Excuses

If you are a parent of teenagers, you know how hard it can be to get in touch with your kids when they’re not at home. Even with cell phones it can be difficult at times to just have a brief interaction. Three of us Dads with kids between the ages of fifteen and nineteen were talking about this at work one day last week. We’ve each had instances where we needed to get in touch with our kids and were unsuccessful. Part of the reason we got cell phones for our kids was so that we could get in touch with them and they could get in touch with us.

We all agreed on one thing, which is that our kids will never answer a phone call from us. I’ve wanted to talk to my kids quickly about something and didn’t want to text back and forth, so I called them. Seems simple, right? Have a quick conversation so everyone is on the same page and you’re done in, oh, 30 seconds. Well, it isn’t so simple, because they very rarely answer the call. I think the three of us all got the same excuse when this happened: “I had it on silent.” When I’m out somewhere, like at a mall, I hear phones ringing everywhere, and it’s not all the parents with the latest, coolest ring tones, so how come all our kids have their phones on silent?

Here’s what I consider somewhat amusing. You can call your kids five times and they won’t answer their phone (possibly because after the second call they’re ticked off), but text them and they get right back to you. At least mine do. One of the other Dads said his kids don’t always get back to him via text either. When he talked to them about it, their excuse was that their phone was on one floor of the house they were at, and they were on another floor. Because his kids never even go to the bathroom without their cell phone (OK, so that is a slight exaggeration), he wasn’t buying it. Another time he was told that their phone had died and they didn’t have a charger with them. The third Dad said he was told by his son that his friend’s house doesn’t get any reception on his phone, so he never got the text until he left. I guess those last two are possible, but we all agreed they were just excuses.

I’m not down on my kids or other kids for making up excuses for not wanting to talk to their parents. Most of the time it will probably mean the fun is over, or they forgot to do something, or something else they don’t want to hear. I know, because I remember when I was a teenager. The worst thing to happen was to be at someone’s house with a group of friends hanging out and having a blast, and the Mom would walk in and tell one of us that our Mom was on the phone. If it was my Mom, I would immediately start thinking about what I could have forgotten to do or if I was in trouble for something. Most always the call meant that person had to go home, which was bad enough, but then they had to take the razzing from the guys about “running home to Mommy.”  

We didn’t have to make up excuses back then because we had built in excuses, back in the days before technology made our lives “easier”. Here are a few of them:

• There was no call waiting back in the 70’s, so if someone was on the phone at your friend’s house, your Mom couldn’t get through. You weren’t telling a lie if you told your Mom, “Mrs. Smith was on the phone the whole time I was there!” Of course, sometimes we just took the phone off the hook so we wouldn’t be disturbed.
• There weren’t answering machines, caller ID or voice mail back then either, so if we didn’t answer the phone there was no way to know who called. Saying “I didn’t know you called” was not a lie. Without these modern conveniences, it was like the phone call never happened.
• When we were out and about, the only way to call home was to use a pay phone. However, pay phones weren’t on every corner and sometimes they were broken. So, we weren’t telling a lie if we said, “I couldn’t find a pay phone.” Not that we looked too hard, but that’s a different story.
• Once we had our licenses, saying that whoever was driving wouldn’t stop for you to make a call might work once or twice, but that’s about it. What’s that quote: “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me”?

If you can’t get in touch with your kids, it isn’t something new for parents. It’s been going on for decades. Teenagers have never liked getting phone calls from their parents. It’s just that as the technology has evolved, so have the excuses.

Feeling the Heat

We’ve had some really hot weather here in the Northeast lately and I have to say I just can’t take the heat like I used to. I feel like I’m always hot when it’s not even that hot outside, so lately I feel like I’ve been melting. I’m hot at work, I’m hot at home and I’m hot outside. Constant sweating makes me a dull boy. I get grumpy, I get edgy, I need to change my clothes twice a day. Well, not really, I just feel like I should change them a couple times a day. The deodorant just isn’t doing its job these days.

I thought as you get older, you’re supposed to get colder. I see plenty of elderly people walking around in 90 degree heat wearing flannel shirts, sweaters and sweatshirts, and wearing pants. The amazing part is they don’t even look warm, forget about hot. I’m in shorts and a tee shirt and I’m sweating. Not that I want to get older too fast, but I actually kind of look forward to the day I need a second layer in the summer. Heck, it would be nice to just not sweat for a few days. You’re probably thinking, well what about the winter when it’s 20 degrees and the wind is howling? If I’m outside, sure, it IS cold. But if I’m inside, I’m probably hot. This is how it works: if most people are feeling comfortable, I’m hot; if most people are cold, I’m feeling comfortable.

When I was growing up, we didn’t have any air conditioners. We had a couple of fans, but that was it. I remember we had a big blue fan that we put near the front door to create a breeze. When it was on high, it put out a lot of wind and it did actually cool down the living room. It was fun to stand in front of it and talk into it, because it made your voice choppy and sounded cool. Of course, after about 30 seconds of that we were told to get out from in front of it because we were blocking all the cool air. It was also pretty annoying to everyone in the room who wasn’t talking into it, but that was part of the fun. Singing into it was double the fun.

I think we tried putting the fan in the hallway where all the bedrooms were in the hope that it would work as well as in the living room, but it didn’t. Unless we could have made the air bend, there was no way to get the breeze into three different rooms. Even being at the end of the bed closest to the hallway didn’t work. Kids being kids, we still somehow managed to get a good night’s sleep despite the heat. It was so awesome to be lying in bed, windows wide open, listening to the crickets, and feel a breeze, however small or brief it was.

To help alleviate the heat, sometimes we’d go for “cool off rides”. We didn’t have air conditioners in the cars either, but when you drove with all the windows all the way down, it was a nice breeze. Sometimes we just drove around for a while, maybe even on the highway for a short time. Going 60 miles per hour with our heads hanging out the windows was not a pretty sight, but it sure did cool us down. Sometimes we went to the beach and sat on the sea wall or on a bench and enjoyed the breeze off the water. If we were really lucky, the ride included a stop for an ice cream cone. There was nothing like a Dairy Queen ice cream cone, the ice cream dipped into the chocolate that hardened up on the outside. There was always the delicate balance of taking your time to savor the cold treat without taking too long and having a melting mess running down your hand and onto your arm all the way up to your elbow. Hot and sticky – not a good combination.      

That’s about how I’ve felt lately; like a hot, sticky, melting mess. Maybe I should go for a “cool off ride” and go to the beach or get an ice cream. That is, after I change out of my sweaty, smelly clothes.

Happy Fourth of July

Quick, what comes to your mind when you think of a hero? Is it a 6’4”, 250 lb., heavily muscled man, with perfect shiny white teeth and a cleft chin? Maybe you thought of a super hero, like Superman, or Batman, or Thor. Maybe you thought of a burly fireman, running into a burning building to save someone. My apologies to the women out there, but I usually thought of a man like the ones mentioned above when I thought of a hero.

Now picture this: a 5’5” 150 lb., wiry man. You’re probably not thinking hero, right? How about if I told you that this man was part of a gunnery team in World War II that was comprised of three huge cannons, who were told that they had to keep firing no matter what happened? How about if I told you that two of those guns took direct hits and were out of commission, and that this man was part of the one gun left? Further, this gun kept firing even though they were also under heavy enemy fire and because of that, the objective of that battle was met. What are you thinking now?

The United States Army thought this man and his fellow soldiers were heroes, because they awarded him the Silver Star. According to Wikipedia, “The Silver Star is the third-highest combat military decoration that can be awarded to a member of any branch of the United States armed forces for valor in the face of the enemy.” Valor; now that is a great word. One definition of the word is “boldness or determination in facing great damage, especially in battle; heroic courage; bravery.” It also says, “The Silver Star may be awarded to any person who, while serving in any capacity with the armed forces, distinguishes himself or herself by extraordinary heroism involving one of the following actions…” and it lists three actions. The point is they don’t just give these to anybody.

The amazing part of all this is that the unlikely hero was my Dad. I don’t think I even knew this about him until after he died. It just wasn’t something he talked about. Growing up, I knew he was in World War II. I saw him march in parades with the VFW and he always stood when the flag went by if he wasn’t in the parade. I also knew that he sang the words to the national anthem when it was played. I always thought of him as a patriotic man, but I didn’t know that he was awarded a Silver Star. It kind of blew my mind when I found out about this.

The final piece to this mini puzzle was that Dad died on the Fourth of July. To me, it was fitting that such a patriotic man, and a war hero, would die on that day. So the Fourth of July is a bittersweet day for me and my family. I appreciate the history, and the fight for independence and freedom, but I also pause to remember that it was that day that my father was taken from this earth.

Dad wasn’t a 6”4”, heavily muscled man, with perfect shiny white teeth and a cleft chin. He wasn’t the Hollywood version of a hero. He was just an ordinary guy who “distinguished himself by extraordinary heroism.” For him, and a lot of other guys like him, I say, “Happy Fourth of July.”

Poor Starving Kids

Another post in a series on Famous Family Sayings

Sometimes you make a meal and it just doesn’t turn out how you thought it would. There have been times my wife and I made something that sounded great, but the outcome didn’t match the expectations. We made Thai food once and it was good, but we thought we’d change a few things and it would be better. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, nobody really liked it and we threw most of it away.

There are times my kids don’t really want what we’re having for dinner. When they were younger, they had to have at least a little of everything, otherwise they would have lived on Mac and Cheese, chicken nuggets, peanut butter sandwiches and Cheerios. We didn’t guilt them out over not eating a lot of the food; we just told them that there was no dessert if they didn’t eat the spoonful of whatever we put on their plates. Seriously, one spoonful of green beans is not a lot, especially if dessert is on the line. Now that they’re teenagers, if they don’t like what we’re having for dinner, they can make something for themselves. They’re fully capable of cooking for themselves without burning down the house.

When I was a kid, there were a few meals that I just didn’t like and did what I could to get out of eating. My all-time least favorite meal was liver and onions. I guess it was one of my father’s favorites, so even though we only had it every once in a while, it was too often. I’d complain that it was too dry and I couldn’t chew it. Mom would say to cut it into smaller pieces. I’d complain that I didn’t like the taste of it. Mom would say it tastes just like steak if you put ketchup on it. I’d complain that I didn’t like the way it looked, or smelled… or something. Mom would say to mix it in with my mashed potatoes. If any of us complained too long or too loud, she brought out the line that told us the complaining was over: “There are starving kids in Biafra who would love to have what you’re having!”

Biafra? I had never heard of Biafra, except from Mom. I used to think, “Wait a second, is that even a real place?” Usually, one of us would say, “There’s no such place as Bee-afra.” Sometimes, one of us would get bold and would even dare to say, “Then send it to them!” To which the reply was usually something to the effect of “Be quiet, be thankful you have food to eat and eat your supper.” And that was the end of that.

Much to my surprise, I found out years later that Biafra really did exist, at least for a little while. I also found out that a lot of people my age got the “There are starving people in…” line from their parents. For some, it was China, or Africa, or Cambodia. One or two even got Biafra, so my mother wasn’t alone. All of us had the same kind of (mostly) silent reaction, which was to send whatever meal it was to those people and let us have something we like.

As I got a little older, I often wondered what mothers in other countries told their kids. Did they have the same set of poor starving countries, or did they have a different set? Maybe kids in England heard about poor starving kids in India; kids in France heard about poor starving kids in Bangladesh; kids in Switzerland or Sweden heard about poor starving kids in Russia. Who knows, maybe kids in Russia heard about poor starving kids in America as a propaganda tool. Wherever you grew up, there were always poor starving kids somewhere else who would just love to eat what you were having for dinner – without complaining.

But I think that was a lie. Maybe we should have sent those meals to poorer countries and just watched what happened. I can just picture those poor kids having to eat liver and onions three or four times a week from all the American kids who didn’t like it, maybe with beets or brussel sprouts. I can just hear the kids saying, “NOT LIVER AND ONIONS AGAIN! I’m NOT eating that. It’s DISGUSTING! And these beets look like hardened BLOOD!” Their Mom would look at them with that hurt face and say, “There are nice people in America who sacrificed to send that to us. You’ll eat it and you’ll LIKE IT! Now put some ketchup on it, if you don’t like the taste. Then you’ll know what steak tastes like!”

If they had to choose between liver and onions or going to bed hungry, I’d put my money on them going to bed hungry. I would have if I had the choice, but I didn’t, and that’s probably why I still don’t eat liver, with or without onions. I’d rather eat a peanut butter sandwich. That way I could still have dessert.

Dish Art

“Who’s been using my dish?”

Standing in the middle of the office was a coworker holding up one of those ugly dishes that most people would be glad to see disappear from their home kitchen. No one said they had used it, so he went on to explain that he knew someone had been using it. How did he know? Because there was still something brown on the plate and he wasn’t quite sure what it was. So, again, he asked who had used it. He was standing where he could see a good number of people and still no one admitted they had used it.

“I’m watching your faces and your reactions, so I’ll know who it was.”

After not getting an answer, he went back into the lunch room. When I went to the lunch room to rinse out my own container, he was washing his dish and some other stuff that people had left in the sink. People were laughing and he was joking about it, too. He was even looking at the clean stuff in the dish rack and taking some of it back out and washing it again because it wasn’t very clean.

“Look at this stuff. Do you know how much bacteria is probably growing here? It’s like a science experiment!” He was laughing as he said it, so I know he wasn’t too serious.

One of the women in the lunch room asked if he was going to dry things, too, which started a conversation about whether we just wash or wash and dry. Seeing as there were only four women and five men in the room, I wouldn’t call this a scientific study, but it seems that men just wash and leave things, while the women wash and dry.

A few minutes later, another male coworker arrived and added his two-cents worth, and probably the funniest line of the day. He explained how at home, he washes things and then piles them up in the dish rack. But he doesn’t just stack them, he gets creative. He calls what he does “dish art”, and he went on to explain how he piles up as much stuff as he possibly can. He also purposely leaves items sticking out, and his wife and kids need to be careful when they put things away. It’s almost like playing Jenga; one wrong move and the whole pile is going to come tumbling down.

When I was a kid, we had a whole bunch of dishwashers, none of them an appliance. We took turns washing and drying them as part of our chores. After a day at our house, there were a lot of cups, glasses, dishes, forks, knives and spoons, plus a few pots and pans. They all had to be washed, dried and put away. I used to hate when it was down to the last item and I thought I was done, and then someone brought over more stuff, especially when they had that goofy smile on their face. I think they were waiting for just the right moment to drop off their load and squash my happiness at being done. They probably quickly went around the house and found anything that needed to be washed. Heck, they probably got an extra drink or two of milk, using a clean glass each time, just to make more. OK, OK, so that was me that did that to them – sometimes the memories get jumbled.

Even though our house was not the neatest, you could always count on the cups, glasses, dishes and silverware being clean. No funky brown residue left on a plate, no hardened sour milk in the bottom of a glass, and no leftover mashed potatoes between the fork tines. Mom and Dad would have never stood for that. Your coworkers, if they’re like mine, probably would.