Caring for your introvert

For those of us who are married to or otherwise closely associated with an introvert, here’s a good article from the March 2003 issue of The Atlantic.  I laughed out loud.

Behold, my son the foodie

The kids’ youth group is doing a 30-hour ‘famine’ this weekend as an opportunity to experience a little bit of what it’s like to go without food, and to raise money to help feed some hungry kids.  Both Lauren and Zack have been very interested in being a part of this event.  When Zack was hit by the flu that ravaged our household this week, his first response was disappointment that he might have to miss ‘the fast.’  I love that in a 13 year-old.

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While he was sick (and I was recuperating), Zack spent a fair amount of the day tucked into bed upstairs and I was working on stuff downstairs.  We were keeping in touch via text messaging.  Here’s one of the threads:

Z:  Hot Cheetos sound good to you right now?

(I went up to his room and he asked if I would make him a grilled cheese sandwich.  I said I would.)

Z:  Thanketh thou.

Me:  Thou art welcome!

Me:  Behold, I perceive that thy health improveth somewhat.  But be not deceived into thinking that thou art well enough to attend The Fast, even though thy heart yearns mightily to do so.  Thy grilled cheese sandwich shall be with thee presently.

Z:  Thanketh thou…  I do not feel well enough to attend the fast.

Me:  Verily, thou hast spoken wisely, my son.

Z:  I accept thy praise, father.

Z:  When is Easter?

Me:  April 12.

Z:  OK – so like in 2 weeks?

Z:  Honey-glazed prawns.  Hong Kong crispy noodles and roasted duck from Lee’s Asian Restaurant.  My friend recommended them to me.

Me:  Mr Chow Hound!

Z:  I always end  up talking about food… it’s funny.

Z:  They also recommended that place Cactus on Alki.

Z:  Excellent sandwich!

Me:  OK Bubba – I have to get some work done.  You are too much!

Cabin fever

During these snowy days we’ve taken some nice walks, played games, watched movies, checked in with neighbors, done some reading, cleaned up and put stuff away.  Susan and a neighbor walked to the library and back.  I shoveled snow off of an older neighbor’s skylights so they don’t leak or collapse under the weight of wet snow.

I like the snow.  Like being out in it, then being cozy and warm in the house.  Like the fact that we didn’t drive anywhere for three days.  But Susan’s been feeling a little ‘cooped up’ with a mild case of cabin fever.

When I think of cabin fever, I think of two scenarios involving lots of snow:  1) Kathy Bates ‘taking care of’ James Caan after his car goes off the road in a blizzard in Misery;  and 2) Jack Nicholson chopping his way through hotel room doors (“Heeeere’s JOHNNY!”) in The Shining.

So when Susan complains of cabin fever, I get nervous.

Fortunately, so far she’s done things like clean the inside of our medicine cabinet (it’s beautiful), go after grout stains with a bleach pen (dazzling), organize the sewing cupboard (much more useful now), and wipe down the windows that still have aluminum frames (they need it).  But the other night the knitting needles came out and she started “working on a hat.”  Susan doesn’t do much knitting, and this seemed a little ominous.

I’d better get going on some spackling and sanding that needs to be finished.  In the meantime, the axes and sledgehammers will stay hidden until after the snow melts.  And I’m keeping an eye on those knitting needles.

S’more camping stories

Camping is a great setting for creating memories…

When I was a kid my parents bought all new camping gear in one swell foop. The 9′ x 12′ canvas tent had plenty of headroom – the ridge pole must have been 7′ high. When folded up, the tent was so big and heavy that one person could barely carry it. That first purchase also included a toilet seat mounted on a collapsible frame – like a folding camp stool. Underneath the seat were some hooks with which to attach plastic bags with drawstrings. Somebody was thinkin’.

For some reason we took my grandmother with us on our first camping trip. That either speaks very well of her spirit of adventure, or very poorly of our understanding of ‘fun things to do with Grandma.’ Our campsite was kind of out in the open so there wasn’t much privacy for our portable privvy. In fact there wasn’t any. Maybe that stinking outhouse all the way across the campground wasn’t so bad after all… But at night it would be awfully handy to have facilities closer to the tent, and darkness would take care of privacy.

In the middle of the night we were awakened by a sudden crash. A bear? No – a bear doesn’t cuss and swear like that. Apparently for even greater convenience, the collapsible toilet had been brought inside our commodious (intended) tent. While Grandma was using it – no doubt taking care not to wake anyone – it collapsed. She and my Dad cracked heads, and who can remember if or how Grandma finished her business or what happened to the bag under the seat. It was a long time ago, and there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since, so to speak…

That was the last time we used that gizmo. It was also the last time Grandma went camping with us.

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In those same early days of family camping, my parents sometimes slept inside the canopy that enclosed the back of Dad’s Chevy pickup. Mom and my sisters and I all had those eight or ten pound sleeping bags from the big initial purchase of camping gear. Dad had an old Army surplus sleeping bag filled with chicken feathers (perhaps predating the discovery of goose down).

One morning I was the first to wake up. Like any teen, my thoughts turned to the family and what I could do to get breakfast started. Needing something out of the back of the truck, I swung open the tailgate. A few things like dandelion spores flew in my face. Ptooie. Where’d those come from?

Had it snowed in the back of the truck? Wait a second – those are chicken feathers. Then my Dad moved slightly and his bag issued a little puff of feathers. Ah ha.

When they emerged from the truck, Mom and Dad looked like they’d spent the night in a chicken coop. If I’d known anything about raising chickens, the sight might have prompted me to look for eggs. My Dad had feathers in his hair, his beard, his ears, his eyelashes and eyebrows. Big Bird wasn’t around yet, but that’s what he looked like.  And just like in nature, my Mom’s plumage wasn’t as dramatic – but she was easily identifiable as the same species. As I recall, they laughed as hard as we did when they saw themselves in a mirror.

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You never know what might happen sitting around an evening campfire. Sometimes we find ourselves just staring into the flames. On one occasion four of us were relaxing and talking when we were suddenly taken hostage and held at stickpoint by our kids.

The first time we camped with Chris and Katie and their kids, Chris and I had a contest to see who could stuff the most marshmallows into our mouths. Don’t try this without a video camera. The first few marshmallows are no big deal, but then the cheeks start bulging in a way that can completely change the stuffee’s face. I’ll never forget watching a friend undergo this transformation in front of a church camp. He’s a very smart, highly competent attorney who suddenly looked for all the world like a squirrel. I’ve never laughed harder.

Chris slowed down at about nine or ten marshmallows, but my head and mouth are bigger, so I had an unfair advantage. A couple of things start happening when the mouth gets this full: 1) the gag reflex can be triggered in a big way; and 2) the salivary glands kick into high gear. I found myself herking and drooling unbelievably with 14 marshmallows crammed into my mouth. I think Chris topped out at 11, but his form and control were superior. I won for sheer volume, but I’d give it to him for artistry.

This is not a good thing to attempt for those who have a cold or difficulty breathing through the nose. Definitely don’t want to breathe through the mouth in a situation like this. It’s also important to have ‘discard’ bags handy. Audience sensitivities should dictate whether the bags are clear or opaque.

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Susan’s family also had a big canvas tent when she was a kid. Her brother and a cousin woke up in the middle of the night with no time to find their way to the campground’s ‘comfort station.’ With parental instructions to walk a discreet distance away, they set out. Imagine the surprise of the family members still in their sleeping bags when they heard the distinctive sound of two little boys peeing against the outside of the tent.

Decades later we inherited that old canvas tent, and it still bore the evidence of that very short midnight walk in the woods.

Grandpa Gangsta

Al Capone’s first house in Chicago was just three blocks from my great aunt’s home on the South Side.  My grandfather sold undertaking supplies in Chicago around 1930, when Capone was at the peak of his career as America’s best known gangster.  With killings like the infamous St. Valentine’s Day Massacre of 1929 (organized by Capone), sales to funeral parlors must have been pretty brisk.

Listening to my Grandpa talk gave me the impression that he might have preferred the life of a gangster to his life as a traveling salesman.  I remember hearing about “the boys” playing the “Chicago piano” (machine gun), putting on a pair of “Chicago shoes” (cement blocks) and “going for a swim” (dumping a body) in the Chicago River.  And there was some story about putting a wild paint job on an unidentified body in a mortuary…

I can’t recall ever seeing Grandpa without a shirt and tie, even if he was just hanging around home.  He never left the house without a hat, and he had a new Ford at least every other year for decades.  I know he loved going to the racetrack with our elderly neighbor Frank; it never occurred to me to ask him to read us a story or take us fishing or to the zoo. The movie “Sea Biscuit” startled me with its familiar portrayal of men just like my grandfather.

Grandpa was a man of few words.  One part of his code was, “Loose lips sink ships,” or simply, “Don’t tell ‘em too much.”  I’d guess he was also the “speak softly and carry a big stick” type.  Showing us how he’d face down an attacker, he would introduce one big fist as Sleeping Sickness, the other as Rigor Mortis, and would tell his prospective attacker to take his pick.  He enjoyed some of WC Fields’ jokes about children: “Go away, kid – you draw flies.” “I like children – when they’re properly cooked.”  And if Grandpa was around for our bedtime, he’d say he could rock us to sleep – if he could find a big rock.

Under big bushy eyebrows his blue eyes often had a playful twinkle.  My Mom says he was the consummate salesman:  he knew and understood his customers, and they took obvious pleasure in dealing with him. Mom also knew that a softer side lay beneath Grandpa’s gruff exterior.  If someone told a sad story, he was the first one to tear up. After my Mom’s two year-old sister died of leukemia, Grandpa readily agreed to take the family on a trip to California.

My grandfather loved good food – one reason he had an 18″ neck.  He was especially fond of a nice cut of beef.  Before carving he would smack his lips and announce that it “made his teeth water.”  Grandpa also loved onions and horseradish, and ate them in quantities that made him cry.  He appreciated a good knife and would explain to us that a blade should be “so sharp you could cut your head off and not even know it until you went to shake your head.”

Grandpa was a whiz with crossword puzzles, and he and my Mom played highly competitive games of Scrabble.  He possessed an uncanny knowledge of obscure words, could rack up astronomical scores on the board, and had an elegant gloat comprised of sniffing, clearing his throat, slightly shrugging his shoulders while turning his head as though his collar was too tight, and peering out from under those eyebrows.  Gangsta style.

My grandparents lived in the Midwest and our family lived on the West Coast, so we didn’t see them very often.  My Grandpa and Grandma had been married for 62 years when he died.  I’m sorry I didn’t know him better.

Easter son day

After Zack got his hair cut a couple of weeks ago it wasn’t long enough for him to comb up into the pointed ridge he’s been wearing for a few months.

We were getting ready to attend an Easter service this morning when Zack came into our room with hair once again styled in his trademark “faux hawk.” Pointing to his head he announced, “He is risen!”

He is risen indeed!

co-lon-AH!-sco-py

There were some pretty cool things to celebrate when I turned 50 a few years ago: a marriage that works, two wonderful kids, an extraordinary circle of friends, and a whole bunch of lessons learned. Felt sort of like getting a second wind.

And speaking of wind,

Fashion intervention

Susan is a finalist for a new position at work and has all-day interviews this week. When her sister “J” in LA asked what she planned to wear,

Prostitute? Protestant? What’s the difference?

One of our favorite local families was watching the rock opera “Jesus Christ Superstar” at home.  In discussing why Judas was so angry with Mary Magdalene (many traditions hold that she had worked in the world’s oldest profession), Mom and Dad inquired if their son knew what a prostitute was.  He was pretty sure he did:  “Isn’t it someone who’s not Catholic and doesn’t believe all of the same stuff we do?”