As I write this, it’s more than a week into the remodel of my master bathroom, and I’m happy to say there have been no ugly surprises. Well, when my contractor, Vince, took the mirror down he uncovered some of the horrible pink and green wallpaper that used to be in the master bedroom. I shivered at the sight as I remembered the days spent with my dad trying to get that stuff off the walls. However, I’ll take the memory of monstrous wallpaper over the experiences I’ve heard from other people. For example, my hair stylist found black mold permeated her drywall and had to have men in hazmat suits remove it before she and her husband could continue with their remodeling.
Each day after work, I’ve gone into my bathroom to see the progress. Vince completed almost all the demo work on the first day. Only a small patch of yellow and white tiles in one section of the floor remained. The next day he roughed in the electrical. After that, it took him a couple of days to put up drywall, mud the seams and rough in the shower drain. On day five he cut the niche in the shower. As goofy as it sounds, that has made me the happiest so far. My old shower had no place to put anything except a bar of soap. Now, I will have a niche to put all my stuff and no longer have to risk kicking things around the shower. Yes! Already that makes all my current inconveniences worth it.
To make things as easy as possible, I moved into the guest bedroom. As much as I planned ahead, I’m finding it takes longer to do many things due to the disruption of my routine. I’m also slightly more sleep-deprived because I’m in a different bed.
My cat, Calder, has had to adjust as well. When I leave in the morning, I put him in my home office to keep him safe and out of everyone’s way. He has all the essentials – food, water, and a temporary litter box. I think he likes having an upstairs restroom, but the novelty appears to be wearing thin since he’s begun trying to escape when I take him into the office. So far, I’m winning the fight to keep him in there.
Though the remodeling is going well, there’s still much to be done, and I remain somewhat braced against the unknown. So, please keep sending your positive thoughts my way. It certainly helps! Ohmmmmmm.
Once upon a time, companies paid employees by handing them paper checks issued by a payroll department every other Friday afternoon. Not surprisingly, attendance was higher those days, much to the irritation of management. Except, of course, if Michigan’s first day of deer season fell on a November 15th Friday, few employees showed up at all. Paper checks were standard before computers existed and commercial banks had improved electronic abilities. Handing over pay to civilian workers was a little different than the United States military pay system for servicemen at the time.
After enlisting in the United States Air Force, I discovered the difference. At the end of our second week in basic military training, we were lined up to receive our first pay. We had been screamed-at and harangued for so long, we were being handed cash for belonging to the military. Standing under a broiling sun, surrounded by snakes and scorpions, it was quite bizarre for a young man at the time. We were paid something like $30 in greenbacks, although memory fails after so long. It worked out to about 600 hours or five-cents an hour, somewhat less than my salary as an engineer only a few weeks before.
Sergeant Tough Guy sat with an open cash box on a card table. Near his right hand lay a loaded M1911 Colt .45 caliber automatic pistol pointing right at us. I suppose it was meant to prevent foolish people from making a grab for the money. I had no idea whether the gun would go off if the card table collapsed, but I’m sure it would have put a large hole through several trainees with a single round. Oddly, there is no history of anyone robbing a Lackland Air Force basic military training cash box.
Of course, with $30 to spend every two weeks, like everyone else I had no idea what to do with it because there was no place and nothing to spend it on. The Post Exchange only sold toiletry articles, chewing gum, magazines, and souvenir United States Air Force tee-shirts. No one wanted more souvenirs than bad memories of crawling through live-fire training ranges under barbed wire and mines exploding to keep things interesting. No, we had enough souvenirs, thank you. Returning to civilian life after the military, I was glad our company didn’t line us up for our pay every other Friday with a loaded .45 pointed in our direction.
But it changed in the early-seventies when we were informed wages would henceforth be automatically transferred to us in a new Direct Deposit Program without worrying about lost time and paperwork costs. A week before the new program was to begin, my wife and I discussed the changes it would bring. We decided to split our responsibilities so she could manage most of it. Thursday afternoon before the program began, I called home and she said, “We need some cash for the weekend. Can you stop at the bank and get $180? We need two fifties, three twenties, and two tens.”
I was confused, thinking she didn’t understand the program. “Listen, it’s Thursday. We don’t get paid until tomorrow, Friday, the 15th of the month. We don’t have $180, in our account. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow night or Saturday. I can’t go today and try to take out more money than is in our account.”
“Yes, you can. The transfer to our bank takes place tomorrow morning at 12:01 am Friday. The bank cannot register a withdrawal transaction this afternoon until tomorrow and the start of Friday’s business day.” She was growing impatient. “Listen. Just tell them your wife said it’s alright. And could you pick up some clean clothes from the dry-cleaners on Michigan Avenue, afterward?”
I hung up thinking trying to withdraw money that wasn’t there couldn’t work and I would be painfully embarrassed. Besides, I’d never heard of anyone walking out of a bank with more money than they had on deposit unless they were waving a gun and chased by wailing squad cars. And what was with the dry cleaners request? How can anyone pick up dry-cleaner clothes without a ticket?
I pulled up to a teller’s window at 5:30 pm that afternoon and filled out a withdrawal slip. Minutes later, the vacuum canister whooshed away a piece of paper requesting two $50’s, three $20’s, two $10’s, along with my driver’s license. A querulous, disembodied teller’s voice came over the inter-com, embarrassed and confused, as if dealing with early dementia. “I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t seem to have enough money in your family account to cover this transaction.”
I could feel my face blushing but no one was around. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. All I could say was, “Well, we’ve just implemented a Direct Deposit Program. My wife said my salary for this pay period will be transferred to the bank at 12:01 am before the Friday business day begins … and that to tell you that it’s alright.”
There was a slight pause while this was assimilated, and I wondered whether the bank’s security personnel or city squad cars would begin arriving with wailing sirens. Instead, a sympathetic voice came back, “Oh. Well then. It’s alright then, isn’t it?” The vacuum tube whooshed and the canister came back with a clunk, complete with $180, bank slip, and driver’s license. “Have a good day, sir.”
I drove away, still wondering about the power of a wife’s permission and direction. Now greatly emboldened, I walked into the dry-cleaners shop ten minutes later and gave my name before mentioning I didn’t have a ticket to pick up our clothes. But my wife had said it was alright. The owner gave me a long look and shrugged, before I paid the bill and he handed over the clothes. As I put them in the trunk, I realized I was set for life; all I had to do from then on was say, “My wife says it’s all right” and I could get away with most anything.
During my college days, I became friends with a girl who was valedictorian of her high school class. She sometimes annoyed me with her intellect. After a test in our art history class, she and I milled about and fretted over how our individual results would rank on the class curve. She worried and said, “I think I failed.” Only later, we found out that she scored the highest in the class. This routine repeated on several occasions and I learned pretty quickly that her failing just wasn’t possible.
Besides being very smart, she was tall and beautiful. Guys noticed her and liked talking to her; however, I can’t remember her dating any of them. Devoted to her faith, she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol and I never saw her break that rule. She and I didn’t have deep discussions about our beliefs, but I knew that she wasn’t Catholic like I was, at the time.
At some point during our undergraduate years, she confided that she was going to be introduced to a man whom her parents had arranged for her to marry. That revelation seemed preposterous to me. We were ambitious young women with career objectives! We were close to breaking free from dependence upon our parents—close to being able to support ourselves. An arranged marriage seemed like a step backwards in time. I couldn’t imagine marrying someone I didn’t choose myself; someone I didn’t know and love.
She began regularly meeting with the man and eventually said she had grown to love him. They married and I hoped her love for him was true. I wanted her to be happy.
When I knew little about arranged marriages, I viewed them as oppressive, stifling, controlling. During my recent attendance at an Orthodox Jewish wedding ceremony, my opinion changed. I saw great beauty in symbolism and tradition and in genuine expressions of love. This particular arranged marriage showed me that helping sons and daughters select a spouse is one of the most precious gifts parents can bestow upon their children.
The parents of the bride and groom had prepared and shared family résumés with one another. Then, their children exchanged personal résumés and became interested in going on a first date. But it wasn’t a typical dinner and movie; instead, it was a sit-down, serious discussion about hopes and dreams, faith, family, goals for the future. The children got to know one another through subsequent meetings and eventually decided that they wanted to wed one another.
Those steps, starting with the exchanging of résumés, may seem too calculating and business-like for our modern, American society—secular or not, conservative or liberal. Culturally we’re accustomed to finding a mate through spontaneity, chance encounters, being in the right place at the right time. We trust in love at first sight—we like what we see, then we take time to evaluate whether or not our love interest has the other qualities we’re looking for in a spouse.
If those measures don’t work, we embrace well-intended efforts by friends who play match-makers and we turn to online dating services. Why not consider the opinions of the two people—mother and father—who love their child most?
My seventeen year-old son recently told me that he was going to go out on a date, that evening, with a girl who I had never heard him mention. I asked him to show me a picture of her because I wanted to see how she represented herself to others. There was something revealing in that picture: pursed lips and a flirtatious, seductive tilt of the head. My son had shared that image from the girl’s Twitter profile. So, I had to wonder what he really knew about her, beyond finding her physically attractive. He admitted that he didn’t really know anything more, except that she attended the same high school.
Aha. Time for a little parental guidance. I told him that, before dating any girl who expresses her interest in him, I’d like him to know what qualities he’s looking for in a future wife. I reminded him that a common faith is very important; at least it was for his dad and me. Customs, habits, traditions, morals are influenced, in our case, by our faith in Christ. My son will have to decide for himself what is important, but I made it clear that my hopes for him are that he’ll consciously look for specific, admirable attributes in the girls he chooses to spend his time with.
With similar aspirations for their children, the Orthodox Jewish parents sought out a family that complemented their own. I’m sure they considered faith, first and foremost, as well as community involvement, personal education, and reputation. I’m not sure if finances were specifically disclosed, but the families’ respective priorities could be determined by the way they spent their time and money. The parents were responsible for helping their children find their intended spouses. But the young couple wasn’t forced to marry. Their opinions mattered.
The groom knew he didn’t have to marry the first woman his parents approved. His older brother had gone on dates with twenty-five different ladies before finding his own bride. The repetitive and time-consuming search may have been slightly frustrating to the parents, who were increasingly unsure of whether or not they would ever marry the elder son off. But they valued his input and supported him throughout the sensitive process.
When my son announced that he had cancelled his date with Twitter Girl, I was relieved and proud. He had taken what I said and thought about it. Then he had the good sense to call one of his female friends from our church’s youth group for additional advice. He described her as having “the best judgement of anyone I know.” She told him Twitter Girl wasn’t the kind of girl he should be going out with. I happen to love this girl from church and used to have her in mind when I would confide in my friends, “If I could only choose who my children marry…”
Now, more than ever, I admire the practice of a closely-knit community of Orthodox Jews who arrange marriages for their children. I respect the groom’s father, who I know as a kind and generous man.
During the wedding reception, I was blessed to see deeper into his heart.
“Your new daughter-in-law is stunningly beautiful,” I commented.
He was well-acquainted with her, smiled at me, and simply replied, “Yes, she is. Inside and out.”
This year my family celebrated their 62nd annual reunion. The events take place in different states and this year the gathering took place in Michigan. Each year, as part of the fun, a souvenir book with a schedule of activities and family milestones was distributed to each participant. As chairperson of the hosting committee, I combined my love of writing and joy in researching genealogy in a special section of the souvenir book.
I solicited help from my sister who interviewed several cousins about past reunions. Her son took photos of Detroit and my husband edited my finished work. I’m still receiving positive comments about the book.
I now return to my fiction writing with the idea in the back of my head of writing a longer memoir. But first I have to decide if there would be interest in the story outside of my extended family.
How would a writer decide what would be of interest to readers of memoirs? Does the story have to be about surviving catastrophic events? Does the memoir have to take place during turbulent times? Or can the memoir relate the everyday events in the lives of several generations and how they stay connected?
I think my snow blower is dead. Back in November, I changed the paddles and scraper then started it up to make sure it worked. The engine turned over nicely and chugged right along. If it hadn’t, I’d have a new one sitting in my garage today. Instead, I didn’t know that would be its last breath. It failed me the first time I went to use it, two months later in January, with the first significant snowfall of the season. What a pain!
I haven’t taken it in for service, but I’ve tried everything else within my power to revive it. I siphoned out the old gas and put in new fuel. I changed the spark plug. I’ve tried using starting fluid. All efforts have been to no avail.
It’s not as if I should be surprised. The machine is ten years old, and I’ve been a neglectful owner. I let old gas sit in it, over the summer and fall, year after year. And then there’s the day in 2012 when my neighbor, Don, came over to find out if I could use some parts from his old machine since he bought a new one. “Have you changed the paddles and scraper yet this season?” he asked.
“No,” I responded. “I haven’t changed them since I bought the machine. I didn’t know they would ever wear out.”
To his dear credit, Don didn’t roll his eyes. He just asked if he could look and then showed me the shreds of what remained of the scraper. He pointed out how the holes in the paddle that warned you they needed replacing were long gone; that the edges of the snow blower were starting to be eaten away from dragging on the rough pavement.
Don took my snow blower with him that day and brought me back a hybrid between his old machine and mine, having to put my engine into the case of his old snow blower. Don warned me that the scraper and paddles would need replacing soon and told me where I could get the parts. He offered to help me if I needed it.
I am somewhat mechanically inclined, but not particularly motivated to work on equipment. It’s just not something that I enjoy. So with the 2012/2013 snow season being unusually light, I didn’t get around to changing the scraper and paddle until the start of the 2013/2014 season. It was a good thing I did because Detroit had a record snowfall of 94.9 inches – more than double our usual average.
The fact that my little 16” Toro Powerlite handled all that snow is remarkable to me now. Considering its age and history of neglect, it truly is on a par with the ‘little engine that could.’ It never failed me during that time and went the extra mile as I helped neighbors clear their sidewalks.
Now it sits in my garage awaiting its fate. I thought I could make it through this season the old-fashioned way using a shovel and buy a new snow blower at the start of the next season. The sixteen inches of snow we got on February 1st and 2nd has me rethinking that strategy. Unfortunately, the pickings are slim in the stores right now and even online. I have considered taking it in for service, however, I’ve heard that can cost as much as half of what a new machine will cost.
So I sit trying to make up my mind on what to do. Crossing my fingers and hoping we don’t get another sixteen inch snowfall seems foolhardy. Neighbors have been helping me out with the snow, but I don’t want to take advantage of their good nature. Calder, my cat, shows no signs of wanting to get outside to help me. My call for minions in last month’s post has gone unanswered. Neither have I found a good reference for someone I can pay to come and take care of the snow for me.
I’m happy to hear your suggestions to help me decide on a solution. For now, I’m watching the weather reports closely, stocking up on Epsom salts, and rooting for an early spring!
I shivered at the sight as I remembered the days spent with my dad trying to get that stuff off the walls. However, I’ll take the memory of monstrous wallpaper over the experiences I’ve heard from other people. For example, my hair stylist found black mold permeated her drywall and had to have men in hazmat suits remove it before she and her husband could continue with their remodeling.
