Merry Humbug

Most years I say, “Bah, humbug!”

This year it might even be justified, but strangely, I don’t feel like it. Most years, my list of “shoulds” has far outweighed my list for Santa. But then, I was raised to not believe in Santa, so my puny wish list is no sign of virtue. And I don’t want to display a list of completed shoulds as evidence of my virtues. Because, ouch.

This year, as usual, I’ve waited to observe Christmas until, well, Christmas. Today is but the first of twelve days of Christmas, so I’ve been quite happy to ignore all the frantic preparations of the commercial, non-Advent flavor, preferring gentle penitence to be followed by pleasant reflection upon the reason for the Christian version of winter revelries. (When I “do” Advent, that is.) That, actually, is one of the reasons I’ve taken perverse delight in echoing Scrooge anytime between Labor Day and Christmas Day.

The other reason is that I can’t plan my way out of a paper bag. “Bah, humbug” is camouflage for “I can’t deal with it!” I surrender (early and often) to my seemingly congenital lack of ability to prepare, and even get some smiles out of others, by uttering those three simple syllables.

But this year… this year I showed signs of preparation. Truly. I baked several batches of futzy, time-consuming Norwegian Christmas delicacies (hah!), with plans to make more. Maybe my evil twin freaked out and staged an intervention to prevent me from further exposing my hitherto-hidden lack of Scrooge-osity. My secret is out.

Or, it would have been, had I not gotten the flu. I left work Monday morning, suddenly aching from head to toe. The aching has subsided only today, and the fever broke sometime during the night.

This meant a) no more baking; b) no trip to Michigan for Christmas with hubby’s family; c) no church.  Serious enough to warrant a “bah?”

But here’s the icing on the cake sidewalk:

My son is moving back to Chicago from southeastern Minnesota. His dad drove up to help him with the packing, but the weather up there right now is anything but helpful—full winter storm conditions, last I heard. Then his dad’s car developed a problem that must be fixed, and the soonest it can be fixed is Monday. Probably this would warrant a “humbug,” no?

So that makes this the first Christmas I haven’t shared with my son in 25 years and the first one my husband hasn’t shared with his daughters. However, it is also my first Christmas as Wife with New Husband, and he is gallantly assisting me through my illness and recovery.

I’m with my love (though also being with his family and my son would be preferred).  All things considered, perhaps I can alter my seasonal muttering to “Merry Humbug!” Suddenly switching over completely would be just too shocking.

Why we gather at the table

“We gather around the table not to escape the world’s problems, but to escape the world’s answers.”

This is a my perhaps faulty memory of a quote from this morning’s sermon, of an unnamed Episcopal bishop. I wish I had the exact quote and knew whose it is.

But as I have come to expect from wise spiritual leadership, it is helpful, and I look to this type of insight precisely because it doesn’t follow the usual discussion. Instead of arguing about whether it is an escape, it says there is another solution. It presumes that there are other answers, and this is a way to look for them, to ask different questions.

Merely an appetizer, a foretaste of the feast to come.

What would it take to make us give up our most cherished belief?

This was the question posed in several sermons by a former rector of my former parish. He used it at least a couple of times as a lead-in to a fable of Edwin H. Friedman, which, along with that question, has been on my mind a lot lately when following the discussion on legalizing gay marriage.

The rector was addressing certain beliefs held by parishioners that must have given him great frustration. I’m not so much frustrated with an opposing viewpoint (disclosure: I support gay marriage) as I am intrigued by the character of a discussion itself. Any discussion, really, that provokes heated exchanges and where beliefs are so strongly held that new possibilities, new insight are unwelcome.

Due to copyright laws, I won’t quote the entire fable, but will try to give you a flavor of it.

“One evening a man came home and announced that he was dead.”

The fable relates how various friends and family members try a number of tactics to persuade him otherwise. Sometimes they think they’ve come up with proof so overwhelming that the man could do nothing other than change his mind. Eventually they hit upon the idea of bringing in the family doctor, who has known the man from his childhood.

“[He] asked the man in a no-nonsense way, “Tell me, do dead men bleed?”

“Of course not,” said the man.

The doctor proposed that he make a small cut in the man’s arm, promptly dressing it so that he need fear no infection. The man agrees to the procedure.

With everyone watching anxiously, the doctor deftly slit the flesh, and blood came spurting out. There was a gasp of joy throughout the group. Some laughed, others even applauded, though a few seemed rather to be relieved.

The doctor quickly dressed the wound and turned to everyone, saying, “Well, I hope that puts an end to this foolishness.” Everyone was congratulating the physician when they suddenly realized that the man was headed for the door. As he opened it, he turned to the group and said, “I see that I was wrong.” Then, as he turned to leave, he added, “Dead men, in fact, do bleed.”

See, now I’m congratulating myself on having put forth something that will surely make all the unreasonable people out there come to their senses. This should show them how wrong they are.

But at the same time, my inner voice says, “How do I know that my belief isn’t the one that needs to be given up?”

What would it take to make us give up our most cherished belief?

From Friedman’s Fables, by Edwin H. Friedman, The Guilford Press, pp. 55–58.

Small lesson from a loss

Chicago lost its bid to host the 2016 Summer Olympics. The loss is not huge for me and neither is the lesson: Though I’m past the half-century mark, I still indulge in magical thinking. Surprise! Watching the Election Night celebration in Chicago’s Grant Park I got caught up in the “yes we can” fervor. Somehow that feeling transferred to Chicago’s Olympics bid. Having backed a winner in November, I guess I came to believe my support was no longer a curse. That sense must have remained in my subconscious, because it didn’t occur to me to test it by openly rooting for the Cubs, Sox or Bears. Then there was Oprah’s season-opening bash on Michigan Avenue. See? We’re important—we have television cameras and other stuff on the street that makes us look like we’re playing with the big boys. World-class city, you know. Home sick from work yesterday, I watched the IOC’s voting. The sense of inevitability I had matched that of Election Night. Same thing, right? Anticipating a similar outcome. Nope. My support of Obama and watching the election returns had nothing to do with his win. My certainty of a Chicago Olympics (granted, bolstered by the oddsmakers’ confidence) couldn’t guarantee Chicago’s win. But it took Chicago’s abrupt, seemingly rude, elimination to make me aware of this unhelpful impulse. Magical thinking is something we’re supposed to outgrow, if we follow normal development of emotionally healthy humans. Yeah, well…

Am I back?

The Bag Lady was wandering in the wilderness for two years, wanting to blog but easily distracted and derailed. Long story short—I've finally managed to 1) get off my duff; 2) figure out my password; 3) check settings; 4) start typing. Maybe I'll write about it eventually, but right now here I am.

Future breadwinner and citizen

Another troubling occurrence in my Observatory of Human Behavior: On the el this morning, two young women took seats in front of me. I didn’t pay attention at first, but the one who did most of the talking became a subject in my observatory. Her voice sounded as though she were pre-adolescent, though her companion appeared much older. Between the inevitable cell phone calls and her witty comments to her friend, I came to think that her emotional age matched that of her voice. The train’s destination signs were wrong on the front car, though the other cars’ signs were correct. In this situation, the train operator has to announce the correct line and destination at each stop to correct inevitable confusion among riders. After the second time or so, the talker in front of me asked, “Why don’t they just change the signs?” It doesn’t require a whole lot of time on the CTA to discover that equipment malfunctions frequently, especially the destination signs. As we traveled, I discovered from the virtual monologue of the young woman that she is a college student, apparently at DePaul. DePaul is a respected university. She complained that her psychology class wasn’t at all what she expected. She’s studying marketing and thought the class would help her in the psychology of marketing. Instead it was geared towards supervising. To her, utterly unimportant information. Future Manager From Hell in gestation! She just can’t keep her eyes open in class. Nor could she keep her eyes open in a class on multiculturalism. “Purple Line to the Loop,” the operator gamely announced yet another time, when we arrived at Merchandise Mart. “This is the Loop, Dumb Ass!” said the wise one. Uh, no. The Loop, not synonymous with “downtown Chicago,” is bounded by the el tracks in a, well, loop (Lake Street on the north, Wabash on the east, Van Buren on the south and Wells on the west). The next stop put us in the Loop. I suppressed the surprisingly mild urge to correct her, maybe because I feared that it would have been wasted breath. What would it take to shift her paradigm? Yet another person being “educated,” to what effect? I do tremble to think that if something way less than rocket science blows by a person, what kind of footprint on the earth will that person leave?

I got a kick…

I frequently witness raw human interactions and behavior. As I spend nearly two hours a day on public transit in Chicago, I have ample opportunity to observe. Tonight, though, I felt as though I had the wind knocked out of me. When I walked from the el station to the waiting bus, a man hurriedly passed me. He got on the bus just in front of me and about four seats back from the front, he deliberately kicked the leg of a young man who, while reading, had had his knee up on the adjoining seat. The bus was nowhere near filled—a number of seats were available. The young man, startled, immediately sat straight in his seat, thus freeing the adjoining seat. Only, the older man took the seat one away from that—the young man needn’t have moved at all. And no one else took the seat between them. Anyone not looking directly at them missed the event, it happened so fast. I looked at the kicker. Middle-management-type, well groomed and dressed, etc. As he sat down he pulled out a book and settled in to read. The young man, a college student as I concluded from the UIC Library stamp on his book, was obviously rattled but didn’t take any other action. So many thoughts racing in my brain. First, I felt as though I had been kicked. Second, I couldn’t help but wonder if the older man would have done that had the other appeared to be a gangsta-rapper type (would he have thought he might possibly antagonize someone who might retaliate)? And just when did a swift kick replace “Excuse me, is this seat taken”? Especially among supposedly civilized people? Yechh.

The first Friday in Lent

Tonight I did something in observance of Lent that I’d never done. The parish I’ve been attending offers Stations of the Cross and Benediction of The Blessed Sacrament each Friday in Lent. Last year I pondered going, but tonight I went. For someone raised in a Lutheran tradition that eschewed anything that “smelled” of Rome, this was a huge step, even though my Episcopalian experience of the past 20 years has been “high.” Both the Stations and the Benediction were offered in my previous parish (only once a year and separately), but for a number of reasons, I never partook. The Stations exist in a number of forms; here’s one that’s close to our observance (though without the “Global Justice and Reconciliation” heading; yet the rector’s bidding of prayers was very much in line with that concern). Emotion about Jesus’ Passion isn’t something I’ve ever felt—and on top of that I’ve blocked out so many feelings over the past several years, especially in spiritual matters. So what I did was to concentrate on staying open and trying to connect—this is the current task of my spiritual journey. What did I feel? That Jesus’ sacrifice and resurrection can be instructive for me. Maybe I can’t experience it now, but I can engage and dare to be transformed. There is so much on which to ponder in these observances. The meditations and prayers are all drawn from Scripture, and I know from my Sunday School and Confirmation classes of decades ago whence most of the texts are drawn. With the Benediction immediately following, Resurrection is directly tied in, as Pope John Paul II tried to do when he attempted to add a 15th Station—Resurrection. Following the rites, we had a simple non-meat soup-and-bread meal, with a presentation by the rector on questions submitted for consideration during this time. The rector is a walking encyclopedia of spiritual and liturgical Anglican/Episcopalian concerns, and I learned tonight, as I have every time I’ve talked to him, that what may seem to many to be empty, pointless rituals are extraordinarily meaningful and significant. When I returned home, Chicago’s Lyric Opera was near the end of its opening-night broadcast of Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmélites on WFMT (another time I’ll brag on this station—it’s world-class, with virtually no peer). As a pianist who has accompanied many singers on opera arias, I was never interested in Dialogues. It just seemed so—well—dull. Nuns talking? But a couple of months ago I heard the last portion of another production of it on WFMT and was utterly taken. Then I learned that the Lyric was presenting it for the very first time—and another time maybe I’ll discuss how a world-class opera house could have ignored such a masterwork. No, wait—I already know—probably the same reason as mine. Or, also, some logistics, such as cost versus appeal. Already in 1956, when the opera was composed, musical styles had changed considerably, and Poulenc not only returned to a somewhat older style but also imbued it with his devout Catholicism. So tonight I got to hear again (live) the portion that had so struck me. And I remain struck. The libretto is based on a true story of martyrdom during the French revolution, when not only nobility but also religious orders were targets. The last portion is the condemned nuns’ walk to their death, and they sing as they approach. One by one, their voices are silenced with each thwack of the axe. The march to the end is relentless and musically haunting—though I’m still listening to WFMT as I write, my brain keeps replaying the final motif. Even hearing it on radio (admittedly a medium that often removes me at least twice from the music source), I find a huge lump in my throat. I don’t know how Lyric’s scheduling works—there are so many factors to be considered—but presenting Dialogues during Lent seems a Godsend.

What a relief

Your Deadly Sins

Wrath: 60%

Sloth: 40%

Pride: 20%

Envy: 0%

Gluttony: 0%

Greed: 0%

Lust: 0%

Chance You'll Go to Hell: 17%

You will die, after conquering the world as an evil dictator.

How Sinful Are You?

Winter (?) in Chicago

What's wrong with this picture? This Midas is a block from me. I saw it on my way home and just had to go back with the camera.

Another discomforting prophet?

But wait, there’s no such thing as a comforting prophet.

When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross.”

Sinclair Lewis, courtesy of Wisdom Quotes Sinclair Lewis managed to seriously rile the folks in his hometown, Sauk Centre, Minnesota, with his novel “Main Street.” So much so that, despite his fame, nobody put up signs proclaiming Sauk Centre as “The Home of…” It wasn’t until the late 1960s or early 1970s that the town finally owned up to the connection, putting a plaque outside his boyhood home and building its “Sinclair Lewis Interpretive Center,” which I first encountered in grade school. Perhaps enough of the townsfolk who had been skewered in the book decades earlier had died off. Or perhaps anticipated commercial benefits finally took priority over hurt feelings. Whatever the case, the above quote, so eerily prescient, would seem to be capable of triggering anger on a scale far greater than that in Sauk Centre more than half a century ago. Shall we see?

Spring in six weeks?

Yesterday being Groundhog Day, I was reminded of my annual puzzlement over this observance. If the groundhog sees its shadow, we’ll have an early spring, and if it doesn’t, it’s six more weeks of winter. Calculate with me here: Six more weeks puts us at March 16. Well, if you lived in Minnesota, say, where I grew up, winter continues until at least April. Complete with snow on the ground, sometimes until mid-April. Only six more weeks always sounded like a pretty good deal. Here in Illinois, mid-March still sometimes brings snowstorms. Six of one, half a dozen of another. Don’t’cha think we’ve all been “had”?

Dad and my “heavy foot”

Dad said on more than one occasion that I had a heavy foot. But I came by it honestly: inheritance. Once, just after Dad had purchased a used car (which had a faulty speedometer) he was on the freeway, timing himself by the mile markers in order to determine his speed, as opposed to what the speedometer said. State trooper pulled him over, told him he was doing 60 mph (speed limit was 55). Dad said, “Yah, that’s probably about right.” He then explained what he was trying to do, and he got let off with a warning. (And he normally went a lot faster than that.) Contrast that with my mom’s experience. I got to witness this one, as I was with her. State highway, state trooper—happened to be someone we knew, as he lived in our town and went to our church. She was doing over 70 (again, 55-mph limit). She was polite as she tried to explain the hurry; he was polite. She got a ticket. We didn’t let her forget it for a good long time. On the day of my high school graduation, I had to be on the U. of Minn. campus in the Twin Cities for a rehearsal. As a state winner in the annual piano competition, I got to play a piece with 19 other pianists—really big piano duet, huh?—and couldn’t miss the rehearsal. Supposedly there was enough time after the rehearsal to collect my sister and get back home well before graduation. Yeah, well. Traffic was heavy on the way to get my sister. We were way late when we finally left the Twin Cities. I was afraid my father wouldn’t drive fast enough, so I insisted on driving. (n8daogg, if you’re reading, stop right now! You really don’t know to know your mother’s delinquencies of decades ago!) The drive at 55 mph (then the state-wide limit) would take two and a half hours, but we had barely two hours before I was to march in. So I went 85–90 mph most of the way. Note, not once did Dad tell me to slow down, though I think I recall him saying, “You’re going kind of fast there, then.” I have no idea what my sister was thinking. Got home to find Mom ready and waiting (anxiously, need I say?). I ran upstairs, changed my clothes. My shoelace broke, so I had to pull on some old clunkers. We hopped in the car, Dad driving this time; they let me out at the main door. I pulled on my cap and gown just in time to get in line and go on in. Luckily, I had arranged for someone to take care of my music for choir and band (and my trumpet) so all I had to do was slip into my places at the appointed times (I was also the choir accompanist…)

I, Sir (Lady), am no lady!

Nor am I ordained. But (thanks to St. Casserole) I discovered that maybe I don’t fully know me.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Reverend Lady Bag Lady the Antique of Menzies on the Minges Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Whoops! Just realized I am at least a Bag “Lady”—so I guess Lady Fortune the Absurd of Greater Internetshire knew more than I did… and I’m kinda approaching “antique” here. When I tried the long form of my name, I became:

Her Grace Lady Bag Ladee the Dissolute of Waldenshire under Throcket Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Dissolute, yes. “Grace?” Okay, I can lay claim to quick reflexes. So of course I had to “do” my cat:

Baroness Maggie the Defenestrated of Frome Valley Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I think she outranks me—duh!

How Lutheran are You?

Thanks to Brother Dwight, I had to check this out. I did grow up Lutheran, though I “faded” during college and never really went back. Having been Episcopalian now for roughly the same amount of time I was Lutheran, I thought I might just see: if you take the girl out of the Lutheran church, can you take the Lutheran church out of the girl?

You are 78% Lutheran! This is most certainly true.

Not a perfect score. What does this mean? You have room for growth in understanding Lutheran terminology and culture. Good thing Salvation is by Grace and not by merit. We can add nothing to what God has done for us in Christ Jesus. But it never hurts to learn a little more about the church on earth. Thanks for taking the quiz!

How Lutheran Are You?
Create a Quiz

Well, as I did the quiz, I realized that a number of the answers I had to guess at, I never knew way back when, so it’s safe to say nothing has been “taken out.” And I didn’t keep up with all the mix-and-match of mergers, new hymnals/servicebooks. Again, nothing has been taken out. Still—78%? Kind of an amazing score for an Episcopalian, don’tcha think?

My American Accent

Thanks to Lutheran Chik, I had to check this out (mostly because for more than 20 years I've heard numerous remarks about my "accent"). My results:

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Inland North You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop."
The Midland
North Central
The West
The Northeast
Philadelphia
Boston
The South
http://www.gotoquiz.com/what_american_accent_do_you_have">What American accent do you have? http://www.gotoquiz.com/">Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

And, well, it's accurate. I grew up not drinking pop (not because of what it was called but because my parents wouldn't permit it). I was born and grew up in Minnesota. But, unlike a commenter (Anonymous) on LC's blog, I think most of the accents in "Fargo" were exaggerated (for comic effect, obviously). Still, I got the point and I love the movie. Having lived in Chicago for more than half my life (while spending a couple of years in Texas), I know my accent has been moderated considerably, though I can relapse notably, sometimes when least expected.

I’m getting to know a pit bull

It wasn’t on my to-do list, but there it is, anyway. New neighbors in the basement apartment have one. Her name is Secret, and she appears to be a puppy still. She’s very friendly—I’ve seen her several times, and tonight she insisted on greeting me, jumping up on me and licking my hands (even as I hoped she wouldn’t decide to have a bite). Well-trained dogs aren’t supposed to jump up on people, even if they wish to be friendly.

Animals can sense fear, so maybe I’m better at hiding it than I thought. I do know a thing or two about posture around animals and how to send positive signals, but I’m also hoping that a) her owners aren’t interested in stoking a pit bull’s aggressive tendencies and b) she might come from a lineage that is sufficiently removed from fighting.

Around Chicago, there have been rather unforgettable stories of maulings, most often by pit bulls. In one haunting case, the dog even attacked its owner. After every such attack, the hue and cry arises to ban the breed. Responsible owners, breeders and trainers leap to the breed’s defense. An attacking dog’s behavior, so the argument goes, usually reflects its owners’ disposition, and if people would quit exploiting the violent traits, the breed wouldn’t have such a bad name. But in this set of circumstances, the dog had displayed behavioral red flags that its owners apparently ignored.

In my case, while I will lend some benefit of the doubt, a huge measure of caution is in order. Can I trust my neighbors to recognize and take appropriate action should there be warning signs? For me, right now, all I can do is program myself—if the dog is growling, get the hell away!

A strategy my dad often promoted, should one be faced with a rabid dog (a fairly common concern back in my childhood), was to grab the dog’s jaws and hold its head back, thus disabling it. I’m pretty sure he never had to test this theory. Given the strength of a pit bull’s jaws, I rather doubt my ability to sustain this maneuver, even if it initially should work.

I’ve been planning to move when my lease is up in May, if not sooner. This certainly provides additional motivation.

What will history say?

I’ve been pondering 20/20 hindsight. The two triggers: the death of Gerald Ford and the execution of Saddam Hussein.

Since Gerald Ford’s death, he’s been lauded for his role in stabilizing the nation following Richard Nixon’s resignation in disgrace. Back then, Ford was vilified from all sides for his pardon of Nixon, and many sources have noted that it likely cost him the Presidential election of 1976 (in combination with economic factors). My parents, staunch Republicans 1) were sure that Nixon’s downfall was engineered by a conspiracy determined to punish him for flouting their wishes; 2) believed that Ford was installed as a puppet of the conspirators (my parents were utterly dismayed, as were so many, that we had a President who had been elected to neither the Vice-Presidency nor the Presidency, and were subsequently disgusted by Nelson Rockefeller becoming Vice President); and 3) were shocked by Ford’s pardon of Nixon (for several reasons, none of which matter in this discussion). However: when Ford ran for election, my parents lined up with the party to work for Ford. Something I may address in the future.

Three decades after those events, we appreciate that Ford sacrificed his political career in that act of pardon, though I wonder that if he knew then what he surely knew two years later, would he have done the same thing? Guts. A public servant, doing right by the public. Would that we’d see it more often. It’s so easy to play it safe, adapting one’s public statements so as to garner poll approval.

With all the cry for blood—make Nixon pay for what he did—Ford perhaps sensed that extending the process wouldn’t in the long run have been in the nation’s best interest. In most cases, that isn’t so—due process must take into account both victim and alleged perpetrator with, ideally, a fair airing of the facts, in order to put the issue to rest. In Nixon’s case, facts never were tried in a court of law, but the public’s verdict ensured that he lived the rest of his life in disgrace (sort of like O.J. Simpson?).

Now for Saddam Hussein. I was taken aback by the fast track to execution, as were many. In this country, death sentence appeals last for years. His was dispensed with in weeks. It doesn’t seem that his guilt was in question, except among those who benefited from his actions. Is due process the issue here? Yes and no.

It certainly doesn’t help that a record of the execution taken from an observer’s cell phone revealed revenge on the part of the official executioners. To his followers, Hussein looks like a defiant martyr to the brave but bitter end. But to all who have been so horrendously impacted by his deeds, the lesson of true justice may have been preempted. It’s still the (currently) powerful holding sway over those without power, though in this round the formerly powerless have triumphed over their oppressor.

Transition from rule by control of the powerful to a fair shake for all regardless of their status depends on the rule of law, namely due process. How does a people learn that process? No fairy godmother can bestow it with a tap of the wand. The ability to vote doesn’t automatically confer wisdom in choice of leaders or enacting of law.

But for a system in crisis, duration of a serious issue is always a concern. How do you weigh the feared impact of potential danger from a known oppressor against what the system may need in order to progress?

Decades from now, will Iraq’s elected leadership be seen as self-sacrificing for the public interest on the path to stability in the currently (international) suspect decision to execute Hussein? Or will Hussein’s execution be the death knell for any aspiration of rising above the subtly shaded deathly deadlock in which Iraq finds itself?

Devil-Worshippers in Winter

This is tangentially a Dad Story.

Way back, senior year in high school, a couple of friends and I decided we really needed to see a movie in a town 30 miles away (life in the boondocks, you know—and I have absolutely no recollection what the movie was). January in Minnesota and the temp was below zero (no clue what the wind-chill factor was, as we didn’t take note of it then).

Mom was away at a meeting, having ridden with someone else, and I asked Dad if I could take her car. (See previous post about Dad and winter.) Of course he said yes.

Back story: for months, rumors (rural legends?) had swirled about devil-worshippers who would place pieces of furniture on lesser-traveled roads, forcing drivers to stop, whereupon unlucky travelers would be seized and used in unseemly rituals. Never mind that no missing-person reports had been filed; much less had bodies been found. Desecrated or not.

We set off, traveling a state highway that was pretty much deserted at the time but for a car far ahead that suddenly displayed red brake lights. Okay, the driver slowed for something, but what?

When we neared the spot where the previous driver had braked, my car headlights revealed a sofa in the road. No oncoming traffic, so I swerved around the sofa, only to shortly encounter a wooden kitchen chair. I couldn’t avoid it, and I wasn’t about to slow down, so I ran over it.

Big crunch, but the car kept moving, so I didn’t stop for a couple of miles before checking for damage. None that I could detect, and we continued on.

When I got home, Mom was quite ticked with Dad for having let me go—he couldn’t understand why she was upset—temperature? Nothing stopped him, so why should it stop me?. Needless to say, I never told either of them about the furniture.

Winter and Dad

St. Casserole wants more Dad Stories. All right.

So many of my memories of Dad are tied up with winter. He had an almost missionary zeal about fighting and prevailing against everything that winter could administer.

Well, with Chicago’s first snowstorm of the season looming, it seems appropriate to relate some experiences (the snow has begun to fall here in north Chicago).

Countless times I can recall him getting out of the car to shovel our family through yet another drift on the road; on open country gravel roads, those were numerous. My mother had no patience for it, but nevertheless she was along for the ride. To me, it was an adventure.

We had gone over to some neighbors, about five miles away, to buy some eggs and cream. Of course, we visited a while, while a winter storm struck. Dad insisted on heading home, though after the umpteenth snowdrift, my mother wanted to go back to the neighbors’ (though she didn’t really want to stay there). We did get home.

My dad was around 60 then (I was born when he was almost 53). I do marvel at his stamina.

I attended a one-room country school in grades 1–4, and on two occasions we students and teacher nearly ended up spending the night. Back in the mid- and late ’60s, no one could predict blizzards.

The first time, we set out for the home of two of the students, which was nearest at ½ mile away. It was already dark at this point, but still we set out (on foot) and made it. Various parents who dared to and could came to retrieve their children. Of course my dad did, with the assistance of my uncle.

The next time it wasn’t quite so late—we were still at the school—and once again we reached safety and warmth at home. With my mother once again reciting her litany of moving south.

Fast forward to after I got my driver’s license. For some reason, Dad and I were heading to a town 20+ miles south, in a snowstorm (of course). The roads were snowy and slick. I just had to drive. Before automatic braking systems, with rudimentary power steering, he calmly tutored me in his strategies (I still can’t believe he didn’t have a stroke!). We didn’t end up in a ditch (though I’ll admit that I did some years later, with a front-wheel drive—he didn’t know about those).

Embrace the steering wheel, joining hands at the top. Support your weight on the steering wheel. With the slightest deviance of grip, you’ll feel it in the wheel. Your weight will adjust to the grip and correct the steering.

I don’t think I can drive in wintry conditions with these fancy-schmancy computer-controlled cars (hey, even ABS on rental cars give me a bit of a heart attack). How to deal with winter driving conditions in this millennium?