Grampy Lash

We are nearing forty-eight  hours without electrical service now, but Claudia is eating a bowl of ice cream from our freezer. It was still frozen hard enough that it was difficult for her to scoop – thanks to dry ice.

Yesterday, word was circulating in our neighborhood that Praxair, which is nearby, was selling dry ice at reduced cost as their way of helping the community deal with the inconvenience that had been inflicted upon the people of our town by a damaging storm. So, we grabbed a couple of coolers, hopped in the truck and drove the short distance to the Praxair store. Prior to this time, I didn’t know this store existed, even though the factory had been there long before my birth. There was a gentleman ahead of us who was completing his purchase who, knowing that the dry ice was selling below cost, jokingly asked if there might be a senior citizen veteran discount. Claudia quickly chimed in, asking if there might be a discount for Praxair stockholders. I further inquired if there might be a discount if my wife’s father had retired from Praxair. She is and he did. The man behind the counter took it in stride of course.

When the gentleman ahead of us paid his bill, he asked that the change be put in a kitty if there was one. The man behind the counter said he would put it in their military service fund. I knew right then that I would do the same. It was our turn next. The man behind the counter told us we would need five squares, the cost would be $16. I handed him a twenty dollar bill and quickly told him to put the change in the military service fund. As he handed me the receipt, he told me that I had just purchased $80 worth of dry ice. To further show my gratitude, I peeled out a $5 bill and asked him to add it to the fund as well. He thanked us and directed us to the loading dock to pick up our dry ice.

The man on the loading dock said he could get two squares of dry ice in one little cooler and maybe three in the other. Just then, the man behind the counter approached and told the man on the loading dock, “these folks contributed to our military service fund,” turned and went back into the store. The man on the loading dock looked at my second cooler and said, “I don’t think that will work. Let me put the remainder in a cardboard box that is large enough instead. It will be okay.” He soon returned with a box, tightly packed, with the top carefully folded over. As he handed the box to me, he said, “I put a little something extra in there for you,” and gave a little wink. When we got home, I discovered a sixth square of dry ice.

I’m sure that during these past seventy-two hours, there have been many “good turns” that have brought about many more “good turns”. I never would have thought that purchasing something as cold as dry ice could have been such a heart-warming experience.

July 15, 2015

Yesterday, I decided to hop in my truck and drive out to visit my mom and dad at Manorcare.  During the 30 minute drive I heard the familiar ‘hoo-hoo’ alerting me that a text message had arrived. It was from my wife, didn’t appear to be an emergency, and would have to wait until I had safely reached my destination before being perused.

Upon arrival, and having parked, I quickly checked the message:

We are in the process of planning a family trip to Holiday World in Santa Clause, Indiana this coming July, and in order for us to stay reasonably close with our kids who have campers, decided to reserve some camping spaces at the renowned Lake Rudolph Campground & R.V. Resort. We don’t own a camper. Neither does Josh and Jodi. So, we thought it might be fun to rent a site with an existing super-size king RV trailer and share it with Josh, Jodi, and their girls. Claudia had just successfully drawn our lodging plans together, and I felt she deserved a special reply.

After greeting my parents, and having comfortably seated myself, I took the opportunity of the awkward silence that often occurs during these visits to craft a reply to Claudia’s message in the form of a clever and charming response that I thought she deserved for her accomplishment:

That should make her chuckle! I thought to myself, and smugly awaited her reply.

Hoo-hoo, chimed my phone before I had finished my last thought:

“Holy shit! What just happened?” I mumbled to myself as I read the unanticipated response from my daughter-in law.

“What did you say?” croaked my mother.

“Nothing Mom! Just a problem with my phone,” as I quickly thumbed to the top of the message page:

Holy shit again! I thought to myself upon discovering that this was NOT a private message thread. How stupid was that, and How do I smooth this over?

This was the best I could do:

I know. It was pretty lame, but what more could you expect from a super-sized goof anyway.

I guess I’ll have to try and be a little more careful from now on.  Avoiding ribaldry would probably help too.

For those of us who have become wearisome of the winter season with several weeks more to go, it is easy to see what may be interpreted as early signs of the forthcoming spring time. The robins are returning to my backyard, the golden hue is showing more strongly through the drab green backs of the gold finches, and the periscopes of daffodils are probing through the surface of the ground – and the sudden desire of someone I know, to pee on some ants.

This past weekend, Rachel and Aaron spent the night with us. When any of our grandchildren come to visit, one of the things we always seem to end up doing is watching, what has become known as, “Popaw’s Christmas Video”. Every year, just in time for our traditional family Christmas Eve get-together, I prepare a video comprised of my favorite photographs and video clips that have accumulated since the previous Christmas; about five hundred pics and vids synchronized with some catchy tunes. Everyone seems to enjoy it, especially the grandkids.

So, we were watching the 2014 edition of “Popaw’s Christmas Video”, Edie Brickell was singing, “I was barefoot, in the creek,” and a photo of Aaron standing barefoot in the creek is on display. Without warning Aaron blurts out, “I want to pee on the ants!”

“You what? Did you just say you want to pee on some ants?”

“Yeah,” seeming genuinely pleased with himself for coming up with that line. “Remember when we went to the park last summer, and you wanted me to pee on the ants?”

True dat! I confess. Guilty as accused.

Claudia and I had indeed taken Rachel and Aaron to the park in Danville last summer. They love to go to this park. It has nice playground equipment and a shallow little creek that winds through, and a bouncing suspension bridge that I can remember fearing to cross when I was a little kid. Hot and sultry it was that day, and before long the kids were ready to peel off their shoes and socks and  go for a refreshing wade in this little creek with a big name; the West Fork White Lick Creek.

No sooner than his feet were wet and caked with sand, Aaron stared dancing and grabbing at his lower extremities. “I have to pee! Now!” Of course, the bathroom was on the other side of the park, and it was easy to determine by his vigorous dancing and grabbing that we would not be able to make the distance.

“Come on Aaron. Let’s go up the bank here and find a nice big bush.” The dancing and grabbing momentarily abated.

“Why?”

“So you can pee… you know, behind the bush. It’s either that or pee in your pants boy.”

Reluctantly his little hand took mine, and we soon found the perfect bush just as the fits of jumping and grabbing were beginning to return. He finally was able to relax and let it go, let it go, let it go. And just beyond the arc was a gathering of a very busy army of ants.

“Quick Aaron! Pee on those ants!” I yelled.

“What?” Then, “No!” he shrieked. The sudden sight of billions of ants was too much for this little boy who was apparently working hard just to pee outside for the first time. No way was he going to pee on those ants. He abruptly ran out of ammo and was already turning to make a hasty retreat back down the bank towards the comfort of the sandy creekside; totally ignoring my plea of how much fun it was to pee on ants.

A new harbinger was unknowingly established that day. Now we have a new early sign for spring; the urge to pee on some ants. And not just any ants either. When the temperature is just right, when the bushes become full enough with their leaves to hide a little boy and his grandpa, we’re going to head out to Danville park next to the West Fork White Lick Creek and pee on some ants.

With love,

S.E. Lash

February 11, 2015

It’s Friday night and I’m on my way to a Mardi Gras dance with my dates. That’s right. Dates. Plural. My wife knows about this too. We have an open relationship, no secrets, and she is fully aware of what I am doing. Two of my granddaughters are securely seat-belted into their booster seats in the back seat, Kidz Bop tunes playing on the radio, and we’re on our way to the big father-daughter Mardi Gras themed dance at Maple Grove Elementary School.

My son, Josh, had called me several days earlier with a casual, but somewhat urgent request. He had to be out of town during the weekend of Ali’s and Haleigh’s father-daughter dance; “Would you like to take them to the dance?”

I arrived precisely at 6:30 to pick them up, hoping to make a good first impression for the evening. Shirt, tie, double-breasted blazer,nose and ear hair trimmed, and two dainty bracelet corsages – and a bag of Grammy’s gluten free pretzels for Zoey who would not be going with us. Of course, they weren’t quite ready when I arrived, so I took a seat and listened to the girlie-girl chatter from upstairs as their mother crafted their hair into soft golden spirals that would be appropriate for the event.

Eight-year-old Alizabeth was the first to greet me; red dress bow-tied at the waist, black top, and coral blue eyes. She grabbed a chair, shoved it next to the kitchen counter, and climbed up to get her Mardi Gras mask from atop the refrigerator. She quickly modeled the mask for me, and as she was taking it off, Ali smiled coyly and asked, “Do you know why my daddy asked you to take us to the dance tonight?”

“I would love to know!”

“Because you taught him everything he knows,” letting me know how she felt as to the way that I fit into the grand scheme of things. I did have to confess to her that I could only possibly take credit for a very small portion of what her daddy knows (both good and bad I must further confess).

Next came almost-six-year-old Haleigh looking equally radiant; purple dress bow-tied at the waist, black top, sparkling smile framed by her full sweet cheeks, topped off with her tropical blue eyes. She also took the same path to grab her Mardi Gras mask that her daddy had helped prepare.

They seemed a little nonplussed when I presented their corsages to them, but after a brief explanation, the girliness once again took hold and their eagerness to get to the dance propelled us all out the door. We were soon in the truck and on our way, seat belts buckled, Kidz Bops playing softly, and one more soon to be memorable touch; a request from the dark cavernous back seat of my Toyota Tundra pickup truck.

“Can I turn on the light, Popaw?” asked Ali.

“Sure baby girl.”

On came the light, then a soft sigh, followed by, “I feel like I’m riding in a magical carriage to the ball.”

It was a magical evening – and Zoey loved her pretzels!

With love,

S.E. Lash

February 10, 2015

Claudia and I take daily walks together with rare exceptions. One such variance from this daily norm occurred just recently. Brian was building a new storage shed in his back yard and we both wanted to see the early stages of construction. Claudia however, had a few errands to run, so we split our routine; I would walk to Brian’s house and she would run her errands and walk over to meet me later that morning. At about the time I had expected her to arrive, my phone jangles; guess who?

“I’m on my way over, walking down Winton Avenue now, ” she says somewhat breathlessly, “and I’m having some problems – I need some help…”

I leapt from my observation chair in a mild adrenalin rush, thinking something bad was happening, prepared to rush to her aid.

“There’s something wrong with my iPhone music!” Her tone of voice sounded as if her ankles might have been under attack by an untethered shih tzu. “It won’t play a song without skipping to the next one.”

“Uhh,” as I retreated back to my observation post, “I’ll check it out when you get here and see what the problem might be.”

“No, I want to fix it now so I can listen to my music without interruption!” she demanded.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked in conditioned submission.

“Well, it was playing a Barbara Streisand song, then boodle-ee-oop and it jumped to Alan Jackson.”

Doesn’t sound like a problem to me, I think to myself. “Okay, kill the iTunes app, start it fresh and see if that solves the problem.” This was clearly a delay tactic that would keep her busy until she arrived. The carpenter was about to raise a wall section and I did not want to miss anything while trying to trouble shoot iTunes problems over the iPhone.

“It didn’t work! The first song I tried went boodle-ee-oop and jumped to the next song. I’m almost there anyway, so you can look at it when I get there,” she frustratingly reported.

A few minutes later the iPhone is in my face. “Here! See if you can fix it!”

So, I fired up iTunes on her iPhone and suffered through an uninterrupted Barbara Striesand song, then Liza Minnelli followed by some more Barbara; nary a  boodle-ee-oop. I shrugged my shoulders and sheepishly returned the device to my wife.

“I supposed it worked for you…”

“Yes.”

And here it comes, the rhetorical question of the day. “How come it worked for you, but not for me?”

Trying to keep my sometimes sarcastic self reined in, I respond with a series of IT type trouble-shooting questions to at least try to come up with an answer:

“Did you maybe drop it this morning?” “No!”

“Did you perhaps drop something on it?” “NO!”

“How were you carrying your phone when you first noticed the problem?”

Her frustration was beginning to flow like a slowly rising tide. “I carried it in my pocket, and when it boodle-ee-ooped, I took it out and held it by the edges like this!” And she kind of shook it at me.

Ahh, finally making some headway. “Were you carrying it in your hip pocket by any chance?”

“Yes, and that’s when it first boodle-ee-ooped.”

And then my epiphany. I had a vision of my sweet little girlfriend, briskly strutting down Winton Avenue, listening to the peppy beats of Barbara, picking up the pace, shaking those hips just enough to – BOODLE-EE-OOP! Next it’s Alan Jackson – BOODLE-EE-OOP! Next comes Brad Paisley and she yanks her iPhone out of her hip pocket and gives it a little inquisitive what’s-wrong-with-you shake. BOODLE-EE-OOP, back to Barbara.

“Let me see your phone, I think I know the cause of your problem.”

Let’s see now. Settings. Music. Shake to Shuffle. Green. On. EUREKA! I change it to off. Problem solved.

“Fixed your iPhone!” I declared, in the same manner as Clark Griswold had proclaimed that he had fixed the newel post.

Claudia is naive, to say the least, when dealing with any electronic device (other than her sewing machine), and she was so grateful I think I might have been able to have my way with her right then and there in Brian’s storage shed; if it had been finished and no one else was around.

“Oh, thank you so much! How did you fix it?” she cooed.

“It was easy,” I smugly replied. “I just went to your iPhone settings and set the shake-your-ass-to-shuffle to off.”

“Huh?”

“Now you can shake that little bum as much as you like and boodle-ee-oop no more!”

By then the carpenter was raising the second wall section.

When Claudia answered the phone call from her mother this afternoon, my ninety year old mother-in-law asked to speak to me – somewhat of a rarity. I was expecting her to ask me to come and set her clock, or perhaps adjust the volume on her phone, or maybe her television needed some attention. Instead, she asked me to listen as she recited The Pledge of Allegiance.

Vera was a little nervous because she had been asked to open the Veterans Day program at the assisted living facility where she lives. She is a veteran who served our country in the Navy WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service) during World War II, and she had received the honor of reciting The Pledge of Allegiance. She was a little rusty, she said, and wanted to practice to make sure she had it right. I switched the phone to “speaker”. Claudia and I listened together and savored the moment.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,” she began. Her voice was soft, child-like, reverent. It crackled sometimes as she struggled to remember the words, and there was a slight tinge of patriotic emotion laced throughout. I could very easily have been listening to one of my grandchildren proudly reciting “The Pledge” for the first time.

“And to the republic for which it stands,” she continued after a short pause to clear her throat. I recalled how she had more than once told us about reading the roster of names of men who had died at Iwo Jima as this list was being reported at the office where she was working. She could never tell the story without weeping.

“One nation under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all,” she concluded. And as I praised her for her success, I once again felt as if I my attention could have just as easily been directed to one of our grandchildren; her great grandchildren.

“You know,” she coyly asserted, “the program starts next Monday at 10:00 A.M., and I’m not sure but I think it is open to guests.”

“We’ll be there,” I replied, “and I’ll be sure to sit up front in case you forget your lines.”

She didn’t think she would need any help, but she would be glad to see us there.

On this coming Veterans Day, please take a moment to remember our veterans. Feel free to tell them that you are grateful for their service if you get the chance; and it’s okay to give them a hug too, but be careful hugging the WWII vets. Some of them are starting to get a little frail nowadays – still feisty none the less.

November 7, 2013

I smiled and waved to an old friend today – probably for the last time. Leo has been our across-the-street neighbor and friend for about twenty years. He has been sick for several months now, and most likely will die within the next few days. I was hesitant about going to visit him at the hospital. I was afraid to see him in the emaciated state that I had envisioned. I was even more afraid of what to say, how to talk, to a man who knows he is dying. There was nothing I could say to make him feel better. My best friend insisted that we go in spite of my reluctance.

We had to wait in the hallway for a while before finally entering his room, long enough for the scaredy-cat lurking within me to nearly convince me to abandon this effort and retreat to the elevator. When we finally did enter the room, there lay a man who looked nothing like the man I had known, beyond my worst expectations.

Claudia is so sweet, and bold. I had failed to consider how she must be feeling. As her sorrowful courage glistened in her eyes, and her tremulous voice sought to stir some conversation, I found myself trying to hide behind her like a troublesome child hiding behind his mother who has been summoned before the school principal to discuss some misdemeanor: And as I hid there, I began to think about this man during better times.

Leo is a good fellow. He has lived alone and has pretty much kept to himself, but his house has always been open to friends, neighbors, and the race fans who parked in his yard during the month of May. He has never locked his door. He has made thousands of candles and given most of them away. The fragrances that he added to the melting wax often drifted across the street and wisped through our open windows. Every December we have received the gift of a Christmas tree candle; sometimes he has made extras for our kids. He kept an eye on our house whenever we went out of town, and held our mail and newspapers until we returned.

Several years ago; I looked out my window and saw Leo lying prone on his driveway. Thinking there might be something wrong, I hustled across the street and discovered that he was using a screwdriver to clean some weeds out of the cracks in his driveway. It seemed a bit odd to me, but I squelched my sarcastic wonder with some ho-hum conversation. A few days later Leo was once again lying on the hard concrete of his driveway. This time he was using a narrow paint brush to apply a coat of protective sealant on the freshly filled cracks, and the entire driveway as well. I couldn’t let this pass without comment.

“Leo,” I said somewhat sardonically, “I think you need a bigger brush!”

“I know,” he replied, “but Coach Hinkle taught me that sometimes it’s better to take your time and think things through to avoid making mistakes and doing a poor job.”

That’s right. Leo played basketball at Butler University under the coaching tutelage of one of the greatest basketball coaching legends of all time, Tony Hinkle. Leo played in the old Butler Fieldhouse; known since 1966 as the Hinkle Fieldhouse, featured in one of the best movies of all times – Hoosiers (makes me want to watch that movie one more time). Furthermore, Leo has used his natural basketball skills and playing experience to coach boys in amateur leagues, some from low income families, some who earned college scholarships, some who went on to play professionally. I wiped the silly smirk off my face and went back across the street where I belonged.

“You know what Leo means?” he asked me one time.

“It means Love Each Other!” he replied to my shrug…

And then I realized the room was silent. I was still hiding behind my wife. It was time for me to overcome my cowardice and say something. “You’re a good man Leo, and you’ve done a lot of good things for a lot of people!” I managed to croak out.

“Yeah,” says Leo, “and I helped you cut your finger off too!”

It was Leo’s driveway I was clearing the snow from the day I stuck my hand in the snow blower. I think he was joking. It certainly had not been his fault. He hadn’t known what happened until several days after that memorable event. Maybe he was just getting even for my questioning his use of a two inch paintbrush to paint his driveway.

Silence again, a signal that it was time to leave. I didn’t want to say “good-bye”, couldn’t say “see you later” or “see you around”. During that awkward silence I thought of all the times we had done what most friends and neighbors often do when offering a hasty silent salutation when coming or going.

I smiled and waved.

August 21, 2013

While installing a new ceiling fan yesterday, I found the need for a specifically sized screw and thread type. No problem, I thought. I’ll just go to the basement and dig through the jar labeled “Machine Screws”. I lumbered down two flights of stairs, found the jar and opened the lid.

Several months ago Claudia and I assumed ownership of the Ryden house where she and her brothers grew up on Fisher Avenue. Since then, we have been working like a pair of robins building their nest for their first spring brood. It started with sorting through things left behind; disposing of some and keeping others as deemed appropriate. Then there came the washing and cleaning, the preparation for painting of each room, stripping off old wallpaper, pulling up carpet. Then painting, painting, and more painting. Several times during our refurbishment activities, like the nest-building robin that searches for that perfect piece of straw or grass, I have made the trip to the basement in search of a needed bolt, nut or screw.

Ed Ryden was a meticulous organizer. It was one of his many endearing traits that is often reflected upon by most people who knew him – especially his family. For example:  Ed maintained ledgers of all his expenses  dating back to the 1950’s. Boxes in the attic were labeled with their contents, an index for each box was listed on the back of the attic doors (there are four attic storage spaces in this house). Sections of quarter-round wood trim that had been saved when Ed and Vera had the hardwood floors carpeted decades ago were neatly stored in the basement; each piece was labeled with its original location on each wall. On each wall outlet cover were tiny labels with its corresponding circuit breaker switch number.

 And then there were the nuts, bolts and screws. In the basement are many jars containing screws. Machine screws, wood screws. Flat head, round head, pan head screws. Eye screws, drywall screws. Slotted, Phillips, torx screws. There are also jars containing nuts, bolts, nails, springs, hinges, wall mollies. And of course, miscellaneous. Each jar has been appropriately labeled.

I have made several trips to the shelf where the “screw jars” are stored. Some of those trips were following Ed down the steps when he was still here, and although he has been gone for a while I felt as if I was following him now.  Finding the right jar, dumping the contents on the work bench, sorting through the screws while searching for the right one; and having found the needed screw, gathering  its kin from the bench surface and returning them to the jar.

It didn’t take long to find the needed screw. While tightening the lid back on the jar, I decided that I could at least try to continue this legacy of bolts, nuts and screws. Need one, take it out. Find one, put it in – the proper jar.

As I lumbered back up those two flights of stairs, it occurred to me:  I don’t believe that anyone could ever fill another’s shoes, but I do think that another’s footsteps can be followed. During these past few months  I have felt as if I have been following Ed’s footsteps around this house from time to time; whether it be mowing the lawn, setting out the trash for weekly pickup, bagging yard waste, or sifting through the “screw jars”.  And my shoes have felt pretty comfortable when that happens.

Remembering Ed Ryden: 7/29/1922 – 5/25/2006                                                 5/25/2013