Dad Words

Waldo W. Burchard, 1939 (age 23)

If you don't know the meanings, please ask. I'm sure we'll all be happy to share our definitions.

And don't forget to add your favorites in the comments!

DAD WORDS

balderdash

bumbershoot

canoodle

cattywampus

claptrap

dadgummit! and dagnabbit! (complete with exclamation points, courtesy of Ms M)

dungarees (with thanks to Eric Baker)

flibbertigibbet

flummoxed

gadzooks (thanks to Ann Erdman)

gumption

hornswaggle

nincompoop

nitwit

numbskull

pipsqueak

poppycock

post-prandial

rapscallion (thank you, Bellis)

skedaddle

smidgen

thingamajig

My Share

 

Some of the kids on my block are at the age when they're learning to share. This is a hurdle they don’t want to leap.

"That's mine!" yells Justin, when his sister takes off down the sidewalk on his wiggle car. He wasn’t using it, but that's not the point.

"You have to share, Justin," says one of the older girls. I think she's nine. Justin is five. He knows he's supposed to share. He has plenty of toys. He's grasped the concept, but the execution is not easy. 

Growing up in Dust Bowl Kansas, my father learned this one the hard way. He told the story of the only family hairbrush: each year, one of his five brothers and three sisters would receive the hairbrush for Christmas. That kid had to share the hairbrush with the rest of the family, but for a whole year, he owned it.

My dad liked to pull your leg. He might have made that up. They were poor, though, and he wanted us to know better times than his.

One year at Christmas time, when I was very young, he spent every evening in the basement. My siblings and I weren’t allowed down there because he was working on a surprise. Christmas morning, we each received our own set of blocks. Our father had shaped different pieces of wood and painted them. Blue, aqua, yellow and red. He’d made four sets, one for each of us.

One year, it was little chairs. They came from Mexico, but he didn’t go there to get them. He painted our names on the backs. The yellow chair was mine. There was no way my siblings could mistake it for their chair. If they wanted to use it, they had to ask me. But they didn’t need to, because they had their own. My name has almost rubbed off now, but the chair is still mine.

The last year our father made our Christmas toys was the year of the stick horses. With a jigsaw, he cut four, horse-shaped heads out of wood. He bolted each one to a stick long enough to be the right size for its owner. He painted each head blue, aqua, yellow or red. We were old enough by then, so he left the faces up to us.

Mine was the aqua horse. I gave it a little smile, pretty eyes, and a silver mane. It’s girly. I rode and rode and rode that horse. I had no interest in riding my siblings’ horses.

I believe that was my father's point. 

We had other toys, and those were free game. But my father's way of teaching us to share was to make sure we each had something of our own.

I don't have to buy them anything.

Large, hairless dog has an idea.

Small, brown dog has a thought.

Yikes!

Hairless dog is a genius!

Big dog enjoys himself as much as small dog does.

Ten

John and I like to take road trips together. We like discoveries, seeing things we haven't seen before, getting onto the backroads. There's something about the road itself--movement, quiet, scenery (beautiful or boring)--that cocoons us in the car, encourages conversation and takes us out of our everyday. The road, for us, is togetherness.

We've taken trips that last several weeks or a single day. Some of them blend together in memory. That's because they've all been so good.

There's a reason the word "milestone" is used to mark an important moment in time. A ten year anniversary is far, yet not such a long way yet. It's all been so good.

Even Better

If you've been on Facebook with a Pasadena friend in the last couple of days you know we were treated to a magnificent sunset Sunday night. Everyone posted photos of it.

John, Bellis and I walked Hahamongna with our friends Karen and David and our various dogs. The sky changed and changed and changed again, and we couldn't stop taking pictures. The dogs didn't notice the sky, but they may have been aware of our stopping to say "ooh" and "ah," like at a fireworks celebration.

A spectacular sunset is spectacular no matter where you see it from, and the visuals rivaled what the gods must have viewed from Mount Olympus. But when you're walking with friends on a dusty trail and the lightning begins to strike while coyotes yip, and the air is a sweater woven of the scent of buckthorn, not even perfection compares.

Haunting the Library

If my mother were alive, today would be her 90th birthday. She and my father taught me and my siblings to love books. It worked: I'm a writer, like Mother was. One of my sisters is a librarian. My brother is a book seller. My one sister who isn't in the book business has a Ph.D, like my dad did. We all seem to be partial to book learnin'.

I went to the library yesterday to research a new book. It was about 100 degrees out. On hot days people come in, find a book and a comfy chair and snooze in the air conditioning. Added to that, "the collection is being rearranged," or words to that effect, adding to the busy feeling at the library. I don't know if the new fourth floor teen center (pictured here in its larval phase) is a cause or an effect of the rearrangement. I found a quiet bench on the fourth floor near the construction area and read for a while.

After I checked out my books I stopped at the Friends of the Library book store to see if I could snag a bargain. A woman there was buying almost all of the children's books. She reminded me of someone who would be very old today if she were still here. But she'd have no trouble finding her way around a busy library.

Blackberries

A friend posted on Facebook about picking apricots with his dad. It reminded me of the hot summer days of my Illinois childhood, when blackberries were in season. My dad would give us each a bucket or basket and load us into the station wagon, and we'd head along the country roads outside of town. We'd find a patch of brambly bushes and pick until our baskets and bellies were full, our fingers purple.

My father had grown up poor in western Kansas. He knew where to find wild food, although I think it was less about having been poor than it was about having lived in the country. In summer we sought blackberries. In winter, walnuts.

As we grew older we kids lost interest. My dad got busier. The little forest near campus where we hunted walnuts was torn down and a new building took its place.

I'd forgotten about the blackberries until long after I moved to Los Angeles. I was back in DeKalb for something--a class reunion, maybe--and I drove my rental car out along the country roads south of town on my way to visit my father's grave. Along the way I stopped, and now I can't remember why. It could have been a whim of exploration, I like to do that. I pulled off the main road onto a dirt road.

Something about the bumpy old road was familiar yet not, and I didn't know what drew me until I saw the blackberries. I stopped the car and got out. I was beginning to remember, but it had been so long the memory itself was as scratched as an old photo. The road had once been lined with trees; those were gone, and to one side I looked out over plowed fields. To the other side there was a house that hadn't been there before.

A woman stepped out onto the porch. She was younger than me and her smile was tentative. "Can I help you find something?"

"We used to pick blackberries here when I was a kid."

"Okay, so you're not lost then."

"No. Thanks."

She smiled, but not happily. "This isn't the road anymore."

"Are you saying I'm on private property?"

She nodded.

"Sorry, I didn't realize," I said.

"'s okay."

I took a longing look at the blackberries and got into the car. Back on the two-lane blacktop I continued driving to the little hill, miles beyond town, where my father lies buried. His grave looks over a stand of virgin prairie grass.

I don't need to set aside a day to think about my father. I miss him all the time. Around Father's Day, though, it's impossible not to miss him more.

Boz, 13 or so

Today marks the 8th anniversary of the day John and I brought Boz home from the shelter. We think of it as his birthday. Which birthday, we're not sure. A good guess would be 12 or 13.

Like any old guy, Boz enjoys simple pleasures. He likes to warm himself on the scratchy grass in the back yard. His morning routine includes a nap in his sunny spot in the living room. In the afternoons he enjoys lounging on the front porch and keeping watch over the neighborhood. Of an evening, he derives great joy from sitting in the living room with his humans, chewing his bone and passing gas. In many ways, he's just like the rest of us.

He and John play dog/man games like "kill the squeaky" and "stalk the alpha." But nothing tops Boz's pleasure meter like running. He loves, loves, loves to run.

I have a million pictures of Boz running. I wonder what goes through his mind when he's running. Maybe nothing. After all, he's a person, but he's not a human being. He lives with our constraints because we feed him and we're his pack. But when he runs he's a dog, pure and simple. And I do mean "simple." As I write, he's blissfully licking his towel and he's been at it for about twenty minutes.

They say the larger the dog, the shorter the life span. At 70 pounds Boz is on the large side of medium, or the small side of large. Then again, all that exercise makes him healthy for his age.

They also say when you adopt a pet, it becomes a family member. We felt that truth as we adjusted to Boz, and he to us, eight years ago. Before he moved in we were a happy couple. Boz made us a happy family.

Needs

Tired from my birthday! I ate a lot. Wore me out.

These days, I don't need a party. All I need is my family of John, Boz and me, cozy in our living room.

And computers: one for John and one for me. A bone for Boz. (Addicts, all.)

And books. And crossword puzzles. And tissues to blow my nose on. And plumbing, of course. I feel like we need plumbing. Electricity, too.

But that's all. Except lunch and dinner. And bed. Stop me now, I shouldn't have started.

Bar Celona

If Bar Celona is any indication, Pasadena's bars are a tad more upscale than the "Coldest Beer in Town!" joints I used to frequent in my days of...frequenting.

My very cool, multi-talented, recently-acquired (long story) cousin Richard Burchard was in town this week. We had one evening. We wanted food and drink. I had passed by Bar Celona a million times and never gone in. We figured, why not?

The ambiance is sophisticated without being snobby. The music is not too loud (high on my list). The restaurant looks intimate but when you start to explore you'll find more rooms, including two bars and a TV the size of a movie screen. If you don't like crowds, I recommend 7:30pm on a Wednesday.

The tapas were probably fattening--tasty and substantial. Three of us were satisfied sharing seven of them. And the beer was indeed very cold.

Artistic Partner

Because I like to take pictures you might think I choose some amazing shots for my screensaver and desktop photos, and I do. They're not pictures of Paris, or the Great Wall of China, or the wild scenery of Patagonia. They're not my own photos, either. They're pictures my husband takes.

John has become a pro at making detailed, unconventional shots with his iPhone. He photographs leaves and objects and whatnot in just the right light, then processes the photos in software and pushes them to their artistic edges. I like looking at his artwork on a regular basis, and since I stare at the computer a lot a screensaver's a no-brainer.

This photo, however, is one of mine. I took it in an attempt to emulate John's style. It doesn't quite make it. The difference may be that John works alone. I have a collaborator.

Stylish Nerds

A while back I promised you a photo of me and John in our new glasses. We finally had our picture taken by our fabulous neighbor, Linda Centell (thank you, Linda!) and voila! New glasses.

It's a good day to post this photo because today is special: it's the birthday of my husband, my best friend, my helper, my comedian, my teacher, my light, my safety net, my power switch, my sounding board, my partner, my question, my answer, my absolute love. And now that we're past the mushy stuff, he's also my favorite silly person. No one has ever made me laugh as much or as hard.

I keep coming up with special things for us to do today, but I don't think he wants to do special things. He wants to relax, get some work done and enjoy his home. And really, when a couple of nerds are happy together, that's special enough.

Maybe it would be best to celebrate by doing something silly. Your silly suggestions are welcome.

Happy birthday, sweeney.

Be You

When you're you, there's no competition.

Happy birthday to my wonderful father-in-law, Sandy.

And happy Fete Nationale to mes amies Francais.
(I apologize for Blogger's undiplomatic behavior. It refuses to allow me a circonflexe or a cedille.)

Iced Tea and Old Lace

It's my sister Margot's birthday. I thought I'd post a photo of this genteel veranda and imagine she and I might sit and have a glass of iced tea. We haven't had a chance to sit and talk together for a long time.

And cookies.

What?

Oh, okay, cake. It's a birthday.

On May first, I took the Pasadena Heritage Old Town Walking Tour. The tour moved quickly but I learned a lot. And I did get a few photos, so I'll show them to you over the next few days.

This one's from Castle Green. And yes, we got to go inside. But I think I like the veranda best.

Happy Birthday, Mo!

Good Cardio

Last week John and I climbed the fire road across Las Flores Canyon from the Sam Merrill Trail. It was his idea. With no shade on the mountain we had the perfect overcast day, he wanted to try something different, and why not?

I had all sorts of reasons why not. There's no good trail. It's not a hike, it's a climb. And it's rocky over there, with gravel and scree loose enough to roll you down ten feet for every two you go up.

I didn't think I could do it.

"Sure you can," said John. "You're strong enough."

I begged to differ. I complained a good part of the way up. It was steep. I was scared. For some of the climb we had to resort to our hands and knees just to find something to hold onto. It was most undignified.

I finally gave up, afraid to go on.

"I'm going to see what's around that bend," said John, obviously not the least bit worried.

He was gone for a little while. I found a place where I could sit without having to hold on and busied myself taking pictures. Finally, I crawled up after him.

Not too much farther along he'd found the wider road. He helped me over a few tough steps and we walked. It still wasn't easy; our legs were tired and our lungs were hungry. But we kept going and we made it farther than either of us could have gone alone.

At the top we gazed out over exhilarating San Gabriel Valley views we'd never seen before. We congratulated ourselves for making it so far. We discussed the great gobs of lunch we'd eat when we got back down. And I thanked John for insisting I could make it (the climb, not the lunch).

Happy Valentine's Day, sweetie. Even mountains are no match for us when we climb them together.

Darling Clementines

I picked this season's first ripe clementines from our tree on Thanksgiving day. Last year the tree gave very little fruit but this year I watered it every few weeks and I guess that made the difference. Some branches hang only a couple of feet above the ground, burdened with abundance.

Clementines are about the size of a tangerine, sweeter and easier to peel. Rarely will you find a seed in a clementine. (I wonder how they propagate?) I ate one Thursday night. Delicate, delectable, nature's perfect little package of delight. Apparently I'm advocating for them.

This is our fourth holiday season in our Pasadena home. Each year (except the last) we've bought baskets at the 99 Cents Only Store and filled them with clementines to deliver to friends and neighbors. Some folks have come to expect them so last year was a tragedy of block-wide proportions.

Soon I'll get out the ladder and begin instituting my No Clementine Left Behind Plan. Besides my distribution program I'll eat as many as I can. The squirrels will, too, which is fine with me. We've got plenty.

If my father were alive, today would be his 93rd birthday. He was the one who first sang Darling Clementine to me. He had a wicked sense of humor.

Happy Anniversary, John

11/2/09 Shakespeare Garden Gazebo, Huntington Gardens

About my husband, my long-sought and happily-found partner in life:

I'm sure of his love and he's sure of mine. We trust and respect each other. We support each other's individuality, work and ideals. We have separate goals and mutual goals, and in the short time we've been together we've come a long way toward achieving them--together.

Sometimes I wish I'd met him sooner, but it wouldn't have worked. By my forties I was frustrated by the mate search and ready to give up. When I found John I realized why it had taken so long: I had to be prepared to handle all that certainty and trust. I had to be ready to support and be supported before I could marry the unusual, brilliant, generous, handsome man I'd pictured.

Plus, now my inner dork has someone to hang out with.

We'd been dating for about six months when we went to the Huntington for John's birthday. Neither of us had been there before. I'd say we fell in love then but that would be too tidy. No, we were already in love. The purchase that day of our dual membership was simply our first mutual financial transaction of import, an investment in arts and letters, and in ourselves. It was a declaration, in a way, of who we already were and wanted to become, together.
7/27/00 Shakespeare Garden Gazebo, Huntington Gardens

Autumn Lore

Maybe I like the weather here because the only thing I have to compare it to is that of northern Illinois. Chicago nights get below fifty degrees this time of year and it's only going to get colder. Some people love that. I am not some people. Santa Ana winds (as opposed to sleet coming off Lake Michigan) are all the bluster I need. My idea of the perfect white Christmas is here.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The winds are just picking up. It's still autumn. Halloween birthdays are a-happening. (My sister Gina B's, is today - hbd!) Goblins peer out from the deepening dark. An old year ends. As it has since people first rose up on two feet, a new year dawns out of night.

Zen Birthday: #50

Last week was a special Zen Monday for lovers of the Space Program and adventurous hearts throughout the world. This week is a special Zen Monday for my love and the light of my life.

Zen Monday is (usually) the day you experience the photo and give us your thoughts rather than me telling you what the photo's about. Ordinarily I don't like to influence your thoughts about the photo, but today I can't help but give you a hint.

Dads are King

My father-in-law and I have our own relationship based in a common interest: we're both actors. Before I met him or my husband, I saw Sandy in Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida in Chicago. Sandy played Priam, the king of Troy. If you knew Sandy you'd say, "But of course." That's because when you know Sandy, you know this guy's going to play the king. He's even got a regal voice.

Sandy's also a lawyer. He's a man of many parts. He isn't feeling well today. Nothing serious. But we're thinking of him. John took these shots in our living room the last time his parents came to visit, so they're within my rule: photos on the blog must be taken in Pasadena or adjacent communities.

I miss my father today. He died too young--for me and for him. My scanner's not hooked up yet or I'd break my rule and show you a picture of him. (I already broke the rule when I posted about him on his birthday last year.) I don't know if he was ever in Pasadena but if he was, I don't have the photos.