Ghost Busters We're Not

 

“You put us in a hotel that is HAUNTED?”

Thirty minutes after booking the room for our overnighter in Sedalia, I discovered that the hotel of my choice, the glorious Hotel Bothwell in downtown Sedalia, had been featured on one of those hauntedhotel shows. Kelly and I decided not to tell the girls, but I wondered if maybe that’s why a small suite at the Bothwell cost no more than a standard room at the Best Western.

 

They found out when their cheerleader friends at the fairgrounds asked where they were sleeping that night. “We can’t stay there, we can’t stay there, we're hungry, we can't stay there” they shouted all the way across town. “Look,” I said in my best now-girls-let’s-be-reasonable voice, “all the so-called paranormal activity only happens on the third floor. There are seven floors, so the chances of us getting a room on the third floor are slim.”

 

Kelly and the girls checked in while I got the rest of our luggage, and I heard familiar screams and nervous laughter as I walked in. Kelly held up our room key, clearly marked 320. “We’re doomed,” one of the girls moaned.

It was a tense ride up the elevator. The girls didn’t notice the fabulous lobby, with the crystal chandelier, the brilliant polished wood and the gleaming brass, the lovely fabrics on the chairs and walls. It was stunning.

 

They jumped at every step, every shadowy doorway, every corner. They balked entering the room, holding each other and screeching. They went to the bathroom with the door open.

It took hours for them to settle down as their imaginations took hold of them. Of course, Kelly and I didn’t help, scratching on their door, turning out lights, making sudden “what’s that” sounds and “buwawhahaaaa” laughs.

 

It was actually a lot of fun, for at least two of us. Apparently the ghosts are accused of stealing small trinkets during the night, so Kelly and I tempted them with her cheer pin. It was still there when we awoke, so perhaps the spirits had the weekend off.

 

Haunted or not, I love these old grand hotels with their aging luxury. They are like scenes from movies, romantic old movies. They are packed with history, and the Bothwell, built in 1927, is no exception. Like all these old places, famous people visited often, including Harry Truman and Scott Joplin. And now, our girls.

 

We are going back again, but next time, sans children. The ghosts will have to decide for themselves. The girls won't be there to scare them off....

And Aubrey Is Their Names

Like me, Aubrey has two middle names. Anne, from her mother, and Everly from, of course, the Everly Brothers. Her last name comes from me, at least until she marries. She knows all of that. What she doesn’t know is how her first name was chosen.

 

Partly, it is from the Bread song, as she thinks, but mostly it comes from this guy. His name is Aubrey, and I really liked his name.

 

 

When I was playing basketball, Aubrey was one of the guys who used to come. He was an excellent and generous basketball player, not afraid to take the shot, but unlike most of the guys, he wasn’t afraid to pass or to set a pick or to play defense. That always made him fun to play with, but mostly I liked him because he was a genuinely nice guy. A nice enough guy that I named a child after him.

Nearly 15 years later, I bumped in to Aubrey the other night at the store. I knew I recognized him, but couldn’t place him. Work somewhere? One of the colleges? Oh, I know. Basketball. I introduced myself, and he remembered right away. He was taken aback when I told him about his namesake, visibly moved. “Well, that is a real honor,” he said.

 

 

 

If he knew my Aubrey, he would know exactly how true that is.

Turns Out Cheer Season And Duck Season Aren't As Similar As One Might Think

 

Libby is in the thick of cheer season, with basketball games at school and regional competitions with her competitive squad nearly every weekend.

You would not believe the people who go to these things. They are all, um, enthusiastic, and involved, and LOUD and there are a LOT of them. They participate, man, and cheer for their cheerleaders.

 

My views on cheerleaders at sporting events are pretty well known, at least among the half dozen people who read this blog, but I’m all for these competitive teams. The girls – mostly girls, there are some boys – are in pretty good shape and do some impressive stunts.

 

For example, look at how high these flyers are. The ugly backdrop makes it hard to see them, but they are way up there.

 

Libby is very good and getting better. I’m proud of her. She doesn’t know it, but with her hair done up for cheer, with the big bows, I think she looks like Julie Newmar.

 

Competitions are long and exhausting for parents, but rewarding. The music is awful. And loud.

 

As Kelly says, “the bigger the cheer bow, the better the cheer mom.”

Oh Brothers! Six Boys, A Dad And One Tired Mother

 

My mom asked that her six sons get together. She didn’t say, no one said, you know, one last time, or before it’s too late. She just asked that we come because she wanted to see us, so we made a plan. Some flew in, some drove in, some already live there, but the six of us spent parts of four days together for the first time in a long time. Someone said it had been eight years, someone said it had been longer, but that’s just the kind of thing some people say.

 

My children were worried that something was wrong with grandpa, and I’m not sure I convinced them otherwise. That thought crossed my mind, too, but actually dad seemed healthier, stronger, more alert than he’s been in years. That’s due to how well my mother takes care of him.

I have a photo from the last time the six of us were together. We look about the same, I guess. There’s just less hair and about 200 pounds more of us. There’s been some divorces and some marriages, some children and some grandchildren. There have been several moves, many career changes, and a lot of ups and downs in all the ways life can change. The one thing that remains, though, the one constant, is that we still make each other laugh.

The highlight of our time together was all the stories. Jeff called them lies, and there was some exaggeration, sure, but mostly it was a lot of “remember that time….” And we do remember the time. We don’t all remember it the same ways, but remember it we do: the time Doodle broke my teeth, the time I stabbed the knife into Gary Jo's foot, the time Jeff cracked Gary Jo upside the head with a baseball bat, the games and fights with neighbors, all the stuff kids do.

 

My brothers still love TV sports, so there was lots of football and hockey and a little golf. I don’t follow sports anymore, and found the broadcasts dull and uninspired, but it was nice just sitting with them. Of course, we watched on big screen TVs with those recorders that let you skip commercials. When we were boys, if the football Cardinals were at home, we had to go outside and physically turn the antennae, pointing it in the general direction of Cape Girardeau. If it was overcast, the reception was poor, but it improved when one of us actually touched the antennae pole. So we took turns standing out there in the cold, so the others could get the snowy images of our favorite team. What a difference.

 

I stayed with my brother Jeff and his new wife, Bridget, who took excellent care of us and fed us well. At Gary Jo’s, he showed us his baseball Cardinals room, stuffed with hundreds and hundreds of St. Louis souvenirs from the past 50 years. His basement is wall-to-wall Beatles stuff, everything you can imagine, from dolls to lunch boxes to pins to posters, again, hundreds and hundreds of really cool and rare things.

 

Doodle is still everyone’s favorite, wherever we went, and if you look at the photos on Facebook, most of the comments are for or about Doodle. I knew I should have learned to tap dance.

We said we would all get together a couple summers from now, and I hope we do.

And Baby Makes Half A Dozen, So Far....

Our daughter Carrie had a healthy little boy this morning, our sixth grandchild, but the first boy born into the family in 30 years. My second child, Brad, has been surrounded by girls for those three decades, but seems to have thrived on it.

As for me, having grown up the second oldest of six brothers, with no sisters, it has been a wonderful adventure having so many daughters and granddaughters, but we are all excited about this baby boy. His name is Nico.

 

Here are some photos I’ve received this week of the other grandchildren, six and counting. Am I lucky or what?

Our little Sadie, just turned 2.

Brianne, Aspen and Callie, three wonderful little girls

Our Lucy, getting so big.

 

Is Kelly Lucky Or What (Especially At Christmas)

We were married on New Year’s Day, a Monday, a new beginning in many ways. Since then, I’ve described myself as the luckiest man on earth, and that remains true.

 

I am lucky to have Kelly, but here’s a modest reminder of how lucky she is to have me, a man who likes having someone to do things for.

 

 

One night, after a long day of shopping the flea markets, she set up this lovely display of her plates on our bedroom wall. She was unhappy to leave “a hole” where one more plate should go, but she was nearly falling over for want of sleep. I’ve lived with her long enough to know that once she gets to that point, she is useless for anything but sleep. As I tucked her in, she whispered, “If you loved me you would put up one more plate….” And then she was out.

I figured it couldn’t be that hard. Kelly had put up 11 plates already, and only broke two, so I could probably manage. But she was out of plates, and out of the wire racks to hang one with. So I did the next best thing, what any man in love would do to prove his devotion. I went downstairs to the cupboard and found the exactly right shaped and patterned paper plate to fill in for the time being, until we could make another trip to the thrift stores.

 

When Kelly awoke the next morning, she noticed the plate first thing, and showered me with affection. She was so excited, so pleased, that she took photos to share with her friends in Blogland. She is still so happy with my act of kindness, these many months later, that she refuses my offer to put up a real plate in place of the paper one. She's sentimental that way.

 

While installing Christmas decorations a few weeks ago, we found a small pink tree that our daughter Carrie left behind. With her permission, I set it up for Kelly in our sitting room, because I know she loves pink Christmas trees and I know how much she loves the twinkle lights. Few things bring Kelly as much joy as sock monkeys, so I thought “what better for this little tree than her favorite sock monkey,” this pink little guy with the big smile. Kelly came in and saw the tree, then saw the toy on top, and she squealed with delight. More kisses came my way, I’ll tell you that.

 

Kelly’s new favorite place to sit is right under this tree, with the monkey man watching. While there has been talk of having to take down all the trees and decorations in the rest of the house here in a couple of days, she has not mentioned taking down the pink tree. It just means too much to her. She's sentimental that way.

 

On the porch, we have a white tree, another flea market find, which Kelly says she has always wanted. The ornaments are all pretty, but they are plastic, because they are exposed to the sun and wind and rain. The topper on this tree, a colorful keepsake from one of our many trips to Wendy’s, a family favorite, has become a tradition for us, and a reminder of what really matters.

 

This disposable display is highlighted by a used paper cup. The neighbors might call it trash, but to us it represents the true meaning of holiday celebrations. Ultimately, everything we have is disposable, and all the gifts and foods and trappings of Christmas mean little. Some people may have a perfect Martha Stewart magazine-cover Christmas, but neglect each other. What matters, what really lasts, is our family, each person, each individual. The love and kindness that we share, the bonds we form that will never be broken, that is what Christmas really means, and the humble little tree on our humble little porch helps us to never forget.

 

Here, Aubrey shows that she has learned the lesson, too. Awwww….

 

So I ask you. Is Kelly lucky or what?

Enough Already With The Ancient Christmas Carols

 

One drudgery of Christmas season – which, as you know, is much, much too long, starting in mid-October – is the tired old Christmas carols the stores insist on playing. Perhaps they assume it makes people more, what, festive, to hear those sleigh bells in the snow, but mostly it just annoys people.

We need some new Christmas music, not just more tedious remakes by whatever singers happen to be popular today.

Every year I try to buy one or two Christmas CDs, or downloads the past two years, hopeful that the new recordings will make a difference, but generally they do not. This year was an exception, as I came across some pretty good music, and added two songs to my favorites list.

First was Christmas Cello by Steven Sharp Nelson, aka one of The Piano Guys. The entire set is wonderful, perfect for decorating the tree, as we did (at least one of our trees), or for just having as background while reading, or talking, or doing dishes. My favorite is Simple Gifts, which is simply beautiful.

Next was Christmas Island by the one and only LeonRedbone. The title track is excellent, but my favorite, barely beating out That Old Christmas Moon, is Christmas Ball Blues. Great for dancing in the kitchen with the one you love, and if you ender up under the mistletoe, even better.

So here’s my updated list of Five Favorite Christmas Songs, with a tie for the bottom spot:

 

1. Merry Christmas Baby, Elvis Presley (another great one for dancing in the kitchen, when the kids aren’t home)
2. You’re All I Want For Christmas, Brook Benton
3. Baby, It’s Cold Outside, Brian Setzer and Ann-Margret (although the Ann-Margret Al Hirt version is much more sensual)
   
4. Christmas Ball Blues, Leon Redbone
5. Christmas Wish, She & Him
   Simple Gifts, Steven Sharp Nelson

What are your favorites?

White Christmas Is A Scam

WARNING! FRAUD ALERT! If you are about to snuggle up in front of the DVD player to watch WhiteChristmas, be warned that it is not a Christmas movie. Except for the opening minutes where Bing Crosby sings the song, and then, of course, the closing minutes where the women in those beautiful red robes join in the singing, there is no mention of Christmas. None. The plot has nothing to do with Christmas. The story line is not about Christmas. Except for one brief mention of doing their show on Christmas Eve, NO ONE SAYS A WORD ABOUT CHRISTMAS in the entire movie. It’s a scam.

These movies are more about Christmas than White Christmas because they mention Christmas or have more Christmas decorations in them:

Die Hard

Lethal Weapon

Dirty Harry

Gremlins

Trading Places

Goodfellas

When Harry Met Sally

Edward Scissorhands

Brazil

Batman Returns

The Godfather for Pete’s sake.

Or even Life Of Brian.

I’m not saying White Christmas is not a good movie. I’m just asking you to not be fooled. Watch Crosby sing White Christmas on YouTube if you must, but then go watch a real Christmas movie, like Steve Martin in Mixed Nuts. You’ll thank me for it. Ho ho ho.

Another Christmas Tree For My Brother's Birthday

 

Today is my older brother’s birthday, which has many fond memories because December 17 was the day our mother finally let us put up the Christmas tree. It never crossed my mind that Gary Jo  might have thought he was cheated, having a birthday so close to, you know, the BIG holiday, and having his party overshadowed by trimming the tree. If it bothered him, I never knew it.

Nor would I have cared, because getting the tree and decorating it was a BIG deal at our house, and we waited for it for months. Four of the six of us shared one big room, half of our basement, and we used to count down the last 65 days until Christmas. And before that, we would count down the days until October 22, when we could start counting down.

As the 17th approached, one of us would get to ride along with dad to Heck’s IGA, where they had a rack of bundled trees leaning up against the building every year. Dad would carefully check each one to get the one that seemed just right, and he always did get it right. We never had a bad tree.

One year, when I was 12, dad let me pick the tree, and it was a thrilling and terrible responsibility. He never minded the mess of needles and sap. He loved the smell and the texture. Our decorations were simple: bright red and blue and green and white and yellow lights as big as his thumb, hand-glittered glass ornaments, and 20 boxes of tensel, placed carefully and evenly, one strand at a time.

Every tree we had growing up was fabulous, but no matter how fabulous, my mom had them down and out on the trash heap by noon, December 26.

 

 

Now, on the other hand, we feel bad taking any of our seven trees down before February, and I admit there was at least one year it was still up on April Fool’s Day. This year, so far, anyway, we have a white tree on the porch, the big green tree in the living room, another white tree in the dinning room, a silver tree in the baking kitchen, a pink tree in our bedroom, a mulit-colored tree in Libby's room and another silver one in Aubrey's room. The other green tree, we gave to Lydia for her new house. That's normal. Right?

 

 

Lennon? Pearl Harbor? What Does What We Remember Mean?

 

I’ve remembered for a week or so that today, December 8, is the anniversary of John Lennon’s murder in 1980.

Yesterday, it wasn’t until I saw part of a newscast that I remembered December 7, 1941, and the horrors at Pearl Harbor. December 7, of course.

 

My children, at least the two still at home, were unaware of the significance of either date. “Why should we know that?” one of them said. Right now, they are in our bedroom with Kelly discussing the most important date they have, December 21, 2012.

I wonder how much that is a sign of some generational difference in cultural literacy, or whether that’s just representative of our insensitivity and absence of gratitude. Am I the only one to either lack or have such a distorted historical consciousness?

I apologize to veterans and their families everywhere, especially those who served in WWII. And to John Lennon fans, I still feel your pain. As for December 21, I guess we’ll just have to see, but I suspect it will be an even bigger dud than Y2K. Just in case, though, I'm postponing any Christmas shopping or trips to the mall until the 22nd....

 

___

 

Images of front pages from here and here.

You Gotta Love A Good Movie, Which Is Why I Don’t Love The Breaking Dawn Saga

 

Last year, the girls dragged me out in the middle of the night for the opening of the new people turning into dogs movie, Breaking Wind. No, wait, that’s not right. Breaking Dawn. Sorry.

This year, Grace saw it with college friends, and Libby was out of town with her dad, so Aubrey and I went to see Dogs Into People, Part 2, just the two of us. This one was a better movie than the Part 1, but that’s like saying shooting yourself in the foot is better than shooting yourself in both feet.

 

When Libby came back, it turned out that she hadn’t seen the movie, like I thought she said she would, so she and Aubrey and I went back to the theater. Only Aubrey was excited about a second viewing. It was fun being with the girls, especially going out for doughnuts after, but I’m glad this is the last of the Twilight movies.

 

 

 

In the past two years, I’ve seen Breaking Dawn 1, Breaking Dawn 2 twice, and The Lorax (read about it here). So I’m not a big movie goer. Perhaps the reason is that the movies just don’t move me like they used to.

 

 

Years ago, I went with a buddy to see one of the Rocky movies, where Stalone fought the Russian. We were the last two people seated, back row, middle. The movie progressed like all the other Rocky movies, and everyone was caught up in the excitement when Rocky began his inevitable comeback. But no one more so than my friend, who, when Rocky finally delivered the telling blow, leaped to his feet, shook his fist at the screen and screamed, “Take that, you Commie fag.”

 

You gotta love a good movie.

In Honor Of Zig Ziglar’s Passing

 

Zig Ziglar passed away last week, at age 86. He was one of the best.

My first exposure to motivational books on tape was Zig Ziglar. At age 18, I applied to a want ad that said “Christians Wanted,” and ended up selling cookware across the state with a bunch of boys from one of the local Baptist colleges. While I sometimes doubted the level of their Christian devotion on the road, there was no questioning the quality of their listening material. I enjoyed Ziglar’s humor and humility, and what he said sounded good to me.

I have lots of favorites among Ziglar’s many stories, but there’s only one I shared with my students every semester. During the lesson on language and word choice, I’d run through this exercise, swiped from Ziglar. You take this simple sentence:

I did not say your wife was ugly.

Then you change the meaning of the sentence just by which word you emphasize. Try it yourself.

I did not say your wife was ugly.

I did not say your wife was ugly.

I did not say your wife was ugly.

I did not say your wife was ugly.

I did not say your wife was ugly.

I did not say your wife was ugly.

For speech students, it’s an effective illustration. What makes it memorable for me, though, is that as I would work through the list, changing the emphasis on each repeat of the sentence, I couldn’t help but assume a distinct southern accent, like Ziglar’s.

So Zig, now I guess we’ll see you at the top….

Somehow My Plan Is Askew - What Would Bill Murray Do?

 

It’s so easy to take everyday things for granted: family and friends, cars, refrigeration, grocery stores, indoor plumbing.

Remember Bill Murray in Groundhog Day? He has this remarkable experience where he awakes to the same day, day after day. It makes him miserable and he goes through a seemingly endless repetition of gloomy days, a one-day season of doom. Eventually, he comes up with a plan to improve himself – he learns piano, for example – and to help people in the small town. And, of course, to woo Andie MacDowell (lucky boy).

It isn't until he realizes that he is only happy serving others, living for others, that he is able to break through the mundane routine of his day-to-day existence. The value of his life becomes obvious to him only after he recognizes the value in life around him.

 

 

While John Lennon may have been right singing that “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans,” life is too valuable and too short to not have a plan.

As Bill Murray eventually discovered, a good plan includes goals for making money and for giving it away. A good plan includes time for family and for fun. A good plan includes good health habits, diet and exercise, and mental stimulation. A good plan includes other people.

As Andie MacDowell says to Murray, “You couldn’t have planned a day like this,” remember his response, “Well, you can. But it takes an awful lot of work.”

 

I need to work on my plan.

 

I Have No Accordion, Thanks To My Dad

 

You would think that one way to have peace in your home is to not have an accordion, but it didn’t work out that way for us. My grandmother, my dad’s mom, loved her accordion, and like most things she did, she played with gusto. This was a woman who, following a divorce, could not find work, so she dressed herself as a man and worked for more than a year as a lumberjack before her gender was discovered.

Before she died, my grandmother gave her beautiful, old accordion to my dad. Her desire was that one of his sons would learn to play.

 

A few years later, my dad, to raise money for church, donated a number of things from our house, including his mother’s accordion. It was one of his only mementoes of her life, and it sold for a small portion of its value. I remember my mom being angry about it, but I was impressed by his choice.

I don’t suppose there is a way to measure the loss in anyone’s life from not being able to play the accordion. Neither do I suppose there is a way to measure the blessing of having a good father, a man who keeps his word, and shows that doing what is right takes more than words.

Thanks, dad.

 

_____

 

Check out the accordion photo here.