The Return of an Old Fiend.

So, I got COVID. Yeah, that, uh, NOT on my Fall Bingo Card. Spent the day typing up all brand new (and awful) sub plans. I snuck back into the classroom and spent a Gawd Awful 90 minutes trying to get something organized. The fact that I couldn’t print anything was just the turd icing on a crap cake.

Finally, I texted Becky and RW to take them on their prior offers of help. They, of course, declared they were On It and ordered me home.

-How will the next two days go for the Hardy Howlers?
Don’t know.

-Why did I choose to take two days off? Why not longer?
Pulled that number right out of my ass.

-What if, I’m NOT Miracle Boy and I’m not fully cured by Wednesday?
Don’t know.

So, I’m here in Xander’s old room. And the door is closed. I’ve been playing Xbox, watching… everything on Netflix, Prime and YouTube. The fold-out sofa isn’t great (“No Wife” being my #1 gripe.) but I’ve slept on worse.

Right now, I got my feet up, wearing my casuals. I await a badly needed thermos of sleepy time tea. My Wife has promised to get right on once she took the garbage and recycle out. (Down that very dark driveway..)

She did have time to deliver my badly needed banjolele before going to do her chores.

And I’m well into my second hour of watching-ney! experiencing the Swedish-German Druidic Rock (literally-rocks!) Heilung.

Well, it gives you time to reflect.

This bit of writing was originally intended as a diatribe against my rather lame life.

But, after putting it down on paper (yes, I know) it seems, well, pretty awesome.

I win.

The Exquisite Gift of a Monumental Fuck Up

7/18/2023

Hello Son,

I’m still puzzling your reaction to our recent trip to Ellensburg. It was a Monumental Fuck Up but you didn’t (don’t?) see it that way. I think defining the term might help us reach a more mutual understanding.

Monumental Fuck Up has....let’s say three attributes.

*It comes about due to a conscious decision or series of conscious decisions by someone.

When I walk into a door or drop something on my foot (or, as often the case, both in quick succession), this is just me being my usual klutzy self. No part of my brain said, “Let’s walk that way”. No, a MFU requires a person, often both its initiator and victim, to make a decision which ends up having a bad consequence. The outcome can’t be blamed on a third party. What is the subject of most mea culpa admissions? “I”. As in, “I fucked up.”

*Sooner or later, the initiator realizes his/her mistake.

And it’s usually sooner. One helpful term related to this concept is “ohnosecond”, which is the exceedingly short time between a person hitting the “Enter” key and their realization of their mistake.

*A MFU is not a tragedy.

No, a person getting paralyzed by an auto accident or a bus load of nuns going off a cliff are just tragedies. They have consequences, causing life-long grief and suffering for those involved. What I’m referring to is almost always more low-key: more embarrassment or anguish.

So, with this framework, let’s look at one of my recent screwups to see if it has all the required attributes.

A couple weeks back, we all got new iPhones. I was the prime instigator for this decision as it had been many years since our last upgrade. To prep, I backed my phone onto the desktop. Verizon offered a data transfer service but I laughed at the idea of spending $50 for such an superfluous option. Let Lesser Mortals use such services. (LM like my wife and son.)

At this point, I was under a false impression as to what a “Data Transfer Service” would look like. In my mind’s eye, some underpaid and probably evil Verizon employee would take my phone; my personal digital assistant, (my little friend) to the back room, where he would hook it up to an dubious machine to transfer all its contents onto my new phone (both old phone and new phone looking very similar), all the which looking through the contents of many year’s worth of photos, emails, texts, notes, etc. and having a good chuckle.

Here’s what really happened. “Amber” set Xander and Wendi’s phones next to their new phones, entered a couple of passwords, and the transfer began. Took about 15 minutes.

This is one of those points where the audience starts yelling at the screen. While in the Verizon store, I literally could have set my old phone next to my new one and done the same thing. And not spent any money. But, no. I had the back up at home. I’ll do it all there.

Back in the home office. Again, rather than simply setting old phone and new phone (again, both looking very similar) side by side and letting our Wi-Fi do the work, I plugged new phone into my iMac and started the process; all the smug in my confidence that this was the best route. (Note: At least a small dollop of hubris is almost always included in these stories.)

All while this was going on, iCloud was practically begging me to back of up everything onto the Cloud. Begone, foul Apple product. Experts don’t require such minor league services.

When the sync was complete, I unhooked the new iPhone and started inventorying what had been transferred over. Hmmm. I’m noticing many missing things. At this point, I decided to quit fighting modernity and do the Wi-Fi transfer. However, in order to do so, I needed to reset my new phone to start with a clean slate. Answering an impatient “Yes” to the many iPhone dire warnings, I finally got to the Boss Level Reset and pressed away.

As you have probably figured out by now, I reset the wrong phone. And, as a result, I’ve spent the last couple of week, reconstructing my contacts and Notes. The texts? Gone. My of my Notes? Gone. My wavecable password? Gone.

None of these troubles are devastating. The contacts and their info were okay. I used my iPad’s info to redo the names. The wavecable email is a minor hassle. I could go to the Astound website to reset it but then I’d have to reset that password on three iPads, two iMacs, and Wendi’s phone. Right now, not worth it. The texts hurt but it’s not like was doing anything with them. The loss of several years of Bloon Tower Defense 6 progress? Yeah, pretty sure I’m okay moving on from that time sink.

All my writing on the iPhone Notes app? Yeah, that hurt. Most of it was drivel but in the past couple of years, it’s turned into my external memory. What horror movies did we watch in October of 2021? What were the names of Bob’s three kids? What did I get my wife for her 53rd birthday? Basically, stuff that you could ask your wife but didn’t really want to.

So, yeah. That totally sucked. But was it MFU-level? Let’s go back to the criteria to see if it fits the bill.

A) Was the Data Purge fiasco the result of my conscious decisions? Yes! I see three distinct turning points when I made a Bad Call. Nobody else influenced these choices. They were all mine. So, CHECK!

B) It took less than a minute for it to dawn on me that I’d messed up. Just the time it took me to look at my “new” phone to realize it was my “old” phone and that I had “boned” myself. CHECK

C) Frustrating? Yes. Tragic? Nope. CHECK

So, the iPhone Phiasco meets the MFU requirements. So, where does the gift part from the Title come in? Glad you asked. The gift part comes when your brain adds the final ingredient: stewing. For anywhere from a couple of hours to a several decades, your brain will remind you that you are capable of Bags of Hammers Level Stupidity. Your brain does this because it hates you. At the slightest provocation, it loves nothing more than replaying your own Epic Fail film loop.

Everyone has their own film loop and mine now contains a cautionary tale of technological overconfidence. In addition to many, many other highlights. (Or rather, lowlights.)

I’m not actually more intelligent than I was prior, but I know I’ll never make that particular mistake. Guess that’s a type of smarts.

To paraphrase from a recent play I watched, “You know how to be smart, don’t ya? You just think of the dumbest thing you can and then don’t do it.”

So, let’s do a quick recap of our recent trip east. Despite my urging, we didn’t get onto road till mid-morning. (Since Ruth slept most of the drive there, not really understanding her reluctance to leave earlier.) When we finally got to CWU, we (and by that, I mean you) didn’t know where to go. There was no plan; just sort of a “Let’s just wander about.” mentality. A campus map would have been helpful.

Since we reached Ellensburg in the early afternoon, it was hot as hell and since neither of you brought anything useful like, say, a hat, we were really feeling it; Ruth more so than us two. After less than an hour of ambling, Ruth started complaining of feeling unwell so we made a beeline to the car. There, I gave her a cold pack, a bottle of water and cranked up the a/c.

And headed home. At this point, I was a bit steamed at the complete waste of time we had just endured. I was further steamed by your insistence, despite your fiancé’s not feeling well, it had been a successful trip. That touring the Music Building (the first open building we came to) and seeing the student housing from a distance made it a successful trip. 11 hours. Full tank of gas. Several Quickie Mart stops. Hitting Friday afternoon Seattle rush hour traffic. Your fiancé feeling ill on the “tour”. And then almost soiling herself once we hit said rush hour traffic. Our having to wait over an hour at the ferry terminal. Again, 11 hours.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

And then you proceeded to watch YouTube on the way home. All that wonderful self-recrimination time wasted. My suspicion is this is why you often turn in substandard work. You don’t allow yourself time to ruminate on recent events. A mind in a constant state of distraction is a mind unable to do any sort of personal error analysis.

Me? My mind seems to do nothing but.

So, was it a MFU? Well, several poor decisions turned what could have been a nice jaunt to Ellensburg into a slog. It wasn’t a tragedy; though had Ruth stayed in the baking sun much longer, it certainly could have. And, despite your words of protest, I think you know this was a poorly planned trip. (That is, not planned in any way.) And it could have been so much better with just a little bit of forethought.

I know you really wanted Ruth to be excited about moving to CWU; that this was why the three of us went instead of just us two but I’m pretty sure this first introduction didn’t have the desired outcome.

So, yes. It was a MFU. This is not the end of world but your goal should be to avoid such cock-ups in the future. How you might do this? You must think, ponder, and most of all stew about this trip. Run that mental video reel back and forth looking for errors. Back and forth. What should I have done? Back and forth. How did Ruth feel at this point? Back and forth. What to bring to my Orientation in a couple of weeks?

I hope you’ve already thought about the trip with an eye towards not committing the same mistakes again. That is what we call wisdom. It’s not absence of mistakes but the ability to learn from them and the drive to avoid repeating them. That will lead to a life well lived. That will eventually lead to your personal highlights reel being much longer than your lowlights reel.

It’s Tuesday so we’ll talk tonight.

Love,

Dad.

Good Grief!

(Or, why my cat’s passing was 1.9 times worse than my Dad’s.)

Yesterday, the Wife and I took the remains of our cat Brooklyn to the Vet’s Office to be cremated. On Monday of last week, Wendi noticed one of her pupils was dilated and we took her to the vet that evening. After many more visits, we learned Brooklyn had both cancer and a blockage in her gut. It was just a matter of time. Many tears were shed as she, our son Xander, and I decided it was best to put her down* on Friday. Wendi got to wait with Brooklyn in her car for a good long while, waiting for the appointment, petting her cat, who still enjoyed the pampering.

(*God, I hate phrase. And every other similar euphemism.)

When I got home from work that evening, I made it just inside the door, dropping my work bag before Wendi rushed to me, both of us falling into each other’s arms and we stood there crying.

The next morning, she and I put our cat’s remains into a large box and went back to the vet to have her remains seen to. As was and is so often the case, one of us (W) was the functioning adult, talking care of business while the other (B) could only just barely keep it together. We’ve been tag-teaming like that since we learned the Bad News.

We said our final goodbyes and left. Out in the parking lot, a minivan parked next to our car had its passenger door open so I had to walk around the car to get to the driver’s side. Speaking a fully formed sentence was beyond my capacity at that point.

As I walked around the back of our car, the (Hispanic?) gentleman, the owner of the minivan, said to me, “I’m so sorry.” Then he patted my shoulder, and again said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Not really thinking clearly right then, I mumbled a thank you and was honestly thinking he was apologizing for the Door Incident. “Geez, not a big deal, dude.”

It wasn’t until I was in the car, buckled up, that it dawned on me. “Oh, THAT was one human showing empathy for another, a stranger even.”

This maybe 10 second interaction stayed with me all day. I mention the man’s ethnicity because we in the Waspy Brotherhood have been taught that human contact is something to be…at least cautious about. I strongly suspect that other cultures don’t have such hang ups. And they are better for it. Better human beings for it.

Since getting home yesterday, the two of us have continued to keep Klenix at hand. Much blowing of the nose; many dabbings of the eyes. Feeding Tanith her late night treat just gutted me when I remembered that I used to hide kibbles in both cubbies for them both to find. Both cubbies; both cats.

Since an occupied mind is less likely to dwell on painful things, I started wondering why THIS particular death in the family was and continues to be so gut wrenching for me and the Mrs.

Roughly two years back, my Dad died after a long bout of leukemia. He got a lot of living in from diagnosis to death; much time spent with his boys and his grandkids. When the end neared and he needed round the clock care, Dad’s one wish was to die at home. For his last month or so, the four of us took three day shifts; giving Dad’s SO Annie, a much needed respite. During my shifts, I got a really close look at how a body slowly shuts down. I wasn’t there when he passed. Eldest Brother Jeff and Annie were. I’d been expecting “The Call” for weeks and upon getting it, I went and had a good cry with Wendi. And then had a good cry with Xander.

But….that was it. I was sad. Dazed. I loved my Dad and was sorry to see him go but…

We moved on.

There was stuff to do: people to inform, an obituary to write, personal effects to distribute, a wake to organize and, (because my Dad clearly hated me), executor duties to start. (Just kidding.) The mechanics of dealing with a death just propelled me forward.

And now, this little Felis catus, picked up from the Humane Society just seven years ago, who always seemed to prefer Xander or Wendi, ups and gets herself cancer; going from (seemingly) perfect health to death in under two weeks. WHY is this grief so much harder? I’d prefer to avoid the “Brian’s a sociopath.” explanation. As mentioned above, really loved the old man. He was a great Dad and it would have been great had he made it another decade or so. So, what’s the deal?

So I have put my little gray cells to work. My hypothesis is that grief, like humor, can be analyzed but is destroyed it in the process. I’ll take as logical view of my emotions as humanly possible. ‘Cause thinking about my sorrow is NOT the same as actually feeling it.

Least, that’s my hope ‘cause my eyes are just feeling worn out.

So, without ado(?), adieu(?) With an end of the prevaricating, I present:

The Brooklyn/Hardy Grief Criteria Survey Indicator Scale.

(Patent/Trademark/Copyright pending)

On this test thingee, I will rate my sorrow based upon five differently scientifically chosen criteria (listed below).

The scale will go from 1 (Yeah, I guess it’s a bummer.) to 5 (Snot bubbles. Repeated and Unwiped Snot Bubbles.) The scores will not be compared against each other but each is an independent rating.

One last author’s note for the painfully nuance-impaired out there. I not (NOT!) comparing my Dad to a cat.

What I am comparing are MY reactions to each of their passings and what things might have exacerbated or mitigated those reactions. Okay? Not a cat. We all clear here? Okay, let us proceed.

1) Importance in My Life.

Dad: 4 Brooklyn: 1

For our first criterion, I am looking how subjects A and B influenced me; made me the person I am today. Dad wasn’t around for a large chunk of my life (not by his choice) and we didn’t hang out tons as adult but he was still, you know, my Dad. So a 4 out of 5 score. Brooklyn? Well, she was a cat. Beside peeing all over my favorite chair and thus, making me a bit more grumpy, she had very little impact on me as a person.

2) Lifespan.

Dad: 2 Brooklyn: 4

Dad died in his mid-70s. Brooklyn died in her mid-7s. So, Dad didn’t have a great run but he got to see his grandkids grow up. Not bad. Brooklyn wasn’t struck down as kitten but she wasn’t even at the average halfway point for a well cared for indoor cat.

3) Adjustment time.

Dad: 1 Brooklyn: 5

By adjustment time, I mean how long did I have to come to grips with the impending death. With Dad, we had two years to laugh and cry. The Hardy Family saw more of each other in those two years than in the previous decade (at least). We all knew each holiday could very well be our last and so, despite Covid, we boys did our best to spend them with Dad and Annie.

Two weeks back, Brooklyn was fine. At least, she was to our minds. And now she’s gone. It’s not like we would have taken her on a trip to see the family or anything had we had two months instead of two weeks but it just felt very abrupt.

4) Passing

Dad: 2 Brooklyn: 4

Dad was ready to go. He was miserable; the disease had robbed him of so much and it was hard to witness. But, he mostly faced it with a sense of humor and care for those caring for him. Dad had spent the previous year simplifying his life; both for his sake and that of his heirs. His affairs were in order.

Dad died at home, with his love Annie and son Jeff, by his side on a beautiful summer day. It was a Good Death for both him and the loved one left behind.

Brooklyn. Not so much. Obviously, she had no affairs to put in order. No, what made her actual passing away so difficult is that WE had to make that choice. By Friday morning, she wasn’t eating nor pooping but she still getting around: still showed interest in having her ears scratched and the YouTube bird channels.

But we knew.

We knew that each day would bring more pain. And delaying a day or two simply to avoid saying goodbye was selfishness. So, having to make that choice, even if it was the right one, was very difficult. Our own hellish version of the Trolley Problem.

5) Reminders

Dad: 1 Brooklyn: 5

This may seem….dismissive but there isn’t really anything in our home that screams “Dad!”. We have family photos on the wall but they’ve been here for decades. Same with the deck out back he and I built years ago. We didn’t decorate this house with his comfort and safety in mind. It would be kind of weird if we had.

Not so with our cats. Wendi’s been a stay at home mom for roughly the same amount of time we’ve had Brooklyn and Tanith. She’s had plenty of time to fashion this house to a cat’s taste. Everywhere you look, you see cat towers, scratching posts, more towers, litter boxes, etc. You walk past our front door and you immediately see that this is a Home for Well-Love Felines. And, secondarily, they’re human companions. Where ever Wendi and I turn, there is something Brooklyn loved to sleep in, climb, scratch, and/or pee on. (Often, all in one piece of furniture.) And each item we see pulls that bandaid off again.

So, based on those 5 Standards, we have a final score of:

Dad: 10 Brooklyn: 19

Scientific proof that, under the right (or rather: wrong) circumstances, losing a four-legged family member can be more traumatic than losing a two legged one. One point nine times worst in fact.

Okay, this has been productive but I have a cat and a wife; one of which could probably use a belly rub and other a hug and kiss. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which is which.

Sighing off.

Dr. Hardy P.hD

Life and Death

 If you all will indulge me…

   This past week, I was given a stark lesson in how to check out. 

   First, my friend Tim and I went over to Twisp last weekend to work on cleaning out his recently deceased mom’s house. A house which had been unoccupied for the past couple of years. In middle school/high school, I remember going over to Tim’s and thinking that it was a very crowded house. This trend of holding onto everything continued right up till Charlene went into a home. In two days, Tim and I cleared out the Living Room. That’s it. 

   Were it my house, I would sell it in a heartbeat but Tim, whose family has been in Valley for over a century now, just can’t give up his last tie to the Valley. So, he has many more weekends in Twisp ahead of him. Once it’s cleaned out, the house will still require a lot of contractor work: siding, electrical, carpentry, etcetera so I’d be surprised if the house is livable before 2024. Charlene bequeathed a year or two of draining work for her children. (Tim’s younger sister Stacey lives in MO so he’s currently doing all the figurative and literal heavy lifting.)

    Also, this past week, Holly took Tina on a tour of a couple of memory care facilities in the Edmonds area. Holly lives in Marysville so Edmonds would be midpoint between Holly and us. For the past couple of years, Wendi and Holly have been trying to convince Tina that it wasn’t safe for her to live on her own. The fact that Tina agreed to at least look was great progress and she seemed to like the Fieldstone Facility a lot. (While Edmonds Landing was also nice, it’s not set up for what Tina needs.) 

   Though we haven’t had a chance for an in-depth chat with Holly, it seems Tina’s in the “Yes, but…” stage. Yes, she loved Fieldstone but she really wants to spend summers in the Valley. Perhaps we could work out a 6 months Edmonds/6 months Winthrop schedule? Starting in September 2023? 

In other words, not right now. It’s never been “right now”: always sometime in the future.

And so H&T will need to spend more time negotiating and cajoling with their mother. Trying to get her to say “It’s time” then another round of negotiating and cajoling to actually get her moved. Tina’s stubbornness is causing her daughters no end of stress and heartburn. 

   I suspect both of the above mothers just refuse to give up control: whether in terms of a single house or a whole family. Whatever the reason, their children are bearing the brunt of these selfish decisions. 

    As our final exhibit: Larry Hardy. This same past week when I dealt with both Tina’s and Charlene’s poor choices, I finally received the county notarized documents saying Dad’s estate is officially done. My duties as Executor are complete. 

   Was the past year and a half fun? No, but compared to what Tim and the Heath Ladies have gone through and will continue to go through, I got off very easy. It just took some time and record keeping. 

   At no time was I required to argue with anyone nor sneak behind their back, and I certainly never had to wade through neatly organized stack after stack of utility bills from the 90s. 

   Didn’t know it at the time but Dad did a “dostadning”: Swedish Death Cleaning and for that I am very grateful. Did he leave us multiple houses or a large life insurance pay out? Nope but neither did he leave his heirs a lot of anger and sadness. Just a lot of good memories. 

And this, I suspect, was his main goal. 

   Mission accomplished, Lawrence Edward. You managed a good death. 

   If only all children were so lucky. 

Signing Off For The Final Time.

Executor Brian 

Ingratitude Giving 2022

  Yeah, this one blew. 

  In our continuing series of “Lasts”, we organized our “Last Thanksgiving With Tutu”. 

  Brother Gregg, making a strong case for sainthood, drove Tina over Wednesday, staying at Holly’s house in Marysville. 

  This was the first time we’d seen Tina since the Big MLK Weekend Blow Up. And what we’d heard in the following 10 months hadn’t made us any more sanguine about the prospect of hanging out with her. During our Xmas/MLK visits, Tina exhibited petulant behavior: continuing to argue that she was perfectly able to live on her own and wasn’t a danger to herself or others. (Spoilers: Tina was back then and is more so now.) 

  So, Wendi and I planned out what to do if things got especially unpleasant. It never came to that. Wendi stayed very busy in the kitchen, most of us watched the football game and I took my mother in law on a tour of the estate.  That’s when it started being apparent. Just about all the trees I pointed out came from the Ranch. This was especially true of our two spitzenburg apple trees. Literally every time these two trees came up in the past….forever, Tina would mention that this variety was Thomas Jefferson’s favorite type of apple. 

  And when I pointed them out to Tina? Nothing.  A little later, as she and I looked the family photos, she asked me who it was next to Wendi at high school graduation. Granted, THAT young man next to her daughter was a bit thinner and and whole lot less gray but…..

  The other event of note was that Xander announced that he and Ruth were engaged. Janet, Wendi, and I were already in the know so we did our crying on the inside. 

  Holly, fulfilling her role as Aunt Who Just Comes Right Out and Says It, “So when’s THIS going to happen?” Bless her heart. 

  Xander, showing his usual forethought, replied, “Oh, in a year or two.” 

  And the Angels wept……

  I guess I should be thankful for numerous things. Gregg for bringing Tina over. Holly for providing lodging. Janet for entertaining Ruth. And, of course, Wendi for planning, cooking, and presenting such a fabulous feast. 

  Coda.

   Almost 24 hours after saying goodbye to our guests, I could be found holding onto the upstairs toilet. Holding on but alternating between which end was pointing at the bowl. (Sadly, DoorDash does not delivery bidets.)

  This experience reminded me of the infamous “Christmas of the Bucket” but this time,  I was the only family member laid low by whatever it was. (According to Mr. Nasal Swab, it’s not COVID, so that’s nice.) 

  Well past midnight, I had run out of projectile materials and so fell asleep. Dr. Wendi has ordered me to take at least one day of recovery and so I type this from upstairs: having enjoyed 1/2 a sandwich and a small cup of soup. 

  On the bright side: I’m down 4 pounds since yesterday! Small blessings. 

    So, that’s where I’m at: emotionally, physically, and…locationally(?). I’m about halfway through my latest Netflix bing (Alice in Borderland) and I’ve got some ukulele practice to get in. 

  ONE of these holidays, somebody’s gonna insist I play my rocking version of Twinkle, Twinkle…..

The Ranch Closes Shop

3/2019

(Please excuse the lack of any serious revision or editing. My Wife has just returned from a week of packing and I’d life to spend some time with her. The intermittent eye moistness isn’t helping things either.)

:’(

-Tomorrow (3/15), the Big Valley Ranch closes up shop. Harold and Tina bought the place, roughly 2000 acres back in the mid-60s. Back then, before the opening of the North Cascades Highway, land was mighty cheap.

-It remained a vacation place till the early 80s when they decided to move back there full time with their two daughters: Wendi and Holly. The move was tough for Wendi but it was the best thing that ever happened to an impoverished yet plucky young man about Wendi’s age, who lived in the town next over. The best thing. So many of my life’s high points happened here.

-I got to go to prom. Harold even loaned me an old suit. I was sick as a dog but Wendi explained that we WOULD be going. And so we did.

-Much (much) later, Wendi and I got married at the Ranch. The gazebo under which we said our vows now sits in our backyard.

-Things took their natural course and Xander came along. The Ranch seemed Designed by God to be every boy’s dream: cows, horses, 4-wheeler, swimming in the river, streams, fishing and kayaking in the 3 ponds, a big house and best of all, doting grandparents. He and his slightly older cousin Hunter practically grew up there.

-My son gained a lot of life lessons there:

His 1st birthday party was there.

“Helping” out G’Pa Harold with Ranch duties.

He broke his first bone: the right wrist, falling out of an apple tree when he was about 5 years old.

This last summer, at 15, he broke the same wrist; this time riding the quad.

Again, last summer, he also got his first driving lesson using the Ranch truck. It was a good long while before lesson #2.

-About a decade ago, the Heaths decided to build an old person’s home across the road. Unlike the old Ranch House, their new home had no stairs and a wonderful guest wing. Which we used. A lot. The whole family did. Harold and Tina were insanely welcoming to friends and family. Many summers, the Ranch hosted family reunions.

-I’ll admit that I pestered my friends to make the 5 hour drive. It was hard to describe the Ranch without actually seeing it. Those that acquiesced admitted that it was a special place. Naturally, when their children came along, that was all the more reason to visit.

-A few years back, we said goodbye to Harold. After that, even the much diminished Ranch (down to 200ish acres by then) seemed too much for Tina to manage. The logical (if painful) decision was made to sell it. And after a long time on the market, it finally sold last December. The generous buyers, the S Family, allowed Tina to stay till the 15th of March.

-It’s not easy to move but Tina had lots of help. Wendi made 5 trips in the last two months; even finagling TWO different Silverdale Js to come with but there were many Vs and relatives who pitched in. Ranch hand (and so much more) A deserves some sort of medal for all his assistance. Tina is much loved and will be supported in her new life. She currently has a condo in…uh… downtown Winthrop and will eventually decide whether to build a house on her one acre plot on the other side of downtown Winthrop. We’ll see.

-In the meantime, I am thankful for the wonderful memories the Big Valley Ranch provided to me, my family, and friends. And further, I wish all the best for the S Family as their Valley Life starts. They have wonderful things ahead of them.

And thank you to all who shared this wonderful piece of the Methow Valley with us.

Take Care.

March 2019

Saturday-Late Afternoon 

 Well, it’s still better than my first 24 hours of Boot Camp or working on the fishing processor. 

(Author’s Note: See earlier email) 

   Wendi is midpoint through her 4th trip to the Ranch since NY’sEve. Xander and I are on our 2nd. Slackers. 

   But we wanted to be there at The End so we made the trip yesterday. The trip did not have an auspicious start.

   Friday morning, I woke up late with a nasty cough. And a son lying in bed on his phone. Not packed. Chores undone. 

   So, Dad Weekend Explosion #1. 

   The trip was dull. We missed the Kingston Ferry by one car. (mutter, mutter) There wasn’t any hurry; it’s just the principle of the thing. Had SOMEBODY taken care of the dishes with a bit more alacrity, we would’ve make the 9:40. Just saying.

   When we got to Winthrop, we swung by Winthrop River Run Lodge, where a month or so ago, Wendi rented a room for $300 so we’d have somewhere to stay. ‘Cause the Ranch would be empty. ‘Cause Tina’s moving. (Have I mentioned that before?) 

   But, since even a partially denuded Ranch House is better than some motel, we’re here at the Ranch. Actually writing this in the T.V. Room:

   (You’ll need to use your imagination a bit here.) 

   And since we paid for the room so long ago, and the refund window closed at the beginning of the month, Room 18 is legally mine till tomorrow at 10:00. So we stopped by, got the keys and christened my temporary home by dropping Massive Anchor. Used lots of toilet paper so as to get my money’s worth. Very nice. 2-ply and everything. I’ll be sure to include this in my Expedia review.

   After this little 7 minute interlude (possibly the most expensive bowel movement of my life; at least I pray to God this is so.). It was time to stop dithering. 

   When X and I walked through the front  door, the tension was....very tense. The past couple of days had been very hard on the Heath Women. Here’s the rundown.

1) Tina is not emotionally ready to leave this place. For the past 35 years, she has been the Grande Dame of the Big Valley Ranch. This has been her identity. Part of such an identity included being in control. Control of pretty much everything around her (‘ceptin’ maybe her daughters). 

2) The memory loss is getting worse. Ditto some behavioral changes. For the past, well, forever, we kept thinking (hoping really) that it was the stress of “A”, then “B”, and what about “C” and now most likely “D” and so are on. But she keeps telling us the same things over and over along with constantly checking on what Wendi was working on. Wendi was working on what they had agreed to earlier that morning.

3) Parts A and B meant Tina was constantly checking on Wendi’s progress and more often than not, criticizing her work. It also meant Tina wanted to explain the history of 

Every

Single 

Item

going into a box. 

  News flash! The movers arrive this Thursday.  Correction! They already showed up last Thursday in order to move the rosewood table in storage up at the shop.(You know, the one she promised to Gregg a couple months back.) However, the A-Team got their moving truck on the road up to said shop and then spent the rest of the day (along with Albertano’s help) getting unstuck. Then they went home to Wenatchee.

So yeah, that went really really well.

   At this point, Tina seriously considered  cancelling next Wednesday’s moving crew. Granted, Moronic Movers LLC. didn’t really inspire a whole lot of confidence but she had no backup plan so...you know.. WTF?

   Wendi talked her off that ledge but the following day (Friday)  also stunk. While X and I were taking our sweet-ass time driving over mountains, Wendi met her breaking point. Tina accused her one dutiful daughter of being sneaky and trying to steal things. What things? What items could bring on such a serious allegation? Not her jewelry nor her art. Nope, she accused Wendi of trying to steal her trash. 

Her trash.

   Because when you have items which are no longer useful, wanted by no one, and will only be a burden to those you inflict it upon; you have trash. 

Here’s an example.

Above are the partial desiccated remains of 2 or 3 games from maybe the Carter Administration. The little note in the upper right corner? “Albertano, want any of this?”

   No, he wouldn’t, Tina. Nobody wants this; therefore it is trash.

   And yet, she spent a ridiculous amount of time gathering multiple nuggets of rubbish (“nuggish”? “Ruggets”?) into one larger pile of dreck on the off chance that Albertano has an extremely well hidden hoarding addiction.

   He doesn’t.

   And Wendi’s reasonable reaction to this fact is to just throw it out. Throw it all out. Tina won’t hear of it. A veritable stab in the back. King Lear had more devoted daughters. Lizzie Borden was more dutiful.

   So Wendi got kinda sick of this. Especially with all Tina’s friends stopping by, doing a modicum of work, commenting on How Very Much remained to do only to met with Tina’s strong assurance that “The moving company will take care of it all on Wednesday.” 

   Uh...This is the same crew: just two guys, who managed to spend all day last Thursday being stuck in the mud? THAT elite Band of (Boned-Headed) Brothers? 

   So that was really tense. Wendi was ready to just leave. 

   And then the Hardy Boys showed up! All sparkles and sunshine. Through hard work and a pathologically positive in the face of all reality , I was able to prepare dinner from the various left overs still in the house.

   They were able to eat it the same way.

   Last night, we all turned in early. I spent my evening listening to both Heath Lady’s troubles though most of my time was spent with the wife. Where she listed her many, many grievances. Many but not all directed at her mom. Plenty of grievance to go around. Here, have a bag’s worth of your very own.

And all this on her birthday, no less. 

   And with another cold sore coming back. 

   Were her imaginary Ford F-150 to crash, she’ll have all the makings of a C&W song.  

Well, this Jeremiad has turned into quite the monster. Don’t want to write anymore. Just want watch the make-believe TV and sleep. The latter mostly Can barely keep my eyes open. I’ll just leave you with the mildly uplifting fact that Tina apologized to Wendi this morning. And Albertano, Xander, and I took some stuff to storage today. Yea! Progress made. 

We also saw Tutu’s new Condo  but that riveting story will wait for another day.

Tune in Next Time! 

Goodnight!!

Part 3

Xander and I have gotten home. Despite suggestions from both yours truly and Tina, Wendi is there at least a couple more days. Tina’s gonna get moved before the Sackville-Baggins take possession on Saturday no matter what. Sure, Albertano could pack, ship and unpack every single item by Wednesday; that would have suited Tina just fine but Wendi will do a better job than the guy who already has 2.5 full-time jobs.. Besides, somebody needs to be around to tell Tina when she’s being a moron. The only other possible candidate is cheesed off at her mother for giving away “her” Ranch truck. She’s sitting this move out.

Here are a couple/three anecdotes that pretty much sum up the weekend. The first details the brilliant idea that didn’t happen.

1) You know how we rented a motel room and then decided not use it? Well, I had this glorious plan to find the Lamest Object(s) Possible to leave in the hotel room. This object, along with the room’s immaculate condition, might spark a new Valley Legend. An empty can chicken broth. A 2’ stack of post-its. An spotless ash tray. A single cowboy boot. A bag of paper clips. There were scores of possibilities in the “Up For Grabs” pile. 

Well, ran out of time this morning. I’ll just have to take comfort in the strange look I got when dropping off the room keys.

B) Saturday morning, family friend Susan came over to pick up the recycling and to check in with Tina. Sitting in the Living Room, enjoying their coffee.

Susan: You know, Tina, you’ll need to get a garbage can.

Tina: Oh, hadn’t thought about that.

Wendi: (Internal cackling)

C) Saturday late afternoon. Everyone decides to move some clothes to the new house. There is some heated discussion over how much to take to the condo and what all to put into storage. (Which is literally just across the road from the condo.) Tina wins the argument that she’ll need both her Winter and Spring Wardrobes at hand. (Author’s Note: When the Top 10% refers to “(season)+Wardrobe”, us Common Folk should just translate that as “clothes”.)

D) Wendi is very much in the “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll care of it.” stage of moving. This led to me dragging Harold’s very old, very heavy sound system out to Wendi’s Honda Fit. At this point, I was very much behind schedule and very much hating Harold’s stereo system so I wasn’t being too careful. We were just going to  chuck it all once out of sight. So, the tuner, and CD player were tossed into the back of the car. The speakers were a different matter. 20? 30? pounds each and I loathed every ounce. To show my distaste, I picked up the first speaker by the power cord and started moving it haphazardly to the back of Wendi’s car. 

Which would have been fine if it had been a permanent power cord. It wasn’t. And in 1/4 second, I focused my superhuman abilities on not having the %#€¥ing thing crush my foot. Mission accomplished! 

Sadly or Delightfully (your call), during the same microsecond, my right hand suddenly found itself. It holding up heavy-ass piece of 70s Era sound equipment. They’re called Newtons Laws; not suggestions. 

Long story less long: I punched myself in the face.

Ah, good times.

E) This facial assault based levity was just what we needed. Earlier, we actually went up to the condo to drop off the above mentioned wardrobes. (AKA: duds) The condo was...nice. But, it sure wasn’t The Ranch. (Yes, yes, I know. What is?) It was just an ordinary duplex. For an ordinary grandma. 

I could see X- an having a hard time not breaking down. Tutu really didn’t need that so I just took him home post-haste. 

Home.

Parked in the dark; we wiped away tears. I told him he could grieve all he wanted. But not in front of Tutu. Better a broken toe or self-inflicted upper cut than adding to his grandmother’s distress. He knew.

F) And our last family interaction before heading back to Silverdale. Well, Xander had one final small box to shove into the back of the extremely full CR-V. 

(Not in any way) Shockingly, Tina followed him out and actually started looking into the CR-V! The automotive equivalent to all the “farms in the country” where all the bitey dogs go to. Wendi appeared as if by teleportation (always her superpower of choice) in between the mom and the car. Somehow, she gave the appearance of 5-foot tall daughter, blocking Tina’s view and said in a loud, commanding voice (AKA: her voice) that she would finish the arduous task of shoving that box in the  final 3 inches. Nothing to see here. Move along.

Sadly, what was blocking Wendi’s attempts at subterfuge was all the BValley firewood I’d jammed into every little nook and cranny.

“Really?! Firewood??” 

 Not the best time for a reasonable explanation so I fell back on the old tried and true: stupid grim followed by a guilty shrug. Works every time.

There you have it; a 5 second drama with cluelessness, deception, snooping,  greed, all culminationing in everyone present annoying the hell out of Mrs. Hardy. 

Discretion, valor all that.. No time for mopey goodbyes. We got the hell out of there. At the end of the driveway, I parked, took my last photo of the Big Valley Ranch. After that, I got back into the car, and drove back to the nice-okay world. 

BTH

My Son is Sitting At the Kitchen Counter Weeping….

9/2/2014

And more weeping tonight. Though I feared I already knew the answer, I had to ask. Through tears and clenched teeth, he replied: 

Some dick took my Lt. Surge Pokemon Card! 

Well, that certainly is dickish behavior. The chain of evidence on this Crime of the Century is a little…. tenuous but he is sure that “Billy” has it. Billy, who only went to M&M for a couple weeks during the summer but who is now back to his (unknown) school. Completely incommunicado.

When quizzed on the value of this particular card, my son said with complete confidence that it was, “Worth more than this house!”. 

Well, once I got over my tears, I decided to see what this World Wide Web had to say about this Lt. Surge Pokemon Card. 

There’s this Amazon website; I’ll try them.

……Hmmmm….

Seems Alexander was a little over optimistic on his evaluation. 

Now granted, that price does include $6.99 for shipping but I’d have to say that, even in a down market, our little modest chateau is probably worth a bit more. 

Now, were Xander to lose some of our very valuable Magic the Gathering cards. That would be tragic! 

…..

The French have a saying, Esprit De L’Escalier. "The thought on the stairs". When you think of what you should have said or done after the party’s over and your leaving. 

Oh, to go back in time 90 minutes. 

Son, I know this card is important to you so I’ve decided to spend great amounts of money to get you another. 

……

Son, we’ve love to get you that car but we’re still paying off that Pokemon Card. 

…..

Sweetie, it’s wonderful that you were accepted by MIT but we’ve just got a few more years before the card is all paid off. How about Trucking School? 

…..

Son, we’re so glad you have found the perfect girl. As far as covering the honeymoon, we’ll pay up to a weekend in Aberdeen. 

Sigh. 

Reading

1/2019

It was something that ran in the family. We read; to ourselves and each other. This was Mom’s influence. All us of cherish the memories of Mom reading Winnie the Pooh stories to us.

“We’ll be friends forever, won’t we, Pooh?”

“Even longer.”

And I’d wager money that all four of us Hardy Boys; even the ones in their dotage (that is, all of those not me.) could tell you what a Tweedle Beetle fight is called.

So, this tradition continued with the latest crop of Hardys. We picked only the best for young Alexander. Who can forget the riveting plot of Pat the Bunny?

Richard Scary told my son all about living in a busy busy town.

And things that go.

And of course, Sandra Boynton was a big hit. Moo, Baa, La La La!, Barnyard Dance, But Not The Hippopotamus! among many, many other classics.

Sadly for his parents, the boy is currently at an age where bursting out into children’s poetry isn’t really his thing.

Sadly for the boy, his parents are at an age where bursting is pretty much mandatory.

Hey! Come join the lot of us!

And she doesn’t know-

Should she stay? Should she go?

But YES the hippopotamus!

Naturally, he and I liked to keep up on current events; reading the weekly paper that both his Dad and Grandmother worked for back in the day.

But he always had an interest in the hard sciences.

As he got older, we started chapter books together and like me, he tended towards fantasy. One series, coupled with a fortuitous loss of a tooth, inspired Alexander to write his first letter to a celebrity. (See Thrilling Celebrity Visit)

He did get a letter in reply (along with two silver dollars) but whether he wishes to share its contents with the wider world is up to him.

He missed meeting one of his favorite authors by a mere 9 months. As he gets closer to driving age, Grandma Jeanne’s descriptions of my attempts behind the wheel get more and more amusing to him. (But strangely, less amusing to me.)

He enjoyed that and the hundreds of other articles she wrote about the Hardy Family’s adventures in the country.

Years passed. The books got longer and more mature. We read about Moses in the reeds. Mary at the Tomb.

Odysseus and Circe. King Arthur and his family issues.

George Washington returning to his farm after giving up his sword. Rosa Parks on that bus. How to build a fire, an emergency shelter and a nest egg.

He (literally) and I (figuratively) held our breath waiting as Digory read:

Make your choice, adventurous Stranger,

Strike the bell and bide the danger.

Or wonder, till it drives you mad,

What would have followed if you had.

He and I learned what pork cracklins were, thanks to Wiley and his Grandpa. About commitment from Sam Gamgee. Bravery from Atticus Finch.

“Seriously now son, you know we never use this sort of language now, right? Ever!”

“I heard you the first 8 times, Dad.”

And we agreed that Holden Caulfield really is just awful.

Alexander even comforted me as a tried to read that chapter in Deathly Hallows. You know, that ..(uh)…“part” where that really sad “thing” happens.

(Pats me on the shoulder.)

“It’s okay, Dad.”

And it was.

But neither the White Witch, nor Sauron are implacable a foe as Father Time. The Boy’s growing up. Starting to look at colleges. His advanced classes give him lots of homework each night. The 30 minute sessions, five nights a week dropped down to 20 minutes four nights.

And then three.

I could tell the writing was on the wall. (Yep, we read “Daniel” also.) I wanted to end it with something magnificent.

And, well….lengthy.

So, we went with Neil Gaiman’s series The Sandman. Why settle for just one genre, time period and mythology when you can have them all?

And it’s ten volumes.

But we finished it last night. My attempts to interest him in the further adventures of Sandman’s way cooler older sister fell flat. Seemed slightly annoyed at the offer.

No, that ship has left the station. That train has sailed. We are in a slightly new phase of life. We are now “reading colleagues”. I no longer have the authority to tell him, “This is a great book. We shall read it together starting tonight! Put your jammies on.” No, we’ll share what we’re reading; perhaps persuade each other to try this or that. As I said, a new phase.

I get a whole new crop of youngsters every September and that’s nice. Not the same but nice. I’m positive I’ve created scads of DiscWorld fans. Even more with the ability to make Star Wars figures out of origami. There are worse legacies.

No, right now this late (late) middle-aged Dad is looking forward to having a son who isn’t too cool to play Pooh-Stick. Or above bursting into children’s poetry at random times.

Until that glorious time, he’s got me.

Stomp your feet!

Clap your hands!

Everybody ready

For a Barnyard Dance!

Now, get up and go embarrass your children. You’ve earned it!

The Goal: Amour

10/14/2018

The Place: Somewhere in America 

The Time: Very Late on a Saturday Evening

The Actors: Husband and Wife

The Goal: Amour 

The Problem: An Oblivious Teenage Son

Dialogue

Husband and Wife:  Is he still in the tub? I told him to get out ten minutes ago. 

  X, time to get out! 

Sounds of the spawn getting out of the bathroom. Loudly stomping to his room. Loudly closing the door. Loudly...well everything. 

  Okay, he’ll be lights out any minute now. My lovely...

Sounds of son loudly, oh so loudly tramping downstairs. 

   What is he doing?  Is he watching TV? It’s almost midnight! 

Husband goes out to see what’s what. 

...

Husband comes back after a suspiciously long time. 

Wife: So he’s finally in bed?? I can’t believe he took this long. Tonight I told him to take a bath by 10:00 but he was still playing xBox.....

....And then he looked at me like I......

.....But he said he was in the middle of a fight and just needed five more minutes....

Husband: (Wife takes a Breath) I just stepped on a cat turd. It was right next to the litter box so I win the complaint contest. 

Wife: ......

Son: (Attempting to open the door to tell us good night. Due to past unpleasant experience, the door is locked.) Good night. See you in the morning!

Husband and Wife from Under The Covers (Instinctive habits being hard to break) Goodnight, son!

Husband and Wife in a Sotto Voce: Ya clueless ding dong.

Wife: (Laughter) You did whhhhat? Don’t- Why- Get that nasty foot out of this bed. 

Husband: I knew what it was instantly and hopped to the bathroom and cleaned my foot. Then I went back, wrapped up the turd in toilet paper and flushed it. That’s why I took so long in getting back.

Wife:....(More laughter) But what about the carpet? 

Husband: Well, you can clean it tomorrow. Now where were we?

Wife: (In between peals of laughter) You are trying to woo me and you say “You...can... clean...the carpet....tomorrow??

Husband: No response.

End scene. 

Yes, Dear Reader. That is the end of this sad little tale. 

I just leave you with a bit medical advice. Hopping on a leg suffering from sciatica CAN cause debilitating cramps to crop up at, shall we say, inopportune times. Be careful.