Growing Pains

As many of you know, Larry Moore is a master gardener. He even wrote a book all about making things grow. It must have been difficult to hold the pencil with two large green thumbs. A few years ago, Larry even did a presentation at the Garden Show entitled “On Growing Bigger, Better Tomatoes.” I can vouch for how big these things get. Larry is very generous about sharing the bounty of his garden.

Some of the tomatoes are so large they have their own gravitational pull. Some have their own zip codes. They are so big you have to pick them in sections. These tomatoes are so huge that when they sit around the house, they sit AROUND the house. You may not be laughing right now or even smiling but, I have to tell you, this routine absolutely kills when I do it standing in the middle of Powell Gardens.

When I was a little kid, I had a small garden. Our next-door neighbors, The Moely’s, had moved into town after years on the farm. Since he could not imagine not being in the growing business, Mr. Moely used part of their lot for a very big garden. When we moved in next door, Mr. Moely carved out a square of soil for six-year-old me. I grew radishes, onions, sweet corn, peas and carrots. I kept the garden going for several years.

I also sold seeds door-to-door as a way to make a little money. Although, I usually skipped the dough and traded the points you’d earn for novelty products like a foam rubber ham sandwich or fake spilled milk or, best of all, “So Real Even Fido Will Be Confused!” doggie doo. Looking back, I really should have taken the money. I’ve found that our mortgage company refuses to accept fake food or fraudulent but “incredibly real”–I apologize in advance– vomit. In any case, those few years from age six until about 12 were very fulfilling. The idea of putting something in the ground…weeding, watering, watching…and, then, being able to actually contribute to the family table was pretty cool stuff. Unfortunately, that was my first and last successful business venture.

My wife tried to do a little landscaping at our last house. It was intended to be a fabulous rock garden. After the poor woman dragged stones and rocks and boulders of every size, shape and design into the backyard, she went to work. She also got a little bench to put in the middle of it all to allow for “deep thoughts and meditation.” It was like watching a great artist at work.

The thing is, when you are creating something like a backyard rock garden, you hope the artist is Norman Rockwell and not Dali.

Yes, it ended up looking rather bizarre. It resembled a training facility for the builders of Stonehenge. “Well, Murray, keep rolling that stone around and one day we’ll move you to the first string to work on the big project across the pond.”

To be fair, I did use that meditation bench. I sat there staring at all the pebbles and pondering other ways we could have spent that money. Maybe we should have used the moolah to visit those giant rock heads on Easter Island. Now, that’s a rock garden!

Honestly, even our indoor plants have to struggle. I’ve come home to find them all slowly inching their way toward the sink. “Please…just a little drink….” It is especially hard for those plants that get put on top of the fridge. That jump to the counter is a doozy. The last real gardening success we had was with some sunflowers a few years ago. We just threw them out there and they went crazy. One grew so tall, all you needed was Jack and a giant and you’d have a real story. Of course, the roots of these mammoth flowers probably did some damage to the foundation of the house.

Looking back, I suspect that my childhood garden was a thriving success due to some quiet intercession. Mr. Moely had the touch.

It’s true, I’m all thumbs. None of them, green.

A Rotten Egg

On Friday, I was at the pool.  Yes, I do make an attempt at swimming from time to time although I get nervous when I look up from my glorified dog-paddle to see  Gregory Peck poised to harpoon me.

Ahab would have made one tough swimming coach:  “Shut yer blow-hole and give me another lap, ya big piece of blubber!”

As I was sloshing along in my slow lane, I noticed a lifeguard, a mom and a little boy heading for the open lane at the end of the pool  It was time for THE TEST!  If the pint-sized paddler could make it from one end to the other, he’d be cleared for fun in the entire pool…not just the wading area!  A very big deal! 

He jumped in and started moving.  Like a nervous water-bug.  Drips and splashes and waves going every direction.  His mother was urging him on.  The lifeguard was shouting encouragement.  On and on and on.  Then, his hand touched the end of the pool.  This Mini-Mark Spitz did it!  Soggy success was his!

I felt good for that young man.  It reminded me of when I was a pool punk back at the Marion Park Pool, Prairie du Sac, Wisconsin.

I don’t think I was at the pool on this particular day.  Even if I was, you wouldn’t see me in the picture since I was probably cowering in the baby pool.

For growing up in Wisconsin, surrounded by water, I was rather slow to get into the H2O groove.  In fact, I was about six years old before I really started to learn how to stay afloat without a boat.   It was at a motel pool somewhere between Wisconsin and Washington DC.  We were on a family trip when my dad made a very uncharacteristic decision to actually pull off the highway for more than just a fresh cup of black coffee and new pack of Kents.

My brothers headed for the pool.  I hesitantly put on my little  swimming suit which featured smiling dolphins cavorting in a cartoonish seascape.  (My current suit is blaze orange just in case I get the urge to go deer hunting mid-stroke.  I kind of wish I still had that old one…it might give me a new porpoise in life.)  I use the word “hesitantly” because I know I was nervous about getting near the water let alone in it.

Our mom was going to stay in the room for a time getting things organized and our dad had wandered into the motel office to verify directions for the next leg of our sojourn.  That left me in the capable hands of my teenage brothers.  As I approached the pool, I could see my brother, Craig, smiling a bit like Snidely Whiplash.

Craig was only about 16 but he looked just like Snidely when hatching a nefarious notion.  This time, Craig’s idea involved his dear, sweet, fragile little brother.  Me.

Laughs and giggles were splashing around along with the water.  Everyone was having a great time.  I got within three feet of the pool’s edge and stopped.  I noticed that people were pointing at the sliding glass door of a pool-side motel room.  On the other side of the glass was an adorable little baby.  Playing…singing…laughing.  Happy as any creature as ever been.  This baby had captivated almost  all of us.    Almost.  Not my brother, Craig. 

With my attention diverted, I didn’t notice Craig sneaking up behind me.  Before I knew it, I was in the deep end of the pool.  Then, just as quickly, I seemed to be…could it be?….swimming.  Sort of.  At least I wasn’t sinking.

That, then, was my first swimming lesson.  Later that summer, thanks in no small part to my brotherly baptism,  I swam the length of the Marion Park Pool which, like the youngster previously mentioned, was the pathway to going past the rope line. 

I’ve been going off the deep end ever since.

Fatherhood Falderal

You know it’s going to be a mess when I use a ridiculous word like “falderal” in the title.    I like the word and not just because it means “nonsense and foolish talk…a trifle.”  It also, apparently, can be spelled several different ways: falderal…falderol…folderal…folderol…cat.  Okay, not the last one.  Spell-check wanted me to spell it “federal.”  Insert your own joke here.

Maybe, in some places, falderal also means “sluggish…always looking for a way to avoid work.”  If that’s the case, it is yet another reason I love the word.   Most–okay, ALL–of what follows has been here before.  I repeat a lot and not just because of the baked beans.  Sorry.  Distasteful.  The fact is, I recycle old blogs.  It has nothing to do with the fact that Al Gore leaves me threatening messages on my phone.

There is no truth to the literary rumor that Mr. Gore is ghostwriting the autobiography of Snagglepuss to be called An Inconvenient Tooth.

No, I share these gems, again, because I think they are classics.  Okay.  That’s baloney.  I reuse them because I’m a laggard.  And, I know very few folks actually read this stuff.  And, those who do, can’t  possibly use their gray matter to store or save anything they may peruse here.  So, I dip into the cyber-bag of tripe and splatter it all over this otherwise respectable website. 

That’s the preamble.  Now, the Father’s Day Ditto:

I’ve used this photo a lot.  It is my dad dressed as a clarinet getting into the WVLR truck.

My dad liked to play dress-up. There, the not-so-secret secret is out! Now, before you finish dialing up Dr. Phil, let me explain. When I was growing up, my dad was on the radio in our little town. In fact, he and a couple of friends, founded the very first and only radio station in the Sauk-Prairie Wisconsin area, WVLR…Wisconsin’s Very Live Radio! The other guys were the technical folks and my dad, Ron, was everything else: station manager, news director, sportscaster, salesman, public affairs director, janitor, on-air host and, local icon, Ole Hanson! Yes, Ron was leading a double life. Most days he was Ron Nichols, your average mid-western guy…dry wit…serious-minded much of the time…hard-worker. Then, every Saturday morning, he would become a Norwegian Party Animal…an oxymoronic image if there ever was one. If you are Scandinavian, don’t be offended as I am a lefse and lutefisk guy, too.

This is NOT related to my dad’s old radio show but it is similar in form and function.  I miss having the RFD TV network for lots of reasons…chief among them not being able to see The Big Joe Polka Show!

Ole would play polkas, waltzes and schottisches (that’s another kind of music to dance to…usually going round in circles to 2/4 time and, the scariest part is, to this day, I still know how to spell it without consulting the dictionary) on his Old-Time Party Program. He would highlight wedding anniversaries and birthdays. It was a point of pride to have Ole mention your name on the air. There was a recording artist by the name of Yogi Yorgesson at the time who sang songs with a similar accent to Ole. Around the holidays you still hear Yogi’s I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas every now and then. I mention Yogi just to make it clear that doing a Scandinavian dialect does require a good ear and true talent. For example, you need to know that the “ch” sound is more like “sh” if you are Ole Hanson. So, “chair” becomes “shair”…like Sonny’s former partner. Well, my grandma, Ole’s mom, knew that was the case so, being a little devilish, she would call the show to request the movie song Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Just how is Ole supposed to introduce that song? Obviously, my own behavior problems have some genetic basis.

Ole was a big star in my neck of the woods. There was a cartoon version of him on the side of the radio station’s Mobile Unit # 1. (There was only one vehicle in the fleet…an International Harvestor truck/SUV kind of deal. But, Ole was there!) Eventually, Ole had to start making personal appearances. Ron found a wig full of white, bushy hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore suspenders which were covered with sequins…the kind of thing Liberace wore to change the oil in his Rolls-Royce. Ole would have been happy to wear the lederhosen and show a little leg but Ron did draw the line on that fashion point. He was a skinny guy from the north. In Wisconsin, especially when I was growing up, men did not wear shorts. Your legs were private. If your body parts were inmates in a jail and your clothes were the cells, then your legs spent all their time in the hole…solitary confinement. The first time I saw my dad in a swim trunks…that’s what dads wore, not “suits” but “trunks”…I was terrified. I thought he was being eaten alive by two giant, pale sturgeons. Anyway, Ron told Ole “no way” on the bare legs and hitched his sparkly suspenders to an old pair of baggy pants. All dressed up, with a corn-cob pipe in his mouth, Ole would appear at car dealerships, butcher shops, hardware stores…you name it. He would play the records and do live reports back to the radio station…making jokes appropriate to the situation. Like from the local car place “You know, Tina and I love our Norwegian car…it’s a fjord.”

The Jolly Swiss Boys were popular faves on the radio show.  We played lots of records produced by our town’s legendary recording label, Cuca.  In addition to making terrific records, Cuca had the best, cold chocolate milk in a bottle in one of the vending machines.

Even after my dad got out of the business end of the radio station, he still had his Ole Hanson Old Time Party on the air for a long time. I used to go with him to the station and help pull the actual record albums out of th stacks. No cds…no digital programs…just big old pizza-pie size discs filled with happy music. I will always remember the musty smell of the record room. You could have provided penicillin for most of this hemisphere with all the mold that had to have been growing under the carpet and in the walls.

That’s one of the memories I think about often, even when it’s not Father’s Day weekend. Like most people, I guess, there are times when you hear your parent’s voice coming out of your mouth…especially when you’re talking to your own kids. That’s happened to me a lot over the years. Interestingly, where I used to hear Ron’s serious, common-sense voice in my head all the time…now, more and more, I hear the sillier, more mellow Ole Hanson. I think my dad would approve of that shift.

As a kid, after thinking long and hard about what my dad would really like for a Father’s Day gift, I walked into the drug store, put down my money and asked for a carton of Kents and one of those racy magazines with naughty pictures and funny quips.  Considering this was the same store where my mom worked, I’m pretty sure I was encouraged to make a different choice. 

Unbelievable ad campaign…Thanks, Mad Men!

Looking back, I think my dad would enjoy the Ole Hanson memories almost as much as the smokes and jokes.

Wanda Whirlwind

My Mom’s name is Wanda.  

All by itself, there’s nothing very amusing about that.  In fact, the name is rather heroic.  Going back in time, the name is believed to be Slavic in origin.  Perhaps tied to a tribe called The Vandals, known for their destructive behavior.  Vandals to Vanda to Wanda.  It does explain why my Mother was always buying all that spray paint.  However, that’s not the heroic part.

These particular Vandals look more bored than angry.  Maybe if we get them all library cards they’ll quit pillaging.

Princess Wanda of Poland was a very brave and inspiring woman.  According to the legend, she refused to marry a German prince.  (The 8th Century’s version of blocking somebody from your Facebook.) He was miffed and decided to invade Poland.  That’s a very extreme form of stalking. He and his army lost the battle but, worried that this guy would just keep invading until she said “I do,” Princess Wanda threw herself into the river. 

Coincidentally, my Mom, Wanda, is not much of a swimmer either.  Much of her discomfort with water goes back to when she tried to water ski for the first and last time.  She learned an important lesson:  If you are on water skis and fall, do NOT keep your mouth wide open and continue to hold onto the rope.  A very bad combination.

So, the name Wanda may come from a rowdy bunch of ancient miscreants or a courageous member of Polish royalty or, according to another source, it may come the old (or Olde) German word for “wanderer.”  That one may work too since my Mother doesn’t always know exactly how to get to where she’s going but she always gets there, eventually.  She has her own version of GPS:  Grandma’s Positioning System.  That means “wherever Grandma ends up, that’s where she is.”

All of that is history but not hysterical.  However, when I was a kid, my Mom’s name did make me laugh.  It seemed to pop up in all kinds of unusual places. 

Wanda The Witch:  This was a character from Sesame Street.  She lived just West of Washington and Wore a Wild Wig.  Wanda the Witch taught us that “a Witch Who Washes her Wig on a Windy Winter Wednesday is Wacky.”  Wanda was brought to us by the letter “W.”

A Fish Called Wanda:  Hilarious movie, yes.  Appropriate for my Mother, no.  See her above adventures in Waterworld.  On the other fin, our family’s Wanda is very musical which means she knows her scales. 

Wicked Wanda:  This comic strip Wanda is actually too naughty to be associated with my saintly Mother.  However, she did make an appearance in what used to be called “a men’s magazine,” back in the 70s.  The comics character NOT my Mom…you dirty-minded people, you!  I can’t tell you how I found out about this racy rendering without implicating other people in my family…like an older brother who kept a stash of “reading material” hidden in his room.  That’s all I’m going to say.  No names or Craig will kill me.  Did I say Craig?  I meant, uh, Horace or Clifford or Mugsy.

The Best Weird Wanda of All:  My Mom loves to trip the light fantastic so when a sock-hopping sausage twirled onto the TV screen, advertising some wiener of a company, the whole family fell for Wanda The Dancing Hot Dog!  She was one extroverted weenie!  She certainly wasn’t shy or stand-offish.   That would have made her a Frankfurtive not a Frankfurter.  Of all the non-maternal Wandas of my childhood, Wanda The Dancing Hot Dog is most like my Mom.  To this very day, if you put on some music, my Mother will shake her buns…with relish! 

After having gone through all these variations on a name, I should mention what my Mom’s favorite version is:  Grandma Wanda.  She’ll always answer to that one…and, by the way, she’ll probably be dancing, too.

By the way, Happy Birthday!

Birthdaze!

You know the song:

Happy Birthday to You
Happy Birthday to You
Happy Birthday Dear What’s Your Name
Happy Birthday to You

Of course, some people don’t like that song very much. We’ve all seen little kids get completely befuddled by all the attention of a birthday. Sometimes they turn red, start crying and crawl under the table. My oldest brother did that. Unfortunately, he was turning 58 at the time.

According to information gleaned from the interwebs, always a trustworthy source, the melody was written in the early 1890s by a woman from Kentucky named Mildred Hill. Her sister, Patti, wrote words that went “Good morning, dear teacher, good morning to you yadda yadda yadda.” Later, when she decided to dump her boyfriend, Patti changed the lyric to

Take a hike, you big dork
Take a hike, you big dork
You smell like an aardvark
And your brain’s made of cork

Eventually, Mildred rued the day she ever wrote the tune, because Patti was using it all the time for the most random of reasons.

Hey, those are my socks
Hey, those are my socks
Quit stealing my clothing
You big stinky ox

Okay, so that part of the story maybe a little unlikely. But the next part is true:

Eventually, many years down the road, Patti wrote the words to her sister’s melody that we all know today. It was officially published in 1935 and really hit the big time when it was featured on Broadway in a production of As Thousands Cheer.

After that, Patti saw dollar signs and thought the song could be adapted for other occasions, such as:

Plant a tree I do say
Plant a tree I do say
Just dig a big hole there
Celebrate Arbor Day

and

You’ve been married awhile
You’ve been married awhile
It’s your (insert number here) anniversary
So why don’t you smile

and

They’ve removed your spleen
They’ve removed your spleen
I guess that was the reason
You weren’t feeling so keen

Again, this last bit of info may have some problems being backed up by good sources.

Anyway, you can sing the song to the United States Army on June 14 and say Happy  Birthday! Thank you to all who serve and have served.

Also, send salutations to our flag. June 14 is flag day. The original idea for a day honoring the Flag Resolution of 1777 came from a teacher in Fredonia, Wisconsin back in 1885. I know, Fredonia sounds a country Groucho Marx would be president of, but it really does exist. Eventually, President Truman signed an Act of Congress designating June 14 as National Flag Day. So, Happy Birthday to the Stars and Stripes. Rumor has it that Patti Hill tried to write some words about it, but the ghost of Betsy Ross appeared and stuffed Patti in a trunk. Patti was rescued when people heard her muffled voice singing, to a very familiar tune:

I am stuck in this trunk
I am stuck in this trunk
Betsy Ross shoved me in here
And, no, I’m not drunk

Finally,  June 13 was also an important birthday. My mom’s!

My mom, Wanda, grew up out in the country and just about every kid started driving a car at a very tender age…in most cases long before 16. For example, Wanda hit the road when she was about 13. Now, her mother did not drive so the kids would have to take their mom into town for groceries and other errands. One day it was Wanda at the wheel. As they got back to the farm, my mom said, with adolescent certainty, “Watch me stop on a dime!” It turned out to be a large dime. In fact, this dime was so big it included the flower boxes on the side of the house. The groceries flew all over the car and all my mom heard from her mom was “Let me out of here.” Now, in my mom’s defense, this was back before power brakes…a person really had to stomp on that pedal to bring the vehicle to a standstill. When she did turn 16 and went into town to take her official driver’s test, the policeman just said “Yeah, I’ve seen you around” and handed over her license, with NO behind-the-wheel run-through. Was that a compliment on the part of the examiner…or fear? Not sure.

Anyway, in honor of her birthday, here goes

Happy Birthday to Wanda
Happy Birthday to Wanda
As A Mom and A Grandma
It is YOU that we’re Fond-a!

Somewhere Patti Hill is smiling and her sister, Mildred, is not. Don’t even ask about Betsy Ross.