We used to drive up to Sebastopol each year on the
three-day Memorial Day weekend when the kids were small to visit with Uncle
Phil and Aunt Robin and their two teenage girls (Sandy’s first cousins). It was usually Bobby’s birthday weekend (May
25th). They had a few acres –
can’t remember how many – and had some horses and chickens, stray cats, a
couple of dogs, and assorted other farm/barn animals that our kids really
enjoyed. We only had one pet, a
stinking, flea-infested black poodle named Ebony that Sandy’s parents gave
us. (It’s the thought that counts). Anyway, Michelle was about 12 years old when
she wanted to ride a small motorcycle on the property, and Sandy decided to get
on the back. With little experience,
Michelle promptly upended the bike, throwing them both to the ground while the
engine kept running and the chain kept turning.
Sandy put her hand out to get up from the ground and
stuck her thumb right into the chain…lost it at the first big knuckle. While Sandy was in shock and was waiting with
her arm elevated and her hand in ice, we all searched and finally found the
missing half of her thumb. We then took
off for the nearest hospital, where they informed us that, based on the
location of the cut, the piece could not be successfully sewn back on. Michelle felt terrible and guilty for years,
though we always assured her that it was not her fault and that bad things just
happen sometimes.
Sandy took it in stride and shrugged it off. When we got back home and the kids were in
school, I remember encouraging her to let herself have a good cry – don’t try
to hold it in. It took her awhile to
convince me that she did not need to cry; that she was not holding anything
inside. Even clueless me knew that women
love to show off their hands and jewelry.
I thought that she would feel awkward and embarrassed about it for the
rest of her life: Nope. She just
accepted it and moved on. I’ve been
somewhat in awe of her ever since. She
is one tough-minded cookie. When she
gives me tough love instead of sympathy, I remember that she treats herself the
same way: No whining and no
excuses. She says she is just a stubborn
English person, just like her father was.
I remember that Uncle Phil would wait until we had all
the kids and all the equipment loaded into the VW for the ride home, then hand
a kitten or two through the car window and ask the kids if they wanted to take
them home with them. Caught off guard,
my belated protestations were futile.
Home we went each year with a kitten or two. We gave some away to Don and Audrey and maybe
some neighborhood friends, but ended up with a white one the kids named
Princess. When it was still a kitten a
blade fell from the kitchen counter and made a deep slice in her skinny little
back. I was elected to take her to the
local veterinarian while Sandy stayed home with the kids. The lady behind the counter at the vets said
we were very lucky the blade didn’t hit the spine; otherwise the kitten could
not be saved. She was pleased to inform
me that the procedure to save our precious kitten would only cost around
$75. I was stunned. That was a lot of money to us in those days,
and I personally placed zero value on this kitten – or any pet for that matter.
I stood there staring at her, wondering what would happen
if I asked her to kill the cat and let me go home with the “bad news.” I knew enough to know that people who worked
at vets really placed a lot of importance on pets. This woman would literally despise me if I
asked her to kill the cat. What I didn’t
realize was that there would be a fee to euthanize the kitten, too. I would not be saving the entire $75. But
even without this knowledge I made the painful, half-hearted decision to go
ahead and save the kitten’s life.
Visualizing going home and telling Sandy and the kids that the cat was
dead was even more distasteful. Long
story short, that free kitten cost me $75 plus room and board for a long
time. I actually don’t remember what
became of it, or when. I do remember
seeing a positive transformation come over Michelle. The kitten seemed bring out her soft side and
help her express love and tenderness.
Michelle made a comment to me just a couple of years ago
that really got my attention, although at the time I didn’t ask her to
explain. I think I was too surprised and
saddened. She said in passing that at
some point during her early or mid-teens, I just decided that I didn’t want to
be her father anymore. I do remember
that when she was fifteen I used to drive her and her girlfriend to Pioneer
High School and drop them off in front.
There was something about their attitudes or language or topics of
conversation or something that I found so unacceptable that I suddenly
announced that I was not taking them to school anymore. I was done.
I have always had this natural aversion to conflict, and I think the
only way I could express my disapproval was to distance myself.
Teenagers seem to have an immediate (usually rude and
inelegant) contrary response to anything said by a parent, and I was just not
willing to subject myself to it. I
recall thinking that never in a million years would Donald or I have spoken to
our parents the way Michelle spoke to us.
But then I was not raised with girls, and I never watched someone else
go through their teen years, except during my own teens. In fact, I didn’t watch Donald go through his
teens after he was about 14, since I was in the Army by then, and prior to that
was generally oblivious to my surroundings, anyway. I feel terrible about how Michelle remembers
those years, but I wonder if things would have worked out for the better or for
the worse if I had been the type who would go toe-to-toe with her and insist on
prevailing, even at the price of breaking her spirit. I am not excusing myself, but finding a way
to accept what I cannot change. I hope
that she is doing the same.
Come to think of it, in our last visit to Michelle’s in
March 2014 I noticed that I was not particularly enjoying being around
teenagers. There are a few precious
moments here and there, but for the most part I am irrelevant to their lives,
and my presence seems to make very little difference to them one way or the
other. I found myself missing and
remembering fondly the visits where we would tuck the kids in bed with little
songs and stories at night, and in the morning they would make their way down
stairs in their pajamas and cuddle on the couch with us. Now I am more determined than ever to take
good care of myself and be able to enjoy my great grandchildren! Come to think of it, Poppa gave me a word of
advice about this. It was around the
time of Amy’s or Bobby’s wedding, so my only grandchild, if any, would have
been Ryan as a baby. Poppa advised me
(Sandy and me) to make our own happiness in life and not depend on grandchildren
to make us happy. They have their own
lives, and give little more than a passing hug on their way to some other
activity or interest. I’m sure I was the same way; teenagers are in their own
little worlds. It is no doubt as it
should be.
Michelle was a gifted soccer player. I remember how the ball would explode off her
foot with a display of power and speed that the other girls simply did not
have. To this day she says that she
harbors resentment because Sandy and I were not willing to let her join
“select” soccer teams that travelled and competed at the higher levels. We couldn’t be bothered with the added
inconvenience, evidently. As with most
things that concerned the kids and their activities, it was Sandy’s call as far
as I was concerned, similar to dance lessons: if Sandy was for it, I would help
make it happen, but if she didn’t think it was necessary, then neither did
I.
I don’t know why I assumed that she knew more about
parenting that I did, just because she was a woman and had taken Home Ec.
Classes. But I did take my cues from
her, as I have said. Sadly, once
Michelle started driving a car her priorities were such that she needed a
part-time job after school in order to afford gas and insurance, so high school
sports and sports in general were over.
We helped all three of the kids get their first cars, with the
understanding that the insurance and the gas was up to them.
Michelle started college at West Valley Junior College,
and then transferred to Modesto Junior College at the prompting of a friend,
because it was more agriculture-oriented.
She got free housing by becoming the swine herdsman. When we went to visit her the smell was
almost overwhelming, but we persevered.
She and the guy she worked with said, “What smell?” Michelle was responsible for being there when
the sows gave birth to their litters, something which happened with alarming
regularity, apparently, and almost always in the wee hours of the morning. She was responsible for grabbing each
squirming, squealing thing, giving them their shots, and tagging and listing
them. It sounded like the worst job in
the world, but she liked it well enough.
Anything to do with the Ag business and large animal husbandry was right
up her alley. At Cal Poly she worked at
the university’s dairy operation. One of
her duties was to wean the newborns with bottles, just as human babies are fed
if the mothers aren’t nursing. This
allowed the cows to get back to the milking machines.
After graduation Michelle found a place in Modesto and a
job in nearby Turlock, working at a farm supply company. Her future husband, Kevin, was responsible
for all retail sales in California and I think other nearby states, and they
met when he called on her company. I
like to tell Kevin that he has very discerning tastes, and that none of the
millions of girls in Canada would do, so he had to come all the way to
California to find the right girl for him!
Kevin does tend to like the best in all things. I remember that shortly before Michelle met
Kevin we were with her when she bought a Dooney and Burke handbag and wallet
that cost several hundred dollars – way more than I could ever conceive of a
person spending on a purse and wallet.
That was in 1996, before I ever heard of such things costing so much. Now I am aware that there are women out there
who will spend many times more than a few hundred dollars for such things. Anyway, when I got to know Kevin a little, I
wondered (and still wonder) how much that Dooney and Burke set helped him
notice Michelle – how much it set her apart from the other young women who were
maybe crossing his path in those days. I
wonder whether Kevin remembers that.
I have mentioned that Amy, as our third and last child,
was a lot easier for Sandy and me as parents.
I’m sure a lot had to do with having been “broken in” by Michelle, but
at every stage growing up Amy seemed more content and easy-going. Amy was nursing while we lived in Belmont,
and I remember Michelle and Bobby (and me once) getting a taste of what Amy was
receiving from Sandy. When we moved to
San Jose - our first two-story home, with all the bedrooms upstairs - Amy was
14 months old and newly walking. I
remember we were so concerned about her possibly falling down the stairs, but
in a matter of days she was happily sliding head first down the carpeted stairs
with no problem at all. She later
learned to turn around and go down feet first, her diapered bum hitting each
step on the way down. She learned how to
climb out of her crib early and was not getting enough sleep. So we had to secure the door from the
outside. She would cry at the foot of
the door until she fell back to sleep.
When it was time, we would gently push her door open in the morning,
moving her sound asleep across the floor in the process until we could slip
into the room and pick her up. We felt
terrible for locking her in like that, but hoped that she didn’t really know
what we were doing, only that her door didn’t open like it used to.
I remember when Amy was around 3 years old, she was
“helping” me dig in the backyard. At one
point we had uncovered some worms, which she studied for a few moments, then
asked, “Why don’t worms have faces?” For
some reason, that stuck with me and became a metaphor for something…although I
don’t know what! Over the years I would
occasionally ask the rhetorical question, “Why don’t worms have faces?” Maybe it is similar to “Why is the sky blue?” It is either just a question that has no
meaningful answer, or it is one of the great questions of life. Something else original with Amy, and which
Sandy and I still use to this day, started with a digital clock. She was in the room with us when the time
happened to be exactly on the hour, perhaps 10:00am. I said it was 10 o’clock “on the nose,”
whereupon Amy announced that, no, it was “10 o’clock “on the eyes,” because the
00 looked more like eyes than they did a nose.
We thought that was so cute and clever and observant! We never forgot it.
Amy loved to sit in her favorite corner of her room,
where she burrowed into a collection of pillows and backrests, and would read
or write or draw. She was far and away
the most creative and artistic of our three.
We have saved a few of her creations.
One is a story about two dogs named Poochie and Moochie. In one of her phases Amy made her own
greeting cards with her own logo and brand name on the back - Amy
Productions. More so than our first two,
Amy had the perpetually stuffed nose (the typical “snot-nosed kid”), and we all
gave her a bad time about it. I remember
she was playing or tagging along with Bobby and Michelle and some of the other
older kids in the court when she sneezed or something and the kids say she had
a string of snot extending from her nose clear down to the sidewalk. That may be a slight exaggeration, and she
was probably bent over somewhat, but I think she basically agrees that is what
happened.
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