Dad's Stories about his Dad

Since you kids grew up in Alabama and Texas well within the embrace of the Vedel family, the only grandfather that you really had a lot of exposure to was Granddad, George Vedel.  So my father, Emmett Darr Macrander is someone that you have known mostly from conversations between mom and me. 

Adding to the relative mystery of Emmett as a person is also the influence that my mother had in the family.  While it is not fair to say that Mom's (Betty) personality was bigger than Dad's, there was seldom any doubt as to who shaped the family, who commanded the ship of state Macrander, and who you had to keep an eye on from a discipline stand point.  Whereas Mom was quick and vigorous in her disciplinary actions, the, "wait till your Dad gets home," threat carried little weight with my sisters and me.  In fact, that was considered a reprieve, as dad feared that he would hurt us, and generally punished us reluctantly out a sense of duty, more than a quick emotional reaction. 

Even as adults, telephone conversations with my family, were principally a conversation with Mom, with Dad's participation being listening in and commenting sparingly.  Dad also died, when you all were pretty young, so, I suspect that he is largely unknown to you.  So, on Father's day, here are a few daddy stories about my Dad. 

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Dad was generally a pretty gentle soul, but, like anyone, had a temper that could flare on occasion, mostly with cussed farm animals.  He used to tell the story of trying to milk a cow that  was a habitual kicker.  After taking several kicks from her during a bad attitude milking session, he apparently lost it, and hit her over the head with the milking stool, knocking her out cold, collapsing right there in the stanchions.  He thought he had killed her, a sobering thought with a valuable milk cow, but after a few minutes she staggered back to her feet and never kicked again. 

Between my sisters and me, I probably have the sole memory of actually being afraid of Dad.  It was during the time that we lived away from the farm in St. Joseph, MO. I think of those years as my sports crazed years when I just knew that I would one day be a professional athlete, most likely a shortstop for the Kansas City A's.   Not the Oakland A's, or the Kansas City Royals.  That all happened years later.  I lived and breathed baseball and spent untold hours in the front yard fielding grounders from the backstop, or learning how to place hits around the yard.  Dad was, mostly, my partner in this, playing catch and pitching for countless precious hours.   On my own, though, I came up with the idea of gathering small rocks from the yard and throwing them up and hitting them with a bat, trying to get them to go precisely where I wanted them to go.  I had been told not to do this, a number of times, as there were neighbor's windows and cars at risk.  Being 10 and reckless, though, I knew best that I could control where the rocks went, so there was no reason to worry.  One day, Dad was out in the yard while I was hitting rocks.  He told me to stop it, but, of course, I had to hit just one more.  After all, I already had it in my hand.  I tossed it in the air and, WHACK, really connected solidly with the rock just as Dad turned to look at me.  In my mind it was headed straight over the pitcher's head and out into center field for a solid base hit.  In reality, though, the rock hit Dad squarely in the forehead just above his left eye and at a distance of about 15 feet from the bat.  In today's movies of action heroes, it is common for super men and women to levitate and zip from place to place in a blur.  One moment Dad was 15 feet away.  Whoosh, the next moment, he had snatched the bat from my hands and was standing over me with the bat raised and quivering.  Visions of the milk cow passed through my head until he lowered the bat and said in a strained voice, "I told you to quit that," then walked into the garage placing my bat in the corner where it belonged.  I think that it scared him more than it did me and I escaped any real punishment for nearly maiming my father.  I won't say that I was as smart as the cow, but I eased off on the rock hitting for a while. 

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Dad was a gregarious man who loved joshing and practical jokes, like hiding in the corn and howling like a wolf to scare my sisters and me as we were bringing the cows in from the pasture for the evening milking.  He was popular in the coffee gatherings of winter leisure farmers at the local restaurants and truly died with many friends and no enemies. 

He could outwork three other, larger, men and would simply not be outdone.  I remember a friend speaking in awe of Dad, that he could drive a 10 penny nail straight and true in three hammer strikes, when his own father would take 5-10 and likely have to straighten a crooked nail a couple of times before getting it down. 

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For all the hard work,though, he could be guilty of a lack attention to detail, or, as I have said, not putting the period at the end of the sentence.   The greatest story I have of that comes from my senior year in high school.  It was a beautiful breezy April day that was just cool enough to be fantastic if you were working, but, a bit cool if you were standing still.  It was Sunday, mostly a day of rest or small chores. We knew that Mom wanted to go to town for lunch, then on to her part time job at a local hospital.  Dad and I decided to get a head start on the spring cleaning and burn off the dead vegetation in the fence rows.  This would reduce the need for mowing and spraying and keep the weeds down.  To keep the fire from getting too hot and burning out the fence posts, we used a couple of wet burlap sacks to beat it back when it started to flare.  Initially, we were just going to do a bit, but, the day was nice, the fire was burning and we were really making some progress.  We had worked our way to about half a mile from the house making it necessary for my sister to drive out in the car to bring us in to get ready to go to town.  We quickly beat out the fire and threw the wet sacks in the trunk of the car. 

A quick shower, nine-mile drive to town, and Sunday dinner (lunch) at the hotel later, mom went on to Fairfax, while Dad, my sister and I headed home in our 1962 Ford Falcon.  The day had warmed up just enough to encourage us to roll down our windows and let the wind blow in. 

Now, the town of Tarkio is adjacent to the Tarkio River, a small river that you can wade across most days in 10 steps and not get your knees wet.  It did have a broad flat river bottom, though, that was about a mile wide and just right for the small municipal airport that was home to the local agricultural spray plane and a few private planes belonging to local pilots.  The road next to the airport was elevated above the low river bottom and lined with deep drainage ditches to keep it above the periodic floods when spring rains overflowed the "Tark Crick," as we used to say (and we thought southerners talked funny). 

Suddenly the car filled with smoke and we realized that we had not removed the burlap sacks from the trunk.  They had been smoldering back there and the fresh air flowing into the windows had fanned the coals to a near blaze.  If you know anything about the way cars are built, you know that the gas tank is generally right below, or in close proximity to, the trunk, so not the greatest place to have a fire. 

We quickly pulled over, grabbed the smoking sacks, and threw them to the bottom of the ditch where there was about a foot of standing water.  Unfortunately, the wind caught mine and it landed not in the water, but next to it.  I started to climb down into the ditch to put the sack directly into the water, but, Dad stopped me and said, "It's okay, let's go." 

The next morning my sister and I were driving to school, the smell of smoke still detectable in the upholstery of the car.  When we topped the hill and descended down onto the river bottom, we saw nearly a mile of charred vegetation in the roadside ditch and out onto the airport apron, nearly to the runway.  Apparently, the fire department had been called out to keep the whole airport from burning. 

When he came home from work that evening, Dad looked at me and said, "did you see?"  "Yes."  That was all that was ever said in the Macrander household until my sisters and I were swapping Dad stories after he died and trying to communicate who he was to the new minister who had the task of speaking at his funeral.  We ended up laughing until our sides ached.  At the end of the usual funeral assurances of "a better place and watching over us," the minister said that, through talking to his family, he had come to understand that Dad was quite a character and asked that those attending share their favorite Emmett story.  At the cemetery we were treated to a series of aging farmers dropping by to tell stories of shared shenanigans, 'oh shit' escapades, and warm memories of pranks pulled.   We came to know that he walked tall in the community of his peers. 

To this day I am constantly reminded of some of the things he taught me.  I can throw a shovel full of mulch (corn or snow) 20 feet and have it land in a compact pile precisely where I want it.   I try to mow the lawn in precise straight lines remembering that a farmer is judged from the road by how straight his rows are.  Unfortunately, I cannot drive a 10 penny nail in three hammer blows, or, without bending every 3rd nail.  These may not be skills that are highly valued in the academic or professional world that I have inhabited, but, in a world where men of all walks are still expected to have skills, I am thankful.  And even the shortcomings taught me by example, to put that damned fire out. 

Swordfish with Puttanesca Sauce

In our attempts to up our game in the healthy eating department we are expanding our horizons in terms of both the types of seafood that we eat and the ways that we prepare it.  Swordfish is one of those things that we have eaten occasionally over the years, but not really ranked as one of our regular favorites.  They had some nice looking steaks at Metropolitan Market in Tacoma a few months ago and we tried it with a spicy puttanesca sauce.  We both liked it a lot and have had it now a couple of additional times. 

I did check on it and swordfish is now listed as one of the most sustainable fisheries, so no guilt there.  Swordfish also got a bad rap for mercury contamination.  While swordfish and tuna are both longer living top predator fishes, somehow people focus on swordfish as the no go species.  As with most things, people eating a diverse diet are not likely to ingest enough of this one species to have an effect. 

This recipe serves two, so adjust according to the number of people being served.

Ingredients

6-8 oz of swordfish per person, so .8 to 1 lb for two.  About 1 inch thick. 

Salt and pepper to taste

Olive oil

Puttanesca Sauce

1 Tbs olive oil

1/4 cup chopped onion ( this is optional as most recipes I find do not include onion, but I like adding it)

1 - 2 garlic cloves chopped

1/2 - 1 tsp red pepper flakes

1 15 oz can of fire roasted tomatoes

1/2 - 3/4 cup of fresh green olives sliced (I get these off of the olive bar at our local upscale market.  Sometimes these are not pitted, so you have to extract the pit as part of the process.  Definitely, pitted works best.  I would not use the jarred green olives with pimentos.  Some recipes call for black olives, do go with what you like.)

2 tsp of capers

2 Tbs chopped fresh parsley

Salt and pepper to taste (I would start with about 1/2 tsp of salt and 1/4 tsp of pepper.  Remember though that both the capers and olives are salty, so don't overdue.  It is far easier to add salt than to take it out.   

Preparation

Heat a non-stick skillet over medium heat.  Add 1 Tbs of olive oil.  Saute onions until they are translucent (3 minutes) then add garlic and pepper flakes swirling or stirring to infuse the oil with these flavors (1-2 minutes).  Do not overcook the garlic, as it will become bitter.   

Add tomatoes plus about 1/2 can of water.  I use the water to get the extra bits of tomato out of the can and to give the mixture some liquid to extract flavors and cook off as the sauce thickens.  As with most sauces, simmering on low heat allows the flavors to combine and interact.  I keep the can nearby with a bit of water and add it as it is needed to keep the sauce from becoming too thick. 

Cook this tomato, garlic, pepper, & onion mixture on low heat for 15-20 minutes.  Add the olives, capers, and1 tbs parsley cooking an additional 10-15 minutes allowing the sauce to thicken at the end of the process.  You will want a sauce that you can get a mounded spoonful of, rather than a more runny level spoonful. 

When the sauce is all together and simmering put the pasta water on and heat on medium high until it comes to a rolling boil.  Also start the grill (If you are using charcoal you should start the coals heating in the tower when you are starting the sauce so that they will be ready to cook in 20-30 minutes time). 

At this time, drizzle both sides of the swordfish with olive oil and season lightly with salt and pepper.  Allow to stand for a few minutes while the fire is getting hot.

When the water is at a rolling boil add salt (About a Tbs.  You want the water to taste like the ocean).  Add the pasta (spaghetti or fettucine) and cook with frequent stirring to keep it from sticking.  Be sure that the grill is hot and ready to cook before you put the pasta in to cook.  It will take about the same amount of time for both to cook. 

Place the swordfish on the grill.  I like to cook it about 3 minutes, then turn it, cook three minutes, than turn again rotating the piece so that you end up with grill marks that go in two directions on both sides of the steaks.  So, about 10 to 12 minutes total.  The fish should be fully cooked and firm. 

Drain the pasta, retaining a cup of the water.  Toss the pasta with about 1 Tbs of olive oil. 

Place swordfish steaks on the plate then top with 1-2 Tbs of the sauce. 

Place a serving of pasta into a small mixing bowl.  Add enough of the sauce to generously coat the pasta.  Add a bit of the reserved pasta water and toss until it is well coated.  Place the pasta on the plate with the swordfish and repeat for each serving.  (You can also just put a mound of pasta on the plate and put the sauce on top of it. The key is for everyone to get equal amounts of the olives and capers.)

Sprinkle the remaining Tbs of chopped parsley over the top of both pasta and fish. 

Serve with a ceasar or kale ceasar salad. 

Curmudgeon Chronicles - Senior discount

Up to a point, getting older is a good thing.  Old enough to go to school, old enough to drive a car, old enough to live on your own and make your own decisions, and old enough to drink (responsibly) are all landmarks that we spend years looking forward to.  There is a difference, though, between getting older and getting old.  As people say, it is better to get old than the alternative...., but, still, there is not a lot to celebrate. OK, retiring may come with that wonderful feeling that I don't have to get another report done, get that budget done, fight that fight of office politics, or many of the unsavory realities that taint the joy of doing all of the things that I enjoy.  That would be nice, but without challenges to overcome, where is the sense of accomlishment?  Being able to go where we want, when we want, would be nice.  Facing the reality of reducing relevance, and seeing the ease with which you can be replaced, though, is a harbinger of the final outcome.

So, it is not with a sense of joy that I face the reality that I am getting old.  I am not getting older, I am getting old.  No longer can I leap tall buildings.  No longer, do I wear the same size pants I did when I was 30, 35, 40, or even 50.   This may be my reality, and, I may be aware, but, I am not ready to be told that I am old.  It was just such a reality that I experienced.

G. and I had worked way too late at the office (yes I still have a job).  As we do on occassions when it is too late to go home and cook and we don't want to go to a restaurant, we stopped by Taco Bell for a bag of spicy nacho tacos.  I placed my order and was innocently waiting to hear the tally when the young woman asked, "do you want the senior discount?"  Wait! Senior discount is old.   Senior discount is fixed income and poor.  Senior discount is you eat at cheap places because you cannot afford that nice restaurant.  "No, I do not need the senior discount."  She looked at me skeptially and said, "are your sure.?"

The Day We Met 'The Bear'

There are many bear stories now in the Macrander family.  There is the time when we were on vacation in Colorado and Sarah was obsessed with seeing a bear.  We were on a rafting trip on the Arkansas River and were coming around a bend.  Sarah pointed excitedly at a large black animal by the stream and yelled "bear."  No Sarah, that would be a cow.  She so wishes that the family did not have such a long memory. There is the stuffed bear, once shot by Jarrod's father Kent, that Emily now lives with.  That had to be a question that entered her mind as they were getting to know one another. "Can I really date (love, marry) a guy that keeps a stuffed bear around the house?"  I tend to think that it reflects Jarrod's quirky sense of humor and connection to his dad more than a passion for killing things and displaying them.  I just think that it needs a hounds tooth hat.

I am not really sure that Todd has a bear story, but, am not sure that I would want to know it.  OK, that was shameless.

The story that I am about to recount is from 1981.  You kids have grown up with the picture and the ticket stub to a game from this story prominently displayed in our house.  You have probably heard me tell the story dozens of times, but I will write it down here as another daddy story.  Put on your glasses.  This is a long one.

A lot happened in 1981.  After nearly two years of being grad student acquaintances in Biology, that spring Ginger (aka mom) & I  gradually became friends, then good friends, then more than friends, our involvement and time together growing as spring turned to summer and then to fall.

Rolling the clock back a bit, through two college experiences I had never been to a game and generally viewed sports as a drain and a distraction to the academic reason to be (what a dud I was!).  At Alabama, though, it is hard to ignore football.  I went to a few games when encouraged by fellow grad students.  I rooted for players that I had taught as students in Anatomy and Physiology.  I listened to the games on the radio while doing my field work on Saturdays (nothing else was on the radio, unless you wanted to listen to Auburn).  I even went to the '79 Sugar Bowl when a friend got tickets and invited me on the road trip.  I had gradually become a fan, but, fully expected to one day leave Alabama and leave behind college football.  I still remember the conversation when it came time to buy student season tickets in the fall of '81.

Ginger, "It's time to buy season tickets."

Michael, "I have never bought season tickets.  That is almost $80 and I do field work on Saturdays."

Ginger, "You will buy season tickets and we will go to the games."

Michael, "Oh."

For her part, Ginger grew up in a family steeped in Alabama football.  To say that graddad was a fan was to entirely miss the passion. Ginger was simply raised Crimson.  Vandy be damned, she was going to "The University."  But,Ginger's football tradition was further shaped by years of sorority life - beautiful girls dressed to the nines, neatly groomed boys in three piece suits and starched shirts, bourbon poured from flasks into stadium cups of coke, shakers and yelling "ROLL TIDE" on beautiful fall afternoons when victory was virtually assured.  Life can be beautiful sometimes, and, oh to be young...

And roll they did.  They won national championships in '78 & '79.  Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant reigned over this kingdom like an invincible deity.  If asked the question from ghostbusters, "Are you a god," there would have been no question.  From the hounds tooth and tweed hats that he wore, reminiscent of the time when a gentleman wore a hat, to his posture leaning against the goalpost watching the teams warm up, and the observation tower on the practice field, he was a transcendent presence.  While students sometimes made fun of his gravelly grumblings and seeming besotted confusion on his Sunday afternoon game replay show, in the fall of '81 he was nationally recognized as the greatest college football and he was ours.

The '81 season had not been perfect, however,  having lost to once arch rivals Georgia Tech and tied (yes that could happen in those days) a perennially weak Southern Miss team.  Perhaps it was the pressure of Coach Bryant closing in on the record of the winningest college football coach of all time.  There were whisperings of Bear having lost his edge.  There was a young black quarterback (never before at Bama) and discipline issues with a talented but cocky running back (Linny Patrick) who had just never really produced as expected.  Still, with one game left in the season, the record of 314 victories had been tied and a victory over our hated rivals Auburn, who were even more reviled because they were now coached by a Bryant acolyte who had turned coat, would seal the record.

Also in '81 Ginger and I were approaching the end of our grad school days.  There is no other time in your life when you are so immersed in the process of intellectual becoming.  I am sure that it is the same for law school and medical school.  It is a selfish time of total dedication to this chosen academic profession and it is an insular and esoteric world not fully appreciated by people outside of the process.  Your community is small, dominated by fellow grad students and professors.  A large university and even a city spins around you mostly unnoticed while you read journal articles, debate the merits of the latest theory, and imagine your work to be on the edge of breakthrough.  Married grad students were rare and all but one that we knew at that time were divorced along the way.  Perhaps it is a sign that four couples also got together during these years and, to my knowledge, all are still together after 30+ years.  Having been there for several years and being nearly finished Ginger and I were medium sized fish in this small pond.

The biology department had gotten some grant money and over a year had the opportunity to bring in truly top scientists for multiple days of interaction with students and faculty.  We got to hang out and receive advice from people like Edward O. Wilson who had done both undergrad and Masters at UA before going on to Harvard to become the top celebrity scientist in ecology.  During the week prior to the Auburn game, a couple of guest scientists were leading a workshop in Ginger's field.  They were actually developing mouse embryos in vitro, or outside of the female's body.  Imagine that, in 1981, actual development, though short in duration, of embryos in a "test tube" incubation chamber and Ginger was learning the procedure from the two guys who developed it.  Although tops in their field, these guys were fun loving down to earth guys who insisted on being called Tom and Norm.  These were seriously fun guys, as well as being great in their field, and for a week Ginger & I were their social guides taking them out for fried catfish, to off campus bars, and generally having a great time, sometimes including an undergrad pre-med girl (Beth) who tagged along.

On the last day, Norm (the older guy) suddenly said, "before I leave, I want to meet Bear Bryant."  Ginger's major professor (Ron) said, "I think he is pretty busy.  He IS trying to become the winningest coach of all time AND beat Auburn this Saturday."  Being bold, however, and having faith in The Bear, Ginger called up the athletic department and told them about the visiting scientists that would like to meet Coach Bryant.   "Of course," they said.  "He's not here right now, but he should be back soon.  Come on over and he will see you."

So Tom, Norm, Ron, Beth, Ginger & I jumped in a car and drove over to the coliseum, an impressive structure that housed the basketball arena and the athletic offices.  We walked up two flights of stairs and into the receiving office of athletics.  There were three admin desks, each with footballs resting on pedestals signed by Alabama football legends like Joe Namath, Kenny Stabler, Lee Roy Jordan, and Johnny Musso.  On the walls were large aerial shots of the Rose Bowl, Sugar Bowl, and Orange Bowl stadiums before any of these were in domed stadiums with teams lined up to run a play at mid field.  Our excitement levels grew as we realized the greatness that resided here.

Shortly, a phone rang.  "Coach Bryant will see you now."  The attractive mid 40s lady escorted us down a long crimson carpeted hall past the offices of coaches of other sports and assistant coaches.  We came to a huge door with a plaque that said Paul W. "Bear" Bryant Football Coach and Athletic Director.  She knocked before entering and when the door opened there stood The Bear dressed in a suit.

The next few minutes is sort of a blur.  He apologized for keeping us waiting, saying that he had just returned from attending a funeral and remarking that, at his age, you start doing that more and more.  He politely asked what Tom and Norm did and listened while they tried to explain in awestruck tones.  Part way through, he laughed and said, I'm afraid that is all over my head.  Noting the camera that Ron had with him, Coach asked if we wanted to take a few pictures.  There was one of Tom and Norm with The Bear and one of Mom and Beth with The Bear.  Sadly, I was too shy and stupidly aloof to get into one of the shots, but, I was there.

Soon our time was up and we were ushered out.  We were all walking on air.   Tom and Norm were like kids who had just visited Santa Claus, talking constantly and pumping fists in the air.  Ginger was the hero that day, having had the nerve to dial the phone and arrange the audience.  As soon as we got back to the Department she called her daddy to tell him.

Norm and Tom left that afternoon with many thanks and fond goodbyes.  Ginger may have seen them at a science meeting, but I never saw them again.  Waiting for time to take them to the airport Tom and I were shooting hoops in the back lot of a local bar.  He asked, "So, you and Ginger, is it serious?"  It was the first time anyone had ever asked that.  "I guess so," I said.  "It is good so far."

That Saturday we were in the South end zone student section of the Iron Bowl at legion field.  I still had no clue as to how important that game was to both fan bases, but I knew that Alabama would fight hard to make Coach Bryant the winningest of all time and Auburn would fight hard to prevent it.  The game was close and hard fought with momentum swinging back and forth.  In the 4th quarter Linny Patrick (the running back who had been perennially in the dog house and generally failed to live up to expectations) took over the game ripping off multiple runs of 10-20 yards.  With the game finally secure, it was the first time I remember doing the na na na na hey hey goodbye song or rammer jammer (a truly obnoxious cheer where the band plays dunt duh dunt "Hey Auburn" dunt duh dunt " Hey Auburn" dunt duh dunt "Hey Auburn. We just beat the hell out of you, rammer jammer yellowhammer give em hell Alabama).  What great fun!!!

Alabama had won, Coach Bryant was the winningest coach, and I was in love with this beautiful, brilliant, and confident girl.  It all fit together somehow.

In January Alabama lost its bowl game to Texas.  The '82 season was disappointing with four losses and discipline issues on the team.  Coach Bryant retired at the end of the season, but won his last bowl game, the Liberty Bowl on a cold night in Memphis.  28 days later he passed away.  I-10 was shut down as the motorcade took him from the church in Tuscaloosa to the cemetery in Birmingham.

That May Ginger and I were married.  I married into an Alabama football crazed family and found that it fit pretty well.  It sort of all came together one gorgeous fall afternoon.

The tip jar thank you

For reference you may want to check the original Curmudgeon Chronicle posting titled Really?  At the end of that post I pointedly ignored a tip jar when I had received sucky service.  This post is not the same. Though it is technically not the closest pizza place to our house, Uncle Joe's on Old Seward is the closest decent pizza place.  You know I could eat pizza at least once a week.  Twice a week, if I make it once.  Mom doesn't like pizza all that much, so pizza becomes my, eat it when mom is gone, food, or my, we stayed at the office too late and I am not cooking food.  By either measure, I give Uncle Joe's a good bit of business.  In fact, when Susan & Chuck came to visit, mom & I were running late, so had a pizza.  S&C had not eaten and were hungry, so, we stopped at UJ's on the way home and got a second 12" all meat.

UJ's is also located at that perfect distance from the office that allows me to call as we are leaving and have it coming out of the oven when we walk in the door, then stay hot until we get home, leaving just enough time to open a bottle of Chianti.  It is also a pleasant well run business.  Everyone seems to work hard and appreciate the job.

For years, one of the reasons to pick up a pizza was to not feel obligated to give the delivery person a tip.   So, in our early visits to UJ's tipping was not a high priority.  I did, however, occasionally throw a buck or two in the jar when I had cash.  I soon noticed that, when you give a tip, the server hits one of those little bells with the push button on the top and all of the staff in the cooking area yells thank you.  I also noticed that a small tip gets one bell push and a modest thank you.  A good tip gets three bell rings and a hearty thank you.

Like Pavlov's dog, I have developed the habit of generous tipping at UJ's for the pure joy of hearing the staff call out Thank You.  How brilliant is that?  Create a way to attract attention to tippers and show them some appreciation, and you get money.  Wow!

Small gestures like thank you take so little effort and make such a difference.  Maybe one day when I am feeling down I will go to UJ's throw 50 in the tip jar and listen to them yell Thank You!!

Actually, Love Actually

A few weeks ago mom & I were watching HGTV as usual. She nodded off leaving me with an uninteresting Flip or Flop and the controller in my hand. I surfed the guide and found that Love Actually was just starting. Quietly, sneakily, guiltily I switched the channel and settled in to enjoy one of my favorite repeat viewing movies. About 15 minutes in, mom woke up, looked blearily at the TV, and said, “Really, Love Actually.” She got up and headed upstairs for her bath. As she left, I thought, “Yes actually, Love Actually.” So why does LA rank up there with Forrest Gump and That Thing You Do as movies that I will sit and watch no many how many times I have seen it. There are a bunch of reasons and a host of levels. Woody Allen ended his biggest movie, Annie Hall, with a musing around a joke. A man went to a psychiatrist and said doc, my brother thinks he’s a chicken. The psychiatrist says, why don’t you have him committed. The guy says, well we need the eggs. Woody then says that is how he feels about relationships, they are crazy and make no sense, but, when you come to it, we all need the eggs.

Through its many stories and ensemble cast LA asks and answers the question that love, actually…is everywhere. The crime author is cuckholded by his brother and becomes the reviled Uncle Jamie, but finds unexpected love with a housekeeper that he cannot communicate with. A young man is desperately in love with the newlywed wife of his best friend and copes by acting unfriendly toward her until she figures him out. A married couple who live a quiet life (but wait the wife is the sister of the prime minister), are challenged by the attentions of an attractive and predatory young employee. The bumbling husband falls prey. The young boy, who has lost his mother, experiences the perils of first love. Perhaps most poignant of all is the story of the woman who is hot for a co-worker but eventually comes to terms with the fact that she is committed to her troubled and institutionalized brother and finds the love there that matters most. The stories range from vacuous (Colin finding sexy babes in the US) to the sad (the despair of the married woman discovering that the expensive jewelry was for someone else) but love prevails. The only character that does not find love in the end is the evil secretary and we are just fine with that. Oh yeah, and the fat Portuguese sister.

For dad and the Macrander kids LA has become our own family Rocky Horror during which we can act out parts and join in the fun on the screen, zipping our sweaters and yelling, “I hate Uncle Jamie.” We know that Kira Knightley’s character has terrible taste in pies, that the video needs a bit of editing (thumb and finger held a bit apart), and that the Prime Minister’s bodyguard has an incredible singing voice. London, where we spent part of our one and only European vacation, is a co-star of the movie. We have walked across the pedestrian bridge and cruised along the Thames. So, there is family fun to be had when watching together, or remembered when watching solo.

Most of the acting is puffy mail in, but there are a few gems. When Kira finally figures out that the photographer actually loves her, the slow turn of her expression is masterful. The performance of the young singer, tears the house down. Some of these can only be appreciated through repeated viewing when you know what is coming and can watch it unfold.

So, maybe this makes me a sappy girlie man, or a sad idealist seeking reaffirmation. But, it is hard for the romantics among us to watch LA and not be warmed by the victory of love…..actually.

S--tless in Anchorage

We have been having a string of incredibly beautiful fall days in Anchorage. Clear blue skies, beautiful fall colors, and temperatures that are just cool enough to put a slight spring in your step. These have been some of those days when you are thankful to live here. Shortly before 10 this morning, I was in my office and mom was with others in the other building participating in a spill drill. Earthquakes come in many shapes and sizes. This one started with a big bump, kind of like going over a speed bump in a car. Sometimes that is all you get. This time the bump was joined by sustained shaking that increased in intensity. About 10-15 seconds in the shaking seemed to reach a crescendo and slack off, but then, we started back up the ladder of intensity. At this point I abandoned ship and headed for the core of the building, just getting out of my office as the sliding glass door started clanging in its tracks and things started falling off my shelves.

I staggered down the heaving hall and reached the elevator bay thinking, "wow, this could be the big one." Finally, it subsided and the tremors of the earth faded into vibrations of the quake resistant building. The elevator cables thrummed in their bays, but the elvators were shut down..

Quick "are you ok" calls, texts, and emails went around. Websites were consulted to find that it was a 6.2 quake. There is definitely now a new topic for conversation around the halls. Most were like us. That is the biggest quake we have felt.

Maybe this is not so wonderful.

Broken KitchenAid Mixer Correspondence with Dad (posted by Emily)

From: Dad Sent: Tuesday, September 16, 2014 11:15 AM To: Emily Subject: RE: I made butter...

Don’t cry over churned milk.  Back in the day, every small town and neighborhood had a small appliance repair guy.   These were frequently wounded vets or odd little guys who didn’t really fit in to the larger society but had an affinity for tinkering, boundless patience, and nothing better to do.  Their lairs were often dark basements or tattered store fronts but were always cluttered by partially deconstructed appliances, magnifying lenses, assorted screws, and electronics.  The places were scary and intriguing at the same time.   Though these people could not have made much money, they were valued and respected within the community for their apparent wizardry.

Perhaps there is a message here.  These days, when things (or people) break they are cast aside partly because there is no on there to fix them but partly because we quickly give up, and partly because it is simply easier to throw it away and get something new.

-

From: Emily Sent: Wednesday, September 17, 2014 5:42 AM To: Dad Subject: RE: I made butter...

Thanks, Dad, for this really thoughtful response. I read it to my officemate and she said that you are a “true poet.”

-

From: Dad Sent: Tuesday, September 16, 2014 11:15 AM To: Emily Subject: RE: I made butter...

I should have probably made this a comment on the blog, but that would require logging in and I still find that clunky.

Do you have your KitchenAid fixed?  You know me, I would probably just keep it unplugged and work with it that way for years.  I guess that is why I can’t have a sailboat.

Two years ago, my snowblower (which we bought 2^nd hand when we got here) broke.  I tinkered with it and tried to fix it myself, but, worried that I would only break it more.  I tried looking up small engine repair places and found that the only ones that were around were only open during very restrictive parts of the week.  So, through the winter of the most snow on record, I shoveled that crap, while the snowblower sat in the warm garage.   Finally, at the end of the winter I discovered a little place that was open and, at least said, that they could fix it.  The first thing I had to do was work out a way to get the thing to their shop.  I tried to fit it into the back of the big Volvo.  That was me trying to lift this huge awkward thing and fit it into our new car without scratching anything, all the while mom standing by making unwelcome comments.

A near hernia later I decided to go rent a pickup from U-Haul.  You know how I hate borrowing things from other people and I refused to borrow someone’s truck and U-Haul advertises trucks for $19 a day.   Of course taxes and charges etc. added up to about $30 but, at least, I wasn’t borrowing something.

When I arrived at the repair shop, it was as I had expected.  The outside front and back was littered with row upon row of pieces and parts of lawnmowers, snow blowers, and other unidentifiable small engine devices.   I tentatively stepped through the door into a dark and cluttered Quonset hut and was confronted by a group of about six  guys with a mixture of what do you want and who the heck are you expressions on their face.  I felt a bit like I had interrupted something important.    After a couple of beats, one of the more amiable guys stepped to the counter and asked, “what can we do for you.”  The room seemed to relax and what ensued was a hilarious group dialogue of the “your momma” variety with all of these guys cutting on one another and even, gratefully, including me in their joshing.

Eventually, the form got filled out in spite of the laughing.  A guy was dispatched to go into the parking lot to help me unload the snowblower, which he did by basically reaching into the truck and lifting this 175 lb. piece of equipment out with one hand.  As I drove away I wondered if I would ever see my snowblower again.

In just two weeks I got a call that it was fixed.  I asked if they could deliver it, to save me the trouble of renting another pickup.  They said that they would have someone deliver it for an extra $25, which was a bit of a gouge, but well worth it.   Of course last year was one of the lowest snow years on record, but the snowblower worked better than ever.  The one thing I missed by having them deliver it was that opportunity to step into that other world where men are happy to hang out in one another’s company, where skills with things mechanical are held in high regard, where appearances are less importance than reality, where a well told joke or well played prank is valued, and where camaraderie is easy and natural.

Curmudgeon Chronicles - The Selfie Stick

I saw something new that I really wish I had invented. Well, not actually, because the self centered ridicoulousness of it, made me cringe. I had a really intense week in London this week and was only able to get out for a brief walk on my last afternoon. Since I was staying one block from the Westminster bridge, I went in that direction.

Westminster is certainly one of the most photographic sites that I know. First, you have a low stately bridge that crosses the Thames in the heart of London. On the North side, there is the house of Parliament, itself impressive, anchored by the Big Ben clock tower. Westminster Abbey is in the background. There are views up and down the Thames, including the London Eye monster ferris wheel just downstream.

It is a great walk, but becoming almost impossible to enjoy. Every time I cross the bridge, it has become even more clogged by tourists. There are tourists like me, trying to walk casually and enjoy the scene. There are tourists taking pictures of the scene. There are tourists who feel that any work of architecture, history, art, or scenery is made better by having friends and family in the foreground. I may agree that the, "we were here," pictures are meaningful and I/we have posed for our fair share. The problem is that you cannot walk 10 feet without someone with a camera trying to focus on a person(s) standing on the other side of the sidewalk, thyus blocking the entire path. The walker must either veer around, stop repeatedly, or just ignore the photographers and step through the pictures, with a Not my problem attitude.

Perhaps not as intrusive, but even more impressive were the selfie takers. Whether individually, or in groups, on any transit of the bridge, or surrounding area, you are forced to step around people who stop on a dime hold up cell phones and cameras at arm's length to get their face in front of the scene. I was amazed that there were far more selfie takers than straight up scene takers. Hey, the fact that you took a picture of Big Ben establishes that you were there without needing to have your face obscuring it and forcing it to be out of focus.

As I walked, though, I gradually became aware of something new that I was seeing. There were lone walkers who were carrying aluminum poles. Some were extendible, others were not. On the end there were attachments into which cell phones could be clipped. I saw people casuallty holding their devices out from hip level getting pictures that do not have the signature arm's length limitation.

The possibilities for poses and action shots are greatly increased. It is the equivalent of having your own personal photographer following you around and taking pictures of you. There will just be one hand that is not showing.

Okay. It is a cool idea and a great tool for the lonely and friendless. But to actually purchase, pack, and carry around such a tool to get your mug in every shot, seems to be the height of self involvement.

Still, I wish I had invented it.

Another wonder meal at Matt's in the Market

I will turn my back on the tremendous view from our hotel room at the Westin. The view of Elliot's Bay and Peuget Sound is ever changing and mesmerizing. A television is unnecessary in this room, unless, of course an Alabama football game is on.

Ginger was in town for work all week and I joined her for the weekend. It seems that the fabled Seattle rain always clears and we have beautiful temperate weather when we are here. Yesterday was certainly no exception. Clear blue skies and mid seventies temperatures were the conditions of the day. The perfect evening to visit one of our favorite Seattle eateries.

We have eased into Matt's over the years. Our first discovery was while visiting Pike's Place Market and looking for a place for a late lunch. Repeated visits for lunch or drinks and cheese have gradually shaped our view of Matt's as a place where you can always get innovative food served in a cordial atmosphere with fresh breezes through open windows and views of the market and the sound. On the upper floor of the building, directly across from the Market entrance, the place has an open warehouse loft feel and the large windows always seem to be flooded with light.

After much anticipation and walking around trying to kill a couple of hours, we couldn't contain ourselves any longer and showed up 20 minutes early for our nine o'clock reservation. Unfortunately, there had been some kind of snafu and we didn't actually have a reservation. They were definitely slammed, but the hostess was cordial and worked us in for a 9:15 reservation. We waited patiently and spent the time cruising real estate listings on G's iPad.

9:15 became 9:30 and we were called to our table at a window in the bar area, but all good. Our waitperson, Phillip, came quickly and was responsive and helpful without being pushy to get a drink order. We were quick, though. The last time we were here we had a cheese plate and G had a tasty cocktail, so that was where we started.

We also settled on our entrees before Phillip left the table. Matt's menu changes regularly based upon what is fresh. The menu is not expansive, with 5-7 choices in each of the categories (appetizers, salads, entrees, and desserts), yet it covers the range of food groups, such that whether you are in mood for fish, fowl, or beast, you can find something that looks good. Though I usually do not order halibut when out at a restaurant, because of the frequency and quality of the halibut that we have at home, the preparation with fresh corn, fava beans, and dashi broth sounded too good to pass on. I would have gone with one of my always favorites of seafood stew, but the preparation was with a coconut green curry broth and coconut is one of the few things that can spoil a meal for me. To my surprise G ordered the stew, so, I could, at least, sample it .

The cheese plate came, five cheeses arrayed on a piece of slate, each with a special accouterments of jam, ground nuts, home made corn flakes, etc. It was a mixture of Washington local cheeses and cheeses from France and Spain. It was also a mixture of cow and sheep milk cheeses that ran the gamut from brie to bleu. It was hard to choose the star of this array. Not usually a huge bleu fan the combination of a very mild bleu with a thin flat of chocolate with dried strawberries made that, I think, my favorite, but it was really like naming your favorite child. They were all special.

The Albarino that we had ordered was really good, pleasantly tart and paired well with the cheese and our entrees.

When the entrees came they were visually beautiful. G's seafood stew came out first and was overflowing with shellfish with nice pieces of salmon and halibut peaking out of the broth. "No way, are you going to eat all of that," I said. My halibut followed closely. It was perfectly seared (how do they do that?) and on a bed of veggies. When the server poured on the dashi broth I was assailed with a smoky aroma that set my salivary glands going. I definitely need to explore dashi as an ingredient.

I quickly snagged a mussel that was not deep in G's coconut infused broth. I could just taste the dreaded coconut, but the mussel was wonderful. G. dug in and the seafood flew, shells clattering into the discard bowl accompanied by appreciative expletives.

My halibut was wonderful. The preparation was fresh and nuanced. My first impression had been that the portion was a bit on the small side, but I found myself just barely able to finish. "Oh man!"

As we sat back to finish our bottle of wine, G. started surfing real estate listings again. Philip came by and, on a whim, I asked him where we might want to look for houses in the Seattle area. After a bit of back and forth, he pulled up a chair and talked with us about neighborhoods.

All in all, it was a great evening and really great food. Matt's is like any great thing. When the food, service, and setting are this good it is going to be discovered and known. We will return again and again, but so will others.

You're never too old for a Daddy Story

This weekend was a rare treat. Dad was in town because Shell deemed it necessary for him to man a booth at the Grand Prix. Because Dad came in town, Todd and Nick drove down from Baton Rouge on Saturday evening to spend the night. Bonnie and her boyfriend Kyle also drove in from Katy.

It's so good to be around old friends. Bonnie and I have been friends like junior high and she knows me an my family really well. When we were in high school she would come over for dinner for a meal cooked by Dad, so this Saturday wasn't much different.

Dad cooked his famous pizza with cracker crust. After we ate we sat around my apartment telling stories about growing up. I'm happy to share this time with Nick and Kyle because I think they get to know a side of their plus ones that maybe you don't get so much with newer friends. Also, I always love entertaining and filling the Norhill House with love.

Dearest Dad - Happy Birthday

Dearest Dad,

Today is your birthday. Today you are 61 years young. Today I want to tell you how grateful I am to have you as my father.

I know you may read this and roll your eyes. But after you roll your eyes I hope you smile because you have one of the most infectious smiles around and on your birthday you should smile. When I think of your smile I envision that picture of you Mom has in her old Pi Beta Phi frame where you are grinning from ear to ear. It is one of my favorite pictures of you.

There are so many aspects of my life that are a reflection of you. From my endless love for the outdoors and adventure to my affinity for singer/songwriter music you have contributed to all of it. Even my inability to tell a joke comes from you. Yeah, Dad, you may think your jokes are super funny but I’ve found that most people give nothing but a blank response after I attempt one of your jokes.

My life is more beautiful because of you. It was my memory of your love for Colorado that brought me here 4 years ago. Every day I appreciate this beautiful state because you taught me to revel in natural beauty for all it has to offer as one day it may be gone.   Really though, there is nothing like hanging off the side of a cliff with the Rockies stretched out before you or finishing a class III rapid boat in tack to make you appreciate life.

I am a stronger person because of you. Growing up you always encouraged us to try new things and even if we weren’t the best at them to keep trying.  You never hesitated to offer tough advice even if we didn’t want to hear it. These are just some of the things that have made me stronger.

In no way is this an exhaustive list of how you have influenced me throughout my life.  All I hope to accomplish by writing this is to begin to demonstrate how grateful I am to be your daughter.

I would not be who I am today without you.

I love you.

Sarah

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad

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Travel and BIG Life Moments Update

Let’s start with the most exciting news. Mr. Sanders graduated from LSU this weekend with a degree in Construction Management and is employed!

Todd and Nick welcomed several of Nick’s family members into their home this weekend to celebrate the occasion. Nick’s father even flew in from Alaska.

After the ceremony, Nick, Todd and family drove up to New Orleans for dinner at WINO (second time mentioned on the blog..remember Christmas?) and then some gambling. There was a fancy dinner thrown in there somewhere in which Todd ate ox tail and some sort of liver.

The next day, they were off to Pensacola where I believe they are right now. They’re likely sitting on a beach and drinking something delightful.

Dad is overseas this week in The Hague. I have no idea what he’s doing over there but I do know that it’s pretty because he sent us this nice picture:

I also know that Dad forgot how to tell time because he called mom at 1:30 a.m. one morning thinking that it was 10:30 p.m. and that Mom was in Alaska. Both Dad and I got an earful about that one. Remember, family, Mom does not like to be woken up by phone calls in the middle of the night.

Dad returns at the end of this week, so we wish him a safe and worry free flight. This coming weekend, according to the Mom report, she and Dad are going to a dinner at an important political figure’s house. The gallery is impressed.

Meanwhile, Mom and I drove up to the Underwood ranch this weekend for Kaitlyn’s birthday celebration. It was a BIG moment because Mom has never met the Underwoods, well any of them other than Jarrod. Though odd sidenote, she met one set of his grandparents on a random trip to Houston a while back.

Anyway, we arrived Saturday midafternoon. Mom swears that I “almost rolled the car” when driving into the ranch. I admit that I was driving a bit on the fast side and I was coming up a gravel road. I totally forgot that the road splits (I admit that I forget every time) and, with gusto, yanked my wheel to turn the car to take the other road. Well, now I know, when on gravel, don’t yank the wheel. We skidded a bit, though I believe that we were never in terrible danger. I directed the car into some rougher terrain and it quickly came to a halt. Just wanted to put that all out there on the Internet before Mom goes spreading rumors that I almost killed her in the Matrix.

Per Kaitlyn’s birthday request, we had an evening crawfish boil. Mom, to my surprise, went along with my plan to rescue one of the crawfish and walked with me down to the pond to let it free. Though she has told me several times since then that the crawfish is likely dead, drowned in the mud. I’d like to think that he’s happily scuttling along somewhere doing his lil’ crawfish thing, thanking his lucky stars for the big, white rescuer.

I saw Mom off in her rental car, Sunday afternoon and quite honestly have been chilling like a villain since then. I had grand designs to wash my car and laundry yesterday afternoon, but ended up taking a long nap on the couch with the little dog and the going to the grocery. But hey, it can always wait until today, right?

Just a morning in The Heights

Curmudgeon Chronicles - Lost Youth

At least for guys, our minds tend to get stuck in the age range of about 18-25. No matter how old we get, or the changes that come into our lives, our mental image of ourselves is in that time when we were, “like a rock,” least bounded by responsibility and complication. The potential for our lives’ trajectories were still open to us and not determined by choices already made and realities realized. Though our horizons may expand as we gain experience, we largely cling to the cultural experiences that shaped us during this time. Maybe it is because, while these are the years of greatest potential, they are also the years when we are making the choices that will most shape our lives. There is always a special quickening, though, when we hear the music that formed the backdrop of our youth. So it always comes as a surprise when we catch a reflection of some paunchy gray-haired man in a window and realize that that strange old person is us. We ignore the realities when we stare straight on into the mirror in the morning only seeing ourselves from the familiar angle that has changed only incrementally over the years and benefits from the sucked in gut. It is those shocks of the odd angles that others see and sudden realizations or our inability to run, lift, play like we once did that catch us off guard and shock us with the truth.

It was just such a shock that I experienced the other night. We attended a concert by a guitar player, songwriter named David Bromberg. Until I left home in the late 70s to attend graduate school in Arizona, my music experience was largely dominated by what we called top 40s radio. FM radio with specialized stations, that carried broader musical spectrums, were only just emerging. For the most part, we had only heard the top 40 hits at any one point in time. I was only vaguely aware of genres like blues, bluegrass, and jazz. But the music scene was also exploding at this time. The divisions between rock and folk and country were disappearing. I also was discovering an entire awareness of music that people were tapped into that I had been previously unaware of. This was influential music and performers that were often shaping the music that the pop artists were distilling and presenting to the masses. Knowledge of these performers was a special badge of coolness, at least in my mind, and made you feel a special sense of superiority when people perused your record collection and asked, “who is David Bromberg, or Doc Watson, or The Leo Kotke.”

Bromberg was, is, an excellent guitar player who surrounds himself with other excellent musicians and plays a diverse palette of music from blues to bluegrass. Though I had never seen him in person, I had heard enough concert recordings to know that he peppered his performances with wise-cracks and mid-song despairing love-lost stories and been-done-wrong diatribes that leave the audience shouting "whoo" when he strikes a nerve of shared heartache or indignity that everyone has felt at one time or another. So when mom discovered that he would be playing at UAA, I was excited to re-immerse myself in the world of the hip insider and, yes, youthful righteousness that I had once associated with DB.

I first realized that I might be in trouble when miss iPad research (mom) asked me to estimate how old DB is. Knowing that I am close to 61 and he is older than me, I generously guessed 68, fully expecting him to be closer to my age and much more accomplished at a young age during the 1970s. “No,” she said, “he’s 75.” Still, I was hopeful of catching the spark and returning to what was. After all, the people who know about DB are the same people who now know about Nickel Creek and going to their concerts you see the entire spectrum.

I badgered mom and we got there early. I might admit to ridiculously early, but that is never really possible in my mind. As people filtered in, I realized that this was an entirely over the hill group of people. There were gray hair and paunches everywhere and even a bit of doddering going on. There were old men with pony tails, even bald pony tails, and women who had once been hippy chicks but were now gardeners and grandmothers. There were canes for Chrissakes. Wait, where are the cool people? Yes, people our age know about DB, but aren’t there a lot of youngsters that know about him too. I did spot one 30 something guy with a hot 20 something girl, but otherwise, if the hair wasn’t gray, it was dyed. Is that the extent of cool in Anchorage?

DB and his band came on stage and burned their telecasters into a blues song, but, the energy wasn’t there. He looked like an old man with baggy jeans pulled too high. Actually, the music was there technically. I could close my eyes and hear the mellow voice and bluesy runs of a tight band. As long as my eyes were closed, I could call up the years when this music was so dear. Several times he went into his mid-song asides and the audience and I enjoyed them, but there was a disconnect. When he did a soliloquy about losing the love of his life because of his wayward behavior, or, about how that b done him wrong, we all knew that these experiences were far in his past and far in ours. We are now a generation that would be more likely mourning the loss of long time friends and life partners to the big C than the hot passions of youthful intrigue. That is not to say that those experiences do not continue to burn in our hearts, but, that we have surrounded those yearnings with scar tissue, developed wisdom, and traded cool for connoisseur.

The musicianship was sublime, though there were missed licks that never would have happened 35 years ago. Almost fittingly, he did not perform the songs that he is known for, like “Mr. Blue” and “I Like to Sleep Late in the Morning.” Those were for a different time. The third encore and final song of the evening was performed quietly out in front of the microphones to a rapt and silent auditorium. Instead of a rousing sendoff, it was a sweet goodnight and subtle goodbye.

And, if you listened closely, you could just hear the early snores.

Curmudgeon chronicles #2 - From Boors to Buttheads

Mom & I had a wonderful long weekend in Seattle. The weather was fantastic, the shopping was productive, and the food was excellent. Follow mom on facebook to get a fuller idea of our weekend. That will not be the topic of this curmudgeon post. In our time out, we had repeated experiences with people exhibiting what I consider to be boorish behavior. Now I realize that there are a LOT of people in the world today and that public venues, like restaurants, pack customers in like sardines, such that we cannot help but observe the events at nearby tables, or overhear conversations that we may, or may not, want to hear. Behavior of fellow patrons crosses into the neighborhood of rude and insensitive when their conduct begins to needlessly impact the quality of my experience. It seems that many people these days simply conduct themselves in public, as if they are the only ones present, or at least, the only ones who matter.

I also recognize that I am increasingly hard of hearing. The more background noise there is, the more difficult it is for me to hear the conversation at my table, which can be irritating for both the speaker and the listener. So, in fairness, I start off with a base level of pissed off.

My first harangue against bad behavior was directed at a table of late 20 - early 30 something women. It only took a few moments to understand that these 10 women were having a party. Most of the behavior, though, was not offensive. The brief rendition of happy birthday for one of the women interrupted conversation at all surrounding tables for a minute, but it came and went. Not a big deal. The girls were having a good time and lots of conversation and laughing and posing for pictures was going on. My problem was essentially with one member of the party that clearly had never been taught the concept of an inside voice. She bellowed. She howled. She pontificated loudly and, seemingly, endlessly to the complete destruction of any chance to have a conversation. After a while, others in the party became aware of the turned heads when the banshee cried and gradually stopped engaging her in conversation.

Dinner the next night started in a similar way. Tables packed into a small space with poor acoustics. Sound levels that made conversation somewhat difficult, despite the fact that most people were being only as loud as they needed to be. There was one table, however, that attracted attention. Everyone at that table seemed to be yelling. Now it is normal that voices go up when good times are had, but there is necessary, there is normal, and there is jerk. The women at the table were loud periodically. The men were loud always and, surprisingly, far more interested in their buds than in the attractive young women who were trying hard to stay in the game. Now this was a fairly nice restaurant. Maybe it wasn't FANCY, but it was definitely 4-5 star. It was not the corner bar and, my expectation is, that people should behave accordingly. So, it was with a sense of relief when I noticed the party rise to leave. Though I should not have been, I was shocked to see the two guys stand and walk away from the table with no attention to the women. There was no pulling out of chairs, no fetching or holding of coats, not even allowing the women to go first. I suppose there is a recognition that women are capable of standing, putting on a jacket, and walking on their own. Still, the total lack of chivalry, and even attention, was amazing. I found myself hoping that these buttheads would be going home alone. A lyric from an old Graham Nash song says that " a hobo or a poet must kill dragons for a bride."

So, remember, there are others around you. Use your indoor voice. Be nice to your ladies, or, expect that your men be nice to you.

The difference between an enzyme and a hormone.

It is a classic from Dad's joke bank. We all know it. "Can you tell me what is the difference between an enzyme and a hormone?"

Admittedly, I have adopted it into my own, very limited, joke circulation.  The problem is that while Dad was able to bestow this gem upon unsuspecting college biology students I have a difficult time finding an audience who can truly appreciate the genius of the joke. Often, upon administering the joke I am met with blank stares and friends who politely divert the conversation in another direction. But finally, last night, I was able to deliver the joke it its full science nerd glory.

My friend Matt and I were huddled over some delicious Thai coconut basil mussels discussing various nerdy topics such as non-Newtonian fluids, how a zombie virus could actually exist and chronic alcoholism's effect on bone density when there came a lull in the conversation.  Cooley I said "Can you tell me the difference between an enzyme and a hormone?"

Being that Matt is a medical doctor he was more than happy to launch into an at-length explanation of the differences between the two biochemicals. As he moved from each chemicals production into function, I sat politely nodding away at his various statements. After a good five minutes of narration he stopped and asked if he had provided a thorough enough explanation.  "That was a really good explanation. But you are wrong." I replied. Immediately Matt's face took on the appearance of a child who had just been told that Santa doesn't exist. "Really?" he said. This was the moment I had been waiting for. Slowly, trying to control smile from  creeping across my face, I said "Yeah, don't you know that you can't hear an enzyme." Dumbfounded Matt stared back at me. Then he got it and laughter erupted.

Now this beautiful execution of Dad's classic joke would have been fantastic all on its own but it was made better by what Matt shared with me this morning. I had just arrived at work when I received a series of frantic texts from Matt. Apparently he was so tickled by my telling of the joke that he decided to try it out on his attending physician. Giddily Matt reported that at first his attending had rolled his eyes but that quickly the joke was being retold to other docs on the floor. So although Dad's joke can be difficult to retell among most social circles it lives on in the hearts of nerds everywhere.

The trip from hell

In my story about the pie crust tip, I mentioned a trip from hell that has been a part of family lore for years. Before it is lost, I thought that I would record it here as a Daddy story.

While we were still living in Alabama and I was working at The University, I occasionally worked on pipeline projects just outside of Mobile. Little did I know at the time that I was sort of already working for Shell because the offshore gas platform and the onshore processing plant were Shell's. There were several pipelines that were being built from there and I and some of my colleagues were working on the environmental surveys. I had made that trip several times.

This particular time we came up with the idea of taking the whole family to Mobile. Mom and the girls could hang at the hotel for a couple of days while my friend Larry and I did field work. Then, the plan was, to go on to Gulf Shores for a few days of beach time. Sarah was three or four. Emily was just over a year old. Mom was early pregnant with Todd, or, soon would be.

The trip started uneventfuly enough. I had worked at The University most of the day, then drove home to Helena to pack up the car and the kids and head out. We were getting on the road about 6 p.m. expecting a 3-4 hour drive to Mobile.

Just before getting on the interstate (about two miles from the house) we stopped at Arby's to get food for the road. At the time we were both enamoured with the Arby's beef and cheddar sandwiches. We got the food and the curly fries and got back in the car, headed for the beach. Emily was in her car seat and Sarah was in her booster seat.

I put the car in reverse and, as I was backing out of the parking space, Sarah bent forward and spewed all over the back seat and floor. Oh God, the smell was horrible. We drove home and I spent the next 30 minutes up to my elbows in vomit. Mom gave Sarah a quick bath and change of clothes. She wasn't acting like she felt bad, so we thought/hoped it was an isolated event.

Back in the car, we headed South. Fortunately, mom had grabbed a large yellow mixing bowl with a handle.

We didn't make is 10 miles before S got sick again. Fortunately, we had a bit more warning and I was able to pull over and catch the majority in the bowl.

We were now running very late and I had an early start the next, so I pushed on.

Along the way S yaked about five more times. I reached the point where I didn't even slow down. I just held the bowl into the back seat and, bless her heart, she leaned forward and heaved.

We finally got to the hotel about 1 a.m. S had done all she could do and collapsed into a deep sleep. E had been asleep in the car, but was now awake and acting almost frantic. Mom and I were exhausted, so brought E into our bed in hopes that she would relax. I was just about asleep and she suddenly raised up and threw up all over my chest. The bed was now filled with an astonishing volume of puke.

We leapt into action. Mom took E into the tub to clean them both off. I quickly stripped the bed and called the desk for more bedding. They didn't have anyone to bring it to the room, so at 2:30 a.m. I was running around the hotel trying to get sheets.

When I got back to the room E had already thrown up in the crib, soiling those sheets. The room absolutely reeked, but we collapsed about 4 a.m.

I sneaked out at 6:30 the next morning and spent a full day hiking through the swamps and fields of Mobile county with my friends Larry Davenport (thankfully he had driven by himself) and Bruce Bodson. Mom spent the day shut up in the pukey room with two girls who were beginning to feel better. All the while she was starting to feel bad.

When I returned to the hotel that evening I insisted that Larry come by and meet the kids. When we stepped in the room, I realized that it still reeked of sickness and mom was feeling like something you would be upset to step in.

He later told me that he felt the illness germs jumping at him from the walls.

That night my head hurt so bad, that I laid face down in the tub breathing out slowly until I had to take a breath. Mom was sick a bit. I think I took the girls out to eat, but neither mom or I ate.

I spent another day in the field and mom spent the day getting just a bit better. From there we went to Dauphin Island and caught the ferry to Fort Morgan for the first time. We spent the next two days in Gulf Shores in a hotel that was fairly new. Gradually we all felt better and there is a great picture with the girls pressing their faces against the glass door. Mom and I were actually out on the balcony trying to breathing the sea air trying to feel better. We ended up having a great time.

The rest of the story: You kids may remember that when we used to go to Gulf Shores we would always stop for the night at a Holiday Inn just outside of Mobile. That was the sick hotel. We also always started the vacation by driving to Dauphin Island and taking the ferry (a cruise) to Ft. Morgan. Those traditions started on this trip.....from hell.

Pie crust tip

You kids may remember that I have a friend (Larry Davenport) who teaches at Samford University, just over the hill from Nanni & grandad's house. Every few years we get together while we are in B'ham and catch up on grad school friends, what is happening in our lives, etc. Larry & I used to do field work together. Mom & I attended the christening of their son. Larry was along on the famous trip from hell (perhaps the subject of another post). When we got together this year, Larry had a list of things to tell me. among them was that Lori Wiersema had recently died. Apparently she was undergoing minor surgery and something went horribly wrong. Her husband, John, was a co-grad student of ours, though, as a botanist was closer to me than mom. Lori came to town as a grad student in nutrition but a close friend of another woman who was in the biology program. They started hanging out with the bio crowd, even playing on the softball team. Romance bloomed between Lori & John about the time when mom & I were realizing that we might be more than friends.

Lori was a good cook. I had made a pie for some grad student cookout party, but was complaining about struggling with the crust. She gave me a tip that I have used on every crust, pastry, or biscuit that I have made since. When I do this I always think of Lori. That's a lot of thoughts over the 30+ years that I have been using the tip, so I was shocked to hear that she is gone. In fact, the night before Larry told me, I had made a lemon meringue pie and thought of her.

I know that I have told all of you kids the tip and, probably, shown you. Here it is:

To make a crust, the first step is to "cut" the flour into the shortening. I usually start that process with a fork, but that only goes so far. To finish the process and get a really flaky crust, use your thumb and fingers on one hand to rub the flour and shortening together. Keep working it until the combination has the consistency of light snow.

Carry on the tradition and think of the tip that came from a one time friend.