The five year old in this story is now a beautiful young lady who will soon leave her teen years behind. But she still has her Papa wrapped around her little finger. It's just better manicured now.
My Dad is a tough guy. He wears Black and Decker underwear and buys pallets of toilet paper from the Army-Navy store. He watches sports on television every Sunday afternoon, even if it’s only putt-putt season, and turns the sound all the way down so that the sportscasting guys don’t ruin a beautiful play with color drivel.
He can estimate distance to an eighteenth of an inch and can tell whether a picture is half a bubble off plumb just by squeezing one eye shut and looking through his thumb. He survived the Depression on beans and biscuits; World War II on courage and luck; and 48 years of marriage on Divine Providence and guesswork. He taught four children to drive without suffering permanent neurological damage, made us wear more clothes when we were cold, and refused to let us hang on the refrigerator with the door open until we air conditioned the whole neighborhood.
So how can a five-year-old bundle of brown eyes and rosy cheeks crawl up in his lap at fourth down and goal to go and persuade him to read The Cat In The Hat for the four thousandth time, without suffering severe blood loss?
This man, who refused to allow scented soap in the shower during my childhood years, now has a cupboard stocked with curly noodle soup, sports animal stickers on his back door, and a maintains a gaggle of Barbies who loiter in his favorite recliner.
When I dropped by Dad’s house last Sunday to comfort the old man in his lonesome existence and retrieve his great-grandaughter, I tripped over three teddy bears and a stuffed cat having a tea party, stumbled on a pair of pink plastic high heeled shoes and a glittery feather boa tossed carelessly in front of a full length mirror, and turned my ankle sliding across a nest of scattered crayons and coloring books piled in the hallway.
“Dad!” I called, afraid to endanger myself by advancing further. A trip to my father’s house should not involve my health insurance. “Have you been finding new ways to entertain yourself or is there a little girl hiding in there?”
Giggles erupted from around the corner. “We’re in the kitchen,” a small, freckled voice said. I followed a line of Winnie-the-Pooh stickers posted along the wall at five-year-old eye level and entered the kitchen. Over a teetering mountain of mall-type bags, a pair of large brown eyes twinkled in my direction.
“Can you tell we’ve been shopping?” the bag-mountain asked.
Does the queen wear matching accessories?
“Papa bought me a sticker book, two kinds of bubble gum, and a Shirley Temple video.”
“Shirley Temple?”
“Yeah, she’s a new kid that can dance.”
“If Shirley Temple’s a new kid, Britney's not even in hip huggers yet.”
“Papa made me a new kind of cheese sandwich. You cook it right in the oven.”
“Sweetie, it’s time to go. Gather up your 50 most prized possessions and I’ll take you home.”
She hopped down and ran to me, clutching a battered baby doll that looked like it would be at home in Little Orphan Annie’s boarding house. “I’m ready.”
“What about all your treasures?”
“Oh, Papa bought that stuff for me to play with here. He already took my other stuff home for me.”
I glanced over at my dad, who was nestled in his recliner recovering from the shopping expedition by snoring loudly through the ballgame. He cracked one eye open and peered up at me. “Don’t forget her food. She has Little Debbie brownies, Beauty and the Beast cookies, and Barbie cupcakes. With sprinkles.”
Sure, the queen may have matching hat and shoes and the wealth of an entire nation, but the princess has designer snacks and a Papa who can’t say no.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Army. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Army. Show all posts
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Fire In The Hole
Venture over to the Ermas blog (if you dare) where The Captain gives a whole new meaning to the term "Light My Fire."
By the way, about that lighter, Cap'n. Smokey the Bear is NOT amused.
By the way, about that lighter, Cap'n. Smokey the Bear is NOT amused.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Special Delivery
For a while, the Captain of our Kennel discovered he could waylay any latent longings for new experiences in motherhood I might display with the addition of a new pet. Pets aren’t less expensive than children, but in rare cases their obedience training is actually effective. I am now the Angelina Jolie of the animal world. Presently I have six animals representing various cultures lounging on the living room furniture, ringing for takeout.
The cats are no trouble. They thrive on indifference. And aloe plants. Aloe plants that you’ve pampered and promised roomy new pots to if only they will “Live, please, live just one more day!” Shortly after a feline gourmet vegetarian meal, you will discover that fillet of aloe plant makes them puke fancy green spearmint gum-type designs on the new living room plush.
I can also keep up with the Labradors. Chunk a ball down the driveway and they will knit themselves into a scarf trying to be the first to grab it up and chew it like Double Bubble. Big dogs are easy. They know they’re dogs (okay, they also know they’re people and feel entitled to at least half of your sandwich, but that’s another thing entirely.) The thing is, they EXPECT to chase a ball and to be invited outside of the house for personal chores, such as watering topiaries and chasing squirrels. They come in the house to sleep or to help with the vacuuming or to beg for potato chips.
It’s the Dachshund that gives me trouble.
The cats are no trouble. They thrive on indifference. And aloe plants. Aloe plants that you’ve pampered and promised roomy new pots to if only they will “Live, please, live just one more day!” Shortly after a feline gourmet vegetarian meal, you will discover that fillet of aloe plant makes them puke fancy green spearmint gum-type designs on the new living room plush.
I can also keep up with the Labradors. Chunk a ball down the driveway and they will knit themselves into a scarf trying to be the first to grab it up and chew it like Double Bubble. Big dogs are easy. They know they’re dogs (okay, they also know they’re people and feel entitled to at least half of your sandwich, but that’s another thing entirely.) The thing is, they EXPECT to chase a ball and to be invited outside of the house for personal chores, such as watering topiaries and chasing squirrels. They come in the house to sleep or to help with the vacuuming or to beg for potato chips.
It’s the Dachshund that gives me trouble.
So far she has successfully trained me to retrieve a toy, give her a treat, and dress appropriately for carrying her outside under the umbrella in inclement weather. I’m striving for more complex achievements, but if she thinks I’m good for agility training, she’s going to be disappointed. I’m 51 years old. I don’t always make it safely through the hallway obstacle course on my 2:00 a.m. bathroom expedition. For me, agility is the ability not to trip over shadows and to open the bottle of pain reliever without calling for the Jaws of Life.
Occasionally, I will look down by my chair to find the little darling gazing up at me with the kind of eyes that would make Ebenezer Scrooge sign up as a Salvation Army bell ringer, attempting to assimilate me into her thought processes. Usually I’m not adept at picking up other languages, but now I recognize Dachshund for “play,” “treat,” and “let’s send the big dogs to live with your brother.”
As an added embarrassment, she doesn’t care for clothes like the movie stars' dogs do. Oh, she’s up for sleeping on your new sweater or dragging your soiled underwear through the dining room to pad her bed when company is passing the sugar bowl for tea. But she turns surly if you present her with a set of twinkling reindeer antlers at Christmastime, and no matter how nicely you ask, she won't let you tie the chinstrap in a fetching bow.
She once shunned a beautiful sweater, knitted entirely by the hands of her loving auntie, to shield her from the winter wind. She pulled her head and paws in like a turtle so that trying to dress her was like stuffing a sausage. And I’m quite certain that the thoughts parading through her stubborn Dachshund brain were particularly unladylike. I informed her straightaway that I knew a little Pug that would love to have that sweater, and with one look she invited me to pack it up and send it along special delivery. And the Labradors along with it.
I think I’ll need a bigger box.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
GI Just Say No
Frankly, I’m a bit concerned about the strategic national defense of a country who openly solicits assistance from my son. I’m not saying that he’s not capable of fulfilling his patriotic duty, but I just can’t believe that an eighteen year old that goes all white around the mouth and makes the pouty face when his applesauce touches his pork chop is going to be reliable with rations packed into an indestructible Hefty bag.
As soon as my son entered his senior year in high school, the United States Army began a postal crusade to win his affections. Our mailbox was bombarded with pamphlets extorting the virtues of Army life that boasted so many bonuses and benefits it resembled a campaign for a timeshare in an exotic land. One where you could experience the world, earn an education, and operate heavy artillery. All this with a meal plan and government issued fashion accessories.
This kid has remarkable experience with real-life tactical weapons. He masterminded the construction of a working tabletop trebuchet for his younger brother’s science project, and provided ammunition in the form of toy farm animals to launch at the family dog. (Bo survived several near-misses and a plastic cow in his water bowl.) His present stockpile of munitions includes a marshmallow gun made from plastic pipe, three foam rubber swords, and a heavy duty water gun that leaks.
If it’s his video game skills that has the Army all atwitter, I can understand their excitement. To his credit, he has defeated enemy armies and crushed mighty weaponry on practically every game system on the market. He is a virtual expert in guerilla warfare with camo-clad GI Joe types and a definitive power in open battle with earthbound aliens or free-range zombies. But I just can’t believe that worldwide thermonuclear war will pause for him to get a snack and watch reruns of “That Seventies Show.”
Fortunately for those of us who depend on the Armed Forces to maintain peace at the borders and keep terrorists out of the potato salad, Son Number One opted for college life instead of a military existence. Reportedly, Uncle Sam likes soldiers who can take out the enemy without having to stop and reload their controller with AA batteries.
However his brother’s coming along, and he’s a triple threat: He has superior ratings with water balloons, rubber bands, and air guitar.
As soon as my son entered his senior year in high school, the United States Army began a postal crusade to win his affections. Our mailbox was bombarded with pamphlets extorting the virtues of Army life that boasted so many bonuses and benefits it resembled a campaign for a timeshare in an exotic land. One where you could experience the world, earn an education, and operate heavy artillery. All this with a meal plan and government issued fashion accessories.
This kid has remarkable experience with real-life tactical weapons. He masterminded the construction of a working tabletop trebuchet for his younger brother’s science project, and provided ammunition in the form of toy farm animals to launch at the family dog. (Bo survived several near-misses and a plastic cow in his water bowl.) His present stockpile of munitions includes a marshmallow gun made from plastic pipe, three foam rubber swords, and a heavy duty water gun that leaks.
If it’s his video game skills that has the Army all atwitter, I can understand their excitement. To his credit, he has defeated enemy armies and crushed mighty weaponry on practically every game system on the market. He is a virtual expert in guerilla warfare with camo-clad GI Joe types and a definitive power in open battle with earthbound aliens or free-range zombies. But I just can’t believe that worldwide thermonuclear war will pause for him to get a snack and watch reruns of “That Seventies Show.”
Fortunately for those of us who depend on the Armed Forces to maintain peace at the borders and keep terrorists out of the potato salad, Son Number One opted for college life instead of a military existence. Reportedly, Uncle Sam likes soldiers who can take out the enemy without having to stop and reload their controller with AA batteries.
However his brother’s coming along, and he’s a triple threat: He has superior ratings with water balloons, rubber bands, and air guitar.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Army Wants You! (But They're Not Sure Why)
It never hurts to be open to job opportunities that have the potential to raise your monthly earnings enough to cover luxury items, like Girl Scout cookies. Or the rent.
Unless the job is with the Army.
Recently I ran across an advertisement for a civilian position at a local Army base. I tried to read the job description, but these guys did things with the alphabet that Sesame Street never dreamed of. It took a Navajo Code Talker just to understand the Job Title.
Fortunately, I’m multilingual. I’m fluent in Southern Baptist, High School Football, and, since Dad served on a submarine in WWII, I have a feel for Navy lingo (port is left, starboard is right, don’t let on that you don’t know which way is north, and NEVER call it a boat). None of this helped with Army dialect, but I took a chance and filled out the application anyway. From what I could tell, I was pretty sure I was flirting with a spy mission to Honduras.
I did okay until I got to the part about claiming Military Spouse Preference. While I appreciate the increase in benefits, I’m partial to the spouse I already have. If he would just kick his underwear directly into the laundry basket instead of straight up in the air like a lunar-bound space shuttle, I wouldn’t even consider a trade. And to be honest, I couldn’t upgrade my present spouse to military status. A milking stool has better knees than he does, and if a hawk had eyes like his, it would starve.
By the time my resume was submitted and approved, I felt like I had been granted Officer status and promoted to Director of Homeland Security. (I don’t know how you feel about the color coded crisis system they came up with, but I can never figure out if orange means to hide under the house or that there’s road construction on Pennsylvania Avenue. The first thing this Mom is going to do in the Official Security Office is install a Threat Level System based on emoticon stickers. If you get more than two Mr. Yuks in the same week, you’re on the no fly list.)
All the same, I let the opportunity go. I never did find out what the job was for. I know now why the army had to give up on that “Be All That You Can Be” slogan.
Nobody could figure out what the "Be" stood for.
Unless the job is with the Army.
Recently I ran across an advertisement for a civilian position at a local Army base. I tried to read the job description, but these guys did things with the alphabet that Sesame Street never dreamed of. It took a Navajo Code Talker just to understand the Job Title.
Fortunately, I’m multilingual. I’m fluent in Southern Baptist, High School Football, and, since Dad served on a submarine in WWII, I have a feel for Navy lingo (port is left, starboard is right, don’t let on that you don’t know which way is north, and NEVER call it a boat). None of this helped with Army dialect, but I took a chance and filled out the application anyway. From what I could tell, I was pretty sure I was flirting with a spy mission to Honduras.
I did okay until I got to the part about claiming Military Spouse Preference. While I appreciate the increase in benefits, I’m partial to the spouse I already have. If he would just kick his underwear directly into the laundry basket instead of straight up in the air like a lunar-bound space shuttle, I wouldn’t even consider a trade. And to be honest, I couldn’t upgrade my present spouse to military status. A milking stool has better knees than he does, and if a hawk had eyes like his, it would starve.
By the time my resume was submitted and approved, I felt like I had been granted Officer status and promoted to Director of Homeland Security. (I don’t know how you feel about the color coded crisis system they came up with, but I can never figure out if orange means to hide under the house or that there’s road construction on Pennsylvania Avenue. The first thing this Mom is going to do in the Official Security Office is install a Threat Level System based on emoticon stickers. If you get more than two Mr. Yuks in the same week, you’re on the no fly list.)
All the same, I let the opportunity go. I never did find out what the job was for. I know now why the army had to give up on that “Be All That You Can Be” slogan.
Nobody could figure out what the "Be" stood for.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Missing Inaction
Frankly, I’m a bit concerned about the strategic national defense of a country who openly solicits assistance from my son. I’m not saying that he’s not capable of fulfilling his patriotic duty, but I just can’t believe that an eighteen year old that goes all white around the mouth and makes the pouty face when his applesauce touches his pork chop is going to be reliable with rations packed into an indestructible Hefty bag.
As soon as my son entered his senior year in high school, the United States Army began a postal crusade to win his affections. Our mailbox was bombarded with pamphlets extorting the virtues of Army life that boasted so many bonuses and benefits it resembled a campaign for a timeshare in an exotic land where you could experience the world, earn an education, and operate heavy artillery. All this with a meal plan and government issued fashion accessories.
This kid has remarkable experience with real-life tactical weapons. He masterminded the construction of a working tabletop trebuchet for his younger brother’s science project, and provided ammunition in the form of toy farm animals to launch at the family dog. (Bo survived several near-misses and a plastic cow in his water bowl.) His present stockpile of munitions includes a marshmallow gun made from plastic pipe, three foam rubber swords, and a heavy duty water gun that leaks.
If it’s his video game skills that has the Army all atwitter, I can understand their excitement. To his credit, he has defeated enemy armies and crushed mighty weaponry on practically every game system on the market. He is a virtual expert in guerilla warfare with camo-clad GI Joe types, and a definitive power in open battle with earthbound aliens. But I just can’t believe that worldwide thermonuclear war will pause for him to get a snack and watch reruns of The Family Guy.
Fortunately for those of us who depend on the Armed Forces to maintain peace at the borders and keep terrorists out of the potato salad, Son Number One opted for college life instead of a military experience. Reportedly, Uncle Sam likes soldiers who can take out the enemy without having to stop and reload their controller with AA batteries.
As soon as my son entered his senior year in high school, the United States Army began a postal crusade to win his affections. Our mailbox was bombarded with pamphlets extorting the virtues of Army life that boasted so many bonuses and benefits it resembled a campaign for a timeshare in an exotic land where you could experience the world, earn an education, and operate heavy artillery. All this with a meal plan and government issued fashion accessories.
This kid has remarkable experience with real-life tactical weapons. He masterminded the construction of a working tabletop trebuchet for his younger brother’s science project, and provided ammunition in the form of toy farm animals to launch at the family dog. (Bo survived several near-misses and a plastic cow in his water bowl.) His present stockpile of munitions includes a marshmallow gun made from plastic pipe, three foam rubber swords, and a heavy duty water gun that leaks.
If it’s his video game skills that has the Army all atwitter, I can understand their excitement. To his credit, he has defeated enemy armies and crushed mighty weaponry on practically every game system on the market. He is a virtual expert in guerilla warfare with camo-clad GI Joe types, and a definitive power in open battle with earthbound aliens. But I just can’t believe that worldwide thermonuclear war will pause for him to get a snack and watch reruns of The Family Guy.
Fortunately for those of us who depend on the Armed Forces to maintain peace at the borders and keep terrorists out of the potato salad, Son Number One opted for college life instead of a military experience. Reportedly, Uncle Sam likes soldiers who can take out the enemy without having to stop and reload their controller with AA batteries.
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