I'll have a hamburger, hold the proselytizing

I was standing in line at a popular burger place with my granddaughters ages 5 and 7.  One was ordering the cheeseburger - plain and dry. The other wanted both a hotdog and corndog. As a grandparent, it is my prerogative to say "yes" to all or none of their requests.  So while a wish for a double order of dogs seemed excessive, it was a no brainer for me to grant.

This place is filled with picnic table seating. Long rows of picnic tables side-by-side. When it's busy, you get a grab-bag of meal mates. Some are friendly, some are not. Either way works for us.

After our order, we head to the fountain drink area. My 5-year-old insists on doing everything herself. Again, an easy granny call. I can even proudly say she never once heard, "be careful." She hears that all day long.  No need to pile on. In fact, that's the point of having grandparents. They do NOT pile on.

I had noticed a seemingly lovely woman enter by herself and now coming over to the drink area. She said to me, "I've never been here. It's really different."

"It's fun. The food is wonderful." Then, feeling overly blessed, I invite her to sit with us if she wanted.

"Over there," I say pointing to the 7-year-old already seated. She followed the direction of my hand but said nothing. No acknowledgement. "Only if you want to .. you're probably getting to go.." Still nothing. I was too forward and had frightened her. No matter. In moments we would be eating hamburgers and hotdogs and French fries.

I was seated a couple of minutes with the girls waiting for my name to be called to pick up our order, when the lone ranger - rangerette? - walked over and sat beside me. Ok. She decided to accept after all. I begin casual chit chat.

"Are you from here?"

"All my life. Grew up here. It's very different now. Where do you fellowship?"

It's been a long time since anyone has asked me that question. Used to be commonly asked here in the South - in the 90s.

"I don't," I tell her.

Her response: "I'm a poet for God."

This woman's idea of breaking the ice is not the same as mine.

Next thing she has her phone out showing us a picture of "Jesus when he's not on the cross. ...I like the pictures when he's not on the cross." My granddaughters are so brilliant. They admire the picture and smile at her explanation. I think the 7-year-old threw in a nod.

I'm not offended by anything this woman presented to us. I was also glad to be a buffer between her and my granddaughters who pretty much dropped out of the conversation once the food arrived.

This woman, who showed no real interest beyond her own life, represents for me a large number of people who long ago lost the ability to think for themselves. She lacked imagination and curiosity. Life is easier and safer for her that way. I can safely say that about her even though we interacted for less than an hour.

I am not sure what was learned or gained. I hope maybe she experienced something she has been missing in her life: kindness? simple pleasure of greasy food? strangers who don't criticize even though they don't embrace?

It was for sure the perfect setting for such an encounter because everything seems better when you're eating the perfect hamburger!!

Squirrel lives matter

The critter appeared confused as she stepped into oncoming traffic. Too far away to warn, I held my breath as the little furry cuteness began her trip across the busy residential street.  A few drivers braked, but not all. For sure not everyone could see her. In my mind I braced for the scream and blood and crunch of cars and more screams ... and did I mention blood?

She made it. How on earth, I don't know.

This scenario happens almost every day with squirrels. I wonder what the stats are on squirrel pedestrian deaths. I mean it seems this time of year the slaughter multiplies in numbers.  No kidding it's not unusual to walk our lovely neighborhood with the dogs and have to navigate squirrel carcass.

When my Jenny, now 33, was about 9 years old, she actually marched outside our home with a sign that read "Slow down you're killing the squirrels." Adorable, right?  And she swears it worked.

Jenny is still that adorable, but it would be difficult to tell her the "success" likely is owed more to a couple of neighbors (that we know about and likely many more) who regularly shoot to kill. For them squirrel season starts when one of the buggers steps foot in their backyard.

Over the years we often think about our sweet Jenny's campaign to save the squirrel - and all animals really. She once drew a picture for a school assignment of her pet graveyard at the house: snakes, lizards, mice, fish, and I don't remember them all. There were a lot. I thought, as a mom, there must be no other child so kind hearted.  Until now.

I just found out through my neighborhood social media site that there exists multiple places in my city called squirrel sanctuaries.  Squirrel Sanctuaries!!! Imagine, if you can, how soft of heart a person/persons must have to nurture such places. They provide instructions on how to humanely catch them and where to take them. Squirrels!

Going forward I now have a new measure for kindness. The litmus test will be whether one is pro-squirrel life or anti-squirrel life. Indeed I will respect all views. I just will give more points to those who, like my Jenny, believe squirrel lives matter.

Ready or not

This is darling Ellie. She belongs to my grandchildren, as evidenced by her costume. Ellie is staying with us this weekend because her masters are going to Oklahoma. Ellie and my grandkids grew up with another chocolate lab, Memphis. He died recently. Very sad. We couldn't stand the thought of Ellie being all by herself. Typically when they leave we go over and feed and water the dogs, just as they do for our dogs. Now that there's just one ... she must stay with us the whole time.

Our Sam the bossy border collie's hospitality will be tested. I am hopeful. 

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.