Who's in charge?

Samantha is a 3 1/2 year-old border collie. She is loved and well cared for; and she pretty much rules Paul. She is not shy about letting him know it's been 10 minutes since he threw a tennis ball.

Sam was adopted on Paul's 60th birthday so she really belongs more to him. When he is home they are inseparable. They have this nonverbal agreement that Paul will walk her a couple times a day in addition to throwing a thousand tennis balls in the backyard and front room. It works. For them.

I don't want to say that Paul refuses to train Sam. It's just that he refuses to train her. The problem, from my perspective, is Sam's behaviors on walks: she pulls, she lunges at passing vehicles, and she barks and sometimes growls at passing neighbors and their well-behaved dogs.

Occasionally I try to discipline. Mostly when Paul is out of town, as he has been for the last few days. Sunday I took her to a busy park with all kinds of traffic, people and vehicle. I planted her at an intersection and we practiced exposure therapy.  Her behavior told me she was terrified. She had about the same look as one poor woman who got the scary lunge and growl greeting as she walked past us. Which explains the reason I felt the need at times to apologize to people and say (lie) that Sam's a rescue dog I was attempting to train. 

"She'll learn!" one kind, kind woman yelled to me.

So this morning on our walk around the neighborhood, I still was feeling that encouragement gifted to me at the park. I holler "good morning" to a couple of women across the street from us, one I know very well.  Elaine. She has her dog off leash (must be nice), but leans down and connects him to a leash as we approach. She is familiar with Sam.

"Paul working?" (Neighbors mostly are used to seeing Paul with Sam and Mika)

"He's out of town. I'm trying to train Sam!" I point to her shortened leash just before Sam lunges at the women and dog.

"Good luck," Elaine says with a tone that means "fat chance."

Ok. Fair enough.

I still won't give up on Sam. Paul isn't home until tomorrow and it's time for our second walk. So here we go ... just not by Elaine's house.

Cold Deniers

Texans do not do cold. Mostly, they're in denial. No matter how far in advance the cold is forecast,  practically no one is prepared when the temp dips below freezing.

Last night I attended a season opener for girls' high school soccer. Tuesday Night Lights. (I'm the only one who calls it that). Naturally soccer arrives at the same time as the cold. Every year. Every damn year.

Seeing as I grew up in South Dakota, I knew how to dress for cold weather starting with my trusty jacket that was tested for its warmth on peak of Mt. Everest. I'm pretty sure that's what the tag said. I add a wool scarf around my neck before zipping the coat all the way up. I already am wearing wool socks and wool hat. Last thing to put on is my thinsulate gloves. Finally, I then grab the heaviest, therefore warmest, blanket in our house and set off.

The game already has started by the time I take my seat on the frozen aluminum bleachers. No worries, I have that blanket. Settling in, I notice a group of high school kids seated just above me. They are huddled together. For real seeking human warmth from each other. Why? Because they don't believe in the cold. Why else would they not see fit to pack a jacket when they left home 10 hours earlier?

I couldn't stand to see these kids suffer so I walked my blanket up to where they were sitting and handed it over, telling them to share. A scolding wouldn't make any difference with these cold deniers. I will just have to pack more blankets next time.

End Times? Sure, why not

I am beginning to get why someone might be drawn to extreme prophesy such as end times. After last week's presidential election of someone whose name I can't yet bring myself to say out loud, the idea of an apocalypse at this moment seems quaint.

I promised my oldest - age 7 - grandchild we would be celebrating the first woman ever elected president in these great United States. Her mom says when she was told it didn't happen, she was confused. She was also told her grandmother was very sad and had been crying.

Her response: "If Mare is gonna' cry all day, I am too."

I can't let that happen. We have talked and I told her we have to stay positive even when things don't turn out the way we want.

I didn't tell her we can also resist what goes against our values. She will learn that lesson soon enough.

As the shock wears off I think about my father who fought in WWII against many of the same principles our next president seems to advocate: White superiority, Christian superiority, male superiority. Ok, he didn't fight for that last one. But his daughter did.

I'm sorry, Dad. We let you down this year.  But you will be happy to know your daughter and some of your grandchildren are heading to Washington, D.C. to march with thousands of like-minded patriots the day after inauguration. We will make our voices heard; and I hope make you proud.

I have a lot to live up to

I've thought for some time that my pedigree is pretty good. If that sounds boastful, so be it.

By pedigree I mean the quality of folk who came before me. My parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. Except for a great-grandfather, every single one of my ancestor - to my knowledge - were decent, honest and hard-working. Now that great-grandfather may have been that, too, but he disappeared from the family under mysterious circumstances. Oh, and add tight-lipped to that list of characteristics of most of my forbearers.

Both my parents died this year so I've been drawn to the family story. I attempted to glean family lore from my mother toward the end of her life, but sadly it was beyond her cognitive ability by the time I sat down to take dictation. Still she provided glimpses. While dates and places were irretrievable, people and personality were not.

My maternal grandparents grew up in Minnesota; my grandmother Madge in the rowdy Twin Cities and my grandfather Carl in pastoral rural Minnesota. They really could not have been more different. Madge was gregarious and quick witted; Carl was shy and painfully earnest. Madge hailed from strong women; her single mother - Mary Ellen  - stood barely 5 feet tall and ruled all in her purview. Today's Tiger Moms would quake in her presence. As did Carl I imagine.

Carl's parents came through Ellis Island in the mid-1800s and settled in Minnesota alongside thousands of other Norwegians. On one census, his father Han's occupation was listed as day laborer, as was the occupation of most of his immigrant neighbors.

So where did these two meet? Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota. They both left their homes in Minnesota to teach on the reservation. The tall and shy Carl must have been emotionally upended by the beautiful Madge. A woman who equaled him in intelligence and shared his passion for teaching. 

I would give just about anything to be able to write about this most glorious coupling. Who made the first move? Legitimate question given Carl's shyness. But alas, I never got the chance to ask those questions. Carl died when I was in second grade; a good 15 years before my curiosity about things other than myself arrived. Madge lived in Oregon her later years. The last time I saw her was at my wedding, again when I was more preoccupied with myself.

I do know Madge would leave her career as a teacher to raise her and Carl's three sons and two daughters. My mom recalled a normal upbringing. I doubt that. Living in tiny towns, the kids were mostly AWOL from the house until suppertime. Afterwards, my mom describes a most wonderful family routine.  After dinner cleanup, the seven Eskelsons scatter, as in go their separate ways. Some to their bedroom, others to living room or front porch.  For the next hour or so that loud house stood silent. It was reading time. Books after dinner every night.   

I love this image. I understand so much better why my mom was so smart. She had Carl's shyness so not many people knew how brilliant her brain worked. These two young people venturing forth in the world truly on their own. Understanding the value of education and how it can lift a person of any measure. Quality people.

When I was in my mid-30s and still living in South Dakota, a woman I knew in a bipartisan political group learned I was related to Madge and Carl. She said she loved them. They were active in the state Republican Party. Wow. My grandparents were real people. How come I didn't know that?

My grandparents were not only real people, they were quality people. They are a big part of the reason I can say I come from solid pedigree.  

Quick fact about Carl: he served in WWI.

Quick fact about Madge: she may have stopped being a teacher, but she never stopped teaching. She tutored children in reading when she was in her early 90s.

That's a lot of good in just two people. My people.

Memorial pictures

 I've wanted to post some pictures from my parents' memorial.  It was June 18, the date of their wedding anniversary in Lakeside, Montana. We spread their ashes in Flathead Lake. They spent likely their best years in this beautiful place.

Their granddaughter Kara traveled the farthest - from Denmark. Others came from nearby in Montana as well as from Texas, Washington, South Dakota, and Nevada. Their five surviving children were there, having been preceded in death by their eldest son Frank. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren lent a noisy and joyful backdrop so loved by Frank and Shirley.

I had talked to my mom just months earlier about what she would want done with her ashes. She approved of the idea of spreading hers with Frank's in Flathead Lake.  In fact she said "that would be very nice."  And it was.

 Ashes sinking slowing into Flathead Lake.

 Flathead Lake, Montana, where the folks lived for about 20 years.

 Family and friends at community library, of which they were founders.

 From left: John, Andy, Charlie, Mary and Jim. Surviving children.

Frank and Shirley were preceded in death by their eldest son, Frank.

 

 Refreshments at local brewery after the memorial.

 Spreading the ashes.

 Left to right: Eric and Angie Lochridge, Jenny and James Cole, Ethan and
Emma Lochridge. Standing in front of Frank and Shirley's A-frame "tree house."

 Hanging out in Lakeside rental.

Double rainbow the day of the memorial!!

Jan Ernst playing cribbage.

 Dawn and Jim Lochridge

 Randy Long and Jan Lochridge-Long.

Jenny Cole nursing James with Shirley's "lunch ladies."

Oldest (sorry Charlie) and youngest (James) family members at memorial

Plaque in library.

Kara Lochridge

John Stickney and James Cole

Charlie doling out ashes

Dock where we spread ashes

Andy Lochridge and Brenda Morris

Two Johns: Lochridge and Stickney.

Walking to the public dock.

 Lorie Lochridge and Jenny Cole

 Eddy Lochridge

Dan and Lorie Lochridge with John Stickney

 Irelyn, Delaney and Teya Lochridge.

Dawn, Eddy and Danny Lochridge

I am seeing a pattern

I realized something today. My approaches to working out and house cleaning are very similar.

My Dyson vacuum cleaner was on the fritz this morning so naturally I wonder if it's time to get a new one. I'm in the kitchen thinking about this and, looking at a dull floor, wonder if a new steamer is in order, too. I know we got one a couple of years ago, but think maybe we loaned it to one of the kids.

Truth is, I am a sucker for any gadget that makes cleaning house easier. There is a collection of mismatched broom attachments in my laundry, mostly of the dusting variety. The kind that will dust overhead fans and hard-to-reach ceiling moldings. I don't need them anymore because my Dyson has a cool attachment for that. And some day I might even try it out.

I have been wanting to get that Swifter box that's all over TV recently.  You see the ads: the older couple, the couple with kids and pets, etc. A box appears on their doorstep and, like magic, their floors and overhead areas are dust and pet-hair free. I must have that box.

It hits me today that I have accumulated a good number of gizmos and gadgets for cleaning just as I have accumulated machines and what not for working out.  Examples: two unused treadmills, a row machine the kids now have, stationery bike, jump ropes, free weights, resistant bands for every part of the body and the list goes on. All neglected while they inhabited my house. Same with the sham wow (we really did have one!), the floor steamer used maybe a half-dozen times, and the untold number of magic dusters magically disappeared. It is a pattern. It's me avoiding the hard work.

So I stop thinking about a new vacuum and employ broom and dust pan to the worst areas. I end up getting more done than I planned. Paul diagnosed the problem with my Dyson and has a filter arriving via Amazon in a couple days. Best of all, I got some good insight.

To be honest? I still want that Swifter box.

Dew Drop Inn

Love is in the air this time of year every year since 1978. That's when Paulie and I got married. August 19 to be exact.

This morning he texted me a "Happy Anniversary" one day early. Awwww. I texted back a more accurate "Happy Dew Drop Inn Anniversary." For every wedding day story, isn't there always a night before the wedding day story?  We sure got one.

August 18, 1978. Think about that. Bee Gees were singing about Stayin Alive, the most popular arcade game was Space Invaders, Jimmy Carter was president, and Garfield the cat was first introduced in newspapers. It was a long ass time ago.

We both had just graduated from college at the University of South Dakota and chose to get married in Montana because that's where most of my family lived. My folks managed a campground about a mile from Glacier National Park. A nice place to gather. The number attending the wedding was small as it was quite a trek for most of our friends.

Paul was represented by three childhood pals from the Chicago area where he grew up. For them, it was more reunion than wedding, which is typical for these kinds of events. Still, they took seriously their obligation to throw a goodbye to single life party for their friend.

Hello, Dew Drop Inn.

The chosen party spot was a local dive bar in the middle of nowhere just off the main road about a quarter mile from the campground. As I recall, I had stayed back at the campground with family members - my parents, five brothers, a sister-in-law, niece and nephews, aunt and uncle, grandmothers, and mother-in-law. Once things wound down, I along with my brothers and sister-in-law headed out to join Paul and his friends at the Dew Drop Inn.

My two younger brothers were not of age.  One snuck in through the kitchen. That makes me laugh thinking about that. Today he's the brewer of great beers. The youngest was left out in the cold. And it was cold in Montana when we were there to get married. Snowed the day of the wedding. Snowed!

Back to the Inn. We gather tables together and commence celebrating. Lots and lots of drinking.  Paul's friends kept them coming for my soon-to-be husband. He was smashed. I was getting there, too. I can only recall having maybe one of the best times of my life in that moment in that Montana dive. That was about to change.

"Are you Paul?"

We all look up to see a 6-foot mountain dressed in overalls. No way to process. 

"Are you Paul from Chicago?" Now he's looking directly at his subject sitting next to me. His tone has silenced the table, none of us prepared for what he was about to say next.

 "You got my 16-year-old daughter pregnant," he says as he rounds the table toward our side. I think I went blank. I hear lots of shouting but no words. Then my oldest brother Frank begins a chorus of "You got the wrong guy. You got the wrong guy."

By this time Mr. Mountain is standing next to Paul. I instantly insert myself between them and join in my brother's chorus, "You got the wrong guy," all the while I am lightly tapping this behemoth on  his face. Why? I have no earthly idea.

While this was happening, a group of manly men, locals, were eager to join in the commotion. To prevent a real tragedy, someone responsibly ended this obvious (to everyone but me and Paul and four of my brothers) pre-wedding gag. Mr. Mountain then broke character and wrapped his arms around both of us, squishing me so tightly my glasses broke. In half.

Mr. Mountain turned out to be a tourist from California. Of course, Paul's friends had put him up to it. I don't recall much of anything else from that night, but we did have a lovely wedding the next day. Below is one of my favorite pictures from the day. My parents, Frank and Shirley, in conversation with Paul's mom Lew. The newly weds only have eyes for each other. Notice I am not wearing glasses.