Christmas Conversation with Dad

“Dad. Why do you have to have this stupid aluminum tree? Why can’t you get a real one?”

Dad just held out his hand from under the pile of bent fake branches. “Stop whining and hand me that screwdriver. One of these lights is stuck.”

Yup. My dad was nuts. Certifiable. I discretely unplugged the tree before handing him the tool. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to do that himself before shoving a tool into the ancient string of lights.

“@$)%! the whole thing just went dead!”

“Let’s go get a real tree. One that smells like Christmas.”

“Smell? Christmas smells like your Mama’s cinnamon cookies and hot coffee with lots of Bailey’s. Oh. Here’s the problem. Came unplugged. Hand me that last piece, will ya?”

“Dad. You have been using this tree since, what, 1960? It stinks like a sweaty horse. It’s all bent. And you are going to electrocute yourself if you fix it one more time. Really. I mean it. This is hazardous.”

Dad settled the last mangled heap of dusty tree on top and plugged in the last section.

There was a loud ZZZZzzzzztt! And everything went dark.

I came to first. Everything looked strange. Like little bits of color instead of smooth lines. Like the whole world was a big tapestry. I didn’t see any bits of color that looked like Dad. I started to ask about him, but jerked when I tried to talk.

“Hiccups.” The paramedic laughed. “Common side effect of electric shock. It should pass.”

My vision cleared a bit. I could see Dad was being loaded into an ambulance.

“Dad?” I finally managed to ask.

“He’ll be fine. But that tree? It’s a goner. Good thing there weren’t any presents under it yet or they’d be toast, too.”

I turned to look around. The tree wasn’t the only thing that was toast. Half the front wall of the house was smoldering. And the firemen were spraying water everywhere. Anything that hadn’t burned was now under an ocean.

Just then, mom drove up.

“Tree?” was all she could say.

I nodded.

She sighed. “Looks like we’ll be spending the holidays with you and Hank after all.


This was written in response to a challenge to write a seasonal piece using the following words:
Piece, Screwdriver, Nuts, Ocean, Tapestry, Aluminum, Cinnamon, Coffee, Presence, Presents, Hiccups, Horse

Needles

Needles, needles everywhere and nary the size I need! I am sure I buy new knitting needles every time I buy yarn. Where do they go? OK, so I found a set of double point size 3 in my silverware drawer and another set of size 5 in my jewelry box. But in the box where I am SUPPOSED to keep my needles, I have only three of any size of DPNs and only one of any size straight needles. DPNs I can understand, they frequently fall out of a knitting bag or get dropped while I am using the kirtchner stitch on the toe of a sock. But straight needles? With the knob on the end, how can I not find them? And I usually use the longest size. How can anyone lose those? And circular needles…what’s with that? I can’t begin to tell you how many size 10 1/5 24 inch needles I have lost. I vaguely remember lending one to someone, but who knows where the other I-don’t-know-how-many have disappeared to. They’re as bad as socks. In my drawer right now are 14 single hand-knit socks. It’s a good thing mis-matched socks are in fashion. I would knit another pair, but the yarn I have on hand needs size 2 DPNs. And I can only find three of my set of five. And if I go to the yarn shop to get new needles, I will end up with a truckload of yarn to add to the stash that is already overflowing the craft/sewing room, two trunks and every available surface in my living room.

The problem is: I can’t make a dent in my stash without needles.

Electronics

I used to be a writer. Not a day would go by that I didn’t at least fill in a handful of pages in my journal, write an hour or so on one of the big projects, or (an some people call this cheating,) working with students to whom I am teaching writing skills. Then my daughter thought I needed to join the 20^th century. She says eventually I might even be ready for the 21^st century. So she gave me a nook loaded with 60 books and a gift card for probably another 30 books. And an ipod touch loaded with enough music that I think I could go a month without listening to any song twice as well as a few dozen games and other apps. And a portable video player and the offer of the loan of any of her several hundred videos. And a new cell phone with unlimited texting and web access. I think I may have written a word or two since our Yuletide party.

Oh, she also gave me a couple new journals and several pens. I think they’re still in the back of my car. With the amount of entertainment technology now in my pocket, and the amount of time I spent playing with it all, I now see why there is so much of a decline in old fashioned reading and writing and math skills in the students I tutor. When I speak with a kid the first time, I give them the rules. Number two, no electronics. Phones off. Not on silent. OFF. I don’t even let them use a calculator. I insist they learn to add and subtract, something most high school students can’t do. Eventually I even teach the need to have basic multiplication fact memorized. By basic, I mean up to 13 times 13. Nothing I wasn’t forced to have memorized by the time I was eleven, yet most college students I work with haven’t got a clue how to do without electronics. But now that I am addicted to so many little toys, I was telling myself that I may have to loosen up a little.

But them I remembered how much I haven’t written in the past month. Nope. Not giving my students any slack. I am going to have to stop giving myself so much slack as well.

Starting tomorrow.

Pens

They say the pen is mightier than the sword. So I must be the mightiest of all. I carry a few dozen pens with me at all times. Like the scene in Alice in Wonderland with the Mad Hatter, when I get stuck while writing, I call out, “Clean cup! Clean cup!” and switch to a different color pen. There are times when I have written half a dozen pages with one color. But there are also times where I have written one page in half a dozen colors.

Plus, there is nothing like a full color illustration to get the writing juices flowing. I also like matching the color to the mood of the piece I am writing. Dark red ink for a bloody, gory scene, pink or pastels for a more lighthearted scene. It helps keep me on track with the feel of the piece I am trying to write.

Oh, I use them for other things, too. Like teaching math. I use a different color to show how things work. Graphs use at least four pens when I color code the lines to the equations and that sort of thing. And it’s great to use different colors to show the correlation of sine to tangent, for example.

I have heard that many students are developing a fear of the color red. Face it, there is nothing worse than getting a paper back from the teacher covered in red ink. So I correct their papers in different, random colors and purposely try to avoid red.

Or when I am designing a new quilt, knitting or crochet pattern, it helps to have the design done in the colors I plan to use, or to use different colors for each design element.

I could go on with the reasons I carry so many pens, but we don’t have all day. And the truth is, I just like pens. So all I can say is, “Clean cup! Clean cup!” Time to move on.

Resident Ghost

My house is haunted. Not that it worries me. The ghost is the one who convinced me to buy it. She can be troubling at times, but she usually just wanders around, drinking her coffee and teasing the dogs. Then there are the times when she is very helpful. Like the time, shortly after I moved in, when I woke up in the middle of the night because the dog was barking. I stumbled out of bed, still half asleep, and made my way out to the living room. I caught a whiff of coffee, my first sign that the ghost was around. I didn’t drink coffee. After eleven years, I have gotten so used to the smell of coffee, that I finally started drinking coffee. Then I noticed a glow. As I tried to wake up, it turned into a woman, dressed in a white bathrobe and holding her usual steaming coffee mug. She was waving at my daughter’s dog, who was barking. The dog turned around and put his paws on the windowsill. That’s when I noticed the window was open.

She can be a bit of a nag sometimes. Like last summer, I forgot there was a stack of newspapers sitting on the piano when I took out the recycling. It was raining and I didn’t want to go out to the curb again, so I said I would take them out next week. Well, next week I forgot again. It was a bright, warm evening, so I had no excuse when I again said I would take them out next week. Yes, I often talk to myself although if anyone asks, I am talking to the dog. I had just sat down on the couch and picked up my knitting when a movement caught my eye. As I watched, the stack of newspapers slid across the last few inches and fell off the piano. I got up and took them out.

So when I got a virus on my computer last week, my computer guy asked for the original program disks so he could wipe my computer and reload the programs. I went to the drawer where I keep such things. I found every disk for every computer and every program I ever had since, well, since computers were invented. Every one except the program disks for my laptop. I searched everywhere. I dug through stacks of fabric in my sewing room. I flipped through every book (all 2000 or so of them) and every video, DVD and CD.

Have I ever mentioned I have floor to ceiling shelves in every room, including the bathroom? And my bedroom “closet” is now a built-in bookshelf? Every inch of those shelves is filled to overflowing with books and other media. After two days of frantic searching, I gave up. I even told my cats so as I poured cat food into their dishes. And as I emptied the scoop into the last dish, I caught a whiff of coffee and the door to an armoire where I store board games opened and the program disks fell out.

I only wish I knew her name so I could thank her properly.

Arguments

I love a good fight. Maybe it is because I am a redhead. Or possibly it’s the Irish in me. Or it could just be that I am looking forward to hockey season. But sometimes I get the urge to fight so strongly that I will take the side I don’t believe just to argue. But only if my opponent follows the rules.

In any argument, for any reason, the number one rule must be: No personal attacks. “You idiot!”
Unless you are a prosecutor in a criminal case, you are attacking the point, the belief, the idea, but not the person. Nope, strike that. Even the prosecutor is not attacking the person, just the person’s statement of innocence.

Another important rule: State your case, not just the difference of opinion. “You’re wrong.”
That is the last resort of someone who has no idea why he feels that way, but you had better believe it too, or else. If you can’t explain why you believe something, why should I believe it, too? If that’s all you got, give it up. It’s worse than hearing you mom say, “because I said so.” You will have better luck fighting with a brick wall.

Take as good as you give and give as good as you get. “The sky is blue!” “I’ll do it later.”
Huh? I hear stuff like that all the time. Two people arguing, but neither is listening to a word the other is saying. It is not an argument if you don’t listen to the other person and then defend your point of view ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

Be open-minded. If the other person’s statement and reasons are sound, think about it. Maybe they are right. If you expect to change your opponent’s mind, you have to realize you opponent is trying to do the same to you. No one is right ALL the time. Not even you, my friend.

And don’t forget: Use your own words, not some meaningless babble that you might learn in counseling or an article in some magazine. “I hear you, but…”
That stupid phrase is supposed to tell your opponent that you have listened to their argument. But what it is really telling him is the opposite. “I hear you” translates to “the droning vibrations coming out of your mouth have assailed my ears enough.” And adding “but…” to the end is exactly the same as saying, “You’re wrong, you idiot! The sky is purple and I am not going to change my mind no matter what a fool like you says.”

When I am in the mood for a good fight, and my opponent breaks any of these rules, I take my ball and go home. It’s no fun sparring with someone who hasn’t got a clue how to do it. You might as well argue with your cat.