Out of the mouths of babes

I received this message today from my younger sister, expressing a truth which is, I believe, universal:

Tonight I broke out the last of our frozen cherries because I wanted some pork tenderloin with cherry sauce. Mmmmm. It war good. I used the other portion of the tub to make a cherry tart using a previously frozen pie crust. It wasn't pretty but it was good.

As [my nephew] was on the verge of licking the plate - and I know you can picture that without difficulty - [his father] suggested the boy try to show some dignity. His response: "with pie there is no dignity."

I found that to be true later in the kitchen when I used a spoon to scrape after some of the drippings from the catch pan. It was good.

With pie there is no dignity is now our family motto.

Dogblog: Clyde is Pleased

Clyde is happy and he doesn't even know why... The reason is, his mom and his sister are coming to visit, this weekend. Just look at that smile, and bask in the glow!




Don't eat the tomato plants, though, Clyde. Those, plus the excitement, could play havoc with your tummy.



If you want to bask in the glow of other critters, swing by Modulator's Friday Ark, too.

Dogblog: the very model of a modern watchdog, generally

While the family is out picking crabapples for jelly-making,


Clyde keeps an eye out.

He's always alert, never failing in his duties...

What, never?

No, never.

What, never?

Well... hardly ever.

Watching children is hard work. He needs all the rest he can get.



If you need rest and want to get some by viewing other critters, be sure to visit Modulator's Friday Ark.

Good dog.

How does gay marriage stack up with feminism?

Via the LinkViewer at lgf, I came across an interesting revisit to the subject of gay marriage:

...[T]he main function of marriage is to define the stable family unit as one mother, one father, and children. While other functions and uses have come and gone, marriage and children have gone hand in hand since its creation.

Redefining marriage into anything but ONE man and ONE woman will also redefine the best and most stable family unit. The breakdown of the family unit has lead to an explosion of many of the biggest ills we have: higher crime, drug use, and all sorts of other emotional problems. Now more than ever, the stable family unit, one mother, one father and children, must be protected and cherished at all costs.

I like much of Mike's reasoning on this issue. But he could have actually used a more straightforward phrasing – Biologically, the complete family unit is, in this order: one female, one male, and their combined offspring. Anything else is a societal construct, and history demonstrates which, for mammals, are the constructs most successful for each species going forth, being fruitful, and multiplying, as it were.



Now, allow me to present a feminist argument against "alternate lifestyle" marriages of almost any sort.

Anything other than the father-mother-children arrangement eventually devalues the female in the marriage contract, making her sole purpose, once again, to be a baby factory. The ancient Greeks clearly demonstrated this end result, as wives were chattel, owning nothing, controlling nothing about their own lives (household slaves had more power than wives over their own daily activities), while male lovers were equals in every regard.

The same devaluation/dehumanization of mates tends to occur in multiple marriages and serial marriages.

It's probably not even the least bit intentional, but it happens.

Further, homosexuality devalues the child, turning it from a boon for the future into a property, however unintentionally. One man plus one woman equals partnership, equal investment in the future of their children. One man, one other man, (or one woman, one other woman) and the investment shifts to "my children via whatever source I find" vs "his (or her) interests". They often become commodities -- or worse -- users of commodities (such as time, attention, food, etc.) which will then interfere with the desires/wants/needs of the sexual partner who has no vested interest in the outcome of that child's life, other than to please the partner to whatever degree he or she chooses (wicked stepmother, anyone?). Which means, the child, like the wife, is devalued, by becoming less than completely human.

So much for gay marriage enhancing the strength of family through diversity.



This isn't to say that I think all two-person-heterosexual marriages are, by their nature always going to be superior in raising children to any other arrangements. A happy and successful gay couple, raising children in an openly loving and caring and supportive relationship will certainly beat having those same children in an abusive or neglectful heterosexual household, and, in many cases trumps single parenting of any sort. But when all are done right, the biological imperatives for reproduction and nurture will easily beat the alternative systems.


In other words, defining downwards is not an improvement. We accept that there will be failures, but we should not encourage them.




Mike does slip a little, when he confuses transvestites with transsexuals, but, clearing away that language issue, I'm falling to the side of the conservative, by and large, on this issue (my lefty friends will, I am sure, gasp in shock and horror. heh).


Still, my opinion is not engraved in stone. Like Mike, I'm not opposed to gay happiness, or any other version of love and joy and all that jazz.

If it is protection gays are looking for, then I am all for it. I favor states creating non sexual civil unions, though those unions can't be limited to gay couples. Siblings that live together should also be able to protect each other's assets in the case of death for instance.

Like Mike, though, I see the movement toward gay marriage as problematic.

Again, my opinion is not engraved in stone. If somebody can find me historical evidence that homosexual marriage (or, simply encouraged long-term bonding, since there was no recognized marriage between Greek lovers) has been a substantial improvement for wives and other women somewhere, or good solid scientific indications that we have evolved past the point of needing to solidify the emotional bonds with the lawful bonds in order to encourage a stable homelife, especially for women and children, I can be swayed to support an alternative viewpoint.



As an aside -- One of the anonymous commenters at The Provocateur's post cites Abraham and Onan, among others, as examples of non-traditional marriages, but this argument fails the feminist test, because, in the case of Agar, Sarah's handmaid who becomes the mother of Ishmael, because she was not an official wife, with all the rank of wife, and yet treated Sarah with contempt when Agar produced the child Sarah could not. The childbearing woman has power over her own mistress. When Sarah produces Isaac, Ishmael and Agar are dismissed, sent to the desert, with nothing but a curse upon humanity. Not exactly a shining moment for the obliging "other woman" or, for that matter, the best of humanity.


The unusual marital circumstances around Onan (best known for "spilling his seed upon the earth") were as follows: Onan was asked by Judah to answer the call from The Almighty, to step up and provide his older brother's new widow with an heir, so that the line might not die off. Onan had sex with her, sure, but withdrew before... well, you get the picture. In other words, he was happy to bump uglies with Tamar, to use her for sexual arousal, as long as he didn't have any follow-through with her. Judah and Tamar had asked a favor of him in the name of The Almighty and His Chosen People, and he chose to act the part until ultimately refusing, in what, to many women, would have been an insulting manner ("What? I'm not good enough even to receive your pitiful cast-offs? You'd rather they be absorbed by the dirt floor?"). I gather from a few scholarly papers that Onan's death wasn't so much about a natural act of self-pleasure, but about its time, place, and circumstances... He failed to provide her with the surety of her future (who else to care for her in her old age?), and failed the tribe as well. So he was punished, having "done been smote down," to put it in the vernacular.

Happy Father's Day!

For all who have well-sired young'uns, this day is for you. Salutations!

And, for those whose young'uns aren't so well-sired... my Pop's sympathies. He knows how it feels.

Dogblog: Clyde Zooms

Even though Pop can't take Clyde out for his usual multi-mile morning treks across the prairie, Clyde is still getting his exercise, these days, by retrieving one of his toys from across the wide back yard.

Wheeeeeeeeee!

It's a good thing Clyde doesn't mind the taste of nylon.


Still, he can't seem to wait until Pop gets back into the normal pattern of things.


For more good doggies and other such critters, be sure to stop in at Modulator's Friday Ark.

Cross your fingers for Pop's toes

Pop is in our little hospital right now, having outpatient surgery on his foot. For us, this is a big deal, because it means that Pop actually decide the problem was big enough to go see a doctor about it. He's not really big on seeking outside help. I guess it runs in the family.

Anyway, he and Mom had been preparing for a trip next week, in which he and his best friend were to hike a section of the Appalachian Trail while Mom drove the car to shuttle them back to base camp each night. That's not going to happen on Monday (postponed at least another week). Pop told Mom the other day that he thought he might have stepped on something, and it was irritating him a little. Day two, he said, "No it's turf toe." Day three, it was swollen, very tender and looking really ugly. Day four, surgery to remove a small sliver of metal... and drain the infected material. He'll come home with his foot in a surgical boot, and won't be able to do much for a couple of weeks. This means no walking the dog, not even easy strolls (Mom & I will probably split that responsibility). It means no digging in the garden. No swimming, either, for at least two weeks.

The man is going to be grumpy at best, if all goes well with the surgery.

At least it's no longer snowing

We're not having the best of days, around here, today. It's not the Worst. Day. Evah., mind you, but I can't call it a stunningly gorgeous spring day fit for a song.

For starters, about 9 a.m., Mom got a call from one of her cousins, informing her that her (long-estranged) half brother had died in his sleep, from complications from his diabetes, and from general wear-and-tear that his addictions had dumped upon him. My uncle was nearly sixteen years younger than Mom -- or, if you will, a little less than ten years my senior. The last time I saw him was at his wedding. That would have been sometime in the mid-1970s. In other words, losing him hasn't really been much of a loss for me or Mom (or the rest of us, here), but that's also what makes this day so much more difficult for Mom. She always feels a little guilty that she didn't get the chance to know her brother, especially during the years when he tried to get clean. But we're still not sure how to react.

She and Dad will drive up to the funeral in the suburbs of Chicago, tomorrow, and return home on Thursday. I'll stay here with the dog -- and not bring the cats over. Might be hard to sleep in a non-cattified bed, but it's probably best for all of us, considering that, about the time Mom picked up the phone, I was hit with my first wave of nausea -- there's some sort of stomach virus going around, and it very kindly stopped by to pay a call on me. I have a little fever and a lot of aches and sleep for 1.5 hours at a time, followed by 45 minutes of waking time to print out the programs I've been producing for the Monmouth Civic Orchestra concert (Saturday, 7 p.m. at Monmouth's First Lutheran Church).

Have had to cancel three appointments I was supposed to keep over the next two days. Hope the bug doesn't stay around long -- tomorrow's weather is supposed to get to just the way I like it: 72º F. and mostly sunny. Perfect for playing in the garden and planting apple trees. Don't want to miss what's likely to be the nicest day of the year, just because I'm making offerings to the porcelain god.

Dogblog: Clyde's visitor

Last week, Clyde received a visitor. Hollis is a member of the extended family, and he comes over occasionally, usually staying in the room where all the Thomas the Tank Engine toys are. But this time, Hollis decided it might be nice to get to know Clyde.


Neither one was really sure about this effort to make contact.

But they were both good boys. Good boys! yeah. who wants a cookie?

Don't forget to stop by Modulator, for Friday Ark!

Week in the desert, part 1

Last week, as I've mentioned, I visited family in the desert. My seester and her husband arranged the bulk of the trip for me, as I had no idea what I was doing (so common a problem!).

When I arrived at McCarran International airport, I was stiff and sore already, from a three-hour flight in a cramped seat in coach (I was lucky, though. Nobody had booked the middle seat, so, while I had the aisle seat, I could also sprawl my left leg out into the space under the next seat, & my knee didn't cramp up the way it often does when I can't do my exercises every half hour).

Still, I managed to make my way to baggage claim, get my suitcase-in-a-suitcase, and get to a door to call my seester, to say I was here and where was she? After some confusion, I finally found the passenger pick-up curb (near the ill-marked parking access), and my brother-in-law drove us outward... we didn't feel quite like driving all the way to our hotel in Primm, so we played for an hour-plus at the gigantic Bass Pro shop just off the interstate. I believe we acted like tourists as we Gol-lee'd our way around the obscenely large displays. The single store was as large as our regional shopping mall -- and it had a second story which the Sandburg Mall lacks.

As I said, we played a while, then tried to find our way to the place we planned to meet my daughter and her family. First, we contended with crummy, slow traffic. Then, as we followed the advice of the GPS toy, we got lost. By the time we arrived for dinner, I was so nervous I could have chewed my fingers down to the elbows.

But dinner went fine. I wish it had lasted longer, and I wish I hadn't been so nervous I'd left my camera locked in the trunk of the car, but at least my seester got a few pics, & she promises she'll send me copies as soon as possible. I guess she even got a sort of the-Madonna-like shot of me and the baby and a bizarrely beatific expression on my face (bizarre because I don't often relax enough for such expressions, not bizarre because of the general circumstances).

By the time we got to our rooms at the end of the evening, it was nearly midnight, my time, and practically one o'clock by my seester's & BIL's time. The hotel was Terrible -- seriously. It was owned and operated by the people who run the Terrible's gas station chain. They were in the process of changing over from the Primm Valley Hotel and Casino to the new name.

But the accommodations were clean and, while not terribly pretty, they were comfortable and cheap.

view from the parking lot of our Terrible Hotel experience

We rose the next morning before dawn.

When coming home doesn't mean resting...

Well, I arrived home from my week in the desert, and I haven't had time to myself since.

Mom picked me up at the airport, in the company of my best friend Mari. We got home just before midnight Friday night, and in the morning, yesterday, I was informed that the Buchanan Center for the Arts was asking for local artists to offer up works for sale, for the Christmas season, with a portion of the proceeds benefiting the Buchanan. I didn't have anything handy, so I had to go digging, then make the delivery. I spent a little time talking about the future of the BCA (and other nonsense, but then, I'm a Chatty Cathy doll with an endless string pulled) with one of the staffers, then headed out homeward.

When I returned home, I was asked to help out with (and, naturally, to attend) a reception for MC's Stacy Cordery, in celebration of the success of her new book. She's one of the most successful authors to be connected to my alma mater, and my mom's best friend and her husband were hosting the reception, so we raced over to help with setting up and such. I'll do my best to get a few pix posted as soon as I can.

Anyway, my week-long absence was arranged by my seester and her husband, in order that I might have the opportunity to meet the daughter I had given up for adoption upon her birth nearly 30 years ago. I had never directly seen her -- not even on the day she was born, because I knew even then that, had I looked at her or held her, I'd never have been able to surrender her to the more capable adults who I hoped would raise her. So, this was a momentous occasion for all of us, I suppose... I was in terror that I would say something or do something to completely botch things and leave the young woman hating me (or worse, finding me less than nothing) for the rest of her days.

Instead, we had a very nice dinner at a restaurant convenient to her home -- very important, since less than a week days prior to this dinner, she had given birth to her second child. Technically and biologically, that makes me twice a grandmother. Still, my daughter's parents offered a HUGE kindness, as well: they had been watching over the firstborn for the past couple of weeks, a few hundred miles away, and brought the five-year-old daughter up to The Meadow so she could meet me, my sister, her husband, my daughter's biological father, his high-school buddy who lived in that city and had made the arrangements, and his wife (or significant other). So, we had my daughter, her husband, their daughter and newborn son (seriously newborn!) arrive a little bit later than we did (the baby had expressed his hunger just as they were ready to go out the door. Imagine that! ;-) ).

I had a chance to shake hands with the bright little girl who was my granddaughter, and held my sleepy little grandson in my arms for what seemed a lightning flash and an eternity. I suppose there are better feelings in the world, but I have not yet experienced them.

Still, I've been so busy since Monday evening, I haven't really had a chance to sit and sift through my senses. I hope in the next few days to post a few thoughts and a buzillion photos... none of them from the dinner, because I was too nervous to remember to bring my camera in for the occasion... But my seester and her husband and I did quite a few other things while we were in LV, and some of those pix are pretty cool.

Updates after I've had at least 8 hrs of shuteye.

Gratuitous Postcard: K Sisters Go West

My seester has decided that, for my birthday and Christmas, this year, she is paying my way to the old frontier, for the opportunity to meet my daughter. My seester and her husband will meet me at the airport in said unnamed western city, and we will drive up to meet said young woman and perhaps some of her family, plus her biological father and one of his old high school chums, for supper and getting-acquainted conversations.

As a result of these plans, I won't be blogging until next weekend. I'm leaving the site (and the cats) in my mother's hands, with instructions on how to post the Fortune Teller stuff, but there won't be a catblog or dogblog from me this week -- at least, not until Saturday, if it happens. Since Mom is inexperienced with blogging, I'm leaving her a stack of what I view as simple instructions... pretty much don't get bent out of shape over the thing.

Still, if there are problems with the posts, in any way shape or form (such as a given day gets posted early, late, or not at all) please cut Mom some slack. It's probably the fault of my instructions. And, if you're trying to reach me, I'll be answering my e-mails after I get home... Sometime between Saturday and the following Tuesday.

Pop is home and healthy

One worry off my list -- Pop came home this noon, walking upright and capable of sitting in his favorite chair to read a WWII book. And Clyde hasn't left his side, yet, nearly two hours later. Looks like the two males in the house are very happy.

According to Mom, the surgery was a little more detailed than she could tell me over the cell phone; Not only did he have his prostate geshrunken, but they actually pushed a three-centimeter concretion (which they called a "bladder stone") back up into his bladder, blasted it into a buzillion tiny bits of calcium, and rinsed it away. She has all the gory details, as well as a picture of the concretion. I'm thinking that I'm learning way more about the inner workings of my father than I ever wanted to know.

The truth of the matter is, I never really recognize the physical presence of my parents, because they are so much more important to me as emotional, spiritual presences, and as examples for living.

These are smart, witty, loving, sharing, warm human beings -- as well as Pop being a scary paternal presence of the corrective sort. I reckon I don't really want to think of the clockworks that keep them both moving about the neighborhood. But then, they're both in their seventies, so reality will have its way, won't it?



Mom is running errands, picking up meds, fetching some afterthought groceries, and is expected back soon.

Dunno what I'll do until then. Pop hates feeling as if he's being baby-sat. Maybe I'll just stay hidden up here for a while longer, and just keep my ears peeled.

Take a deep breath and relax...

I may have mentioned that things around here are a bit hectic, lately.

It isn't so much that I'm running every which way, but rather, my mind is firing off in all directions and nothing gets accomplished. At least, not by me.

But there is a good news end to some of this chaos: Pop is out of surgery, and he's alive and grumping.

Well, he will be when he wakes up.

What was supposed to have been outpatient surgery ended up slightly more interesting for those who were working there, this morning.

You see, the original plan was simply a prostate reduction deal, where they'd go in with a scope, zap away with a laser, and wheel him out to sit on a funny cushion for a couple of days. Unfortunately, they discovered, in the last pre-op barrage of tests, that he had had a couple of gall stones migrate down into the same vicinity as their planned work, so they had to make a bit of a... um... detour. He was on the table for a little longer than originally planned, and, as a result of the slightly more stressful work done, Pop is going to spend the night in post-op observation at the hospital.

So far, the word is, he's fine and resting as comfortably as can be expected.

Mom is staying over there, to be near him, in case he needs somebody to talk to. She won't be home until after visiting hours are ended.

This leaves me to attend to the needs of the animals over here. Which reminds me... I have yet to post the Dogblog. I'd better get on it right away.

How to p*ss my father off

I have succeeded royally, this morning, and I'm not at all embarrassed by it.

Pop was preparing to go out and climb onto my garage roof (which, BTW, is corrugated fiberglass panels on a standard 45º slope) to rid it of the big-a$$ branch which lay atop it. After that, he was prepared to get up again and replace or repair the damaged panel.

My father was born in the early years of the depression. He still does not like to spend money when he thinks he can do things himself. The trouble is, even if he could do this job all by himself, he's supposed to be going on a vacation this Saturday, and if he does this kind of job this week, he's likely to have back and leg pains for the next three weeks, and won't enjoy the trip at all. And if he's not having fun, neither is Mom.

But the tree removal expert didn't think it would be wise for an amateur -- even one with a good engineering background -- to be up there messing around while there were large broken branches still dangling above the site. I concurred.

The trouble with all of this was, Pop was gathering his tools to go over this morning, to get started right away. While he was collecting himself and his gear, I did an end-run, calling both the insurance company and the tree removal pro, so that he was obliged to wait to do any work, at least until after the insurance assessor could come examine the damage. Since the storm hit a lot of houses, my place is low on the list of priorities... they probably won't get here until after the folks have packed and started their trip.

So Pop is fuming that it's going to cost too much.

I haven't told him to his face, but I'm figuring a couple thou for the tree guy, and maybe a few hundred for a contractor to replace the roof panel, will be a lot cheaper than hospitalization if even the slightest thing were to go wrong with Pop's plan.

I may be unethical in this, but I can be as gol-durned stubborn as my old man, when necessary.

And Mom seems to support me on this.


Never before have I been so satisfied with making Pop mad -- not even when I was fourteen years old.

Satisfied, yet still scared spitless.

Dogblog: When is a tail not a tail?

When it's a wagon!


Clyde's tail is a wagon (er, a-waggin') as he waits for somebody to come in.

I wonder who it can be?

Why, it's Grandma!



Hey, Grandma, are you forgetting what time it is?



It's ear-rubbing time! (As if it weren't that time, every moment of every day!)


And it's also time to visit other lovely, loving beasts at Modulator's Friday Ark!

Gratuitous postcard: the proofs are in

Mighty natural-like, ain't it?


I had to let my younger sister know, the proofs are back from the photographer she hired to produce professional shots of the youngest generation of our family -- that is to say, her son & daughter plus our brother's two sons -- before they get too old to bully into sitting for a session.

Honestly, if anybody needs really good pics of kids, Buff Hottle in Monmouth has a knack for getting kids to look like themselves, and not stiff mannequins or Hollywood stunt kids. And, they even don't look scruffy or entirely bratty (well, there are a couple of shots which expose that truth about my brugly other's boys, but we won't tell anybody).

Dogblog: Clyde's family reunion

Clyde's mommy -- my seester -- came to town for the party this past weekend, and she brought Clyde's seester, Bonnie, with her.

Bonnie stayed in the same house with Clyde for the weekend because her mommy and daddy were spending their overnight time in "no pets" accommodations.
Of course, where Clyde is big and mellow yellow, Bonnie is small and active black.

Nevertheless, she was greeted by Grandpop with plenty of enthusiasm -- Fair and Balanced, though. Pop is crazy like a Fox.

Once Bonnie settled in, she took possession of Clyde's best toys and bed, and poor Clyde took the displacement with only a small amount of that martyrdom routine.

sigh.

The two of them played pretty rough, for the duration of her visit, so Clyde was not exactly put out by her visit, but he did seem to be more than a little happy when he got his own stuff back...


Don't forget to visit Modulator for Friday Ark, each week. The critters are abundant and mostly joyful.

Gratuitous postcard: winding down from a wild weekend

For those who hadn't read my column*, last Friday, I must mention that yesterday was the 50th anniversary of my parents' wedding.



We had a big ol' picnic, invited as many relatives as we could find addresses to, as well as having some of the family's best friends (hey, they're extended family, too).

Mom and I did the legwork, while my sisters pretty much footed the bill, and as a result, we had some very good food in a very nice location with some truly wonderful people (why they're still friendly with all of us is a mystery. We don't have much in the way of an estate, or inheritances).

At any rate, we learned something very interesting, this week: our local college caterers don't provide tables. Even though the head of the service asked us, "what kind of tables do you want -- round or rectangular/banquet?" it seems that, what she was asking was, "What kind of tables will you be getting from the rental company, so we can provide the appropriate linens?"

We didn't learn of this miscommunication until 90 minutes before the crowd was supposed to start coming for the food.

Fortunately, the host (in whose garden we were gathering) and my sisters were quick-thinking and managed to collect a few card and picnic tables, bunches of chairs, and a few other necessities from the neighborhood, and my friend Mari finagled three nice banquet tables and a bunch of nice folding chairs from our mutual friend Janet, so we had enough seating for everybody, with five minutes to spare.

The food, by the way, was truly delicious. I had heard from others that the college food service had a good chef or two, and I now believe it. So, apparently, does everybody who stood in line, yesterday.


Also perfect was the setting: Bill Urban offered up his garden,
we rented a big tent, and the weather turned out cloudy enough to keep the temperature very comfy for everybody, with a pleasant breeze sufficient to carry the smell of the roses throughout the crowds.

By mid-afternoon, everybody had pretty much had a chance to become acquainted or reacquainted, and a few people started showing traces of wear around the edges, but most of us caught our second wind, and lasted until at least dark.

As the final stages of the festivities rolled around, we had a chance for a few silly group shots -- every camera was whipped out, as the immediate six were assembled for the first time in more than a decade:


And then my generation of kids -- from the nuttier side of the family -- stood together with straight faces (yeah, right!)

The family all pitched in with cleanup (we sent the caterers home until this morning, since all we needed was to have trays of noshes left on the buffet table, and we could handle serving that). We had a few leftovers, and found innovative ways to redistribute them (nothing like a barbecue breakfast sammidge!).

All in all, the picnic went as smoothly as a wedding (egad!), so we all decided it was a success as an anniversary celebration.

Most of the family -- extended parts, that is -- have gone home already, after having filled up on laughs and good food at the anniversary party. We who remain today are winding down a little.

I ache terribly from all the laughing I did this past two days. We'll have to do this again, sometime. With somebody else organizing it.

*which the editors of the Daily Review Atlas very kindly print each week, at no cost to me.

Happy Father's Day!

Especially to you, Pop!

One father is more than a hundred school-masters.
-George Herbert



Everybody has these great and moving tributes to Dads worldwide. I'm afraid I lack the words to express the complex, complicated, extraordinarily ordinary relationship I've had with mine. He's my pop. He's entirely too dignified to be called "Pop", and, yet, he seems not to mind too strenuously when I call him that.

This week, Pop has already repaired the front porch roof (see picture, above), and is now resting after having denuded the garage of its poor, sad shingles. He does not work out there in the heat of the day. He may be a little crazy, but he's by no means stupid.

Pop is the smartest man I have ever met -- and I haven't spent my entire life in this cow town out in the middle of nowhere. I've been places, shaken hands with all sorts of folks. Pop was a college professor, a nuclear physicist, a published author (and of a genuinely, deliberately humorous piece, no less!), and still is a hard-working fellow who likes to solve puzzles both on the page and in real life. He's also pretty handy-dandy at woodworking, but, since he's extremely self-critical, he doesn't do much of it, any more, more is the pity. Pop has a marvelous eye with his cameras, keeps a beautiful, neat, and functional garden, can cite verse both high and doggerel, was once a champion-level square dancer, knows the difference between a Fragonard and a fragmentation grenade, and is as great a cook as his mother was (actually, slightly better).

In other words, my father is pretty close to Renaissance Man.

It's hard as hell to live up to that standard. I figure I'm doing well if I keep my hair combed and my fingernails unchewn. But I try, because Pop would appreciate it.

Isn't that what Father's Day is supposed to be about?