My Grandfather, the Wood Carver

My dad’s father was a woodcarver after he retired from McDonnell Douglas. He had been an engineer, designed and built cockpits for a living. When he retired his love of wood and art was finally able to shine. I knew him as Grandpa Garner and he was the best grandpa any child could have. He lived on Balboa Island and had a dog named Sally. He was also fairly deaf and would wear two hearing aids. Every time he leaned in to kiss our grandma Joy, those hearing aids would whistle and he’d say, “Oh honey, you ring my bell.”
As active as he was the lack of hearing never stopped him. He was up at dawn every day. He and Sally would go walking on the beach, chasing the sandpipers and seeing what the tide had brought in the night before. I remember my mother wouldn’t let us drive in the car with him. With his exuberance for life and his diminished hearing he’d drive like a maniac down Pacific Coast Highway in his old beat up pick-up truck, Sally’s face in the wind and my brother and I giggling so hard knowing our mother would just die if she knew.
One time my grandfather was carving a particularly large piece of wood. He would stand at his workbench out in the alley carport and chip out a rough shape before he’d bring the wood into his workshop in the house. This probably evolved for my grandmother’s peace of mind. They each had separate sections of the house. Hers was beautiful with porcelain figurines and nice carpet, his had Sally and a layer of wood chips covering the floor along with several carvings he’d finished that had yet to be approved for the main house. He just loved to carve; it didn’t need to have a purpose. The act of carving the wood into something beautiful was purpose enough. Well, someone traveling down the narrow alley behind the house spotted that massive piece of wood and decided to take it. What on earth would someone want with a rough hewn piece of wood? Most likely it was a local teenager pulling a prank. Word went out that someone stole my grandfather's wood, in the newspaper if I recall correctly. My grandfather was dearly loved by most of the people on the island. The article mentioned that he had spent several weeks working on the sculpture and that if the thief brought it back, nothing would be said. Needless to say, a couple days later the wood magically reappeared and my grandfather went back to work.
One of my favorite memories of my grandfather was the only time I saw him mad. He was a very quiet and gentle man most of the time. One weekend my brother and I stayed over to visit. During our first day there we went sailing and then came back to play in the grand canal where they lived. We met the neighbor’s grandchild and all had a wonderful day. The next day my brother went back over to play with the boy. My grandfather held his tongue for a while but after a couple hours he got a stern look on his face, marched over to the neighbor’s house and told my brother, “You came here to play with me!”
The pictures above are of a door and pillar my grandfather carved under commission for the owner of a restaurant. They were good friends and the fish house used to be on the island until they moved it down south. My grandfather carved the front door, the bathroom doors, the pillar that holds up the end of the bar and several other pieces for the restaurant. When the owner came to talk to my grandfather about the commission he had many ideas for what he wanted. He thought the pillar would be great as Popeye and I can’t remember what his ideas were for the doors. My grandfather just nodded and smiled with a twinkle in his blue eyes. After the man left my grandfather began to carve the pillar in the photo. It is a terribly grainy camera-phone picture but the pillar became King Neptune, with nets and fish and a scepter all protruding from a flowing beard entangled with seaweed. The women’s room door became a mermaid and the men’s room door was a fisherman who had captured the mermaid. You saw the fisherman with a huge fish over his shoulder on the front of the door and when you opened it you saw the mermaid peering at you over his shoulder. When the owner saw what my grandfather had created he forgot all about his own ideas.

The Jakester Files

I am so enjoying my son right now. I was thinking last night that all the hard stuff is over for a while. Of course, I’ll have parents of older children laughing at that comment but in essence all the baby chores are done. We’ve conquered weaning, learning to eat, learning to walk, learning to talk (of course this one leads to learning when to be silent, but that will probably never happen) and finally (drum roll please) the last of the diapers have gone away. We tried to get rid of the late night diaper a few months ago. Okay, my darling hubby forced the issue and we had a week of laundry every day as a result of the wet sheets and midnight baths. I just wasn’t ready for the task at that point. Anyhow, we gave up the ghost for a while. Blissful sleep again for a couple weeks until we ran out of the last of the pull-ups and it happened to be mid-paycheck during a particularly poor month. I decided then and there, I’m not buying more diapers. Every night I woke the sleepy little boy up at 1:00am to go to the bathroom and sat on the floor yawning with a grumpy child trying to convince him he needed do this. We had a couple tantrums over the disappearance of the bedtime milk. And after a month of this routine he magically sleeps through the entire night dry! I was completely amazed, still am actually.


To top off this miracle he’s just the sweetest little boy lately. I need to tape some of the things Jake says so I can play them back when he reaches the pre-teen “I hate you” phase. Lately he’s very aware of where things come from. I know part of this comes from the talks we have about why mommy and daddy work when he’s in school.


This morning I made him oatmeal. As I’m cooking it he comes in the kitchen and asks, “Mommy, did you buy the oatmeal for me?”


“Yes, Jake, I bought the oatmeal”


He looks up at me with that cherubic face, a smile of love and joy lifting his plump little cheeks and says, “Oh, thank you Mommy” with a reverent tone of awe in his voice from the sheer gratitude of having me buy something just for him. Now, that’s enough to permanently melt any mother’s heart.


He’s also come up with various names for me that give me a clue as to his current mood. If he wants something he knows he’s not likely to get he’ll say “Aw, Mom!” sounding very much like an exasperated 7 year old. If he loves something I’m doing or wants to snuggle then I’m Mommy. The funniest one of all is when he’s feeling spunky and playful. Then he calls me Momma. It almost sounds like he’s saying MOMA, which makes me laugh more because around here that’s short for the Museum of Modern Art. I may think of myself as artistic but modern, not so much.


Before you have children you never expect a three year old is going to have such a personality and such a sense of humor. He amazes me every day.

Oh, and the pictures are Jake's version of being eaten by a shark. I told him, "Act scared!" This is what I got, lol.

Inane Prattle

Saturday was not a good day for me. Aside from my general life taking a distinct turn south, I also had to work. Working tax season year after year I’ve gotten used to the need for longer hours during this busy time. Every CPA firm attacks the mountain of work in a different manner. My current firm takes the approach of having all the accounting and tax staff work Saturdays. Their thought being that they do not want people working 16 hour days and burning out too fast. This is a nice approach in general. However, it really bites when you have a family or more importantly, a 3 year old, who depends on their quality time with you. So, off I went to work on Saturday morning, trying to squeeze in as many minutes of snuggle time as I possibly could before bounding out of bed, throwing on my clothes and driving to work.


As I drank my coffee, fumed about my life and my work schedule, looking dejectedly at the amazingly hard spreadsheet before me, I could think of nothing good. So, I quickly jotted down my worst blog ever, though I must say it was painfully honest. I left it up for about three hours, until I decided sharing my angst was probably not constructive.


The point I’m slowly approaching is that while I wrote that blog a thought came to mind. I realized most of what I write is along the lines of inane, short, pithy comments about nothing in general. What is the purpose of such writings? To entertain clearly, but also I realize that I would rather spread a smile than anything else. If I prattle on and on about the ridiculous oddities of life, it will most likely give someone a chuckle but not really make them think. Now, I have several wonderful, intelligent thought provoking friends on 360. I value their content and am pleasantly surprised when I learn something I’ve never heard about before. Will, for example, posted an amazing story about a terrible war that I’d never even heard of before.


http://blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-eCyVt5gzd7MN1iLvBxmMqsSE2Q--?cq=1&p=5172


I’m sure part of his purpose for posting the story was to raise awareness of the past and to show how such things continue to happen in the present world arena.


Allie Pie also posted an amazingly thought provoking story today about perceptions between blacks and whites.


http://blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-qf4Rps8wd6r3htDK1V0d3QY-?cq=1&p=1944


In reading these stories about events that are happening in the world and realizing my own near-sided view of life sometimes keeps me in a cocoon of sorts, I tend to think I should expand my focus and write of something substantial. But what do I have to say about such things that would prove useful and necessary? Another thought that comes to mind is that life can be so consuming, so difficult at times that all we can take is a little inane prattle. I know when I’m at the end of my rope everything goes out the window if it isn’t absolutely necessary for survival. I expect that’s why it’s called survival mode and I feel I've been in that mode for quite a while now.


So, I suppose until I have something awe-inspiring to say, until I have a soapbox I feel worthy of standing upon, until I have hours of time to lavish on my own thoughts I will continue to be your source for the rantings of the inane.

Chocolate Etiquette

The day following the holiday of hearts is always daunting in any office. For the office kitchen, coffee nook, or water cooler is the usual repository of all the unwanted chocolates and candy brought home by the kids and sent by marketers or vendors in the hopes of one more ditch attempt to garner business. This load of intoxicating and sinful sweets is brought in by those who are sticking to their post Christmas regime and is typically set upon by the rest of us who have already faced reality and the fact that there is no way in hell that bikini is getting on our widening derriere by summer anyhow.


So, faced with the heart shaped box of See’s in an office kitchen, there is a certain etiquette expected. You didn’t know? Well, let me assure you, there is most definitely a certain type of behavior around this truckload of chocolate that is expected and dare I say demanded.


For example, do you sneak in; take all the ones covered with chocolate sprinkles, knowing they’re the best, leaving the wasteland of nut and coconut centers for the rest of the unsuspecting imbibers? Or is it possible you are the one who leaves all the wrappers in the box? Did you know some chocolate ‘monitors’ (they are watching, don’t think they aren’t) expect you to take the wrapper with you for each piece of candy you eat? And, oh the horror, being found to have taken the last scrumptious bit of chocolate and leaving a box of empty wrappers would be the lowest of all lows. This rates right up there with taking someone else’s lunch from the communal refrigerator.


And what about the mystery chocolates? Godiva puts a chocolate glossary in their box to warn those of us who can’t stomach cherry cordial of any form. But what about See’s or those plain wrap brands you find at the Drug Store? You’re taking your taste buds for a little mystery ride when you bite into one of those unlabeled concoctions. If you don’t happen to like coconut or that pink stuff….what is that anyway? I’ve never been able to figure it out. The worst faux pas of all is to put that half eaten piece of mystery chocolate back in the box! What were you thinking? You didn’t want to waste it? You couldn’t be pushed to walk over to the trash can? One of my office moms (every good office has one) would cut every piece in the box in half before she put it in the kitchen. Kinda took the fun out of it but you knew what you were getting.


So, next time you attack that monstrous mound of left over treats, remember to take that frilly brown or gold wrapper with you. You can always use them to build a little wrapper pyramid at your desk. At least you could imagine it’s something akin to watching what or at least how much you’ve eaten.

Gripe, Gripe, Nag, Nag

I know it’s the day before Valentine’s and I should either get in the spirit or post my sentiments to the contrary but I have other gripes on my mind today. What is getting me in a stink today is something my father pointed out a couple years ago and it just seems to be getting worse.


My concern is with the general state of marketing to women in America in past years. When and how did we become a land full of controlling, emasculating shrews? Did I miss something or did I not get the memo? I’m all for strong women, don’t get me wrong. Women who can speak their mind and hold their own in a room full of men are valuable these days, but I just don’t understand the point of a particularly heinous type of advertising.


You’ve all seen the type. A woman is blithely sitting at the kitchen table doing bills or finishing up with the dinner dishes talking to her inept husband about whatever-the-product-their-selling. He’s clueless; she patiently and magnanimously explains the finer details while rolling her eyes heavenward and carrying on with her perfection.


Now, what would a perfect creature of intelligence and femininity be doing with such a dolt of a husband? Is it assumed by the vast corporate marketing companies and retail conglomerates that women who make the buying decisions in their families would only respond if they are held up on such a high pedestal? Her perfection would have to be so glaring that all men by comparison are shown to be completely powerless to make a rational decision … or at least be able to tie their shoes and close the garage door without her input?


I think it’s about time for corporate America to get with the program and acknowledge that strength in one gender does not breed weakness in another. I don’t need to emasculate those around me to feel my own power, far from it, actually. It seems to me that only a weak person needs to put down others to feel powerful.

"Pillows" Continued

My girlfriend “Frenchie” and I have have always said we’d make the perfect couple. We have the best talks; we both have an upbeat outlook on life, like good food, and enjoy each other’s company. Essentially, we fit well together. Of course, being girlfriends is always easier than romance. Not that I relate better with women, in general I don’t. Reading Allie’s blog this morning brought that to mind for me. I’ve always had easier friendships with men. Perhaps it’s the general lack of PMS in men or that I’m just not the hearts and glitter type of girl, I’m not sure. The pragmatism of men appeals to me, also their analytical side. I think this is one of the many reasons “Frenchie” and I are so close. I think she’s a guy at heart. As a matter of fact, she’s at the Drag races right now with my son and hubby. She is an avid hot rod fan. This is not to say she looks dudely, far from it. She's a knock out with legs for days, hell, even my brother couldn't resist her.


As friends, we can sense when the other needs a friend with whom we can confide. When “Frenchie” needs to vent she gives me this adorable, yet sorrowful pout. She’ll tell me she wants some boob and she’ll snuggle up with her head on one of my aforementioned ‘pillows’ and we’ll talk until we both feel better. Odd you say, to have a girlfriend want to snuggle up on your boob? Well, I think it’s just grand. Perhaps it’s the mother in me but I think it’s just lovely to be able to be that open and close with your dearest friend. Why not? There's nothing more comforting than being able to snuggle a woman with ample padding … I'm sure my son thinks so, lol. Breasts are the number one tool of motherhood, only current social standards have made them the icon of sexual innuendo.


And for those with your minds in the gutter, get over it. I’ve been married for just about ever and “Frenchie” is only into men. She may think I’m all that and a bag of chips but she’s always told me “If you had a dick, you’d be perfect”

Cleavage

Yes, a rather stacked topic if I do say so myself. I think the true title of this piece should be “cleavage as an accessory.” Personally, I believe breasts are a worthy addition to any outfit. I’m not one for remembering to wear jewelry or getting a stylish up-do and the working mom schedule doesn’t leave much room for manicures and pedicures. However, it’s amazing how a v-neck can accentuate a woman’s curves in just the right manner and adds such a different mood to one’s day. There's just something about it that makes you feel more like a woman. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. Working in accounting, a sizzling profession, a hot bed of scandal to be sure, can test ones boundaries of conservatism to the limits. Okay, well there was Enron, but other than that when was the last time you saw your accountant lying on the bar taking a body shot?


But I digress.


I’m realizing that I have to tailor my choice of outfits for the type and gender of client I’m visiting on any given day. When I end up wearing the low cut blouse on the wrong day nothing seems to go as planned. Alternatively, if I wear one on the right day, it just adds such a warm fuzzy feeling for all involved. I think of it as a little added perk for those that appreciate the finer or at least softer things in life.


At one client, I sit with the wife of the owner all day. She is a sweetheart, ultra-conservative and completely particular about every tiny, miniscule detail. It just happened that on a day I chose to train her on an accounting function she was to handle I wore a cute little paisley v-neck. Now, I usually sit across the office from her but when training someone you end up sitting side-by-side. I don’t think I’ve felt more naked in my life! When a woman is uncomfortable in the presence of cleavage, it is like being under interrogation. She couldn’t keep her eyes on her work. Every time I looked up her eyes would have to rise up to meet mine. I don’t think my bosoms could have received any more scrutiny were she a man just released from a year in solitary.


Which leads me to my next point, women look just as much as men. If it’s not to appreciate how another woman is dressed then it’s to dissect her. I felt the heat from the client’s wife more for dressing inappropriately then I ever would from a man. I think with a man, even a conservative one, there is a vested interest… a benefit to be gained, if only of a better view. With a woman, you get no slack.


With men, you know that even if they aren’t interested, know you’ve been married forever and have no interest whatsoever, they still enjoy what you have to offer. And for someone who has been married forever, that’s a thrill in itself. Okay, a very small thrill, but you take what you can get.

Jakester Files

Our son, being three, doesn't pay much attention to the TV as long as we're watching sitcoms, movies, sports, etc. Now if it's "Bob, the Builder" or any other PBS or Disney children's show then he's completely rapt; lost to the land of make believe. It's amazing how much a child can completely tune out everything but the TV when they're interested. I have to turn it off to get a response, it's that bad. Fortunately we limit his viewing time to a couple minutes in the morning before pre-school and maybe a half hour at night on the nights I'm too tired to read books ... which is more often than I care to admit recently.

So, as usual, my husband was flipping channels one night and happened on the movie "The 40 Year Old Virgin." Not typically the type of movie I like to watch but it is very funny. As I finished making dinner and came into the living room I mentioned to my husband that maybe this is not the type of movie to have on while our son is in the room. Most of the time my hubby is really good about screening what is watched to keep certain images out of our impressionable son's mind. But this movie wasn't violent, didn't have any graphic scenes, though the subject matter and the language left a lot to be desired for family viewing.

He pointed out that Jake wasn't even paying attention. With three year olds, there are still some things they just don't register, that go completely over their heads. Our time is limited in that respect but we still rely on it occasionally. True enough up to a point, I thought. Just about this time in the conversation we both noticed Jake's eyes wander to the screen. If you've seen the movie it's a love scene where the girl is in her bra, the lead man is without a shirt and she seductively draws circles on his chest while saying "Let's shave each other." I cringed, my husband laughed then immediately turned the channel. No comment from Jake, so we think we're in the clear...it must not have registered.

Pan forward a few days. Jake is taking a bath and I'm half undressed, in my bra and getting ready to put on my PJ's. He takes one look at me, stands up in the bath drawing circles on his belly with his chubby little finger and says, "Mommy, let's shave each other." I just about fainted! He not only got the gist of the scene but it popped back in his little mind the minute I was wearing the right clothes to fit the occasion. Never underestimate your little ones, they will surprise you everytime.

So, the running joke this week has been. "Hi, honey, how was Jake's day at school? Didn't shave anyone, did he?"

Categorized

I recently signed up for my first triathalon. Now, I'm not kidding myself. I'm ridiculously out of shape, overweight and in the middle of tax season with relatively little time in the workout schedule. I've signed up mainly as a goal. I want exercising to be something more than... "Gee, my ass looks slightly less giggly today than it did the last ten thousand times I glanced in the mirror" I'm pragmatic about body image these days. When my first stretch mark appeared those many years ago, I mourned. I howled to the gods of bodily perfection. I wept for the loss of my perfect body. Okay, so I never thought it was perfect but looking back 20 years it was damned hot compared to the current state of affairs left by the warring tides of age, gravity and poor choices. I'm resigned to relying on my sparkly personality and off key wit these days.
So, back to the triathalon. I had thought to have a wonderful goal to spur my efforts at a healthy physique. After all, as we enter middle age our sights should be turning from exercise as an image booster to exercise as a life lengthening pursuit. My grandfather lived to be 90 but he sat in his easy chair most days and only shuffled with aching slowness to the kitchen or the bathroom those last few years. If I'm going to live to a ripe old age I want to be spry in body and soul and enjoy the time.
So, my brother and I signed up. While I was signing up I had to answer some harrowing questions. Sex...buxomly Female, thank you very much! Age....eh, no biggie, I'm still in the running. Weight...oh, the nerve! And then the piece de resistance...category Athena?!?
Well, for those of you not up on the categories of racing, I will enlighten you. Any man over a certain weight is considered a Clydesdale (How cruel is that for a name??) and any woman over 150 lbs is considered an Athena. 150 lbs? I think one of my thighs is over that weight by itself. Any one under the 'chosen' weight is classed by age, to be judged with their peers. Apparently, all of us with romanesque figures need to be separated. It's not enough to rank us simply by our fading years...but by the size of our derrieres as well!
Now, if I were a man I'd be waxing judgemental on the chosen category of Clydesdale, which has got to be a put down I would think, but then I'm not a guy. Perhaps most men would relate it to the Budweiser Clydesdale team and be thrilled that they were being compared to massive horses hauling beer...odder things have happened.
However I'm female and apparently categorized "Athena" so that's where my thought goes. When looking up the Goddess Athena in the Wikipedia, this is what I found.
In Greek mythology, Athena (Greek: Ἀθηνᾶ, Athēnâ, or Ἀθήνη, Athénē; Doric: Ἀσάνα, Asána) was the goddess of civilization, specifically wisdom, weaving, crafts and the allegedly more noble side of war, as violence and bloodlust were Ares' domain. Athena's wisdom encompasses the technical knowledge employed in weaving, metal-working, but also includes the cunning intelligence of such figures as Odysseus. The owl and the olive tree are sacred to her. She is attended by an owl, is wearing a goatskin breastplate called the Aegis given to her by her father, Zeus,[1] and is accompanied by the goddess of victory, Nike.
Now, how is it that being wise is related to being fat? My other thought is that if Athena was attended by Nike, the goddess of Victory, I'm thinking those of us that are pleasingly plump are looking good for finishing ahead of the pack!

Frenchie Pooh

I think every woman has a special girlfriend who they go to when they need to connect with someone, to feel like someone loves them and cares about the thoughts that run a mile a minute through our addled female minds. Mine is Frenchie Pooh, at least that is her name here on Yahoo 360.
Let me describe her, so you can get a feel for her spark, for a spark of life she definitely has beyond most people I’ve met. She was born in France and has that inherent French pride in everything she does. She has been in the US longer now than she was in France but she still has a slight accent and is still quite French in many ways. She is six feet tall in her bare feet, winsomely thin though she has the usual concerns we women do about the current firmness of her backside. She is a cooking instructor and chef, typical you might think for someone born French, but she didn’t begin to really find her chef’s soul until after arriving in the US. I think the backwards state of American cooking at that time pushed her to try and match the foods she missed from home.
When I first met her, a day I will never forget, she struck me as so confident, so amazingly worldly compared to my own rather inexperienced self. My hubby, then boyfriend and hers were starting to work together. They had been contemplating more of a partnership and it was time to have a social evening, to meet the wives, so to speak.
We went to their home and I was greeted by this tall French woman who was beautiful, engaging and so very comfortable in herself and with entertaining total strangers. The conversation between her and her boyfriend flowed over us in its lilting French tones, wooing me into their world. I have to admit it was a while before I let go of my American awe of their European flavor and finally began to know them for who they really were. As time went on we became good friends, the four of us. Every Friday was Latin jazz night. We’d go to their place and listen to KSBR and eat something she was trying out for her classes. “Guinea Pig Dinners” she called them and we would, in true guinea pig fashion, critique the hell out of her attempt even though it was the best dinner we’d had all week.
As time passed, I realized more and more how close I felt to “Frenchie” and how wonderful it was to have a new best friend. As we grow up and make our friends in school, we think we’re so fortunate to have found friends for life. Later on, after we leave school and begin our lives we realize just how rare it is to find good friends and sometimes wonder if that was our only opportunity. Then a friend like “Frenchie” comes along and opens up a whole new outlook on friendship.
With her abruptly honest reactions to my thoughts and her brashly vivacious personality she had won my heart. I found another side to myself with her and was able to let my hair down, to let my real self shine through.
When we both found ourselves single, we moved in together. I loved that time in our lives. I had never lived with a girlfriend and didn’t know what to expect. Though, I did now that if I could live with a woman “Frenchie” would be the one. We used to sit out on the deck every night when I’d get home and share our days. Some nights she’d say, "I need to not talk anymore tonight." I was the first person she’d lived with that wasn’t French and speaking English all day without a break got tiring. I would so love to learn French and have studied sporadically but I know it would take the same level of immersion for me to learn the language as well as she’s learned ours. She still has some adorable phrases she uses that I no longer correct. For a while she made me correct her all the time and she’ll deck me when she reads this but there’s one I gave up correcting because I love it too much.
We have been through so much together and I know I can always count on her to be there for me, as I will always be there for her. She has become a part of my family and will always hold a most special place in my heart.
Thank you “Frenchie” for being my very best friend.

An Empty Plate? Infinite Possibility

So, I've been gone a long while, having been swallowed seemingly whole by my life and tax season. I'm sorry to have been away so long. I hope to make up for lost time, but then I do always hope anyways. I think it is one of my defining characteristics.
I will say that I'm no longer the moderator of a writer's group I was a part of for many months and I am looking at the vacancy in my schedule as a good thing. I think I have a tendency to take on more than I can safely navigate, wanting to please everyone. It is time for streamlining, cleaning out the dusty old cobwebs and moving on to the fresh, new and true.
I think a clean slate or an empty plate are metaphors for the infinite possibility a freed up moment of time can be in a hectic schedule. Every spare moment that is opened up is simply full of endless avenues of creativity.