When we moved to our current apartment, we tried to be as efficient as possible with things like changing our address. Naturally, we forgot to do an address change through the Department of Motor Vehicles. We knew we were at the really tail-end of our grace period and had to get tags for our car. And thus began the journey.
First, we had to stop at a branch of our bank and take some cash out via the ATM. I thought taking what I recalled to be last year's amount and adding twenty dollars to it would be sufficient. Of course I could have written a check, but we never write checks, and have never ordered them with our current address. We need to get a shredder so we can destroy the checks from two addresses ago. So we went to the DMV, cash and registration in hand. The staffer who ended up helping us changed our address on the system, smirked slightly, and told us we couldn't get our tags until we had an emissions test. She seemed to relish an opportunity to put a monkey wrench in someone's day. "You'll have to get the emissions test and come back tomorrow; it is the last day you can renew. And it's going to be really busy all day."
A lady in line told us she had just been to have her emissions test and it only took about five minutes. "You can get it done and be back here in plenty of time," she said. So off we went to the emissions testing center. The car was within bounds for emissions, but failed the test because the seal on the gas cap was not tight enough. We paid our twenty-five dollars and headed to an auto parts store. And spent twenty-nine dollars and change for a locking gas cap, which is still cheaper than getting your gas siphoned.
New gas cap installed, we returned to the testing station. Of course there were about five times as many cars there the second time around. We weren't too worried about it, though. How long could it take to test a gas cap? Hah! They do the whole test all over again, free this time. What did they think we did after we left? Fill our gas tank with a hidden supply of old-timey leaded gasoline? Install all sorts of gidgey-gadgets in the engine? Switch catalytic converters with someone? The possibilities were apparently endless, and all diabolical.
Finally the moment arrived. We were given the magical slip of paper, that carte blanche that says that our car is worthy of license renewal. And so we went to the ATM again, since we had given up cash for the emissions test, and then headed back to the DMV. By then it was four o'clock and I thought I would be having an enforced rest period whilst the throngs passed through to get their plates and tags and titles. Within about five minutes, our little car was sporting her tag with the number 13 on it (my favorite number!) and our task was done. Although we had to make several stops and spend more money than originally planned, it wasn't really a horrible experience. Everyone we encountered was courteous and helpful, and the task is done until next year. But it sure was an interesting game of tag!
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
I Wish I Could
One day when I was walking from my apartment to the mailbox, I heard a lovely voice singing from the second-floor apartment above my next-door neighbor. My ears perked up. Was someone listening to opera? I heard it on and off a few times, and one day I heard a male voice singing a snippet of an Italian aria. I happened to check my mail at the same time as my neighbor, and asked him if they were opera singers. He said yes, he hoped that they weren't bothering us, and to let them know if they did. "Bothering us? Sing with all of your windows open if you want to, I think it's cool." And I meant it. Although I have never had the opportunity to go to an opera, I love to hear beautiful singing.
I wish I could sing. I know, "everyone can sing." But not everyone can do it well. What does it feel like, I wonder, to be able to pour forth sounds so beautiful that they can make people laugh or cry? I will never know the answer to this. But I suppose that as much as we need singers, they need an audience. I am a very appreciative listener. If I had any bravery at all, I would tell The Opera Kids, as we call them, that if they ever need to practice in front of an audience, I'll be there at the drop of a hat. Heck, I'll even bring refreshments!
Another thing I wish I could do is dance with the grace of Fred Astaire. And no, I don't want to dance like Ginger Rogers. There is a saying that Ginger did everything that Fred did, but that she did it backward and in high heels. Whoever was the first to make that statement hasn't seen a lot of Fred's movies. Ginger never danced with a coat rack. Or on the ceiling. She was one heck of a dancer, but the one I would emulate would be Fred. This is a man who was so graceful that when he walked across a room, it was like a dance. Unfortunately for me, my feet seem to be embedded in the floor. I have not been blessed in the terpsichorean arts. AKA, I can't dance worth a plug nickel. But I can certainly recognize and appreciate good dancing when I see it, and it truly moves my soul.
I wish I could write things that loads and loads of people would love to read. I don't want to be famous. I love words, and I have a pretty decent vocabulary. I recently came across a notebook that somehow stayed with me from my high school days. In it, I had written, "I would like my gravestone to read, She Was a Writer." I took some stabs here and there at writing some stories, but I didn't know what I was doing. My use of the language was okay, but I didn't really know anything about the subjects I was trying to write about. I mean, I was a history major and all, but what did I really know about daily life in ancient Egypt? And who wants to read that junk anyway?
What I do know about are the things I experience and see and form opinions about on a daily basis. When I sit down at my computer to write, I am not creating fiction. I am sharing a bit of my life, a bit of my soul, a bit of me. As I write, I wonder if anyone will like it. Will they see a part of themselves in the words I give them? May they possibly find a little joy or sadness or surprise in my ramblings? I hope so. Because like the singer or the dancer, I am nothing without an audience. They may not always like the rhythm or the steps, but they keep me trying to be the person I wish I could be.
I wish I could sing. I know, "everyone can sing." But not everyone can do it well. What does it feel like, I wonder, to be able to pour forth sounds so beautiful that they can make people laugh or cry? I will never know the answer to this. But I suppose that as much as we need singers, they need an audience. I am a very appreciative listener. If I had any bravery at all, I would tell The Opera Kids, as we call them, that if they ever need to practice in front of an audience, I'll be there at the drop of a hat. Heck, I'll even bring refreshments!
Another thing I wish I could do is dance with the grace of Fred Astaire. And no, I don't want to dance like Ginger Rogers. There is a saying that Ginger did everything that Fred did, but that she did it backward and in high heels. Whoever was the first to make that statement hasn't seen a lot of Fred's movies. Ginger never danced with a coat rack. Or on the ceiling. She was one heck of a dancer, but the one I would emulate would be Fred. This is a man who was so graceful that when he walked across a room, it was like a dance. Unfortunately for me, my feet seem to be embedded in the floor. I have not been blessed in the terpsichorean arts. AKA, I can't dance worth a plug nickel. But I can certainly recognize and appreciate good dancing when I see it, and it truly moves my soul.
I wish I could write things that loads and loads of people would love to read. I don't want to be famous. I love words, and I have a pretty decent vocabulary. I recently came across a notebook that somehow stayed with me from my high school days. In it, I had written, "I would like my gravestone to read, She Was a Writer." I took some stabs here and there at writing some stories, but I didn't know what I was doing. My use of the language was okay, but I didn't really know anything about the subjects I was trying to write about. I mean, I was a history major and all, but what did I really know about daily life in ancient Egypt? And who wants to read that junk anyway?
What I do know about are the things I experience and see and form opinions about on a daily basis. When I sit down at my computer to write, I am not creating fiction. I am sharing a bit of my life, a bit of my soul, a bit of me. As I write, I wonder if anyone will like it. Will they see a part of themselves in the words I give them? May they possibly find a little joy or sadness or surprise in my ramblings? I hope so. Because like the singer or the dancer, I am nothing without an audience. They may not always like the rhythm or the steps, but they keep me trying to be the person I wish I could be.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Canines and Cookies and Cars, Oh My!
Before Trent and I got married, I told him that if we should happen to be blessed with children, we would still be Trent and Katrina. Just because we had kids wouldn't mean we didn't have first names anymore. Not that we would have our kids calling us by our first names; I just meant that we would not be changing our names to Mom and Dad. Trent thought that was a pretty cool idea. Well, we didn't have any kids, but we have a crazy little poodle named Paris. And no, she is not named after Paris Hilton! And what does Paris know us as? Mommy and Daddy. Go figure.
As long as I have known Trent, he has this funny habit of making up nonsensical words, usually when trying to get his point across to the dog. It could be something along the lines of, "Paris! Kush kush aka lunu!" Just like with babies, it's about the tone rather than the words. One day she was really irritating her Daddy, who said, "Paris, quit being a doorknob!" This struck me as hysterically funny, and I not only laughed till I cried, I laughed until I couldn't breathe or speak any more. Poor Trent! Here he was, mad at the dog, and I was going into hysterics. When he asked what was so funny, I gasped, "You called her a dooooorknob!" It took a while for me to convince him that I wasn't mocking him, it just struck me as really funny.
We were watching tv one day and there was a commercial for Pepperidge Farm Mini Milano cookies. I love Milano cookies. I asked Trent, "Didn't we buy you a package of those Mini Milanos?" "Yup," he said. "Do we have any left?" Again he answered, "Yup." "Well, can I have some?" "Nope," he said, very matter-of-fact in tone. "Those are specialboy cookies. Only specialboys can eat them." It is very hard to eat cookies of any type when you are laughing that hard. I can't tell you to this day whether I ever got my hands on those specialboy cookies or not, but it was a delicious moment anyway.
And as we grow older, I have not lost the ability to be amused by my dear husband. We were watching a promotional spot for a tv show called Lizard Lick towing recently. This show has been on for a goodish while, and I had heard the name dozens of times, but for some reason, on this particular day, it just seemed so odd to me. "What a weird name that is. Lizard Lick." "Well, it's named after where they are. There's a Lizard Lick town." I don't know if it was the deadpan delivery or the words themselves, but again I had a great cardiac workout without ever getting out of my chair.
I consider myself fortunate to be married to someone that can still make me laugh after all of this time. He may shake his head and look at me like I've lost my marbles, but I know he loves me, and he knows I love him too. He tries to act like I irritate him by laughing at some of the things he says, but I know he likes my ability to find so much humor in such small things. So whether it's canines, cookies, or cars being towed, you never know when the laughter will erupt. But with the three of us, it's inevitable.
As long as I have known Trent, he has this funny habit of making up nonsensical words, usually when trying to get his point across to the dog. It could be something along the lines of, "Paris! Kush kush aka lunu!" Just like with babies, it's about the tone rather than the words. One day she was really irritating her Daddy, who said, "Paris, quit being a doorknob!" This struck me as hysterically funny, and I not only laughed till I cried, I laughed until I couldn't breathe or speak any more. Poor Trent! Here he was, mad at the dog, and I was going into hysterics. When he asked what was so funny, I gasped, "You called her a dooooorknob!" It took a while for me to convince him that I wasn't mocking him, it just struck me as really funny.
We were watching tv one day and there was a commercial for Pepperidge Farm Mini Milano cookies. I love Milano cookies. I asked Trent, "Didn't we buy you a package of those Mini Milanos?" "Yup," he said. "Do we have any left?" Again he answered, "Yup." "Well, can I have some?" "Nope," he said, very matter-of-fact in tone. "Those are specialboy cookies. Only specialboys can eat them." It is very hard to eat cookies of any type when you are laughing that hard. I can't tell you to this day whether I ever got my hands on those specialboy cookies or not, but it was a delicious moment anyway.
And as we grow older, I have not lost the ability to be amused by my dear husband. We were watching a promotional spot for a tv show called Lizard Lick towing recently. This show has been on for a goodish while, and I had heard the name dozens of times, but for some reason, on this particular day, it just seemed so odd to me. "What a weird name that is. Lizard Lick." "Well, it's named after where they are. There's a Lizard Lick town." I don't know if it was the deadpan delivery or the words themselves, but again I had a great cardiac workout without ever getting out of my chair.
I consider myself fortunate to be married to someone that can still make me laugh after all of this time. He may shake his head and look at me like I've lost my marbles, but I know he loves me, and he knows I love him too. He tries to act like I irritate him by laughing at some of the things he says, but I know he likes my ability to find so much humor in such small things. So whether it's canines, cookies, or cars being towed, you never know when the laughter will erupt. But with the three of us, it's inevitable.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Excessive-Compulsive Disorder
I love my sister. Let's get that clear right from the start. But that doesn't mean I am above teasing her when I have the opportunity. And it isn't going to stop me from writing about her today, either.
My sister Liz is sort of a middle child. She was the youngest until I showed up six days before her sixth birthday. Not only did she have to walk out of Hungary in the middle of the night, move to the USA, and learn a new language, she also had to start school a year late because she had to change my diapers and so forth. Hey, please don't blame me. They were my diapers, but it wasn't my fault. I think it created some tensions, but the years have worn those away.
Liz and I have had a running joke for years that she is the pretty one and I am the smart one. I am not saying she is dumb, because she is not. Looking back, I remember my father telling me constantly that I should learn well in school so I could be a smart girl. I never heard him say that to my sisters, and it took me years to figure out why. It was because I wasn't the pretty one, so he wanted me to be able to rely on my brains. He should have treated all of his daughters this way, but it is too late to change this.
One of the great things about Liz is that she is able to laugh at herself, like I am able to laugh at her. Just kidding, I mean that I also have that ability. When she gets something tangled up, she tries to say it is because she is an immigrant. I tell her nice try, but you came here when you were three, so I am not buying it. This is exactly what happened when one of her coworkers told her that he thought she was obsessive-compulsive. "So-and-so at work told me that he thinks I have excessive-compulsive disorder. I think maybe he's right, maybe I am excessive-compulsive." At that moment, my internal struggle begins. Do I correct her and risk making her angry or hurting her feelings? She has only said it in front of me, so why make a fuss? I decide not to be the know-it-all little sister and simply say that she might have it, that's possible.
A few weeks later, we laughed until we cried when she realized that she had gotten it so wrong. It was harmless fun. I think this was shortly after the time that she went to a party at another coworker's home and was gushing about the food. "They had all kinds of stuff. This and that, and you could even make your own pull-apart pork sandwiches!" I freely admit that this has become a part of my everyday speech. I like to call it pull-apart pork rather than pulled pork, just because it reminds me of us having a good laugh together.
Another of my favorites has to do with a conversation we had about a movie she had just seen. "We went to the movies today," she said, "and saw The Loving Bones. Have you ever seen it?" "No, I haven't seen The Lovely Bones, but I would like to, I really loved the book. The writing was beautiful." "Oh, have you seen The Loving Bones?" "No, actually, I haven't seen The Lovely Bones yet, but I would really like to." "Well, maybe next week you and I could go see The Loving Bones together, I wouldn't mind seeing it again," Liz continues. "That would be great," I reply, "I really do want to see The Lovely Bones. Let's plan on going to see it together." By the time we went to see it, we had another laugh-till-you-cry session over that conversation.
I know that none of us are immune to the twisting it around syndrome. My sister, bless her, has elevated it to an art form. She is a good sport when she finds out that she's done another one, so we get to enjoy it together. So, until the next time she creates another hybrid phrase, I think I'll go eat some pull-apart pork and maybe watch The Loving Bones. But not until I have proofread this post excessive-compulsively.
My sister Liz is sort of a middle child. She was the youngest until I showed up six days before her sixth birthday. Not only did she have to walk out of Hungary in the middle of the night, move to the USA, and learn a new language, she also had to start school a year late because she had to change my diapers and so forth. Hey, please don't blame me. They were my diapers, but it wasn't my fault. I think it created some tensions, but the years have worn those away.
Liz and I have had a running joke for years that she is the pretty one and I am the smart one. I am not saying she is dumb, because she is not. Looking back, I remember my father telling me constantly that I should learn well in school so I could be a smart girl. I never heard him say that to my sisters, and it took me years to figure out why. It was because I wasn't the pretty one, so he wanted me to be able to rely on my brains. He should have treated all of his daughters this way, but it is too late to change this.
One of the great things about Liz is that she is able to laugh at herself, like I am able to laugh at her. Just kidding, I mean that I also have that ability. When she gets something tangled up, she tries to say it is because she is an immigrant. I tell her nice try, but you came here when you were three, so I am not buying it. This is exactly what happened when one of her coworkers told her that he thought she was obsessive-compulsive. "So-and-so at work told me that he thinks I have excessive-compulsive disorder. I think maybe he's right, maybe I am excessive-compulsive." At that moment, my internal struggle begins. Do I correct her and risk making her angry or hurting her feelings? She has only said it in front of me, so why make a fuss? I decide not to be the know-it-all little sister and simply say that she might have it, that's possible.
A few weeks later, we laughed until we cried when she realized that she had gotten it so wrong. It was harmless fun. I think this was shortly after the time that she went to a party at another coworker's home and was gushing about the food. "They had all kinds of stuff. This and that, and you could even make your own pull-apart pork sandwiches!" I freely admit that this has become a part of my everyday speech. I like to call it pull-apart pork rather than pulled pork, just because it reminds me of us having a good laugh together.
Another of my favorites has to do with a conversation we had about a movie she had just seen. "We went to the movies today," she said, "and saw The Loving Bones. Have you ever seen it?" "No, I haven't seen The Lovely Bones, but I would like to, I really loved the book. The writing was beautiful." "Oh, have you seen The Loving Bones?" "No, actually, I haven't seen The Lovely Bones yet, but I would really like to." "Well, maybe next week you and I could go see The Loving Bones together, I wouldn't mind seeing it again," Liz continues. "That would be great," I reply, "I really do want to see The Lovely Bones. Let's plan on going to see it together." By the time we went to see it, we had another laugh-till-you-cry session over that conversation.
I know that none of us are immune to the twisting it around syndrome. My sister, bless her, has elevated it to an art form. She is a good sport when she finds out that she's done another one, so we get to enjoy it together. So, until the next time she creates another hybrid phrase, I think I'll go eat some pull-apart pork and maybe watch The Loving Bones. But not until I have proofread this post excessive-compulsively.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
"Quality Work, Fare Prices"
Maybe it's because I was an English major in college. Perhaps it is because I was the Adams County School District 50 spelling champion when I was twelve years old. It could be that I am just fussy. Whatever the reason, I must admit that it drives me crazy that so many English-speakers can't write in their own language. I was considering blogging about this subject, but was worried that I might offend or embarrass some of my readers. But a sign I saw today made me just have to do it.
We were on the way home from a lab visit at my doctor's office when I spotted it. I can't tell you what type of business it is, but they promise to do quality work at fare prices. Do they mean they will provide their service for the cost of bus fare? Or do they mean that they will charge a reasonable, fair, price? It would really be a hoot if they were a printing business. Well, actually, more like a potential nightmare.
Earlier today I was online and clicked on a news story that was about a dog herding lions at a reserve in South Africa. I didn't even watch the brief video because the article stated that although collies are bred to herd cattle and sheep, this dog had to make due with lions. Due? Did he have to return them to the library? Would there be a huge fine if they were late? Or did he have to make it work with whatever was at hand, make do with lions instead of cows? And this in a news story! Proofreading, anyone?
I will be the first to tell you that English is a crazy, mixed-up language. I think that perhaps our schools aren't getting the job done right when it comes to teaching us how to use it in its written form. And let's face it, with all of the different ways to pronounce things, and all the words that sound the same but are spelled differently, it can be a challenge. Case in point: I want to read this book. I read this book. Reed/red, same spelling...madness. Will you think any less of me if I share some tips to make you seem like the brightest and best-read person amongst all of your friends?
Please put the groceries over there. Think of here and there, it's all about location, baby. They're going to meet us at the restaurant. The apostrophe means it's been shortened from they are. Susan and Jack lost a lot of their money in the stock market. Think of kids who want to inherit all kinds of stuff; the heirs want it all to be theirs. Your mom sure is funny. Think our. Ours belongs to us, yours belongs to you. You're late again! Again, we have that wacky apostrophe because it means you are.
I'm sorry about getting up on my soapbox. We all have to struggle with this difficult language every day. And I don't want you to think I am always wanting to correct others and their writing, or that I am a writing snob. That is just not the case. When it all comes down to brass tacks, I'd much rather have someone use the wrong word than refer to me by using a perfectly-spelled word that means a female canine. And at least with texting and instant messaging, and so on, we are writing and communicating with one another. So I guess I can live with it, if the prices arefare fair...
We were on the way home from a lab visit at my doctor's office when I spotted it. I can't tell you what type of business it is, but they promise to do quality work at fare prices. Do they mean they will provide their service for the cost of bus fare? Or do they mean that they will charge a reasonable, fair, price? It would really be a hoot if they were a printing business. Well, actually, more like a potential nightmare.
Earlier today I was online and clicked on a news story that was about a dog herding lions at a reserve in South Africa. I didn't even watch the brief video because the article stated that although collies are bred to herd cattle and sheep, this dog had to make due with lions. Due? Did he have to return them to the library? Would there be a huge fine if they were late? Or did he have to make it work with whatever was at hand, make do with lions instead of cows? And this in a news story! Proofreading, anyone?
I will be the first to tell you that English is a crazy, mixed-up language. I think that perhaps our schools aren't getting the job done right when it comes to teaching us how to use it in its written form. And let's face it, with all of the different ways to pronounce things, and all the words that sound the same but are spelled differently, it can be a challenge. Case in point: I want to read this book. I read this book. Reed/red, same spelling...madness. Will you think any less of me if I share some tips to make you seem like the brightest and best-read person amongst all of your friends?
Please put the groceries over there. Think of here and there, it's all about location, baby. They're going to meet us at the restaurant. The apostrophe means it's been shortened from they are. Susan and Jack lost a lot of their money in the stock market. Think of kids who want to inherit all kinds of stuff; the heirs want it all to be theirs. Your mom sure is funny. Think our. Ours belongs to us, yours belongs to you. You're late again! Again, we have that wacky apostrophe because it means you are.
I'm sorry about getting up on my soapbox. We all have to struggle with this difficult language every day. And I don't want you to think I am always wanting to correct others and their writing, or that I am a writing snob. That is just not the case. When it all comes down to brass tacks, I'd much rather have someone use the wrong word than refer to me by using a perfectly-spelled word that means a female canine. And at least with texting and instant messaging, and so on, we are writing and communicating with one another. So I guess I can live with it, if the prices are
Monday, June 18, 2012
Some People Have Been Everywhere
Once again I am going to be talking about my Gram, who raised me. She was, and still is, a big part of my life, so things that happen from time to time will bring up fond memories of Gram.
Gram seemed to have an expression or saying for just about every situation. I tend to think that this is a verbal art form that may be dying out. Sometimes when I use old sayings, whether they came from Gram or not, I find that people just get confused by them. Case in point, my husband Trent. He just can't seem to make sense of an oldie and a goodie, "six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other." "But they are the same thing!" he exclaims. "Exactly!" I reply. After more than twelve years of marriage, he still doesn't understand it. So I just say "six of one and WD-40 of the other." It makes no sense, but it works for whenever I use it.
My Gram was a short little woman who claimed to be five feet tall but was more like four feet eleven inches. She told me that saying she was five feet tall just sounded so much bigger. She had a sweet face and white hair and just looked like a sweet little granny. And she loved to take advantage of that. She lived for the moments when a grocery store clerk would ask her how she was doing. She'd reply, "Oh, mean as ever!" Many a clerk gave a startled look when she said that with such a sweet smile on her face!
Her mother died before she was two, and she was raised by a single father with lots of brothers who liked to have a drink or two and lovingly call each other every name in the book. Therefore, some of her phrases would be just a little bit too sassy to put in my blog, although she did clean some of them up just a bit. When I found myself saying that I was wishing for something, she'd say, "Well, you know what my dad used to tell me. Put your wish in one hand, and spit in the other, and see which one gets full first." Then she would tell me the real version of the saying, and get a giggle out of being naughty.
Another one she really liked was when it was her birthday, and people would ask how old she was. She would tell them very proudly, to which they'd reply with an "oh, my goodness," or ask her how she felt about hitting that age. "Well, it's better than the alternative," she'd say. What a pistol! I remember when she came up with a new one for that subject. She'd say that the only problem with getting older was AGE...Arthritis, Glaucoma, and Everything else!
So what made me think about Gram and her sayings today? Well, let me tell you, it is really hot here in the Denver metropolitan area today. The official high temperature, a record breaker, is 100 degrees Fahrenheit, or 37.78 degrees Celsius for my Hungarian readers. This is the kind of day that can make you believe in that legendary home of the devil. On a day just like this, many years ago, I came in the house and said, "Oh, Gram! It's hotter than West Hades out there!" Her reply? "Some people have been everywhere." And just like then, what kind of comeback can I make to that?
Gram seemed to have an expression or saying for just about every situation. I tend to think that this is a verbal art form that may be dying out. Sometimes when I use old sayings, whether they came from Gram or not, I find that people just get confused by them. Case in point, my husband Trent. He just can't seem to make sense of an oldie and a goodie, "six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other." "But they are the same thing!" he exclaims. "Exactly!" I reply. After more than twelve years of marriage, he still doesn't understand it. So I just say "six of one and WD-40 of the other." It makes no sense, but it works for whenever I use it.
My Gram was a short little woman who claimed to be five feet tall but was more like four feet eleven inches. She told me that saying she was five feet tall just sounded so much bigger. She had a sweet face and white hair and just looked like a sweet little granny. And she loved to take advantage of that. She lived for the moments when a grocery store clerk would ask her how she was doing. She'd reply, "Oh, mean as ever!" Many a clerk gave a startled look when she said that with such a sweet smile on her face!
Her mother died before she was two, and she was raised by a single father with lots of brothers who liked to have a drink or two and lovingly call each other every name in the book. Therefore, some of her phrases would be just a little bit too sassy to put in my blog, although she did clean some of them up just a bit. When I found myself saying that I was wishing for something, she'd say, "Well, you know what my dad used to tell me. Put your wish in one hand, and spit in the other, and see which one gets full first." Then she would tell me the real version of the saying, and get a giggle out of being naughty.
Another one she really liked was when it was her birthday, and people would ask how old she was. She would tell them very proudly, to which they'd reply with an "oh, my goodness," or ask her how she felt about hitting that age. "Well, it's better than the alternative," she'd say. What a pistol! I remember when she came up with a new one for that subject. She'd say that the only problem with getting older was AGE...Arthritis, Glaucoma, and Everything else!
So what made me think about Gram and her sayings today? Well, let me tell you, it is really hot here in the Denver metropolitan area today. The official high temperature, a record breaker, is 100 degrees Fahrenheit, or 37.78 degrees Celsius for my Hungarian readers. This is the kind of day that can make you believe in that legendary home of the devil. On a day just like this, many years ago, I came in the house and said, "Oh, Gram! It's hotter than West Hades out there!" Her reply? "Some people have been everywhere." And just like then, what kind of comeback can I make to that?
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Honoring My Father
For those of you who have been reading from the beginning or those who know about my background, I imagine that the last thing you expected from me was a Father's Day post. But everyone can have some redeeming qualities, even my own father.
My father was born in a town in western Hungary in 1914. When World War II began, he enlisted in the Hungarian Army. Unfortunately, the German government misled the Hungarians, promising to restore the territories that Hungary lost after WW I if they would fight on Germany's side. Of course, we all know that the Nazis were lying, and they did not intend to serve anyone's needs but their own. I found out just a few years ago that my father was a prisoner of war of the Soviet Union for more than two and a half years. He never told me about it, but I am sure that he was badly treated, to say the least.
I remember seeing numbers tattooed on my father's arm, and asking why they were there. He simply said that some bad men did that to him in the war. He also had a bullet or bullet fragment in the same arm, so I know that the pains he suffered were both physical and mental. After being released from the Soviet prison, he returned to Hungary, which had been turned over to the Soviets in the aftermath of the war. The lovely little village where he met and married my mother, and my siblings were born, was controlled by soldiers who treated the locals very cruelly. I could tell many stories about what happened in the village during this time frame, but let's just say a few things. The people were not free to speak their minds or do things they wanted to do. Many people hid their daughters in sheds and pigpens to avoid having them raped by the soldiers. People were hungry, but the soldiers were well fed. Oftentimes, for their entertainment, they would make small boys have fistfights for a piece of bread.
On October 23, 1956, the Hungarians revolted against the Soviets. It makes me both proud and sad to know that since they had no weapons, they made use of whatever was available to them. University students went in front of Soviet tanks on the city streets of Budapest and put rocks in the paths of the treads to disable them. They would then climb on the tanks and pull the soldiers out. After only a matter of days, the Soviets returned with more tanks and soldiers, and killed thousands and wounded tens of thousands, many of them innocent civilians. The revolution was crushed by November 10, 1956. Since my father was pro-revolution, he was going to be executed, along with my mother and siblings.
I am, again, proud and sad for my family's bravery. My father had been imprisoned, released to a country that was no longer under its own control, tried to regain his home, and then lost it forever. On a night in early November, 1956, my father, mother and siblings aged three, five, and six, walked across the border into Austria. (In retribution, the Soviet soldiers tore down their home.) My family came to the USA in either late 1956 or early 1957. They went from a lovely, green, beautiful village, to the city of Chicago with all of its buildings and cement and noise. I am not trying to excuse my father's actions. He abused every member of his family and killed my mother. But I have grown to understand some of his suffering. He died in March of 1982, and was gone for some years before any of his children even knew.
I don't remember all that much about him. When I was about three years old I asked him why did he smoke, did it taste good? (I knew why he drank beer; I had done so myself a number of times.) He told me to see for myself, and made me smoke a cigarette. I can tell you that it was a cruel thing to do but it gave me a lifetime's worth of smoking prevention! He drank hard, and we often didn't have enough food because of this. But on the other hand, I have learned that he loved numbers and mathematics. He hated prejudice and racism. He said, "Winter has no season, so you always wear a coat to be warm."
I do not know if I will ever have the emotional strength to forgive him for what he did to my mother, my siblings, and me. His actions have reverberated throughout my life and, in their own way, left me vulnerable to other events that have in some cases hurt me, and in others helped me. Some people think that the Bible says that you are supposed to love your parents, but that is not what it says. The commandment is to honor your mother and father. Although I do not honor all of his actions, I hope to be able to honor the bravery and sacrifices that helped me to be here today.
My father was born in a town in western Hungary in 1914. When World War II began, he enlisted in the Hungarian Army. Unfortunately, the German government misled the Hungarians, promising to restore the territories that Hungary lost after WW I if they would fight on Germany's side. Of course, we all know that the Nazis were lying, and they did not intend to serve anyone's needs but their own. I found out just a few years ago that my father was a prisoner of war of the Soviet Union for more than two and a half years. He never told me about it, but I am sure that he was badly treated, to say the least.
I remember seeing numbers tattooed on my father's arm, and asking why they were there. He simply said that some bad men did that to him in the war. He also had a bullet or bullet fragment in the same arm, so I know that the pains he suffered were both physical and mental. After being released from the Soviet prison, he returned to Hungary, which had been turned over to the Soviets in the aftermath of the war. The lovely little village where he met and married my mother, and my siblings were born, was controlled by soldiers who treated the locals very cruelly. I could tell many stories about what happened in the village during this time frame, but let's just say a few things. The people were not free to speak their minds or do things they wanted to do. Many people hid their daughters in sheds and pigpens to avoid having them raped by the soldiers. People were hungry, but the soldiers were well fed. Oftentimes, for their entertainment, they would make small boys have fistfights for a piece of bread.
On October 23, 1956, the Hungarians revolted against the Soviets. It makes me both proud and sad to know that since they had no weapons, they made use of whatever was available to them. University students went in front of Soviet tanks on the city streets of Budapest and put rocks in the paths of the treads to disable them. They would then climb on the tanks and pull the soldiers out. After only a matter of days, the Soviets returned with more tanks and soldiers, and killed thousands and wounded tens of thousands, many of them innocent civilians. The revolution was crushed by November 10, 1956. Since my father was pro-revolution, he was going to be executed, along with my mother and siblings.
I am, again, proud and sad for my family's bravery. My father had been imprisoned, released to a country that was no longer under its own control, tried to regain his home, and then lost it forever. On a night in early November, 1956, my father, mother and siblings aged three, five, and six, walked across the border into Austria. (In retribution, the Soviet soldiers tore down their home.) My family came to the USA in either late 1956 or early 1957. They went from a lovely, green, beautiful village, to the city of Chicago with all of its buildings and cement and noise. I am not trying to excuse my father's actions. He abused every member of his family and killed my mother. But I have grown to understand some of his suffering. He died in March of 1982, and was gone for some years before any of his children even knew.
I don't remember all that much about him. When I was about three years old I asked him why did he smoke, did it taste good? (I knew why he drank beer; I had done so myself a number of times.) He told me to see for myself, and made me smoke a cigarette. I can tell you that it was a cruel thing to do but it gave me a lifetime's worth of smoking prevention! He drank hard, and we often didn't have enough food because of this. But on the other hand, I have learned that he loved numbers and mathematics. He hated prejudice and racism. He said, "Winter has no season, so you always wear a coat to be warm."
I do not know if I will ever have the emotional strength to forgive him for what he did to my mother, my siblings, and me. His actions have reverberated throughout my life and, in their own way, left me vulnerable to other events that have in some cases hurt me, and in others helped me. Some people think that the Bible says that you are supposed to love your parents, but that is not what it says. The commandment is to honor your mother and father. Although I do not honor all of his actions, I hope to be able to honor the bravery and sacrifices that helped me to be here today.
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