed it like that for a while back in the sixties.”

“They did not.” Sam replied dryly, with just a hint of skepticism. He knows this is dangerous ground, as I had, some time ago, proved to him that the Mr. Potato Head toy of my youth was far superior to the plastic, pre-drilled holes version of today, because you needed to use a real potato. (See my post from last August: https://poetluckerate.wordpress.com/2011/08/19/kids-don%e2%80%99t-try-this-at-home-or-not/ )

“You really made…and drank… hot Dr.Pepper?”

“Yep.”

He furrowed his brow as I continued eating. Before adding a dismissive, “You young kids and your crazy ideas.”

One of the great things about the Internet Age is that things like this don’t have to become ‘because-I-said-it-was’ ‘no-way-I-don’t-believe-you’ things; a few keystrokes on the ol’ laptop, and presto!

Proof. It took all of about forty-five seconds.

As his mom and older brother cleared the dinner table, I went to the computer and summoned Sam. He looked at what I had pulled up, shook his head. “O.K. “You young kids and your crazy ideas.” As he walked away he calmly and defiantly stated, ‘I’M not gonna be trying it.”

I smiled with satisfaction, leaned back in my chair. The Internet: “You young kids and your crazy ideas.”

More memorable (and enticing) than warm Dr. Pepper.