Sea Horses and Other Beasts

When I was five years old, dad loaded the family into the yellow Rambler station wagon and we set out for Long Beach to my Aunt Mary and Uncle John's house. I think the intention was just to visit. The gatherings of moms family were always very............... loud. A lot of talking. A lot of loud talking. With some loud laughter thrown in. 

The family called my Uncle John a crazy Lithuanian. He brylcreemed his hair straight back, always had a tan and smoked stinky cigars. He also told funny stories. He had served in the military and in fact, he and my Aunt Mary, moms older sister, had met while both serving in the Navy. She was stationed in Washington D.C. and came home with Uncle John. I understand it was quite the surprise.

I found him hysterical because he put such a funny twist on things and he was always so sweet to me. I don't know when I noticed the first time, but he was missing a pinky finger. I was fascinated by that, and finally screwed up the courage one day to ask him about it. He said he lost it when he was picking his nose. "Jammed my finger up my nose, pulled it out and that thing was gone!" My status as "high functioning blonde" started when I was extremely young, so of course I believed it, and spent a fair amount of time trying to get a look up his nose to see if the stump was still there. His finger was actually shot off in World War 2. 

Aunt Mary and Uncle John had an itchy mohair sectional of the very latest chic mid century vintage. It was black with sliver sparkles in it. Isn't it weird the things you remember? On this particular day they also had a puppy. When we walked in the door, this little brown flash of lightening ran toward us and of course, my brother Ming and I thought he was the best thing ever. Up until that point, we didn't have pets, but when Uncle John saw how taken we were with this puppy, he immediately told us we could have him. Never asked my dad if it was ok, just said he was ours. Who knew when we got in the Rambler that day that we'd be returning home with a wiener dog named Toby? Dad was sure that John had picked him up in a bar. I'm not sure what that connection was, but it seemed pretty important to dad.

"Tobias T. Mutt" went on to live until after I was married, and was a big part of not only my growing up years, but also my courtship with my husband. As a kid, he had some fish, guinea pigs and a desert tortoise but never had a dog of his own. My better half spent endless hours wonderfully amused watching Toby fall asleep while standing up. His legs were only a few inches long, so it didn't take much of a nod to smack his snout on the cement to wake himself up. To me, it was "just Toby." To my handsome boyfriend, it was a barrel of laughs. 

During my childhood, I also had lots of fish, water turtles, hamsters, the guinea pig and desert tortoise I inherited from my boyfriend when he went away to college, and sea horses that I had gotten through mail order. They were pretty cool, and even had babies in my care, but met their maker when my cousin tried to "help" by feeding them hot dogs. 

Little brother, Bunns, came along about a year after we got Toby. By then, Toby had gotten used to being the baby of the family and loved by all, and was quite depressed when mom and dad came home with the new baby. The rest of us could do anything we wanted to do to Toby, but if little brother just pointed at him, it sent Toby into fits of snarling and barking. 

Toby is no longer with us. But I'm glad that Bunns is still around. 

Then God said, 

"Let the earth bring forth living creatures after their kind: cattle and creeping things and beasts of the earth after their kind;" 

and it was so. 

God made the beasts of the earth after their kind, and the cattle after their kind, and everything that creeps on the ground after its kind; 

and God saw that it was good. 

Genesis 1:24-25

1964

Early 70's

The Whistler

My dad was an amazing vocalist. He had a beautiful tenor voice and loved music. His radio station of choice was out of Los Angeles, and with as close as we were, you'd think the reception would be pretty good. Not so. Classical music, for me, will never be complete without that overtone of static. Perhaps that's why I don't really care for it. He also whistled. I've heard a lot of people whistle, but no one ever whistled as good as my dad. I sat at an old sewing machine once with my mouth full of pins while working on a project, mindlessly "whistling", though my attempt was pathetic at best. He watched for awhile and then told me his mother used to do the exact same thing.  I'm sure she made much better noises than I did. I'm also fairly confident that growing up listening to my grandmother make mouth music was where my dad picked it up. 

Dad was a multifaceted person. He wasn't afraid to try anything, and had an extremely mechanical mind. He would claim to be a "Jack of all trades, master of none" but his attempts were always pretty impressive. He fixed cars, built stuff, did the various and sundry home decor things that mom insisted we have but didn't want to do herself, he drew, and painted when he got a little older. His occupation was as a dental lab tech, and so he was good with his hands. He even made me a skirt one time. I had to have it for some kind of school play in grammar school, and we both knew that the only way it would come about is if he sat at the sewing machine. And it was made from taffeta. Ugh. But he managed and I really liked it. It was long, lavender, and had 3 black ribbon stripes around the bottom. When I wore it, I carried a yellow shepherds crook. That's the extent of my memory of the use for this garment. 

Dad was a night owl. And he was a morning person. I'm not sure how he managed to do both as a younger man, but as he got older, an afternoon snore-fest made it possible. He could sleep through anything. He considered early morning the very best part of the day. It was quiet, and smelled like coffee and cigarettes and newspapers. It's how he started each day, but he didn't do so quietly.

For as long as I can remember, mornings started entirely too early, and included a LOT of sound along with the smells. Throat clearing, slamming cabinet doors, stomping on wood floors, and whistling. Always whistling. He never did it to be ornery. He was just a happy guy in the morning. Wide awake and wanted everyone else to be awake too. 

When he got tired of waiting for us to emerge from the bedrooms, his favorite thing was to reach under the covers and grab our toes. So annoying. And our response always garnered a chuckle. I have to give it to him; his methods of getting us out of bed were much more gentle than mine were with my own children. He tugged toes, but I jumped on beds. It was way more fun. 

I was talking to little brother Bunns recently, and he's also a morning person. And the older I get, the more I'm appreciating early morning. Bunns drinks coffee, but usually gets his news online. My morning drink of choice is something brown and carbonated, but neither one of us smoke. Ming did for a long time, but finally quit. I admire him for that. It couldn't have been easy. Bunns and I got the quiet gene from somewhere. Ming inherited the noisy one. But as much as Dad's "morning music" used to annoy me, I do miss it. Especially the whistling.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.

Serve the Lord with gladness:

Come before His presence with singing.

Know ye that the Lord, He is God;

It is He that hath made us and not we ourselves.

We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving

and into His courts with praise:

Be thankful unto Him and bless His name.

For the Lord is good;

His mercy is everlasting;

And His truth endureth to all generations.

Psalm 100

The Whistler and Ming sporting the hillbilly style, complete with oreo teeth.

I miss them both.

Eating a Bisquit

I grew up between two brothers and food was always an issue. Daily trips to the grocery store weren't unusual because the boys could wipe out the contents of the kitchen in one sitting. Mom was known to hide snacks so that she could actually have a treat when she wanted one. Not that she was always successful, because we were masters at ferreting out her hiding places and whatever we found wasn't safe. "Finders eaters" so to speak.

We all had our preferences when it came to meals, but we couldn't afford to be too picky. Mom and dad were extremely particular, and so the menu in our house was already pretty slim. We didn't realize it at the time. In fact, it was several years into my own marriage before I realized that the folks were picky. I was never a bright child, and evidently, not a terribly bright adult either. At one time, I went through a Trix cereal phase. It's all I would eat. I still like Trix. But I also like broccoli, which I discovered on my own as an adult. 

The bigger the boys got, the more they ate. Ming was especially hungry and I think he would eat anything. Usually I found that completely annoying, because it seemed every time I went to the kitchen he had beaten me there and everything was gone. I remember seeing a movie one time when one of the main characters was magically transformed into the body of a 12 year old boy, though he was still a adult. One of the most profound observations the character made was "I am ALways HUNGRY!!" It helped me to understand my brothers were normal. Well............... at least when it came to their penchant for consuming food. 

One evening found little brother Bunns, and myself in the kitchen with one of his friends just talking, and as was often the case, things turned creative when just talking wasn't enough. We had finished dinner and the leftovers were still sitting out. Mom  had made biscuits from a can and the one left over was sitting in a pan on the stove. "Somehow" it ended up on the kitchen floor, and was used as a puck for a fun game of kitchen hockey. It worked really well for that purpose. 

When we heard Ming pull in the drive, my little brother and I just looked at each other, scooped up the biscuit, and placed it back in the pan. It's important to note that we had dogs in our house, as well as a family of five and lots of friends in and out. And mom chose the floor we had in the kitchen because it didn't show the dirt. It didn't get cleaned, or even swept very often. So to make the biscuit look as it should we had to take a few seconds to brush off the obvious detritus of every day life before placing it back on the stove.

Just as we knew he would, Ming burst through the door and came directly to the kitchen. He was like a "bull in a china shop", walked heavily and always made noise. Nice because we always knew where he was, and we were rarely taken by surprise. Those of us in the kitchen just resumed our earlier conversation as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Ming walked to the stove, checked out the leftovers, picked up the biscuit, and put the whole thing in his mouth. 

Bunns was a master at keeping a straight face. Me? Not so much. But I was able to hide my face so that no one could see me holding my breath to keep from bursting out laughing while Ming contentedly chewed and swallowed the biscuit. It had gotten really quiet while we watched him snack, and he finally picked up on the fact that he was the center of attention. All he said was "What?" and I completely lost it, and the rest of the group quickly followed. And again he asked "What?" I don't remember who it was that told him the biscuit had spent the last 20 minutes on the floor sweeping up dirt and dog hair while it was kicked around by our bare feet. I was too busy just trying not to hyperventilate. I think that was about the same time he started licking things before he handed them to us. Yeah.......... payback lasts a lifetime.

And He said to His disciples,

"For this reason I say to you,

do not worry about your life,

as to what you will eat; 

nor for your body,

as to what you will put on.

For life is more than food,

and the body than clothing.

Consider the ravens,

for they neither sow nor reap;

they had no storeroom nor barn,

and yet God feeds them;

how much more valuable you are than the birds!"

Luke 12:22-24

Ming and me before Bunns came along.............. 

and things got interesting.......

Through Your Nose

I'm a middle child. I don't remember exactly what "they" say about middle children, but it's probably all true. I grew up between 2 boys who were amply supplied with creative genes. Ming, 4 years older, drew a lot, and went through a phase that involved building models; mostly cars, and quite an assortment of them. He also spent many hours developing his musical talent. If you've ever heard anyone try to learn percussion, you understand the unique kind of torture the rest of the family endured. I remember being absolutely ...................... no words.......... shocked, for lack of a better one, when my parents bought Ming his first snare drum. I just knew, even at my young age, that things were not going to be good for a very long time. Ming spent hours practicing in several garage bands. I can't believe the neighbors never drove us out of town. He actually developed an amazing talent on the drums, as well as many other kinds of rhythm instruments, but it was painful getting there. He also played the electric guitar, complete with a Gibson amp, turned up all the way. Are you noticing the theme? With Ming, it wasn't satisfying unless it was loud. And the louder the better. 

Bunns, 6 years my junior, is also extremely artistic. He's musical too, but has an appreciation for quieter things. Acoustic guitar as opposed to electric, jazz instead of all things head banger. He's quite good with water colors as well. Bunns is the more cerebral brother. Which got him into trouble over the years. Thinking too much isn't always good. Like the time he thought it would be a good idea to enter Ming's room and remove all the wheels from the models that had been so carefully built and displayed in a place that should have been out of reach. I don't think he did it to be ornery. I think he was just exploring and it turned into an archaeological dig. When Ming returned home from school to find the various pieces and parts that covered the surfaces of his room, he made a LOT of noise. I'm convinced that the only thing that spared little brother's life was the fact that Ming really loved him. Several years later, payback came at Bunns' wedding reception when Ming's toast involved a couple of tires removed from little brothers get away car. 

I grew up between these two, kind of like the little steel ball inside the old pinball machines. I spent my life going a hundred different directions and bouncing off the bumpers that were my brothers. I learned along the way that there was no place in life for drama, and pragmatism is the desired state in which to dwell. Those two tidbits have served me well. I think more like a man than a woman. "It is what it is, so just accept it and get on with it" is my mantra. I never learned to draw like the boys, and just recently, I realized that was because that requires sitting still for long periods. Remember the little steel ball? Yeah, not good at the sitting still thing. 

But my brothers creativity didn't stop with music and art. They were also united in finding ways to be entertained by my reactions to things. Poking me in the sides elicits a seizure like response which they found extremely funny. Jumping out from hiding places brought on near heart failure and then a quick smack if they didn't get out of the way in time. Drooling on me was always good for laughs. But their all time favorite, to this very day is getting me to pass things through my nose. Random comments at unexpected times always results in uproarious laughter and they never even have to get up from their chairs. It's a wonder I have any lining left in my nasal passages. 

Behold how good and pleasant it is

for brothers to dwell together in unity!

Ps. 133:1

Family Traditions

I grew up between two boys, and was actually born on my older brothers 4th birthday. My little brother came along 6 years after me, and mercifully stayed away from older brothers birthday. Interesting that I always referred to them that way; "older brother" and "little brother". Even now that my "little brother" has a full foot on me in height, he's still my "little brother". 

Because I was the rose between the thorns, I was never able to be prissy. There was no drama between us, no borrowing of clothes and not giving them back, no stealing each others boyfriends. Though my older brother, Ming, was known to steal my dolls at times. I never got them back without some kind of piercing, tattoo, or amputation but I don't remember ever being too upset by it. That's just what he did. 

Little brother, Bunns, preferred mind games. If it was quiet, he would start humming some banal television show theme song, knowing it would get stuck in my head. He still enjoys the mind games. He's a lot like our dad in that way. 

When we were growing up, we were just far enough apart that we didn't spend a lot of time playing together. We pretty much had different friends, and were into different activities. Our folks didn't really insist on any kind of family unity either. Dad worked a ton of hours, and mom was into her own things. They did it different for our generation. There wasn't the emphasis on "growing together" or "making memories". The goal was to survive and do your very best not to raise convicts. Rather than saying "I wish my child would........." it was usually "At least my child is not...........". Phrases like "robbing banks", "a drug addict" or "in jail" usually filled that last blank.

But even though we weren't terribly tight when we were younger, as we grew up, we began to appreciate and embrace each others differences. Ming was especially "different", if you know what I mean. Bunns had a very subtle sense of humor. Ming's was downright twisted. Bunns could do things with nothing more than a grin and then just walk away. Ming stuck around to watch your reaction and couldn't help but laugh uproariously at the result, which made whatever he had done even more annoying. 

After Ming began to drive, we spent a lot more time together. I wasn't stupid. I never turned down a free ride. Our cousin, Mitzi, introduced us to ice skating when we were very young and we spent HOURS each week at the rink. In fact, I don't even remember the first time I was on skates. Nor do I ever remember not owning my own pair of blades; usually several pairs at a time. It stood to reason that we would both go on to work at the ice rink so that at least we could get paid for being on skates. When I went to work at the rink, I had my own key to the ice arena where we spent so much time. That was pretty convenient, because Ming could drive the Zamboni and refinish the ice floor, so we would spend a good part of the night after closing time skating to our hearts content, and he would refinish the ice so that no one would ever know we were there. 

He was also often my ride to the beach. After skating much of the night, going to the beach and sleeping for several hours was pretty great. But it was on our way to a late night skating session that Ming introduced what would become a family tradition that keeps many members in fear during meal time to this very day. 

As was often the case, Ming was hungry on our way to the ice rink. He was always hungry. That's why groceries never made it from the bag to the cabinet; they were usually hijacked on the way across the kitchen with only the wrappers left to throw in the trash. So, we stopped at Carl's Jr. to grab a burger. "Eating healthy" was also something we never worried too much about. In fact, sitting across from Ming and eating was just something to be endured. He was just as annoying at other meals as he was at breakfast. I seized anything that would fill my belly and get me away from the table as quickly as possible. 

So we sat across from each other, eating big juicy burgers, while I did my best to ignore him, when he very matter of fact-ly, reached across the table, wrapped his hands around mine, and squeezed. "Oh, how nice" you might be thinking. Umm, no. The fact that I was actually HOLDING my burger in my hands, and had taken my attention away from him for a brief moment allowed him to turn my meal to mush. I looked down in horror as I watched my burger squish through my fingers and fall to the table. And there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing. Because he kept my hands locked in his own until he was finished. 

So, trying to maintain a little control of a situation that had been completely wrested from my control, I simply called him a jerk, picked up the burger detritus and ate it while he sat across the table and giggled. I secretly hoped he would choke on a fry. He laughed entirely too long.

It was "on". Food was no longer safe. And the trick was to stage a sneak attack and be out of reach before whoever was being attacked knew it was coming. It resulted in 3 children sitting hunched over their plates of food, glancing around suspiciously, always on guard against a hand, or finger landing in their meal. 

Bunns is still delightfully paranoid. He won't leave a plate unattended at the table for any reason. If he has to get up from the table, he takes the plate of food with him. And when any of us are within reach, he assumes the age old "hunch" position to protect what is his. The next generation are full fledged participants in this family tradition, and "gen-3" are nearly old enough to be introduced. Just another piece of anarchy that is a part of their legacy.

Now we command you, brethren,

in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ,

that you keep away from every brother who leads an unruly life

and not according to the tradition which you received from us.

For you yourselves know how you ought to follow our example,

because we did not act in an undisciplined manner among you.

2 Thess 3:6-7

Mitzi helping at our first birthday together

Christmas day 1959, just about the time Mitzi started us on skates. Bunns hadn't arrived yet. I don't know why there are 3 Christmas stockings.

Christmas day 1967. Me, Bunns and Ming

My Grandmother Called it "St. Vidas Dance"

My mom and I are very different. In fact, sometimes, I wondered where I came from. My brother, Ming, didn't help with that quandary either, because he assured me I wasn't normal and had questionable roots. There was a time that I truly believed everything Ming told me. He said that if the skin under your fingernails peeled, it meant that you had leprosy. I actually believed it into adulthood, and was always secretly thankful that my leprosy never progressed beyond peeling fingers. Until one day when I looked it up. 

He also assured me that he could teach me how to breathe underwater. He would demonstrate how easy it was, and I would see lots of bubbles popping on the surface of the water. When he came up, he was just fine and encouraged me to go under and take a nice big breath. Of course, I came up coughing and sputtering. I couldn't understand why I wasn't unable to figure it out when it was so easy for him!! 

Perhaps I was just simple minded. I think Ming came by those kinds of stories naturally. My dad told me a few things that I believed wholeheartedly too. And for entirely too long. Nothing malicious, just mischievous. I'm such a lemming.

Anyway, like I said, my mom and I are very different. I think she would have been very happy to dress up every day and take her briefcase to work. She really always wanted a career, and even to this day, when asked what she did when she was younger, she responds that she worked in a bank. Which she did, for a very short time before I was born. Actually, she was pretty much a full time mom. Interesting how we all choose things in our lives that define us.

But I never wanted a career. In fact, I never aspired to work outside the home. I just wanted to get married and have lots of children. I wanted to be a keeper at home and love my husband, and raise cool little dudes and dudettes. God, in His grace, gave me 2 grandmothers that were pretty good with domestic things, so they introduced me to sewing and a few home arts. I took the little bit they showed me when I was very young and went on to teach myself how to sew, and I do pretty well with it. But the problem is, no one was around to teach me how to cook or clean. As a result, my dear husband got to weather the "learning years" when I turned out things like "gravy", that was made from a package mix and was clear with little brown pebble like things in it. Not pretty. When he said "you don't need to make that again" I knew I hadn't been too successful. 

My biggest learning experiences came at the expense of my parents home, for it was there that I learned to clean. Mom wasn't too particular about the condition of the house, but I had a bent to keep things clean and orderly. I thought of myself as being very helpful. In truth, I'm a tad on the hyperactive side and don't sit still well.  So when there is nothing to do, I'll find something. My grandmother identified my inability to be still early on and often accused me of having "St. Vidas Dance". I don't know what that is, exactly, but I'm glad it's not terminal. Now, I tend to put my hands to things that I won't destroy, .........usually.......... but that wasn't always the case.

One day, I decided that mom's refrigerator needed to be cleaned. So, I emptied it out and thoroughly washed the inside. Then I went on to tackle the outside. It was in the days of earth toned appliances, and she was so proud of her new brown fridge with the freezer on the bottom. It was obvious that the outside had lots of fingerprints and scunge on it from the 3 of us kids. But when it wouldn't come off, I took a steel wool pad to it, and that did the trick. Kind of......

What I didn't know was that the paint was SUPPOSED to be darker around the edges of the door. ............um, oops. I also decided to clean the oven for her. So, to make it easier to reach inside to clean it, I pulled the door off. You can do that with some ovens and easily put it back on. Yeah. Not hers. My poor patient father labored for a couple of hours to get that thing back on. He was actually sweating and breathing hard when it finally snapped back into place. I also mixed all the sugar in the sugar canister with the flour in the flour canister, and put it back just as if it had never been touched. It went unnoticed until dad went to make coffee. My response? "I was helping!" I said that a lot. Usually when the parentals were bailing me out of the situation my 'helpfulness' had created. 

Some things never change, and often my husband has to bail me out to this very day. My delusions of grandeur cause me to take on projects that I can't always accomplish on my own. He shows the same patience as my father, thankfully. He survived my learning to cook. Maybe he thinks that if he sticks around long enough, I'll outgrow my inability to sit still too. 

Older women likewise are to be reverent 

in their behavior,

not malicious gossips nor enslaved to much wine,

teaching what is good, 

so that they may encourage the young women

to love their husbands,

to love their children,

to be sensible, pure, keepers at home,

kind, being subject to their own husbands,

so that the word of God

will not be dishonored.

Titus 2:3-5

Great Day 10 on 10

I totally forgot that today was 10 on 10 day until Jen from Living Life One Cheerio At A Time reminded me late this afternoon. It's too bad, because the first half of the day would have been an AMAZING 10 on 10! So this one starts about 3, and it turned out to be a pretty good evening!

Spontaneous visit from my SC bigs and littles called for a quick trip to the store.

My FAVORITE study spot

On my way to my oldest daughters for the gathering of part of our tribe. It was a "sunroof open with the music REAL loud" kind of day today. Precious for the midwest in mid October!

And here we are!

These times are such a blast

My 2 daughters feeling at home in this cute little kitchen

Little #2's pumpkin

My brother, Ming, would have been so proud of our percussion section

It's really good to be together.

A few stories before bed.

For this cause I bow my knees unto the Father,

from whom every family in heaven

and on earth is named,

that He would grant you,

according to the riches of his glory,

that ye may be strengthened with power 

through His Spirit in the inward man.

Eph 3:14-16

Linking up to A Bit of Sunshine

The Neignborhood Kids

I don't think we ever forget the kids we grew up with. They continue to rattle around in our brains as we grow older and occassionally, the funniest memories pop up. My brother, Ming, was four years to the day older than I, and my little brother, Bunns, was 6 years younger, so our neighborhood friends covered a broad age range and provide lots of amusing flashbacks.

There was a kid who lived around the corner named Stevie Martin. (No relation to THE Steve Martin. He lived in the next town over.) I called him "Mean Stevie Martin" and he was a twisted kid. I'm pretty sure he's probably in prison right now. He used to scare the junk out of me on a regular basis. I lived in perpetual fear of him turning the corner and heading down the street and kept an eye peeled for him at all times. I'm not too sure what he would have done to me if he'd caught me, but one time after chasing me home, Ming met him on the front walk and chased him back around the corner. "Something" took place at the end of that run and Stevie never bothered me again. Ming didn't often play the knight in shining armor, but he filled the role nicely that day. I thanked him for it when I was about 40, and he didn't even remember the incident, but I'm pretty sure he saved my life.

Melvin lived a couple of doors down from us and he was kinda different too. He didn't come out much, so none of the neighborhood kids knew him very well. Darren lived across the street and he was really high strung. What I remember the most about him was that the cords in his neck were always standing out. He didn't talk, he TALKED, you know? The Kingsbury's lived a couple of doors down from Darren, and they had pomegranate and olive trees in their back yard. So Brian provided all the fuel we needed for good seed spitting contests, and we'd end the day completely stained by the pomegranates. The olives weren't good for eating right off the tree, so we just made a mess with those.

Mark lived down the street and he was a day younger than me. I took great  pride in reminding him of that. Probably because that was the only thing I "had" on him. He lived in a really nice house and spoke French. Sheesh!! He was often a part of the pick up baseball games in the street in front of our house, and one day, hit a line drive right through our front window. His dad and my dad were friends and they worked together to replace the glass. When we were in junior high, I missed several weeks of school because of mononucleosis. I was looking out that window one day when Mark passed by and asked where I'd been. I told him I had the clap, and had to stay home.  Honestly, I didn't even know what "the clap" was at the time, but it sounded cool. Yeah. My mom's reaction told me different. 

The Enrights, who had 3 daughters,  lived down toward Mark's house. Nancy was BEAUTIFUL, Kathy was Ming's age, and Colleen, who was a year older than me. They moved away when we were still pretty dweeby looking, but I'm sure Colleen turned out beautiful just like her sisters. Ming lied about his age and went on American Bandstand with Kathy. He also carved her name in his headboard.When they were on ABS, Dick Clark actually asked my brother what he thought of The Beatles. In his infinite 14 year old wisdom, he made some statement like "they won't last". I'm not sure how Dick Clark kept from bursting out laughing.

When we were growing up, my dad worked for an orthodontist named Dr. English who had lots of cool toys. He owned a condo in Mammoth that we used every summer when we were kids for vacation. He had a Jaguar XKE and dad drove it fairly often because Dr. E would sometimes imbibe a bit too much. On those nights, he'd call dad to pick it up for him. One time I remember dad going for a drive with Dr. E, and he didn't get home for hours. He might have been "dad" but there was still a little boy inside, and when given the opportunity to drive a really cool car, he drove it until it was nearly out of gas!

Sometimes Dr. English would pass his toys along when he no longer had any use for them. And as a result of his generosity, our family became the proud owners of a reel to reel tape recorder. Remember the one that the secret service used to record the infamous Watergate tapes by Richard Nixon? Yeah. It was exactly like that! It was cutting edge, and we thought we were so cool. It became our favorite toy. 

Ming broke in the reel to reel with  his friends, Steve and Frank from down the street, by making a specialized tape of assorted belches. They managed to turn out some impressive works of art! They actually let me remain in the room when they did it, and I laughed as hard as they did when they continued to play it back. They were adolescent boys, so, of COURSE it didn't stop with assorted belches. They eventually turned the mike to the "other end" for an assortment of a different kind, but since they didn't have nearly the amount of "breath control" there, it was a much shorter tape! 

Little brother, Bunns, also enjoyed some play time making a sound effects tape with his friend Kerry on the reel to reel. By the time he got to it, it was fairly well used, but still working quite well. After Ming finished with the mike though, I don't think I would have wanted to get my face too close to it!

For the sake of my brothers and my friends, 

I will now say, 

"May peace be with you."

For the sake of the house 

of the Lord our God,

I will seek your good.

Ps. 122:8-9

The Challenge

I grew up in a fairly traditional home where dad went to work, and mom stayed home and did stuff. My mom wasn't terribly interested in the domestic part of "stuff" but managed to keep the family running. She would have preferred a career to staying home and raising us, but was quick to say that she was really thankful  we had all come along when we did. I was usually cleaning her kitchen when she made statements like that, so perhaps that was the impetus for her flashes of insight.

Anyway, one of her weekly tasks was to do the grocery shopping. She never made a list and the results were random buys and several trips to the store in addition to the big weekly trips. It was a common occurrence for one of us kids to be sent to the store around the corner to get whatever she had forgotten. If we wanted dinner, we happily did it, because the meal was usually on hold until we came back with the missing ingredient. 

It was always an interesting process to unload the groceries from the Rambler, carry them into the kitchen and begin to unpack the bags to put things away. Somehow, my older brother, Ming, managed to be on the kitchen side of the table and was responsible for the "putting things away" part. It always amazed me how much came out of the bags and how little actually made it to the cabinets when he put himself in that position. He liked to eat, and was smart enough to put himself front and center with easy access to the good stuff. 

We didn't really care about sugar in food then; or preservatives, or artificial sweeteners. Quite honestly, our favorite foods were packed full of those things. Mom kept bottles of Diet Rite cola in the refrigerator and I remember it leaving a funny aftertaste, but we drank it anyway. She was good at making an effort to keep some kind of treats in the kitchen. There was always something for dessert as long as Ming didn't get to it first.

His penchant for devouring whatever passed by him pushed mom into taking some drastic measures when it came to food. She knew that if she was ever going to get any of the good stuff, she was going to have to resort to hiding it. 

Her favorite food was Hostess Ding Dongs, and we never saw them actually come into the house, but she managed to come up with one at night for dessert. She hid them all over the house. I remember finding them quite by accident in the liquor cabinet. I never drank, because that stuff was nasty, but I thought the bottles were pretty cool looking so every once in awhile, I'd open the buffet in the dining room just to look at them. Some of the bottles had clear glass caps that also held liquid, so that if you turned the bottle over, it would fill the cap. And when you turned it back the right way, bubbles would go up into the cap as the liquid drained back into the bottle. I was so easy to amuse.

My friend, Mona, introduced me to Ding Dongs. I remember her mom gave me one after lunch one day, and I loved it so much, she actually pulled out another one and handed it to me. I loved her, and I think I was a continual source of amusement to her. Things that her own daughter would take for granted would send me into fits of enjoyment and gratitude. Like I said, I was easy to amuse.

When I opened the liquor cabinet, and saw the box of Ding Dongs, I counted myself truly blessed and grabbed a couple to devour immediately. I wasn't about to tell the brothers where I found them either. But I think mom kept a count because the next time I got in there to snag one (or three) they were no longer there. 

It became a challenge for us kids to find what she'd hidden. And it became a continual frustration to her when we found her stash and promptly ate it. Ming and Bunns went ahead and consumed the treasure when fate led them to it, but I was always careful to leave one in the box because I figured if I did that, she wouldn't notice that I had gotten in there. Not only was I easy to amuse, but evidently, I wasn't very smart either. 

Keep deception and lies far from me,

Give me neither poverty  nor riches;

Feed me with the food that is my portion,

That I not be full and deny You and say, 

"Who is the Lord?"

Or that I not be in want and steal,

And profane the name of my God.

Prov. 30:8-9

Foot Prints

I grew up in a mid-century tract house, in a middle class neighborhood in southern California. The house looked like most of the other houses in the plan; boxy and on a small lot. When they were built, I think fences were a part of the package, and as they aged, most of the wood basket weave fences were replaced by block walls, and changes were made so that each house became more and more distinguishable from it's neighbor. 

When I was 6, my little brother joined the family, and shortly thereafter it was decided that eventually we would have to add on to the house because we would really need the extra room. I. WAS. ALL. FOR. IT. When little brother, Bunns, started using a crib, my folks, in their infinite wisdom, decided that he should share a room with me. I don't  know why I was the lucky one. Probably because he was closer in age to me than to older brother, Ming. 

And so, I spent a couple of years being awakened each morning by a glass baby bottle to the head. It was before anything made from plastic was common, and pretty much all that was available were glass bottles with black caps. I saw one of them in an antique store recently. It still had it's original rubber nipple. I think that was a safe assumption because most of the nipple was rotted off and what was left was kind of a crusty sticky mix. 

Anyway, as my little brother aged, and he committed some kind of infraction, mom would just send him to his room. But by then, Ming, and I had learned to tightly close the doors to our rooms when we left for school, because if we didn't, Bunns, would wreak all kinds of havoc in our spaces in the name of "playing." So, when he was sent to "his" room, he entered the back hall to find all doors but the bathroom closed, which left him no place to go. I think that usually hit him harder than actually being disciplined for some wrongdoing. Most days he would re-emerge and tearfully tell mom "I don't have a room!" 

That finally tipped the scales and the time had come to add on the "bonus room" over the garage. We were the first two story house on the block and since it just soared straight up from the ground with no breaks in the walls, it really stuck out in a neighborhood full of ranch style homes. Dad built in some temporary walls upstairs to give my older brother a space up there, and little brother was moved from my room to the room next door. I was once again able to sleep without fear of concussion upon awaking.

After the addition was completed on our house, it needed a new coat of paint. We never hired anything out, because dad could do just about anything he put his hand to. Actually constructing the addition was a little too much job for him, but he did all the finish work inside as well as the painting outside. Mom loved green. She claims it's her favorite color because it's the same color as money. So it was decided that the outside stucco should be painted a mint green with a dark green trim. Most of the houses in the plan were fairly brightly colored, so that combination actually made it blend right in.

I was fascinated with the painting process. Previously, the cottage cheese texture stucco had been white, and now it was a whole new color. I wanted to help so badly but was never handed a paint brush. I managed to remain underfoot for most of the day. Until my bare feet took a wrong step and ended up in the roller tray. Mint green paint splashed up my legs and even covered a fair amount of my fanny. Uh oh. 

Needless to say, I panicked and ran down the sidewalk toward the street. My dad was behind me trying to get me to stop, while my mom just screamed out of frustration at what I had managed to do. I was not the most popular kid in the family at that point. 

Dad managed to catch me, and get me cleaned up, but by the time he was finished, my sweet little green footprints were nice and dry on the cement sidewalk. Latex paint with soap and water clean up was still a thing of the future, so the legacy of my "helpfulness" lasted well into my high school years. Occasionally, I would go out with a scraper or wire brush and try to erase the evidence of my panicked dance down the walk, but not much touched it. 

My hieroglyphics eventually wore away, only to be resurrected in a memory quilt assembled for my parents some time later.  Little brother managed to include them in the square he contributed. Of course. 

But He knows the way I take;

When He has tried me, I shall come forth as gold.

My foot has held fast to His path;

I have kept His way, and not turned aside.

I have not departed from the command of His lips;

I have treasured the words of His mouth 

more than my necessary food.

Job 23:10-12

Our childhood home under construction; with Ming and my dad

Several years later in the backyard

My Favorite Hairbrush

When I was 6 years old, my mom was diagnosed with an ovarian cyst. At the time, that meant absolutely nothing to me, except it seemed to involve a lot of worry. I've ram dumped a good bit of my childhood, and my mother says it's for the best. But that ovarian cyst has become a part of family legend. When it began to kick, my life changed forever.

That's how I found out that I would no longer be the youngest child in our family. Mom wasn't misdiagnosed, but there was a baby inhabiting her personal space as well as the cyst. I don't remember much about her pregnancy, but I do remember watching her and my dad drive off to the hospital. She was wearing a bright orange terry cloth bathrobe. Snapshots from childhood are odd things.

A few days later, my folks came home bearing a little baby with a wrinkled up forehead and introduced him as my new brother. Of course, the older brother, Ming, was ecstatic! I didn't really care that it made me the only girl between the boys, and I thought having a baby around would be pretty cool. And it was. Even when he did the typical baby things like messing all over everyone with the typical baby emissions.

He was a pretty cool little kid. Before we knew it, he was as wide as he was tall, with a triple E shoe width and a Brylcreem comb over. Even though my brothers were 10 years apart, they were always pretty tight. Ming didn't even get upset when little brother kneed him in the eye for stealing his favorite blankie. Though Ming didn't take it quite so well when little brother broke all the wheels off his model cars.

Little bro came to be affectionately called "Bunns." Or "Buns" or "Bunz" depending on who was writing it. He referred to himself as "BNPN". I remember him coming home from kindergarten one day insisting that was his name and that was how it was written. He was quite adamant about it. He has since learned the proper spelling for his name, but it's quite common to get things from him signed "BNPN" even to this day.

I spent a fair amount of time with my little brother. We played outside a good bit, and often walked together to the market around the corner. My mom started working in a card shop near the market when we were kids, and  often after school we would walk over there just to check in.

By the time little bro had grown into his pre-teen years, he had begun to develop a pretty wicked wit. And it was that wit that spelled the end of one of my most prized possessions. One day while walking to the market around the corner, he was doing a little good natured teasing. And because I had no comeback, I did the next logical thing and smacked him on the shoulder with my favorite hairbrush.

I can't tell you why I was even carrying it. My hair was long and straight so I didn't spend much time on it in those days, and I never carried a brush with me. But this particular day I had it in my hand and it was the only weapon with which to retaliate. And so as he laughed, I smacked his shoulder, and as if it happened in slow motion, my favorite brush broke in two and the business end crashed to the sidewalk. The air rushed from my lungs as if pulled out by a vacuum. I was crushed. It was the coolest brush ever, and it's demise only resulted in making Bunns laugh harder. Little creep.

Life moved on. The hairbrush ended up in the trash. Little brother was already taller than me when "he broke my brush", and soars to even greater heights now. His wit has mellowed and  I've worked hard at moving past this enormous loss. It was blue, you know? The hairbrush. It was blue.

Behold,

 how good and how pleasant it is 

for brothers to dwell together 

in unity! 

Ps. 133:1