The Day My Pet Rock Attacked My Dad

Some of you may remember the pet rock craze from the 70s. The small pet rocks were sold in little cardboard boxes, with instructions for care and training. Perhaps the rocks sold through the stores were specially bred to be pets. I attempted to tame a wild rock and it ended tragically.

I don’t remember how old I was, probably 11 to 13. While out exploring near the woods I found a beautiful pink granite rock weighing about five pounds. It was very dirty but I knew I could wash it and give it a good home.

After carefully bathing my rock in the bathroom sink, I wrapped it in a towel to dry and left it on the bathroom counter. A couple of hours later, my dad went to wash his hands in the bathroom sink. Seeing a towel on the counter, my dad picked it up. The rock, seeing its chance to escape, unfurled from the towel and launched itself with great force at my dad’s foot. My dad yelled and fell into the bathtub. Fortunately, he was not injured, except for his big toe which was so painful he couldn’t work the next day. And my dad limped for awhile.

He wasn’t angry at me, but he did want to know why the towel had contained a rock. My dad then repeated the story for the next several months. He has always loved telling stories, and was not about to let this one go.

My pet rock was subdued by the experience, and served the family faithfully for years as a doorstop. I have not seen it in decades and I suspect it finally escaped back to the woods.

Recently, my brother reminded me of the incident saying, “Only you would wash a five-pound rock, wrap it in a towel, and leave it on the bathroom counter.”

So on this Father’s Day, I pay tribute to my good-humored and patient dad. (I also apologize again for the rock incident.)

Now Reading - A Grief Observed

Currently I’m reading A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis. I lost my very close friend Nancy Weichmann this past September. She died of cancer at the age of 48. Nancy was the closest thing I had to a sister.

C.S. Lewis wrote A Grief Observed after he lost his wife Joy to cancer. (Their story is told in the film Shadowlands.

I realized my grief over the loss of my friend does not compare to the grief of C.S. Lewis felt. But reading Lewis’ reflections helps me connect with my own loss.

Thank You Notes for the 12 Days of Christmas

(Here’s something I found in the book If It’s Raining This Must Be the Weekend by Nancy Stahl, copyright 1979.)

Thank You Notes for the 12 Days of Christmas

Friday, December 14
My Dearest True Love:

Along with the orthodontist’s bill for $75.50 and three Christmas cards from total strangers, I received your pear tree today. You shouldn’t have. I mean, every time I look at it (which of necessity is fairly often, as it takes up half the living room), I think of you. Oh, yes, I almost forgot to mention the enchanting little Cornish hen perched on one branch. Absolutely charming. A little stringy, perhaps, but a welcome change from hamburger.

Saturday, December 15
My Dear True Love:

Gosh! Another pear tree. Another stringy Cornish hen, too. Have I ever mentioned how badly I need a new steam iron? Until our son builds a coop for the pigeons, I’m keeping them in the coat closet.

Sunday, December 16
Dear True Love:

We couldn’t coax today’s Cornish hen out of the tree; he just sits there on the top branch and throws pears at us. Thank heavens the coop is finished; you should see what those pigeons did to my hat. By the way, those three chickens you sent are terribly high-strung. They leaped out of the box, shrieked “Mon Dieu!” and ran under the sofa.

Tuesday, December 18
Dear T.L.

I’m sorry I didn’t write yesterday, but since our son has lost interest in pigeons, I had to clean the coop myself. I was delighted with the five rings. I didn’t know there was such a thing as two-carat gold.

Wednesday, December 19
Hi:

We chopped today’s tree into kindling, which so frightened the Cornish hen that he flew through the picture window. The geese have made themselves quite at home, so much so that they follow us around, nipping at our heels like puppies—big puppies! Big untrained puppies! I finally understand what is meant by the phrase “loose as a goose”.

Thursday, December 20
My Dear True Love:

Today the post office delivered seven swans. They have been temporarily billeted in the bathtub, where they are unsuccessfully attempting to mate with the rubber duck.

Friday, December 21
Dear T.L.:

I was ecstatic today to be greeted by eight maids. Unfortunately they refused to deal with the mess that the birds have created. They insist on milking. In view of the fact that good help is so hard to come by, could you see your way clear to sending us a cow?

Saturday, December 22
My Dear Sir:

I was puzzled and dismayed today to receive nine members of British nobility, when what I really needed was a cow. When they aren’t busy bounding over the furniture, they are engaging in an unseemly amount of slap and tickle with the maids, who are not remotely interested in milking anymore.

Monday, December 24
Sir:

Regarding your gifts of the past two days, the last thing I need is thirty-one additional houseguests. Especially since the bathtub is full of swans. Besides, I am not overly fond of bagpipes, believing in fact that the only good bagpipe is a dead bagpipe. It is impossible to concentrate on the on the morning paper with eleven pipers marching around the breakfast table, followed by twenty girls frugging to “Loch Lomond”.

Tuesday, December 25
Now Hear This!

With the arrival today of twelve bongo players, there are now 140 people drumming, piping, dancing, leaping, and not milking. Not to mention 184 birds (less the two we ate and the one that flew through the picture window), doing birdlike things such as picking lice out of their tails.

I am returning all forty gold rings. The engagement is off! Do you hear me? Off!

===============

In Remembrance of James Marry

On June 27, 2007, I attended a visitation for a former high school teacher of mine, James Marry, who died on June 24, 2007 at the age of 72. There was a very long line at the visitation, which did not surprise me at all.

I had James Marry for psychology in the 1979-1980 school year. I remember him as an extraordinary teacher. He was always very warm and friendly, with a wonderful sense of humor. I remember when our class took a field trip to the Zeller center. The students kept asking if we could stop at McDonald’s on the way back and Mr. Marry kept shaking his head and saying, “No, we’re not going. We can’t stop. We have to get back to school.” Then suddenly the bus turned into the McDonald’s parking lot. He loved to set us up like that.

But what made him an excellent teacher was the way he held his students to high standards and both pushed and inspired us to meet those standards. I’ve had some teachers who were nice people but whose classes were so undemanding, I just breezed through them. Those are not the teachers you value as you get older. Getting an “A” in James Marry’s class gave a student a feeling of real accomplishment. Taking his psychology class influenced me to get my bachelor’s degree in psychology. And when I became a high school teacher myself, I realized how much preparation and hard work it took for him to maintain those standards in a classroom.

After James Marry and his wife Christine (who I had for P.E.) retired, I saw them frequently at bookstore where I work (after retiring from teaching a few decades early). I so enjoyed seeing them both and it makes me sad that I will not see Mr. Marry coming in the store anymore. But as one of his former students, I’m proud to be part of his legacy.

Remembering My Grandparents

This came from an assignment I had for my class on teaching writing in Fall 1997. We were supposed to loosely imitate the structure of another poem and create our own.

Several years ago, my grandmother, who we called Mamaw, died and my family went to Tennessee for the funeral. She was 86, so it was not unexpected. After the funeral, we went back to my grandmother’s house. My grandfather, Papaw, had died years before and the family was going to sell the house. I walked through the house, realizing that it would probably be the last time I would be in it.

I can see
Mamaw and Papaw coming out on the porch,
to greet us as our car drove up,
the hedges that surrounded the house,
which often trapped Frisbees and footballs,
the pale green metal bench swing,
the family tree hanging on the wall,
the yard where I played games with my cousins, and
the old copies of Reader’s Digest,
stacked on the upstairs steps.

I can taste
the cornbread cooked in an cast-iron skillet,
my grandparents laughing because I cut my piece
instead of breaking it off,
the country ham,
too salty for my Yankee tastebuds,
the chicken and dumplings,
which no one can recreate,
though my cousin comes close,
the coconut pie,
which Mamaw would sometimes make special for me, and
the Coco-Cola from the refrigerator on the back porch,
crammed full of bottles.

I can call back
Mamaw teaching me to crochet,
the country music on the radio,
playing Monopoly at the dining table with my cousins,
losing the pieces in the heating vents, and
shooting fireworks off the front porch.

I remember
the family Christmas get together the first weekend after Christmas,
all the wonderful excesses,
too much food,
too many presents,
too many people,
the Christmas tree in the corner,
trying to find a place to sit, and
greeting relatives I had not seen for a year.

I can call back
the baseball field named for Papaw,
being dressed in a Little League uniform
for a picture with my cousins.

I can feel
the cold water and smooth stones while wading in the creek,
the white bedspread I would lay on and read,
the couch where I would sleep,
too short to be comfortable
as I grew taller over the years, and
the hot red vinyl seats of Papaw’s car,
when it had been left in the sun.

I can see
the telephone in its nook in the hallway,
the large grill vent between the dining room and living room,
the whip that Papaw tried to show us how to crack,
the upstairs window overlooking the front yard, and
Mamaw showing me her wedding dress,
as we explored the closets and trunks in storage.

I can hear
Papaw telling jokes,
his hearty laughter,
Mamaw telling me stories about when she was young,
how she and Papaw courted, married, and
did not have a honeymoon,
because people just went home in those days.

I can call back
Papaw’s lively zest,
Mamaw’s quiet warmth,
the joy of having so many relatives,
the smells in the kitchen, and
the sounds in the morning when I was trying to sleep.

I remember
the last time I saw Mamaw,
she was in a nursing home,
I came one evening to see her,
no one else was there,
a rare occurrence.

We talked for a while,
I told her that the afghan,
she had crocheted for me,
was draped over my couch,
in my apartment in Chicago,
She asked me about how my life was going, and
she hoped I would always be happy.

After her funeral, I was sitting on the bed in an upstairs bedroom, just remembering everything I could. My three-year-old nephew comes in and climbs up beside me. I am a little startled to see him, because he is not a part of my memories of this house and this family. I take his hand and we go downstairs, to create new memories.

Here are some of my brother's memories to add:

Chasing fireflies and putting them in a canning jar
Moon Pies
Always asking Mamaw for a cheese sandwich, until I was about 12.
Pringles (Pringles appeared there before we could get them at home)
Their old Motorola console TV
Meat curing while it hung from the ceiling in the building behind their house
The town square
Spending the night w/ cousins.
Waking up to a hot steamy summer morning
Leaving and seeing Mamaw and Papaw waving goodbye on the porch

AND MY FAVORITE!!!!
Watching Papaw stand there and hold a string of firecrackers in each hand as they went off

I remember that well myself. Fireworks were illegal in Illinois but not in Tennessee. I have several memories of Papaw taking us to a local shop to buy fireworks. And also of accidentally shooting them off so they hit the neighbors’ car across the street. Oops!

"One Good Year"

In December 2005 I got the CD My Hand, My Heart by Russell Crowe and his group TOFOG. On the morning of January 1, 2006, I got in my car to go to work at the bookstore. When I turned on the car stereo, I heard the first words to the song “One Good Year”:

“It’s New Year’s Day, just like the day before…”

It was pure coincidence that this song was the first I heard in 2006. It took my breath away for a moment. And since 2006 turned out to be a pretty good year, it’s become my tradition (perhaps even my superstition) that “One Good Year” is the first song I listen to each year. Yesterday marked the fifth year in a row that I’ve done this.

Wishing everyone One Good Year and many more to follow!

Russell Crowe - One Good Year

The Story of Our Christmas Candle

My mother was a school teacher and when I was about nine years old, the principal at Mom's school gave her and each of the other teachers a beautiful artificial candle. It was about two feet high and made from multicolored foil, green foil for the body with orange, yellow, and red foils creating the flame. There was also decoration around the bottom. It was really gorgeous. We put it on a table in the dining room, and kept it there as a decoration. After Christmas, we carefully packed it away. For the next four Christmases, we got it out and put it on the table when we decorated for the holidays. After five years, it was starting to look a little beat up. So when we took the decorations down, my mother said to throw the Christmas candle in the trash. My brother wanted to open it and see what was inside. My mother said it was probably only a cardboard tube. My brother ripped open the paper.

Inside were four Tupperware cups with lids, stacked one on top of the other. Our beautiful Christmas candle, which we had admired and cherished for five years, was merely the wrapping for the present. When we told him what happened, my father laughed, but not as loud or as long as my mother's principal did when she told him the story.

"You thought all I gave you was a foil candle?" he said.

There's a moral in this story somewhere.

I posted this on a message board and someone commented, “Your candle story is beautiful. You didn't ask if there was anything else to your gift. You displayed it proudly for 5 years not knowing the real gift was inside.”

I like that interpretation. I was worried that our family is very shallow. Or just not too bright.