Packing It Up

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The packing has begun.  I’m not 100% sure I’m moving yet.  We’re in that due diligence period where the buyer and seller have to argue about who is paying for what.  But I am beginning to organize just in case.

We moved Julie out of her house in March.  She’s in an apartment temporarily while we figure out our next step.  What we’ve discovered in the process is that we have A LOT of stuff.

Mattresses, we have mattresses for days!  Most of hers are younger than mine, so I’m tossing mine out.  The one in my guest room was in my grandmother’s guest room.  She moved out of her house and into a retirement community in 1996.  She built that house, oh, I’d say in the mid 70’s.  My best guess is that the bed was purchased upon arrival.  Although, come to think of it, perhaps she moved that one from the house my dad grew up in.  The queen set is somewhere between 46 and 83 years old.  Who cares?  My guests never stay that long.

The bed in Michelle’s room, which all of my kids have lived in at some point, is much younger.  It was purchased in 1993. 

I have a difficult time throwing things out.  When a pair of boxers no longer has enough elastic to stay up, I synch them for as long as possible.  One day I was jogging and I felt something around my knees.  My boxers had fallen on either side and the waistband was dangling below my thighs. 

I was a sad day when I tossed those little guys.  They had been through so much with me.

For the second time, I cleaned out my koozie drawer in the kitchen. 

Julie: “Honey, why do you have a drawer full of koozies?”

Me:  “I might need them.”

Julie:  “Why would you ever need 35 koozies?”

Me:  “Well sometimes Brad and Tim come over for a beer on the porch.”

Julie:  “So maybe keep three?”

We don’t even use koozies when they come over.  But I hate to see them go.

Julie has about 25% of the cabinet space in her apartment that she had at the house.  And yet, somehow, a popcorn maker the size of a Volkswagen avoided storage and made it to the new place.

Me:  “Why are you taking this enormous popcorn maker to the apartment?  Shouldn’t it go into storage?”

Julie:  “I think I might need it.”

Me:  “We have microwave popcorn.”

Julie:  “I need it.”

It’s ok.  This past weekend as I was packing, some people in my family were trying to toss the massive popcorn tub I won at the movie theater several years ago.  I told them I needed to hold onto it for all of the popcorn Julie was gonna make in our future life.

Together we have 6 hatchets and four axes.  There will be no shortage of firewood at our house.  We’re like a Boy Scout troop.

We’re gonna have to buy a big house.  Or maybe a mini-storage business.  Goodwill, here we come!

“I’ve Got The Memories…”

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The Folks

Vaccinations abound!  We were finally able to celebrate Christmas this past weekend with my parents.  Although masked, I walked into their house in Fayetteville, North Carolina, and gave my mom and dad a BIG, FAT hug.  I’ve seen them a couple of times over the past twelve months but not much, and the only physical connection we’ve had was a slight bootie bump at departure.

My folks are aging, like us all.  They’re pondering a downsize.  This is great news for them!  They will get all of the Christmas eating without nearly as much fuss.  I turned 55 this year, the minimum age for most retirement communities, and if I could get Julie to go, I’d sign up tomorrow.  Food, food, food!  BINGO and a built in Uber.  Who could ask for more? Some even have a a soft ice cream machine with all-you-can-eat sprinkles. My mom will be in heaven.

It may be this year or maybe the next, but they’re considering options which is good I think.

As I watched the seven grandchildren this weekend, I pondered the good times we’ve had on Meadow Wood Road.  And, I pondered the memories from my grandparents’ homes.

One had a screen porch with a black swing, and as I remember it, a patterned orange and green plastic cushion that would withstand nitric acid.  My brother and I would sit on the swing and count the many cars that flew by on Hoffmeyer Road.  We would each pick a color and could only count our colored vehicles. Each car was one point. Most points won. Chad would always choose white.  He’d encourage me to go with my heart – a color that fit my personality – like orange or yellow or purple.  Who wants to count boring white cars?  I’d think to myself.  In an afternoon, he would rack up 80 points rubbing it in as the hours passed by.  I might have one, maybe two if the Dukes of Hazard drove by.

At my other grandparents’ house, I have distinct memories of a powder green naugahyde couch, my brother and I in matching blue silky pajamas my mother had made for us, trying to knit.  My grandmother was a master and looking back on it was likely working to break typical gender roles.  Why couldn’t a boy enjoy knitting?  I concur.  But this boy did not.  It’s actually hard.

As I begin to ponder moving from the house where I raised my girls, occasionally I find a hint of melancholy set in.  The same is true as I think about my parents’ and my grandparents’ homes.  My eldest niece said it best on Saturday, “I have the memories.  That’s all I need.”  Pretty sweet.

CURAD Ouchless

My fiancé, Julie, finally sold her house.  We moved her out this weekend into a temporary place in Charlotte.  Now, it’s my turn.  It’s like dominos – one step forward puts the next in motion.  When we finish, the plan is marriage and ONE house.  After five years of dating, it’s probably time.

I’ve had workmen at my house shoring up odd jobs, and I’ve been cleaning out like a crazy person.  I’ve watched Julie do the same.

It’s interesting what you find – it’s fun, it’s dirty, and sometimes it pierces a heartstring.

Last night I was shoring up the Rubbermaid band aid container.  Does everyone have a band aid box with various shapes and sizes of stick ‘ems and gauze?  In my quest to clean out, I came across an old tin of CURAD Ouchless Bandages.  I started to toss it without looking in.  But that’s not my style.  No, I look in everything to see if there is any feasible reason I might want to save something.  I hate to throw things out – what if I could reuse it?  An old towel could become a new rag.  What if someone else could use it?  My junk is another’s treasure.  What if it conjures up a memory that I might otherwise lose?  A hand drawn card from Michelle dubbing me the “best father” of all time!  That’s like an Oscar for me.

I opened the can and there were no boo-boo strips.  Instead two bills, one dollar and a five.  On the dollar, my grandmother had written:  This bill was in my father’s wallet on the day that he died, July 30, 1965.  On the five the same message but for my great-grandmother, This bill was in mama’s wallet on the day that she died, June 21, 1970.  Also rolled up with the money was a note in my great-grandmother’s writing saying keep this bill always to remember your dad.  I was not yet 1 when my great-grandfather died and only five when his wife passed.  But how cool to have a physical remembrance of their love and our family history.

It is hard to move out of a house that you’ve lived in for nearly thirty years.  The laughs that we’ve had.  The tears that we’ve shed.  The victories and losses.  The weekly totes in of the groceries.  The fall nights on the screen porch.  All are special.  Comfortable.  Warm.

And yet, the danger of gripping so hard to the past is the possibility of foiling the future.  We have to pack our CURAD tins in a cardboard box, and take them with us as we move forward.  Our past can stagnate or add delight to what comes ahead.   I choose delight all day long!

TikTok Nuggets

I hate to admit this, because I long to be cool, but perhaps… I’m not.  And frankly, I thought, maybe, if parent-cool was on a one-to-ten number line, perhaps I was a seven.  I’m a little too Type A to ever be an eight, but still, compared to other middle agers I know, I felt like my cool factor was above average. 

There have been several moments over the years that have made me ponder my coolness.  A while back when I was dating, a “cool” guy at work told me I needed to stop dressing like a 50-year-old man if I ever wanted to find a woman.  But I was a 50-year-old man, and I scored a pretty fine lady even in dad jeans, a V-neck sweater, and a button down shirt.

But this month, Michelle turned 18.  Two weeks ago to celebrate, Julie and I set up our porch to host a couple of her friends.  When we asked about food, she requested a smorgasbord of chicken nuggets and French fries.  Yes.  Julie and I were each assigned three fast food restaurants.  We were instructed to purchase chicken nuggets, fries and dipping sauce. 

I was timid about requesting too many sauces.  Julie, not so much.  Chic Fil A gave her 30, six of each kind.  She’s a salesperson, not afraid to ask for what she wants. 

We brought them home, masked ourselves and dumped them all on a tray. 

I soon discovered that the food choice had nothing to do with chicken or potatoes.  Apparently, this meal is a TikTok trend. 

Some of you are wondering, what is TikTok?  I’m learning it is a video sharing app.  You take 15 second videos and the world can see them. 

So before wolfing down the nuggets, and drenching them in Polynesian, everything stopped.  Videos were taken.  Videos were retaken.  And only then, did they partake.

I don’t understand the TikTok.  I like TV shows and movies.  And thus the divide:  18 vs. 55. 

Oh To Sleep…

I’ve not slept well the past decade.  I don’t know why.  I’ve tried everything imaginable to help.

I turn the TV off early.  I read.  I don’t drink caffeine after 2 PM.  I limit alcohol.  I take Melatonin.  I’ve tried Chamomile Tea.

Julie heard from a friend that hypnosis helped her battle insomnia.

Why not try?  I thought.   I got nothing to lose.  Well, except for $75 which is what the recording cost me.

The hypnotist told me it could take 21 days to feel the effect, I’m on day six.  The recording is a full 25 minutes.  I listen.  When she is finished, I take my Ambien and Melatonin cocktail and eventually conk out.

The first night of “hypnosis” was odd.  I did actually feel a bit like I was in a trance.  My arms and legs were heavy – my body felt asleep.  But my mind knew exactly what was going on.

My hypnotist actually snapped her fingers and told me every time she snapped and said the word sleep that I would fall more deeply into her trance.

I did not listen to the recording prior to my first try so I was a bit anxious.  As I tried to relax, I considered what she might make me do if I fully went under.

What if she instructs me to disrobe and run down the street in flip flops?  What would my neighbors think?  I wondered.

Why would she do that?  I argued with my awake mind.

People have done crazier things.  I warned myself.

According to this woman, who puts me to bed each night, sleeping is MY RIGHT!  She told me when I was a baby I slept in light and dark, in quiet or in noise.  I guess she’s right, but you’d have to ask my mom to be sure.

She has me walking down staircases, staring up at my own eyebrows, and intentionally relaxing my forehead muscles.  I didn’t even know I had those.

As soon as she tells me to relax, invariably something on my being starts to itch.  Not like a tiny itch, like a baboon at the zoo itch.  And yet, I’m afraid she’s gonna be mad at me if I scratch.  So I lay there – arms and legs heavy as tree trunks, armpit itching like crazy and my mind trying to figure out if I need to relax my knee caps or dig into my underarm.

The other night Julie and I were staying at a friend’s mountain house.  She agreed to listen to the recording with me.  In approximately 15 seconds she was out cold.  That is exasperating.  At one point I talked to her.  She did not respond.  The next morning she said she could hear me but that her psyche told her it was inappropriate to talk.  Her psyche was probably right.  Besides, she was long gone by then.

I am hopeful this will eventually work for me.  Julie tells me I just need to let the force take over.  I will try.  But I’m not going to like it.

The Summer of ’74

Julie always says my childhood sounds like Sandlot.  We weren’t playing baseball, but there are some similarities.  As I described our summer activities to the girls recently, I think they were surprised by the simplicity of our long summer days.

Boy Land and Girl Land were a favorite of our crew.  If we played Boy Land, the guys would chase the girls, catch them and take them to jail where they would have to do anything we instructed them to do.  Our general antics were jumping jacks, eating grass or stepping on a stack of sandspurs.  Much to my father’s dismay, our yard was full of them.  I preferred Girl Land for some odd reason.  Because there were fewer girls on our street than guys, and because we could run faster than they could, they typically couldn’t catch us until we willingly gave in.  Which we always did out of pity and a desire to see what sort of dares they would have us participate in.  It seems that ours were always better – they lacked the creativity that my brother and I brought to the table.

If it was horribly hot or rainy, we would head to the basement of our split level house and play Seven Minutes in Heaven.  One person would be It.  I always resented that the older kids chose It.  I dreamed of the day I’d hold that power.  It never came.  We moved before I aged up.

It would go to the closet and the remainder of the group would use a form of “one potato, two potato, three potato, four…” where we’d all put both fists up while standing in a circle while the group leader counted us out.  My favorite counting rhyme was:  Ink a bink a bottle of ink, cork fell out and you stink.  It was so much faster than One Potato.

The last one standing entered the dark space through the dark brown, louvered, bi-fold doors to meet It.  My favorite It was Tracy McDonnell, a skinny girl who lived on the cul-de-sac with her very strict military father.  Everyday at noon, regardless of what we were doing, she would have to immediately head home to feed her three dogs.  It was like Cinderella and the striking midnight clock.  Apparently Rounder couldn’t wait ‘til 12:08 for his dog chow.  His feeding time was noon.  She was always on restriction.  I don’t know what she did to deserve her ongoing punishments, but I do know we avoided playing at her house whenever possible for fear we’d do something that might get her in trouble.  Her dad was omnipresent.  He knew if one little dust speck was out of place.  She and her sisters always seemed happier when he was in Vietnam.

Tracy would kiss me in the closet – which was very exciting for a nine-year-old boy.  The other Its might shake my hand, pass gas for a good laugh, or smack me in the head if they couldn’t get their bodily functions to work on cue.

When I was It I always wanted to kiss Jennifer Fair, she was beautiful.  But she was also three years older and my brother’s love interest.  Had I kissed her she might have vomited, and my brother might have punished me in his own, cunning way.  My mother did not tolerate fights, not even verbal spars.  But he could get to me, and I knew it.  He was sort of like the mafia boss of Berkshire Road.

My kids are too old for those kinds of activities, but facing a summer where they may not have their typical camp experiences made me think about my dog days.  We had no camp.  The most exciting thing I ever did on summer vacation was get my tonsils outs.  But I wouldn’t change a thing about my experiences.  I can still taste Vienna Sausages and my mom’s cherry Kool-Aid (from a powder pouch) popsicles.

Dang, we had fun!

A Letter to Myself

DJ and I were talking recently about the insanity that we’ve seen over the past 11 years.  She asked, “If someone had told you what would happen over the past decade, would you have believed it?”

It made me wonder.  What if 54-year-old Danny Tanner could write a letter to 44-year-old Danny Tanner?  What would I say to that naive guy?

May 13, 2020

Dear Danny,

I am you exactly eleven years from now.  It’s May, 2009, where you are, and you’re about to experience one of the best summers of your life!  You have four trips planned:  Yellowstone National Park, the beach, the lake, and your annual trip to West Virginia.  Enjoy every second because when you return, the wheels are gonna come off your bus.

You are about to face the saddest, most difficult time of your life.  Lisa, your incredible wife, will die before this time next year.  The devastation of this loss with change you, your children, and your entire family forever.

You will be pushed beyond your comfort zone in ways you never imagined.  You will tackle things that you thought you’d never have to or never be capable of.  With the support of family and friends, you will move forward.

You will:

  • Raise three incredible girls who will be independent and strong
  • Perform for eight years to sold out crowds at the Duke Energy Center and the Durham Performing Arts Center in the play A Christmas Carol
  • Start a blog (you’ll find out what that is in a year or two) and write a book (I know that’s hard to believe)
  • Pack up and drop off your two oldest kids at college and cry like a baby on your ride home
  • Watch your girls grow in ways you could never imagine

Oh, and in seven years, you will fall in love again, deeply, with a woman who compliments you in amazing ways.  She will love you to death and will give you renewed hope for the future.  To make it a bit more complicated, she lives in Charlotte, NC.  You’re going to spend a lot of time on interstate 85.

Some people you love dearly will struggle with you moving forward.  That will be hard.  Some of the relationships you rely on most deeply now will fade, but new ones will blossom.

A pandemic will break out throughout the world and DJ and Stephanie will move back home – just when you’ve adjusted to being at home with one kid.  You won’t be allowed to leave your house for months and when you do, you will wear a surgical mask even to go buy beer!

You’re gonna come out OK, Danny, a bit bruised and battered, but better in many ways.  I want you to know that because there will be times you won’t think you will.

And by the way, Donald Trump is the President…

My best,

Danny

Pandemic sequestration brings about funny things.  These are my top ten thus far:

10)  At day 14, two weeks after Julie’s son returned from Spain, and after not leaving the house for 42 meals, Julie and her daughter were in the kitchen:

Lizzie:  “If I even detect a meatball being made in this kitchen, I’m outta here.  I need fried food.  Fast.”

9)  On day 8 after going to the drive through laundry mat:

Julie:  “Will, what took you so long?”

Will:  “I took the long way – it burned an extra 15 minutes of this day.”

8)  I learned a new dance:

It’s called Savage… cause I am.

7)  I’ve given up on my middle child’s education.  This is a quote I heard this week with imposed homeschooling:

DJ:  “Stephanie, this is the worst economy since the 1984.”

Stephanie:  “AKA The Great Depression.”

Oh lord.  Didn’t I pay for an American History course?

6)  I’ve given up on my youngest child’s education.  This is another quote I heard this week with more imposed homeschooling:

Michelle:  “Did you know that Abraham Lincoln died in a pandemic?”

Me:  “I don’t know how a lot of presidents died, but I am certain Abraham Lincoln did not die in a pandemic.”

She did correct herself and told me that it was actually President Polk.  She told me he died of diarrhea.  Which I looked up to be sure, and it is true.

5)  Julie texted her hairdresser and sent a photo of an online hair highlight kit.

Julie:  Could I use this?

Hairdresser:  Hi love, no don’t.  You could make a big mess with this.  Wait.

4)  Lunch on day 20…

Julie:  “Stephanie, are you having a good day.”

Stephanie:  Just nods her head – NO – and keeps eating her sandwich.

3)  Zoom meeting in the master bedroom with me; zoom meeting in the den with Julie; zoom meeting in the dining room with DJ; Michelle taking her high school dance class on zoom upstairs in her bedroom – the chandelier bouncing up and down.

2)  Last Sunday morning we called my mom.  She didn’t answer.  We then called my dad.  He picked up.

Me:  “Where is mom.”

Dad:  “She’s right here.”

Me:  “Why didn’t she pick up?”

Dad:  “She didn’t have her makeup on.”

We then called Julie’s mom.  She didn’t answer.  We then called Julie’s dad.  He picked up.

Julie:  “Where is mom.”

Her dad:  “She’s right here.”

Julie:  “Why didn’t she pick up?”

Her dad:  “She hasn’t brushed her hair, and she was afraid Danny would be there with you.”

1)  Bocce ball tourney and picnic – each family member had to bring something to the table with food already in the house:

Julie:  Tuna salad

Stephanie:  Leftover pasta from Wednesday and a frozen pasta dish she brought back from her college dorm

Michelle:   Homemade lemon bars

DJ:  A charcuterie board – with all kinds of great stuff

Danny:  Julia Child’s homemade white bread with butter (only 8 hours to make)

Mmmmmmm –

Stephanie may not know when The Great Depression occurred, but she’s dang good at Bocce!  She won the tourney!

 

 

Moo

I’m sure Southwest Airlines is a great airline.  In fact, when I got stuck in Chicago a few weeks ago, they got my behind back to warmer weather.  Chicago is colder than a seal’s butt-cheek with wind that can freeze the wax in your ears.  The day I was flying out from a conference, the low was slated to get to -2.  That is NOT a typo.  -2.  If you look at a number line, that would be two dots to the left of zero.

Delta must be a warm weather airline, ‘cause they weren’t moving.  My original flight was delayed, multiple times.  I panicked.  I was afraid I might die if I didn’t get out of that climate.  I had to thaw the hair on my chest with a blow dryer every time I got back into my hotel room after walking several blocks from the conference location.

When I got to the airport that Thursday afternoon I remembered why I never fly on the discounted carrier:  the pre-flight corrals.  I was number 47 in the B group.

On Southwest, there are no seat assignments.  When you get to the gate, you get in line.  It is first come, first serve.  I was the 147th person to get on the plane.  It was clear I was going to be in a middle seat.  I could not pay for an upgrade.  It was what it was.

I mooed and got in line.

As I entered the plane, I saw an empty seat on the front row.  I didn’t look at the passengers flanking seat 1B.  I just went for it.  I figured extra leg room and the assurance no one could recline in my lap might make up for the shoulder squeeze.

As I sat, I realized the guy at the window was a big man.  His arm dwarfed mine.  He was leaning on the window working to give me my rightful real estate.  But he couldn’t.  His barrel chest and triceps spilled over like the top of a mushroom from its stem.

Its two hours I thought to myself, and I’ll soon be warm.

The plane backed out of its parking space, waiting for de-icing.  My buddy immediately fell asleep.

He was holding his right wrist with his left hand.  As he dozed, his left hand would relax and fall in my lap.  He would jerk and reassume his original position.  And then, he would repeat this action.  Hand on wrist, doze, flop on me, jerk.  I began counting.  He finally repositioned after 27 cycles.

At one point in the flight, my neighbor tossed up both of his hands and legs and began leaning in my direction.  The flight attendant, the woman beside me and I jerked with surprise.  I thought he was having a seizure.  I shook his shoulder, “Are you alright?  Are you alright?” I aggressively asked.

He awoke.  “Bad dream.  I thought I was falling.”

His head immediately fell back on the window.  He went right back to sleep.

This was not Southwest Airlines fault.  He was just a sleeper which in and of itself makes me mad because I long to snooze on demand.

As late as I booked my flight, I guess it is likely I would have ended up in the middle even with an assigned seat.  But I do much, much prefer to have some control of my fate.  Unassigned is not for me.

 

The Isle of Man

It is so embarrassing that EVERY attorney in town knows that I got a speeding ticket last week.  I got the ticket and within two days, I received FOURTEEN letters from attorneys offering to help me.  I think I am going to call one of them because it really is not fair that I received this TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY DOLLAR fine and blot on my reputation.  I didn’t even mean to speed that day!

I was just minding my own business, listening to A Prayer for Owen Meany, my book on Audible which is like 62 hours long.  I wasn’t even in a hurry, which is very unusual.

Imagine my surprise when this overeager officer, obviously trying to make his end of month quota, flew up behind me.  I was startled!  I looked for an accident around me and pulled over quickly to get out of his way.  And then… he did NOT go around me to help someone in distress, but instead eased in behind me.

I was floored.  Was I in a school zone?  Actually, I may have been.  But it was only 2:13 PM so I knew school wasn’t out yet.

I immediately pulled my YMCA name-tag out of my pocket and laid it on the console, just so he would know I am a nice person (in general, Y people are nice).  I rolled down my window and before I could inquire about why he pulled me over, he said, “Is there a reason that you were going 57 in a 45?”  I wanted to say, “57 is my favorite number.”  Instead, I said, “No.  I didn’t realize I was going 57 in a 45.”  And then I wanted to say, “Why don’t you go catch a criminal or help an old lady cross the street and not bother me?  I am a good person who just doesn’t always pay attention to speed limit signs.”  But I refrained again.  He took my license and walked away.

I have been pulled six other times and only received two tickets, so I was hopeful he would just give me a warning.  On time I really do think my Y shirt got me off because we talked about the officer’s child being in Y after-school.  Another time Lisa was nursing which was very distracting to the officer.  He was so uncomfortable with the whole situation, he just let me go.  When I got pulled speeding more recently in a school zone, for some reason the guy gave me a pass.  I think it is because Michelle was in the car, and I teared up.   Mercy, I just want mercy!  What was this guy’s problem?

Thanks to him, I am going to have to pay a ton of money, and I just drove to the mountains of North Carolina never exceeding five miles over the speed limit.  It took forever, and I felt like such a dweeb.  EVERYONE was passing me.

I don’t even like speed limits.  They are stupid.

I am moving to the Isle of Man off the coast of the United Kingdom.  It is the ONLY country with absolutely no speed limit.  I looked it up on Google.  And it seems like a lovely place.

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