Memories on Father's Day Eve

I've been talking about throwing a party at the cemetery this Halloween. I've invited lots of people--mostly family members, but so far, no takers. So, it's probably not going to happen, but I still talk about it. You see, it will be a very special occasion--my father's one-hundredth birthday. I think that's reason enough to at least get out a can of silly string or something.

Yep, my dad was lucky enough to have his birthday on Halloween and when I was a child it was pretty easy to just dip into my candy bucket and give him whatever he wanted as a present. In later years, when I had lots more money, I would go to the "Five and Dime" store and buy an ash tray or screw driver for him. (That's right, I said "Five and Dime"--the sixties version of the Dollar Store.)

My dad has been gone for forty-one years now. He died when he was just a little older than I am right now. It's hard to imagine that he never experienced life past this age. So yeah, I was pretty young when it all happened and I remember only a few of the details; young enough also to not realize the enormity of what I would miss in later years. Nope, I never really felt sorry for myself, but there are lots of conversations I wish I could have had with him.

So, allow me to just reminisce briefly on this "Father's Day" eve. I was the youngest of six children and my father was 43 when I was born. He was very thin, worked hard, was always tired, and never really felt well. He smoked lots of cigarettes and had a pretty addictive personality, but managed to reel himself in when he needed it (with the help of my mother I'm sure).

There was no expendable income in our household, so my dad spent his evenings filing saws in our basement to earn extra money. Right after dinner, you could hear the "screech, screech" of the file on the circular saw blades as they went around on his machine. But, at about 8:00 he'd call it a night and come upstairs and do what he loved to do the most--read. He'd sit in his favorite chair--an uncomfortable looking maroon velvet thing and read for a few hours. When I was ready to go to bed, I'd walk over to him, kiss him on the cheek, and go to bed.

We had very few conversations, my dad and I, but I thought he was brilliant. I remember in the sixties, he had several political opinions that I would quote when I went to school. Some of these opinions got me into a bit of trouble. (We won't go there okay?) He also helped me with my catechism questions sometimes. I would rather ask him than my mother for help because he gave short answers and didn't give me sermons like my mom would.

My dad was well-respected by a variety of people. Every Saturday afternoon he would take us kids to the library. The librarian, Mrs. Hackett, who looked just like you would imagine with a name like that, knew exactly the kind of books my dad wanted and they would talk so long, I'd get antsy and want to leave. My dad was also a respected cabinet-maker. We received phone calls several years after his death with requests for his cabinetry work. He also served as an elder in our church almost every time he was eligible.

But what I loved most about my dad was his awesome sense of humor. He had a favorite joke that he could never tell without bursting into laughter before he got to the punch line. (I won't retell it, because the way I would tell it wouldn't be funny at all.) Every now and then, someone would upset my dad when he was driving and his language would get colorful to say the least. My sister and I would giggle in the back seat with a little silent vow between us to not tell my mom.

But, I do need to tell you about my dad's faith. My mom was the outspoken Jesus-follower in my household, but my dad lived his faith every day. When he became ill with cancer, he never questioned God. I remember one afternoon when I was very upset over his cancer diagnosis, he pulled me aside and said that if he wasn't upset about it, I didn't need to be either. That's one of the few times he referred to himself as "daddy." The night before one of his surgeries, a nurse asked him if he would like some sleeping medication. He said, "no thank-you, I have Psalm 90," ("He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. . .") Because of his life and example, I share his faith.

So yes, even though it's been 41 years, I still miss my dad. I wish he could have met Ron, spent time with my kids, and have gotten to know his great-grandchildren. But it's fun to talk about him, to share memories with brothers and sisters, especially the older ones who remember more than I do.

So . . . maybe I will celebrate his hundredth at the cemetery this year on Halloween. Let me know if you want to join me. Maybe we'll hang out, tell a few jokes, read Psalm 90, who knows?

The Ultimate Pyramid Scam

I got sucked in badly this time. It was the ultimate pyramid and I thought I was smarter than that. In a moment of weakness, I got talked into it and now I can't get out. It didn't come in the form of a chain letter; I wasn't invited to someone's house for a plan that they "just wanted to show me." Nope, nothing like that. This came to me from my daughter in an innocent little zip-lock bag. It's called "friendship" bread and supposedly it comes from the Amish.

Apparently you let this bag of goo sit on your counter for 10 days before you bake it. The trick is that you have to do things to it while it sits there. You've got to squeeze and caress the bag every day, add special ingredients to it on special days, and burp it occasionaly. Heck, I'm not sure I even took care of my kids that well.

I question everything about the process. On the fifth day I was advised to add milk without refrigerating it. Okay, so if this pyramid works like they say it does with its implied origins, there might be drops of milk in that bag that date back to the early nineteen hundreds. That's some fermentation!

After ten days of serious babysitting, I thought I was ready to make up the bread--not so fast! After adding more ingredients, the instructions indicated that I was supposed to remove four cups of the mixture and put each into a zip-lock bag; three of them were to be distributed to my friends and one was to be saved for myself as another starter.

But, I didn't want to give it to my friends--I'm not that good at selling the idea to them. Just because it's called "friendship" bread doesn't mean that your friends want to participate. Personally, I think that the name was designed to dupe innocent people (kind of like "Herman the 'friendly' coffee cake" that I remember going around about 25 years ago.) Besides, a recipe that quadruples every 10 days scares me a little. So I decided to beat the system. I did all the math and decided to make up my own batch along with some of the batches that should have been distributed to others.

My kitchen looks like a war zone. Now I've got six loaves of the stuff lined up on the counter. Oh, and by the way, it comes with special strange instructions like; do not use a metal bowl or spoon. I accidently touched a metal fork to it when I had it in the pan and thought it would blow up in my face. I'm not much of a baker, but I've never feared for my life like I did tonight.

Now that it's done it tastes okay, but my daughter's batch tasted better; I'm pretty sure it's because she got the Martha Stewart genes from her dad. (She was curious about the addition of instant vanilla pudding--not exactly "Amish.") So, if you come to my house during the next week or so, I just might serve some to you. Don't tell me that you like it because, guess what? I've got one starter bag sitting on my counter. In ten days I just might be sharing it with you.