One area of philosophical disagreement between Old Dog and myself is bed-making.
I'm of the pro-bed-making persuasion. I believe that beds should be tidied before one leaves the house. That way, if you die while you're out, everyone who comes to your wake will know you were a good housekeeper. Which, if you're dead, is really important. (Thanks, Mom, for raising me to be a total whack-job.)
Old Dog, on the other hand, is convinced that a) bed-making is an unnecessary activity and b) the sheets should be allowed to air out between snoozes. (That last was courtesy of Dr. Oz.)
Our compromise is that I wait till I return from the gym each morning to make up the bed.
On Tuesday, though, we had to leave the house at 5:30 a.m. for my brother's funeral in Sparta, TN. Not only us, but also my two sisters and two nephews and a grand-nephew who were here for my uncle's funeral. All utilizing two bathrooms. (I grew up with nine people sharing two baths. I have no idea how we managed that.) Anyway, I wound up running out the door with the bed unmade.
Fast forward to Wednesday afternoon, when I arrived home to evidence that a bird had somehow gotten into the house. I kept wiping up the spots (seriously, do those things just fly around and streaming guano like a jet trail?) and looking fearfully over my shoulder (because birds are rats with wings and they freak me out).
But I honestly didn't think too much about it till bedtime, when I entered the bedroom and discovered that our bird-visitor had interpreted the tumble of covers on the bed as a nest. In the center of the comforter were a mass of tiny feathers and several helpings of--you got it--bird shit.
Geeeeeeeeeeeeeh.
Okay. I'm better now.
Anyway, proof-positive, in case you need it: BEDS SHOULD BE MADE EVERY DAY.
(Yes, you read correctly. We lost both my uncle and my brother in a very short span of time. Life on this planet really sucks sometimes.)
Friday, October 25, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
The Rarest of Men
My Uncle Curt was the rarest of men--one who could talk on the phone.
Because he was able to carry on a conversation via telephone, we talked every month or so. He'd call (that's right--he had a working dialing finger, too) and update me on what was going on in his life and his kids' lives, and then he'd ask about mine.
He had four kids of his own--now grown--but he had enough room left over in his heart and mind to be interested in what was going on with his sister's offspring, too. He kept track of my extended family--no mean feat, given that I have 6 siblings, 9 nephews and nieces and 15 grand nieces and nephews, not to mention my own voluminous family--and was genuinely interested in what was going on with each of them. Over the past few years, I stayed up-to-date on their lives at least partly because I knew there'd be a quiz.
One of the reasons he knew all those kids was because he spent time with them when they were young. Some he took fishing, others he taught to shoot a bow, still others to fire a pistol and hit a target. Looking back, I'm floored by the amount of energy he poured over such a large group of kids. His heart may not have been strong, but it was huge.
Curt's health went downhill in recent years, but each time he called his update on that topic was always brief and upbeat. He wouldn't complain about his situation, he'd just tell me what was going on, maybe make a joke of it. (When the adhesive on the bag you're using as a bladder doesn't stick properly
, you've got excellent fodder for jokes if you're of that mindset.)
We didn't agree on everything--we'd go ten rounds every time the subject of Obamacare came up--but his affection and concern for me, and for so many people, were non-negotiable.
Take him for all in all
Goodbye, Uncle Curt. I'll miss you.
Because he was able to carry on a conversation via telephone, we talked every month or so. He'd call (that's right--he had a working dialing finger, too) and update me on what was going on in his life and his kids' lives, and then he'd ask about mine.
He had four kids of his own--now grown--but he had enough room left over in his heart and mind to be interested in what was going on with his sister's offspring, too. He kept track of my extended family--no mean feat, given that I have 6 siblings, 9 nephews and nieces and 15 grand nieces and nephews, not to mention my own voluminous family--and was genuinely interested in what was going on with each of them. Over the past few years, I stayed up-to-date on their lives at least partly because I knew there'd be a quiz.
One of the reasons he knew all those kids was because he spent time with them when they were young. Some he took fishing, others he taught to shoot a bow, still others to fire a pistol and hit a target. Looking back, I'm floored by the amount of energy he poured over such a large group of kids. His heart may not have been strong, but it was huge.
Curt's health went downhill in recent years, but each time he called his update on that topic was always brief and upbeat. He wouldn't complain about his situation, he'd just tell me what was going on, maybe make a joke of it. (When the adhesive on the bag you're using as a bladder doesn't stick properly
, you've got excellent fodder for jokes if you're of that mindset.)
We didn't agree on everything--we'd go ten rounds every time the subject of Obamacare came up--but his affection and concern for me, and for so many people, were non-negotiable.
Take him for all in all
He was a man.
I shall not look upon his like again.
Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2
Goodbye, Uncle Curt. I'll miss you.
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