Goodbye Dad

            When the funeral preparations first began, I was fairly confident in my need to be a part of dad’s eulogy, to pay him one last tribute. A tribute that I assumed would be fairly easy to accomplish; simply piecing together little stories and tidbits about him as a dad and grandpa. In reality, I assumed the hard part would be standing in front of you all and relaying the stories. And then I made a phone call to a dear friend and mentor and he explained to me the true purpose of the eulogy. That this was something so much bigger than myself and a simple goodbye, to which I am not sure if I am up to the challenge. But I will do my best for I believe this will be one of the most important speeches of my life.

            There I go again, as at the beginning, making this about myself and not dad; which brings me to my friend’s first words of advice, to know who the eulogy is for. Whereas I thought it was for me, and my brother, my sister, his mother, and his brothers and sisters, friends, and so forth, I was only partially correct for he informed me that, first and foremost, I was writing this for my father. That dad was the pebble and we were the resulting ripples. That I would have to put my desire to portray my father in the best light possible second to the need to present to you the man that he was. And that to do this properly, I would have to talk not only of my relationship with him, but also of others. Of his gifts and his faults. For as humans, he said to me, we are also sinners, and dad was more aware of his humanity than most.

So I am here to honor not only my father and the grandfather of my kids, but the reverend, the friend and the carpenter, among others.

            As my uncle has described to you his childhood, I have the opportunity to speak of my father as a grown up. And his first step as a grown up was to become a minister. To talk accurately of my dad the reverend, I must speak of things which I know to be true and also that which I’ve only been told to be true.

            This is what I know, deep down in my heart: he was meant to be a pastor. I have little knowledge of callings but I know this was his. Not only was he called to the church, but to this church, the one I am standing in today. He was more at peace when he worked in the church than at any time in his life. There was a sureness about him that was present when he was at the pulpit that I only saw on rare occasions afterwards. I can still see him, standing in this very place, in his vestments, bible in hand, explaining the word of God to the congregation before him. A gospel he believed in with every fibre of his being. He took it very seriously and I know, although I cannot remember any specific sermons myself, that when it came to preaching, he had a gift.

            And here we come to what I don’t know but have been told.

            The fact that my father even graduated from the ministry was a momentous occasion, for it took drive and dedication. Not only to graduate from high school (in which I think he told me he was one of only 3) but from the ministry (which he had to do entirely on his own, earning his own way through with odd jobs here and there. At one point he worked as a chauffeur for coffee money, as he called it). His graduation day was one of his proudest, probably only trumped by us later in his life. From what I am told, my father was a brilliant theologian, with a very solid sense of the gospel and the teachings. The church was his life and his family and he cared deeply for the people within it. When there was strife in the church he felt it as if there was trouble in his own family. And in this way, it was his undoing, for I don’t believe he ever fully recovered from the rent that finally forced him to walk away from his one true calling. I don’t know exactly what happened that finally made him leave the church, but it took a piece of him, and his self-confidence with it. I would have liked to have seen him return, for he truly was a brilliant pastor, who put people first, and politics second. Who cared for his congregation as he did his own family, and who understood the teachings better than most

            To conclude my father, the revered, I will share a little story. Those of you who know me undoubtedly know that my beliefs do not follow as closely those of my father’s, although, I do think we tend to agree on very many aspects of the world and religion. And like my father, I do not keep quiet about my thoughts and beliefs like I sometimes should. My struggle with God and faith began years and years ago, when I was young and of about confirmation age. As a child, I had unwavering faith in God and what my father taught, for he was my dad and I could not envision a world where he was wrong. But at some point I remember first questioning the existence of the God that my father believed in so strongly. I felt compelled to go speak to him about it, but was unsure of the reception my thoughts would receive. Here I was, probably about 12 years old or so, going to question a man who’d devoted his life to teaching God’s word, about whether that God did indeed exist. Part of me assumed he’d get angry and have me removed from his presence, but another part of me was drawn to speak with the man who was so at peace and so secure in his beliefs. So I made the trek from house to garage (where he’d been spending the majority of his time) and stepped inside. I found dad, sitting on a lawn chair, smoking his pipe, with a long stick in his hands (which he used as a tv remote having lost the original one and needing a way to switch back and forth between our two channels). I’m sure he said something like “Hello, Jo,” as this has remained his greeting to me to this day. Not the type to beat around the bush, I said, “Dad, I don’t think I believe in God.” Then I braced myself for what was to come next. However, the worst did not happen. Dad sat there for a moment, puffing on his pipe, and then he reached over, pulled out another lawn chair, and said, “Sit. Let’s talk.” And we did. And although I walked away that day with a better understanding of God, I never quit questioning and he never once devalued my beliefs or forced me to believe the same as him (although I’m sure there’s been more than one conversation detailing his arguments for why I was wrong). No matter if it hurt him to know his daughter could not follow in his footsteps nor lead his grandkids down the Christian path. And looking back I think this was the place where he was the most understanding and I think that is because his faith and his belief was so strong, he didn’t feel the need to prove me wrong. He had enough faith for the both of us.

            Some people think the next facet of my father is due to his being a minister, so I would like to talk of it now. Although, just so you know, it had nothing to do with his career path but simply him. I wouldn’t be surprised if the gospels had a little to do with it, but I honestly think it was simply a love of his fellow man. When we were camping as a young family, my dad met some random person in the campground, learned that he was alone, and invited him to our camp. This drove me crazy as I was not the type to share his comfort of strangers. However, he brought him over and sat him down and spent the evening talking and sharing his beer and his food. Then, he walked him back to his campsite. When he’d gone, one of my mom’s siblings (who was with us at the time) said to him, “does he do that because he’s a pastor?” and my mom replied, “no. That’s just him.” And it is. He has always reached out to everyone who was alone, or in need, or simply, standing in front of him. A cyclist was going through town, he met him at Robin’s Donuts I believe, and dad found out he had no where to stay. So, a short while later, the guy had his tent pitched in dad’s yard, was using his shower, and eating his food. He stayed for 3 days. But don’t think because you’re not asking for help he won’t give it to you. Whether you’re in the aisles at the hardware store or standing in line at my shop, he will offer whatever helpful advice he can, for it made him happy to help others. And he was utterly selfless in his actions. Whatever he had, he would give it if you asked for it. His time, his food, the shirt off his back. And he would drop everything he had to give it to you. Those who knew him, knew he could be trusted and called on at any moment of every day. And those who didn’t, could still be blessed (or plagued, depending on the situation) with his service. One day, my husband’s grandmother was shopping in the hardware store for a deadbolt. She wasn’t sure of how to do it, and as dad happened to be there, he explained to her how to do it. But then he instead offered to go to her house and replace the deadbolt for her. Carolyn did not take him up on this offer but has always been impressed by the man who would willingly give his time to someone he had just met. This is something my dad has done with friend or stranger, for as long as I’ve known him.

            My dad loved the good things in life. Good wine. Good food. Good music. Good friends. Good laughs…although, in that sense, good laughs often ended up in a raucous laugh of his own and the uncomfortable chuckle of those around him, for his sense of humor was often just a little too crass for most. But that was okay, because he found himself funny, and if he found himself funny, well, that was almost enough for him. As I’m one of those who cringed at some of his less than desirable jokes, I’m not going to share them with you as I’m sure most of you know of what I am speaking. But I will tell you this. As I’ve been going through his house and his paperwork and his documents I have been finding two things. Recipes, which I’ll mention later, and comics. If there was something he thought was funny, he cut it out and kept it. If he thought it applied to others, he cut it out and gave it to them because loved to laugh and he loved to share his laughter with those around him. Often by giving you a slight backhand to the shoulder and repeated, “hey? Hey?” until you finally agreed that yes, that joke was funny.

            On to the next thing I found littered about his house…food and drink clippings from the paper. All over you will see recipes and drinks that he was saving to cook up for the next meal. The problem was, he never made them for himself, so unless he had someone coming over, he never tried them. His love of fine cuisine was not simply for the sheer pleasure of the food, but for the pleasure he took in making it for other people. I’m sure looking around here today, there are very few of you who have not had the pleasure of enjoying my father’s cooking. And, yes, he did make some amazing food. However, there has been a time or two when his chef attempts have also resulted in some very inedible dishes. One time, when we were still living at the house on the hill, my dad decided he was going to try out a recipe for seafood crepes (now, Sonya, Jon, and mom, if I’m a little incorrect, bear with me. I truly do have a terrible memory and am trying my hardest to be as factual as possible). From what I remember, the crepes called for crab, or imitation crab, and were to be sautéed in white wine. Well, we did not have crab, but did have canned tuna, so he figured, they’re both from the sea, you might as well substitute one for the other, right? As for the white wine, well, we did not have that either, but we did have red. And wine is wine, is it not? I do believe he also substituted a few vegetables that were called for that we did not have but as the last time he told this story I tuned out having heard it so many times, I don’t recall the specific ones. Either way, he substituted pretty much every single thing in the recipe except, the crepes. When all was said and done we were left to eat a thin pancake full of pink mush... And when I said we were left to eat it I mean we were left to forage in the cupboards ourselves for our supper as even the dog would not eat his seafood crepe substitutions. And do not think he learned from this mistake, for later in his life he did the same thing. Only this time, Jake, Jonathan and I were fortunate enough to have him take us to Boston Pizza after he had once again, substituted his way into a perfectly disgusting dinner.

 As a last note on cooking, let me tell you about my father and greek salad. My dad is a very smart man. As a child I thought he knew everything, but mostly because I think my dad was sure he knew everything too. And he was often right about 75% of the time. The problem was, he rarely fact-checked so if he didn’t know what he was talking about, instead of using the words, “I don’t know”, he just made something up. And most of the time, he was positive he was correct.  Usually he took the little tidbit he knew to be true and completely warped things from there to create something that was as far from the truth as possible. Take, greek salad for instance. He invited us over for supper, once again, and I asked what he was making. He rattled off a few things and then finished with, greek salad. As I love greek salad I was pretty excited for supper. And then, he set the salad on the table. I said to my father, ‘what is this?’ And he replied, ‘greek salad’, to which I argued that, ‘no, it wasn’t’. For you see, I was staring at a spinach salad with olives, mushrooms, strawberries, and feta cheese with a sweet oil and vinegar dressing. I said,’ dad, this is not a greek salad. Greek salads have peppers and onions and cucumbers and olives and feta cheese. This is a spinach salad’. To which he replied,’no, it’s not. Look. Feta and olives. That’s a greek salad’. So there you have it folks, my father’s recipe for a greek salad. Apparently if there’s feta and olives, you can do what you like with the rest.

While on the topic of my father and knowing everything, I have to laugh. Whenever someone would come to me and say, I met your father, he told me all about you, I would be forced to cringe a little and say, ‘well, just make sure you understand that while he believed what he said to be true, it often wasn’t’. And believe me when I say I mean this in the fondest sense as we learned to laugh about it as he would be sometimes so far off base he couldn’t find his way back. For instance, he told a story at my wedding of how Jake and I got together. As I’ve already mentioned, my memory is depressingly poor and I don’t exactly remember what the story was, but what I can say, was that it was wrong. Absolutely, completely, and totally wrong. So, after the wedding, I said to my dad, “You know, dad, that’s not how Jake and I met, you know.” His reply, “Yes it was!” And I laughed and said, “Um, how do you know?” To which he replied, “I was there!” Now, I really did not realize he’d come with me to Boston Pizza on my first day of training and met Jake in the basement in the breakroom. However, if he believes he was there, who am I to argue? And also remember, I retell these stories with a smile on my face because this is what made my dad who he was. And often, when he finally saw how completely off the mark he was, he’d laugh along with us. And, I have to say, there was more than one occasion where we fact checked him after he left only to find out that he really and truly was right, and we were wrong. But of course, he doesn’t need to know that now, does he?

Bear with me, I’m down to two subtopics now….dad as carpenter and dad as father, which are both are somewhat intertwined.

I’m not sure if dad has always been interested in woodwork or if he took it up as stress relief from the church, but I vaguely remember it being something that he needed as an escape. Dad internalized his stress and so needed some kind of venue for its release and I guess wood working, and pipe smoking, was it. (oh, and by pipe smoking I mean tobacco pipe. Dad wouldn’t even know what the other kind was if it blew in his face – true fact. Because someone actually smoked it near his vehicle and I laughed about it and his response was, oh! So that’s what it smells like! However, I digress. Let me return to my father as a carpenter.) Now, this goes a little in line with my dad, knowing most everything. He was a very good carpenter and cabinet maker, although how he managed, I do not know. For you see, although he read Wood magazine and Fine Woodworking, he never bought a textbook on carpentry. He never took a class. Nothing. He just started woodworking. Which is fine, except, my dad likes to impress… And to impress in his mind meant to wow everyone with his ability to create amazing stuff without having to measure it. So, whereas the typical carpentry motto is, measure twice, cut once, you could probably say my dad’s was, don’t measure at all, make a semi-educated guess, and cut 2 if not 3 times. I don’t know who, but dad told me that one of his friends suggested he write – Repeat Construction – as his business name on his van for the number of times he had to redo mistakes. Along with his,’don’t measure but impress’, motto, he also tried to whip things off quickly and with little help. And because of this, he often cut himself. As one of his dear friends said, she often expected her stuff to come with the odd blood stain here or there. But you know, regardless of his rather unorthodox ways, he did some beautiful work. I for one, am so happy to have so much of his work to remember him by. Not just by the desks he built for my children, or the hope chest I built with him (that he actually tricked me into building, by the way, because I wanted to build my sister one and he kept giving me stuff to glue and cut and clueless me kept doing what he said blindly, not knowing he’d tricked me into building two hopechests…my own and my sister’s), but every single time I walk into my shop I will remember him. He was so proud of me for opening that business, but he doesn’t realize I could never have had it without him. Who else would have done it all for the cost of materials…and afterwards, for nothing. He often walked in to hear me say, ‘dad, I need this now. Dad, can you build me this. Dad, can you fix this.’ And never once did I get a bill…only an installed whatever I’d asked for. He never even let me comp his jasmine tea.

And now I come to the final phase of my talk. I must get down to the heart of the matter and talk of my father as my father and the grandfather to my children. I know this is supposed to be for him, and I do not want to make this about me, but I know, that the biggest part of my father’s life was not just me, but my sister and my brother, my two kids and Sonya’s two kids. It is what kept him alive.

Where do I even begin to tell you of my dad as my father. I am struggling with a lack of words to explain to you. My dad taught me to drive a standard, in the orange beetle tearing around our yard up on 93^rd avenue. My dad read the entire set of Narnia books, all 7, to me when I was 9 years old, and because of this I read to my kids. My dad would sit and listen to me practice piano for hours. He would listen to us practising the violin or cello, of which I am sure Sonya was the only one to make them sing. He was so proud of us and supported us in everything we did. Attended every event. Drove my brother to every hockey tournament and score kept almost every game (at least the ones he wasn’t kicked out of). Took us skiing. Woke up at 6am to take us to Seals (which in our family, is a huge feat). He supported us to the best of his capacity and worked hard not to miss anything in which we were involved. Made sure we did well in school and never gave us the option of not continuing on to post secondary education. On our birthday, he would pick us up from school and take us out for lunch. And on Bree’s and Miles’ birthdays, respectively, he did the same. He did everything he could to support us and even though he didn’t say it to us, he was so proud of us. Each one of us. When he spoke of us (and he did it only second to his tales of his grandkids) his face lit up and he was always smiling, and he spoke of us all the time. Sometimes to perfect strangers who really didn’t care. But he did and that is all that mattered. 

To talk of my father as a father figure is a little bittersweet, for my father had some difficulty relating to us, stemming from a sense of inadequacy. He was aware of the fact that, although he could converse easily and counsel church members and others, he had difficulty offering us the same counsel. It wasn’t because he didn’t love us, for he loved us more than anything, but I sometimes feel he felt he needed to be strong for us. Was unable to show us any weakness and had to hide his pain from us. I believe he grew up in a time where men were men so they did not talk to their children about their troubles. And for that, he pulled away. And because of that he was never able to see what an amazing job as a parent he did. For, it is every parent’s job to raise a self sufficient child. And he did that better than almost any parent I know. He raised three children who all grew up to graduate university, to find great companions (for lack of a better word), to live their lives as best they could. And it wasn’t that we didn’t need him, but we needed him in a different capacity. And he didn’t quite understand that, and I only wish he could have, for if he had, I know he would have been a much happier man. And dad, I’m telling you now, although all children at some point in their lives, wish they could swap out their own parent for another more ideal one, I would choose you over all of them. For because of you I believe I can do anything I put my mind to. Because of you I have a love of music, and learning, and books, and everything that is beautiful in the world. Because of you I understand the importance of helping others, and putting family and friends before money or things or work. You were never able to see just how amazing and caring you truly were, but I could. And I may not have told you, but I always felt it. And I wish I could have seen beyond your pain and your suffering to put you first in my life as you did for me. But all I can hope to do, is all that you would ever ask me to do, and that would be to do the same thing you did for me, for my children. And if that is all I do as a parent, I know I can walk away when my children are grown, knowing I did the best any parent could ever do.

I had expected to share with you more stories of my father. But I fear this is growing too long. So I will just tell you that with dad gone, I will never find anyone in the world who thought I was as smart, and amazing as he did. There is no one out there to share the smartest and best grandkids a grandfather could ask for, for that is how he portrayed them. I’m sure almost every one of you sitting here today has seen some picture of my kids or heard some tale of their antics. And I know those kids will carry that unconditional adoration in their hearts for the remainder of their days.

I know there is so much I am missing dad, and for that I am sorry. I could not portray you as accurately as I should have. And so many here will miss you in much different ways than I do. Robins donuts and your friends will be short just a little bit of wisdom, but I know they can continue to save the world over coffee, just with one empty seat. I know Jake will miss someone to laugh at his antics and help him with his projects and renovations. I know Jon will miss your company during hockey games and in your shop. Miles will miss riding with you on the lawn tractor. Bree said to me the other day how much she’ll miss making jello’d eggs with you. And I said, ‘well, we’ll just have to make them ourselves, won’t we. And she replied, ‘but it won’t be as fun. Grandpa made things fun.’ And that’s just it. You have left a void in all of us that cannot be filled. Personally, my shop will always feel a little empty without your daily stop. As for everyone else, they have one less person to call on in their time of need. There is one less person who would have done everything to help them in any way they could.

I will leave you with a conversation I had with my dad after his death. I was feeling guilty for not having visited him enough, for having dropped off my kids but not come in to stay. For not having sat down with him enough when he came to have tea at my shop. I was storing all this pain and guilt and then asked myself, what would have happened if I phoned up my dad, right now, and apologized for feeling this way. This is exactly how the conversation would have gone:

First off, keep in mind, when the phone rings and he answers there will be a great deal of noise as each time his phone rang he jumped as if startled and hearing something for the first time. Then had to shuffle and relearn how to answer his cell phone every time. Once he did answer, he rarely sounded cheerful, but often answered with a gruff, ‘yeah?’ or ‘lo as the stress of cellphones was nearly too much for him.

Back to the call. The phone has rang, he has mustered a greeting, and I say, “Dad? Are you happy?”

Dad: What do you mean, am I happy?

Me: Well, with your life? Day to day. Are you happy?

Dad: Well, of course I am, Jo. Why do you ask? (he’s sounding a little irritated at this point, with my asking such obvious questions. Impatient that I would even be worrying myself about him.)

Me: I just needed to know. Sometimes I worry that you are lonely. That I don’t spend enough time with you.

Dad: Well, you’re busy. I don’t expect you to. You’re being ridiculous. I know you do the best you can.

Me: I know. But are you? Sad? Lonely?

Dad: Of course I get lonely and would like to have someone with me. But I’m not sad. I have you kids. I have my grandkids. They make me happy. Stop worrying about me, Jo. I’m fine.

Trust me when I say, this conversation is as true as it is imaginary. And, he really is going to be okay…and so will we. Because my dad was more at ease with death and his own death than almost anyone I know. And the last thing he would have ever wanted to be, was a burden. So unburden yourself here. Say your goodbyes, shed your tears, then walk away. Walk away knowing he would want you to be happy. Leave behind the bad memories and keep the good and think of him fondly, for that is all he ever wanted. Go forward and love and appreciate your family and fellow man. Put them first. If you can do this, he can rest in peace.

 

 

Stuff!

What do you do with your wedding dress once you are married? I mean, really? Is it just supposed to take up space in the back of your closet for years and years (or in some cases, months, or year?). What are we keeping it for? I do not plan on wearing it ever again, nor do I feel the need to pull it out and see if I can still fit into it (which is something I know quite a few people do in order to give themselves that pat on the back. So there, have a pat on the back, but is it really worth keeping some massive dress potentially until you die?). Or is it simply that we spend so much money on the dress and make it more important often than the groom himself, that it seems ridiculous to part with it?

My dress did not cost me thousands. Actually, I think it was less than my grad dress at a whopping two hundred and seventy-five dollars. And yet, I still have it hanging in my closet. It had been tied up in that dry cleaning bag for the past eleven years (yes, thank you, pat-pat on the back for me!) and moved twice and potentially, thrice. But for what purpose? I never, ever intend on ever wearing it again, so why the hell am I keeping it? For that matter, why do we keep anything?

It's like we have this need to hold onto things that are supposed to matter to us, and if it, one, does not matter, or two, we do not hold onto it, that somehow we are a bad person. Devoted and dedicated people hold onto the important stuff, that is how they show the level of their devotion. So if I throw away my wedding dress (I cannot pass it on now, it's far too outdated) or say, my daughter's first lock of hair or my son's first tooth, or various other mementos, then I am somehow less dedicated to my husband or my kids than that person who is now renting out a storage space in which to house all aforementioned objects and more. And why? So I can go back when I am ninety and my kids have moved on and my husband has died to touch them once again? Isn't that why pictures were taken? And even those take up so much space that they need shelves and shelves of their own to hold their reminders.

Memories are good and yes, our memories do falter as time goes on, but does not stress also destroy the very mind itself that houses these memories? We are holding onto things because we feel we should hold onto them and their mere presence, while invoking reminders of the cherished event, also cause us to lose our minds! Who has the room for boxes and boxes of stuff that will never really find any use again? I personally don't, and yet, that wedding dress sits on my bed amongst the piles of stuff I need to pack and will eventually move its way back to the closet and then into the moving box to find it's new home in my new closet at the next house because I could not bring myself to throw it away. And yet, it probably won't be exposed to light again until I either move or someone is going through my effects after I've died. And in that case, they'd probably sit there wondering what to do with this dress that they feel too bad to get rid of but have no use for so then it will just be moved to another closet or storage box or attic.

Why? I don't even know. Because there is an incredible amount of guilt in getting rid of an object with such sentimental value? But not only that, but with any form of monetary value. Not to mention we do not want to simply waste something with so much material. Someone might have use for it if we do not, even though the style is completely gone now and may or may not come back in another 11 years but then will be vintage and could probably be sold but not for the price of keeping it for 22 years. Not only that but our children could maybe use it, but then we are forcing them to wear the old object we had once worn despite the fact that they are so much cooler than we ever were and would really rather wear something of their own choosing but now feel obligated and will either wear the aforementioned dress out of guilt or hurt our feelings by rejecting it in which we will feel slighted and guilty for putting them through that in the first place.

So what do we do with it? I don't know. We have all, as a society, accumulated so much that everything must be reused or recycled in a desperate effort to sustain our habits. But if that cannot be so, or if we are not so creatively gifted to reuse it in a way that is remotely stylish or appealing, then there is nothing left for our stuff but to sit there, collecting dust and getting older and older by the day. So that we can pull it out once every decade or so and remember it, then put it back into the recesses of our closets to forget until we are forced to deal with it? It's ridiculous!

I wish I could just wear the damn dress. I wish I had enough style that it was remotely cool enough to make into something else, or, so it could sell on one of the trading sites as a prized vintage object. But it is not and so I will hold it in my hands a little while before packing it back into a box to pull out again and place it in its rightful place at the back of the closet, where lives everything else I cannot figure out what the hell to do with.

It's Scary Raising a Girl....

What the hell was I thinking? My daughter went to school today wearing a bra. A dance/sports bra, but a bra nonetheless. Why is this a big deal you ask? Because she is 9-years-old. And not one of those early developing 9-year-olds; she is as flat-chested as a popsicle stick, still sporting the same childish body she's had since losing her toddler fat at age three.

So, why the bra then? She obviously has no need of it. And here lies the grey area of parenting a girl. A girl that will potentially hate her body, wrestle with her self image, and deal with all the issues that arise with boys, puberty, and not having a clue what to do about any of it. As far as I was concerned, I had two options. Point out the obvious (that she in no way needs a bra) and tell her to come back when she's sprouted, or, act like it's no big deal and respect her feelings so that when it does happen she will also think little of it and come to me again when she needs the next size up. I went with the latter.

Now, I do run the chance of her coming home from school today crying that people were making fun of her for wearing a bra when there was no need for it. There is also a risk that her fellow classmates will go home asking for one (because if one girl is ready for it when she still has the generic body of a unisex child then the rest of them must as well) and the wrath of those parents who think it's crazy for a kid in grade 3 to wear a bra without needing it will come down upon my head and strike me a terrible mother.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think she needs it and the thought of telling her no has come across my mind multiple times, but it's impossible to know what to do in this situation. I'm hoping she'll wear it a few times and just let it go. And if not, well, it's not really hurting anybody, is it?

But here is a much deeper issue. The fact that I could even find her a bra is rather unsettling for me. Why? Because my daughter is tiny. Tiny in that she can still wear clothes that are made for those in kindergarten (okay, okay, there may be a little bit of exaggeration here, but not much). Her bra, bought from a brand name dance store (on sale at the outlet, don't start judging my purchases for her either) was a size 6. A size 6 when sizes are still made in relation to ages of the children. Which means, that the bra was made for a 6-year-old. And not only that, but there was also sizes 2, 4 and then the larger sizes at 8, 10, and 12. Who is making bras for 2 and 4 and 6 and 8 year-olds? Actually, they're probably sweat shop workers in third world countries that are just doing as their told. My question should actually be, who in their right mind thinks it's okay to design and produce sports/dance bras for two-year-olds? And what teeny, weeny little girls are wearing them in dance class?

This probably makes me a hypocrite. I bought one of these aforementioned bras for my kid who does not need it. But she will never, ever be wearing it in dance class. Not by itself, that's for sure. But the fact is still there that some kids do. That they could if they wanted. If I watched Pageant Moms I'm sure I'd see many cases of this and it makes me so sad. Buying a bra for a 9-year-old makes me sad because I want her to stay a little girl as long as possible. Why can't they stay little girls ? Why must they be wearing, and encouraged to wear from girls magazines and so forth, lingerie? Lingerie made for adults.

Now, I digress here. I was talking about dance bras and now it's lingerie. But that's because it is out there and once you start with the sports bras the logical next step is the traditional form of them.  See how simple it is to go from dancewear to lingerie? And obviously someone has and is making a line for 4 to 12-year-olds (in France, however, that does not mean it won't get here. And I doubt French Girls are any more advanced than their North American cohorts). No wonder girls are having sex way before they're ready when they're wearing lingerie before they even understand the point of them. What ever happened to girls being girls? And is it parents like me who try to be understanding by buying them such things a part of the problem?

I don't know if I made the right decision or not. All I know is that dealing with girls and growing up is hard and getting scarier and scarier by the minute. There is no longer room for black and white, everything is grey because we need to keep them girls as long as possible but also help them grow into confident young women, and the first step of that I believe is supporting them. Isn't it? However, it's easy to support them when it's is a simple piece of fabric, but when she's asking for more serious things like birth control and condoms, well, I don't know what I'll do. I just hope that will not happen until she truly is ready, but in this era of sexting and role models desperate to make the covers of Maxim magazine, I'm terrified it won't be.

My Epic Fail

I went to the airshow the other night and watched talented pilots perform exeptional feats in wicked cool planes. Right then and there I decided that I wanted to get some aerobatics lessons from those pilots, perhaps one day even do a few airshows myself. One, it would just be really cool, and Two, it'd be amazing to be one of the very few women aerobatic pilots on the airshow circuit. I was truly inspired. And that night, while watching a Pitts go straight vertical and hang by its prop, I got the call from my instructor that my commercial flight test was booked for next week. Well, if I can watch someone cut a rope strung across the runway at 25 FT AGL upside down, I can pass a measly commercial test.

Unfortunately, it turns out I can't. Now, you're probably wondering why I've decided I can't pass a test that's supposed to be 7 days from now? Because I can't even pass the test before the test, the one that qualifies you for the test in the first place. Now, instead of my instructor writing up a nice little letter of recommendation for me, he's suggested I instead keep my flying to taking up friends and family, for I'm at least good enough for that, just not good enough to have anyone pay me to do it.

Did you ever watch that movie, Rudy? Rudy is a guy who absolutely loves football, but just isn't good enough to play. He wants it so bad, so finally, during the final game, the coach lets him go in and he scores the final touchdown (I think, but I don't know for sure). His years of work culminated to that one play, but it was enough for him. His years of striving paid off in that moment, because he wasn't even supposed to have that one play...basically he wasn't good enough for that but it was his heart that got him as far as he had. Well, I feel like Rudy, but I don't think I even have the heart. Or I do, but it's just too old, and hell, I thought maybe if I was good enough my age wouldn't matter. But to be shitty and old, well, there ain't enough heart in the world to make up for that.

The thing is, as uplifting as Rudy was, no one wants to be him. We want to be the star quarterback carrying Rudy on our shoulders, because we'll still be in the game the next day while Rudy is back to lugging around the water bottles. That's why movies like that are few and far between, because as much as we know most of us are just average, there's that tiny hope in the back of our minds that we're just a little bit more than that. So when we're faced with the fact that not only are we not average, but we're worse than average, well...what then? I know you're supposed to just get back up on that horse when you've fallen off, but it's really hard to go back up when you know this is as good as it's going to get. Every time I got near that Fargo I was sure there was something better in store for me, I just had to wait it out. But now, there just doesn't seem to be. I mean, how can you honestly justify a bigger and better plane when you can't do anything with it? When you're not even remotely good enough to do anything with it?

 I've got to say, this is my first really big failure. And I guess, being thirty, that's probably a pretty good thing. But when you were already thinking you'd screwed up by not doing something like this sooner and that you've missed your chance for something really great, finding out you're subpar feels like an epic failure. I always thought I was the hero of my own story, but it turns out I'm the goofy sidekick that everyone laughs at. Yes, I'm funny and add the token joke to the slower parts, but by the climax, I'm still making jokes while the hero's life has all come together.

So, now, do I choose to be Rudy and happily drag out the Fargo for a local jaunt around the area knowing it's all I'll ever get? At least he loved football...how do you love something that makes you feel so awful?

Unwanted Passenger

I'm beginning to rethink my plan to stalk the guy who owns the Maule and ask him for a ride. Why? Because if he is even the tiniest bit as weirded out by some stranger asking for a flight in his plane as I was the other day, he'd still be getting the heebie-jeebies from me.

Now, to be fair to myself, I do not smell like stale booze and cigarettes, and it's not questionable whether I've started drinking at 7AM on a Saturday morning. I also am not about 100 lbs overweight, nor do I drive a rusty pickup with holes in it, nor am I unseemingly and sketchy. I like to think of myself as a normal person that would not creep someone out if I walked up to them and started a conversation. This guy, on the otherhand, did creep me out. Actually, it wasn't him as much as the fact that the second I pulled in to unlock the gate this truck that happened to be sitting at the airport at 7AM on a Saturday morning clunked into reverse and began to back-up slowly until it blocked my exit. That was what started probably one of the worst flights I've been on in a long time.

I was going to ask this guy who he was looking for, but apparently it was me. Not me specifically, but any pilot taking up a plane that morning. Or, I guess I should say, any naive pilot stupid enough to allow a complete stranger in their cockpit. Basically, he feigned interest in purchasing the Fargo as his in. He then asked to come look at it, making a point of driving inside the locked gate instead of remaining outside it and then walking through the gate like he should have. Then, once he looked it over thoroughly (and in my opinion should have come to the conclusion that he could hardly fit inside the 150 nevermind think he could fly the thing) he asked me if I was flying it that morning. I am a horrible liar and completely suck at coming up with excuses, and really, what the hell else did it seem like I was going to do? So I replied yes, and when he asked if he could come too, well, rather than do the intelligent thing and tell him I have a strict no-strange-loiterers policy, I told him, "I guess so."

Well, it just got worse from there. He definitely pushed the Fargo to its weight and balance limits, but tried to tell me something about how they're really weighed in at half their true limit as a safety net, or something like that. Honestly, when they manufactured a tiny, two-seater plane with a cockpit the width of a newborn baby, they did not plan on the pilot being a grotesque 300 lb alcoholic smoker. If that was the case, they would have made it with one seat in the middle and a picker that scooped up the pilot lacking the physical prowess to simply climb in. As it was, I was pressed against my door (which has a tendency to fall open at inconvenient times) as far as I could go and still could not get away from his overbearing presence.

As it was, we managed to get off the ground (good thing I only had half-tanks of fuel) to which he proceeded to tell me where to go, when to turn, how to operate my GPS and eventually, took over my controls. Why did I not stop him? I don't know. I'm not usually the type of person who is afraid to stand up for myself, but I was just so completely uncomfortable with the situation I just tried to make it as bearable as possible until I could get back down and away from him. But, I did have to draw the line at taking my controls, and I took them back and told him I was in a hurry so had to go in to land. Unfortunately, even that was not free of his unwanted expertise as he usually comes in to land in a slip and quickly straightens up right when he's going to touch down. Perhaps I should have explained to him that his unwanted presence had thrown the Fargo off-balance enough that flying straight was challenging enough. Then again, I should have told him no when he first asked to come, but it was too late for that.

I thought I was free and clear once we'd landed, but that was when he chose to ask questions about the Fargo under pretense of buying it, even though he had told me he was unemployed, living in a trailer park, and smelled like he couldn't afford enough hot water to shower, nevermind wash his clothes. But, looks can be deceiving, so I answered his questions and then told him I'd let him out the gate. It took nearly 30-minutes to get him out of there, what with him asking me how much I fly, my one-word answers, and his snooping about the other planes in the hangar. But get him out I did but then had to go home and shower and wash my clothes myself as his boozy-cigarette scented remnants were on them from the quick 30-minutes we spent together in the Fargo's tiny cockpit.

What did I learn from this? Never, never take some stranger up in your airplane. Especially one that is willing to jump into any plane he can regardless of who's flying. He didn't even ask if I had a licence, then again, he thought pretty highly of his own flying abilities (even though he could not pass the test) so must have assumed he'd be able to take over if I proved incapable. But now that leaves me incapable of doing the same thing myself! Here I am, completely grossed out by this creep and now having to replace the mouthpiece of my headset and sanitize the interior of the Fargo, and I was going to do the same thing to Mr. Maule. So really, that does not make me much better. Then again, I don't stink. And I have to say, that fact alone could have been what completely grossed me out. Perhaps if I shower, make sure I've got on clean clothes and just a little perfume, asking the owner of the Maule for a ride might not come across as a creepy, stalker kind of thing to do. Then again, adding perfume just opens up a whole other can of worms when asking strange men for favors, so really, maybe I'll just stick to flying myself in the Fargo for a while, and keep a passenger with me at all times.

Damn Technology

I went for lunch today at the airport. My mother invited me, I had some time off and since the winds were beyond awful, I figured I may as well since I couldn't fly. She'd heard the food at the airport was really good, so I agreed to meet her there.

Now when I say the wind was awful, it was horrible. It was bad enough that it ripped my driver's side door out of my hands, smashing into the vehicle parked beside me when I tried to get out. Fortunately, my vehicle and the other vehicle are both white, and the one I hit was a City truck, so was quite used to being mistreated. Either way, I managed to wipe away my marks with little noticeable damage. Then again, I guess I could have just told you it was insanely windy without incriminating myself, but I am not one to hold anything back so there you go.

So I get blown into the restaurant and what do I see through the window? A helicopter sitting outside by the pumps. I have not been in a helicopter and am anxiously awaiting my chance, but I could not imagine flying one on a day such as this. You know in cartoons when the characters are being blown sideways in the wind, holding onto lampposts and trees to keep from blowing away? That's today. And yet, a helicopter will still fly. Then, not only that, but a little Mooney came in shortly after the helicopter took off. Now, am I doing something wrong to avoid taking to the skies when it's moving at gusts beyond 30 kts? Or is this another example of the inferiority of my flying skils and/or airplane. Because I doubt the Fargo could keep its wings on a day such as this.

Either way, even with the wind outside, I was jealous of the guy walking across the apron after landing his Mooney. Not that I would want one, no, wait, I would as my second airplane,  but I was jealous that he was at a skill level that he could take on a day such as this. I was also jealous of the fact that he obviously had to be somewhere (because who would fly in these winds for a little fun, jaunt about the countryside) that he couldn't hold off until the wind died down. So while these pilots were getting on with their day and their, I'm guessing, employed flying gigs, I was eating at the restaurant with my mother, jealous and pouty I wasn't going up there too. Which brings me to the original point of my blog....

Originally, I was going to complain that my stupid computer wouldn't let me renew my microsoft office and therefore I could not get started writing an article about the amazing restaurant at my airport that I was going to perfect and send in for publishing. Instead, I just complained that I couldn't fly in blustery, insanely windy conditions and get paid for it. Well, I guess we all go on tangents once in a while, and I'm usually guiltier than most (and yes, guiltier is a word, it might just be my own, but it's still a word. If you can read it, it's a word). So now I must try again to find a way to download Microsoft Word so soon you can all read my articles somewhere beyond this blog, let's just hope they make much more sense than this one did.

Boys Suck!

Here's another reason why you boys suck and why I'm stuck trying to figure all this out on my own...

The last time I flew into a nearby airport, I saw a wicked cool Maule parked by one of the hangars. It was pretty much exactly what I wanted and I was drooling over it (well, I won't say drooling but I also won't say what I was as that would be inappropriate). It had tundra tires, was a silver and green color, and was basically bad-assed. Honestly, I'd never seen them up close like that, only pictures, and I loved it! So, I made a point of remembering the call sign so I could track down the owner of the plane.

No, I didn't want to stalk the owner of the Maule, murder him in his sleep and then steal his plane. I just thought maybe I could find out who he was and potentially convince him to take me for a flight (really, if you had a plane like that wouldn't you want to show it off to admiring fans?). But when I ran this idea by someone else, just to see if perhaps it might come across a little insane to track down a stranger and ask for a ride in his plane, his response was: you can't, you're a girl.

That response is not why you boys suck, the fact that he was right is why you suck! If I was a guy, it wouldn't be too big of a deal to walk up to the guy that owns the plane, befriend him, and get a ride in the Maule. My understanding is that's how things have always been done and in the past, many pilots actually learned to fly that way by simply hanging around airports and learning as much as they could from whoever was around. The fact that I'm a girl changes things. Now that guy behind the controls of the Maule is thinking in his head that I'm potentially trying to pick him up, adding an underlying tension to the whole thing. Where in reality, I'm only in love with his plane, he's wondering what his chances of getting into my pants are (this has actually happened before and it really is uncomfortable, and now where I could have had someone else to fly with, he's now awkward and uncomfortable around me).

Basically, I'm blaming you guys for my inability to fly in as many planes as possible with as many pilots as I can. If any contact you had with a woman didn't have to do with their sexual potential, I'd be much happier. Then, when I try to join your conversation I'd be viewed just like everyone else and nothing would have to be awkward. Or if I climbed into the plane beside you, there would be no tension while groping for seatbelts or headsets. I could simply walk up to you, tell you I liked your plane, then go for a ride without any attachments or expectations. Would it make things better for you guys if I simply ungendered myself? (Yes, that is a word, and no, I doubt you'll find it in the dictionary). Basically, I'll start dressing in unisex clothes, give myself a buzz cut, and wear masculine hats so the only question running through your mind when I ask for a flight is if I'm a woman who likes women or a man with delicate features. At least if you're thinking we're both after the same thing, the question whether or not you'll be joining the mile-high club would never enter your head and I never have to feel awkward because of it.