THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING FOOD THAT'S WHAT IT'S CALLED

The Mystery of The Missing Food, That’s What It’s Called

“What would you like to order, GrammyPam?” Miss Lilly, the preschooler, stood in front of me with notepad and pen.  She can’t write just yet, but she can sure scribble making wavy lines.

“I want some ice cream,” I answered her.

She handed me a pretend cone of vanilla ice cream and skipped off to take Grandpa John’s order.

When she’d come back I knew I’d have to do something about that ice cream and I didn’t want to pretend to lick it to death.  Since she’s fast, I knew I had to be fast, too.

“Something came and ate it.”  I said, “I think it was a gecko.”  I was distracted with my laptop and tried to back out of her play, holding my hand to simulate emptiness.

She kept going, though, “I saw some foot prints in my res-taur-ant.”  And she ripped off a little lined page in her little pad and handed it to me.  Sure enough she had drawn me a picture of a web-footed footprint!

“Here it is,” she said.

“Something was moving, and it was the color of my walls,” she continued fabricating.

She paused, still jotting in her pad, "The wall color was green and he was green.  Just like I said.”

“Oh, really?” I asked.

“Yah, his eyes were red.  He’s kinda scary.  Even he had red spots on his tail.  He was so-o-o-o, so-o-o-o scary” drawing out the o’s with her little girl voice.

She moved from the brown leathered couch to the Murphy table in the kitchen where the magic markers laid.

“The mystery of the missing food, that’s what it’s called.” 

Now, say mystery like she does, “MISS’- stoi- wee”.  

“I saw something move and it was eating ice cream all along.  It was a gecko,” she exclaimed.

From my spot on the love seat, I could hear Miss Lilly in the kitchen still talking, and still drawing.  This long brown haired pony-tailed sweet smiling child is just a’talking away to herself.

“It’s a mystery.  A real mystery!  It’s the mysterious gecko that even ate your food!”

She finally concluded, “The mystery of the missing food, that’s what it’s called.”

"THE WAY A GARDEN SHOULD BE!"

"Now that my parents are gone I can tell you ..." Oh, this is going to be interesting," I thought, as Darling Hubby inserted an unusual comment into the middle of our conversation about what our dads would or would not do.

The conversation had started when I served up some sweet red home-grown home-canned pickled beets from daughter-in-law's father.

"Hubby, do you want some of those beets that she brought over for supper?"

"Sure.  I love beets."

"Did you know that her father canned them?  Can you imagine him having a garden and canning its fruits?  I can't.  He's so sober, impeccably attired, and fastidious.  But, he is smart, and can do many things like restore a car, hunt, and head a multi-million dollar concern!  Still, can you imagine, canning, having a garden?"

I quizzed hubby further, "When you were growing up, did your parents have a garden?"

"Oh, yes.  We all had to weed.  Mom didn't want one weed left behind; it had to be pristine."  

My mind went to their red brick ranch style home that had an above ground pool sitting on dry clumpy sod where I supposed the garden in the back yard used to be.

"Did your dad help any?  'Cause my dad would do the tilling, the fertilizing, and the planting, then he was done.  Finé."  We grew everything from corn, and Indian corn, to tomatoes, and green beans and cucumbers, but never beets.

"Yah, dad helped weed.  We all did.  Now, that my parents are gone I can tell you...when Mom's back was turned my dad said, "Oh, look, a clod, looks like your mother," and he gave it a smack with the rake. We boys all laughed."

Darling Hubby kept talking, "When I came to your house, the weeds were 6 feet tall!  They were taller than the plants!  I thought, "That's the way a garden should be!"  

And he gave a heart-felt laugh.

"I loved it."

"DAD, I WAS THINKING..."

One day I greeted my father, "Hey, Dad, I was just thinking..."  

"Did that hurt?" and he grinned. 

Dad loved a laugh.  He loved to read the comic strips outloud to us kids, and mom, if he thought they were especially funny.  Andy Capp and B.C. were a couple of his favorites.

***

Dad also loved his coffee.  He always had a cup of coffee in hand or nearby.  We'd be going down the interstate crossing the bridge over the Ohio River into Kentucky, navigating changing lanes for the next exit, Mom would be pouring coffee from his Thermos into it's lid, she'd hold steady until the effects of a road bump left, and he'd be holding out one hand waiting for the cup to be put in it.

To us 5 kids he'd sing that Roger Miller song with the substituion of coffee "Chug-a-lug, your coffee mug, makes you want to holler "Hi-de-ho, don'tcha know!"  He'd come into the room with something to drink - that  black coffee - singing that song "Burns your tummy, don't ya know, chug a lug, chug a lug."  

Do you know the song?  Well, here's a link to what we'd hear coming from our record player https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsNWlM3fWmI

Black, to him, meant that the coffee without the cup could stand on it's own.  Brrrr, "shiver me timbers" and shake the soul, it wasn't sharable, unt-uh.  I never did learn to love coffee that way.

If I was sick, he'd stick a wine bottle in my face, in that deep resonant voice of his, towering over me he'd say, "Take 3 sips."  If I took 1 or 2, he'd hand it back to me for the final sip, all the while carrying a cup of coffee in the other hand.

He went through spells of black coffee, coffee with cream and sugar, or when he was sick he laid off for a year or so and only drank hot water.  Coffee with sugar and cream was called mud. I think muddy water came from his days in the army.

When company came to visit he'd offer around a cup o' Joe.  

All of us kids knew what he meant when he'd say swill, java, or go-juice -- "Bring me my coffee."

***

"Now, you know more than you knew yesterday," that's what Dad used to tell us after imparting some information he thought essential or interesting.

"I need a rope."
"Don't use that saw over your head!"
"Use both hands!"                                                                                                                                                              "Angle it down and behind you when you walk."

Those are just some of the things dad might say to a son who's learning to use a chainsaw.   Of all the peoples I know, from Dad to brothers, to in-laws, to my hubby, to my sons, and their co-woodcutters, none were ever hurt but one and he was saved by his steel-toed shoes, thank the Good Lord.

And, lately I was thinking, thank the Good Lord for my many facetted father.

JOHN, BY ANY OTHER NAME IS STILL MY JOHN

John, By Any Other Name, Is Still My John.  

You know, you marry a man you know and you love, and then you get busy with life -- the troubles, the insistant necesssities, the interruptions, the self-help and healings, and then one day you pause.

And when you pause, you take note of things you never took note of before.

That happened this year.  

I took note of the fact that my dear hubby calls himself names.  Sometimes he's behind closed doors brushing his teeth with Ultra Bright and I can hear him.  Sometimes, he's stuck under the hood of his blue Ford diesel with a rachet and socket in his hand and I hear him.  Sometimes he's walking through the family room with a full plate of food in one hand and eating utensils in the other looking for a place to park everything and I hear him.  Sometimes he's dispirited and wants to think positive thoughts and I overhear him.

We went through Panera Bread last Thursday and the young man says, "What name, please."  And John says, "Fred."

I looked at him sideways with sqinting eyes, "Your name's not Fred!"  And he grins, wickedly.

The next day or so he's telling a story about some instance about the bus and the school kids and himself, only this time he replaced himself with Larry, "Larry needs to use the mic more to tell Henry to quit going from seat to seat visiting with the girls!"

And then there's the times he uses Johnny.  Now, his full name isn't Johnny or Johnston or Johnathon, it's simply John. So when he says, "Johnny's a good guy" it's a surprise to know he's talking of himself.

Yes, he mutters around the house, and while outside you can catch him talking to himself.  And he has self-calling names.  Each has a particular use, I just did find that out!

Finally, one day as I'm laughing at his indiscriminate use of these names, I decided to be blunt, "Why do you sometimes call yourself  Fred, other times you say Larry, and sometimes use Johnny?  Did your mother ever call you Johnny?"

"No."

"Well, why the different names?"

"Fred is for food,"  he says.  When we're at a fast food restaurant and they need a name he thinks its funny to give them a false and fictitious name.

"Larry is funny," he adds.  When he's telling a joke on himself he uses an imaginary Larry.

"Johnny is honesty," he finishes his explanation.  If he feels like someone besmirched him, he boosts himself with a Johnny pat-on-the-back.

This day we're at Michaelangelo's Italian Bistro, and the girl cashier in black apron asks, "What name, please."  

Standing next to him, I now know what to expect, and I grin as John says, "Fred."

Sitting at the red checkered table, with paper placemats under our elbows, I ask him if he knows how to spell the name Michaelangelo.  I was going to make some notes with my pen and placemat as I always do when I'm trying to patiently wait.

John begins, "M.  I.  C. ... " and he completes it.

I replied, "Got it!  That worked!"  

"Shew," he says, "You don't know how lucky you are.  That wasn't as easy as Fred, Larry or Johnny.  I was having a brain squirm." 

And that's My John.