500-Word report
I’m doing Jeff Goins’ 500-word-per-day challenge for January and promised I’d report in.
After day 12, I have logged 7,008 words and have several blog posts ready to go.
So far, so good. Hold me to it.
Dad’s choice
I knew this when I started the conversation but Dad had lived on a farm his entire life. It wasn’t an easy talk.
Except for the years he’d spent overseas in World War II, Dad had been a farmer. His was a love affair with the land.
But in his later years, his weak legs and fading memory restricted him. Although he no longer was in charge of the fields, he had a few acres around his house that were being overrun with weeds. Fences needed repairs.
Dad couldn’t keep up anymore.
“Maybe we should talk about moving to a place that wouldn’t take any upkeep,” I suggested to him one day.
He bristled. “I’m not moving to town.”
“But it’s getting harder for you to keep up around here. We could find an easier place.”
He lifted his chin as a new idea pushed into his mind. “You kids can take care of this place.”
My brothers had both moved too far away to help, which meant Dad was referring to my husband and my sister’s husband.
“We don’t have time to keep up with our own places,” I said.
“Family should take care of family,” he said.
I wasn’t sure how to answer him. Both our husbands were hard-working guys submarined with their jobs. Adding the upkeep of Dad and Mom’s place wasn’t an option.
But then Dad brightened again. “I’ll just hire somebody to do it.”
This meant hiring one of the neighbors who had a big tractor-mower rig. “That’s a great idea,” I said. “Why don’t you call somebody and have them mow? Maybe once a month would keep those weeds under control.”
“I’m gonna do that.”
He never did. At his age, even making those arrangements was too difficult.
He did eventually move to town, which is another story for another time.
But I’m glad I let him take charge of the problem that day. Even when he didn’t follow through, at least he had the dignity of the choice.
Gag gifts
It was because of the many westerns we watched on TV that my brothers and I clamored for the whiskey challenge.
Our father loved the western genre. Bonanza. Gunsmoke. Annie Oakley. Bat Masterson. Maverick.
You get the idea.
I was 13 when we moved to the farm where my parents would make their home for nearly the rest of their lives. Our neighbors gave my folks a bottle of whisky as a going-away gift.
My parents didn’t drink whiskey. For more years than I’d like to admit to, I wondered why on earth the neighbors did that.
I did finally figure it out. Welcome to gag gifts.
But as a 13-year-old, I saw that bottle as an opportunity.
“We want to try it,” I told Mom. My brothers at 11 and 8 both agreed. We’d seen the saloon settings in the westerns. We wanted in on the excitement.
Mom finally agreed.
She pulled out three Dixie paper cups, the ones with the yellow flowers on the outside that you’d usually use to rinse your teeth after brushing.
Mom set those three cups on the counter just like the bartenders in the westerns did.
I wanted to compliment her on her bartending skills but something held me back. Probably the anticipation of this exciting re-enactment.
Mom poured the dark liquid into each cup.
“There you go,” she said.
There we were. We’d seen how to drink whiskey. The cowboys swirled the drink in their shot glass and then tossed it into their throat like ice water to a parched throat.
We knew how to do that.
We swirled our drinks, opened our mouths and tossed that whiskey in.
Cowboys in our westerns didn’t gag on whiskey. They didn’t cough and pant, trying to get the foul taste out of their mouths. They didn’t run for the faucet and guzzle cold water until the burn faded.
Cowboys didn’t but we sure did.
I never checked my mom’s response that day but I’ll bet she was smirking.
Now that I’ve figured out about gag gifts.
The mail pile
Opening the mail became a special event in my Dad’s later years. He would carefully slice open an envelope, study the plea, and write a check.
His heart was touched by the starving child in Somalia, by the disfigured little boy in Haiti, by the shoeless girl in an Ecuador jungle.
Every month he’d send back several $15 checks.
“Dad, why don’t you pick one charity and give it most of your donation budget?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I like my way better.” And he connected with many charities that way.
But the backlash came after he passed. Not only did these organizations spend more than $15 a year to get more money from Dad, they sometimes sold their lists to others.
My parents had their mail delivered to their house and I was surprised their mailman didn’t lodge claims of back injury from hauling the daily pile of envelopes.
While my mom was able, she went through the mail, but after her stroke, I got the duty.
I’ve spent months now returning requests with a request: “Deceased. Please remove.”
Some have faded; some haven’t.
All that paper in the trash can sometimes saddens me. I wish Dad had picked his favorite and poured his heart into that one.
But I will admit this: the avalanche of envelopes is a hassle to go through, however, all those requests are a frequent reminder and a sweet monument to my Dad’s tender heart.
Hold me to this
I’m joining Jeff Goins’ challenge to write 500 words per day during January. I’d like to develop more consistent daily writing habits and this looks to be a good start.
I’ll post updates during the month. If all goes according to plan (and it always does, right?), I should have at least 15,000 words down on paper -well, on my hard drive – by the end of January and several blog posts in the queue.
Hold me to it!