I arrived in Greece to meet up with my mother (my sister and dad came later) after partying for 2 days in West Germany (before the fall of the Berlin Wall). I was hung over, sleep deprived and in a foul mood. The airport in Athens was a madhouse, and the line for clearing customs was 50 people long. I'd had it. I broke out of the line as soon as I saw my mother waiting, as luck would have it right beside the pile that contained my luggage. An official gestured me back, but I pointed to my bags. I got to my bags without too much flack, and then just - hopped over the drooping rope. When an official came running, I thundered "I'M EXHAUSTED AND THAT IS MY MOTHER!" and turned my back and left. The crowd of harried family and friends waiting for their arrivals quickly closed behind us and that was that.
My mother said "Well, that was rich. Oh - wait 'til you sample a taxi ride!" I said "As long as they get us to the Chandris Hotel fast, I'm good." My mother muttered "Oh, no problem there..." and hailed a cab. The driver leapt out, threw (I am not kidding) my bags into the trunk and practically pushed us into the cab. I was still closing the passenger door when he revved the motor and screeched out into traffic. We careened around corners, my mother and I literally polishing the slick leather seat with our backsides as we slid from one side to the other. My mother stage whispered between clenched teeth "What Did I Tell You?!" and with that, the driver skidded to a stop, nearly tossing my mother and I into the front with him. "The Chandris!" he exclaimed, jumping out of the cab and snatching our door open. He had our bags at the bellboy stand tout suite, returned to us deftly plucking the cash from my mother's fingers and was gone before we could say "Holy Shit!"
The hotel was grand and full of interesting shops.
But the real shopping was in The Plaka or the business district. In the early 80's, there was an amazing array of stores and restaurants. The dollar was strong and if you shopped where the locals shopped, and could get tremendous deals on shoes and jewelry. My mother and I strolled around and decided where to return with my sister then 15) and my father.
Joan and I took off on our own one day, and ended up walking 5 hours as we got lost. Plus, we both got tired of the men honking and doing the kissy-lips as they passed us -- even with their wives in the car, beating on them and screaming! We had gone by a really exclusive shopping area, and we decided to come back with Daddy and mom.
Finally, our shopping dream came true; we'd gone to every museum, seen every available ruin and there wasn't much else to do. Daddy sighed and said "Ok, let's go see this swanky shopping district." It was gorgeous - we found places for Daddy to sit and sip his coffee or juice and off we took. Mom took him into 2 or 3 stores and he was flabbergasted at how much more expensive these places were than any place so far in Greece. Joan and Mom decided to take a break with dad. Just as he exclaimed to Mom and Joan "What Idiot would shop here?!", I came thundering down the sidewalk, arms loaded with packages.
Daddy looked at Mom and proclaimed "I Rest My Case."
Showing posts with label Dad Diaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad Diaries. Show all posts
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Monday, November 09, 2009
Dad Diaries: #9
Ireland was wonderful and definitely a trip I will always remember. But Greece a few years later was incredible.
My mother, recuperating from cancer treatment, decided to follow through with a summer-long trip Mom had planned to take with - you guessed it - Joan and myself. I was then 30, Joan 15. We left late May, and come back in early August, 1984. We flew into Germany and stayed a few days. I flew separately from Mom and Joan and went a few days early. I met a man named Uli on the airplane, and he introduced me to his great group of friends. Mom, Joan and I were included in many social gatherings with them, and even stayed by the Czech border (then still communist) at one of their nice, small resorts.
We traveled from Germany to Greece, then back to Germany where we drove to Switzerland and Italy. Daddy joined us in Greece for a few weeks. We toured all the usual things with great enthusiasm. When our taxi dropped us off at the National Museum, the taxi driver stuck his head out the window and queried; "Should I come back in an hour and a half to pick you back up?" to which my father quickly quipped "What? You think we're going to view the museum on ROLLER SKATES, for gosh sake?!!!" and turned on his heel in disgust. He was right - we ended up spending 4 hours there and still didn't see everything.
Then on the way out, I heard someone calling my name - it was a man we met on a tour before Daddy arrived. He invited us to a taverna to join him for a party, and unbelievable, my dad said we'd all go. We had a blast! We all even danced at the end, complete with the waving hankies. My dad had too much ouzo! My mother got miffed at something (she'd had too much wine) and said something snippy. My dad gave her the finger! Joan and I gasped in amazement! This had never before happened; this is a man who never even cursed!
The next day, Mom was still mad at Dad. We were planning to take a hydrofoil and tour the Islands, soak up some beach time. Daddy, Joan and I set out. We took a bus first, and met some lovely Irish girls who had just arrived from Rome. They were exclaiming about getting their 'bums pinched, even in the Vatican, THE VATICAN FOR gosh sake!' and my dad was trying not to laugh out loud in front of them. We arrived at the pier to catch the ferry, and someone again called my name and waved - another fellow we'd met on a tour. My dad said "Oh, Christmas; this one looks chatty!" and he was right. Luckily, he was going to a different island or I swear my father was going to get off the boat. The fellow chatted our ears off, quizzed us about our future plans and my dad cut me off during an explanation "We're going to be doing family things, young man!" and that was that.
We got to our destination still early in the day, gathered up personal items and walked down to the beach. We had our suits on under our clothing, so we picked a nice spot and spread out. Joan and I flopped down but my dad stayed sitting up, just enjoying the view. It was gorgeous.
After a while, I started reading. That went on for awhile and Daddy offered to go buy some lunch. Joan and I gave him some lunch ideas and went back to dozing and reading. Daddy came back with yummy food and sodas and Joan and I sat up. And immediately noticed that we were, in fact, on a topless beach.
Joan and I had taken our father to a topless beach.
I immediately felt like an idiot in my one piece. I told Joan that I might feel more comfortable if I rolled down my top. My father sputtered in horror "You are absolutely NOT going to remove your top! Well, that-that-THAT would look STUPID!" I busted out laughing so hard I was crying. The look of horror on his face was priceless.
We enjoyed our lunch. Then I poked Joan in the ribs and whispered: "Look at Daddy!" The man was trying to surreptitiously watch all the beautiful bare-breasted girls around us. But once in a while, a group of lovely German girls would trot down the hill to the beach and the man, really quite a prude and extremely shy, could not help himself: His head would bob with their lovely, bouncing breasts as they made their way down the beach to the water.
We stayed on that beach until my father was red as a lobster. Getting back on the bus to go to the pier to go back to Athens, my dad said "That was a Great idea, girls! What a wonderful day!" and Joan and I roared with laughter. When my mother asked why in the heck we had stayed 'til the man was toast, I airily said "Oh, there was so much to SEE, Mom; I didn't know but we took poor Dad to a nudie beach!"
For the life of me, I can't remember my mother's reaction.
My mother, recuperating from cancer treatment, decided to follow through with a summer-long trip Mom had planned to take with - you guessed it - Joan and myself. I was then 30, Joan 15. We left late May, and come back in early August, 1984. We flew into Germany and stayed a few days. I flew separately from Mom and Joan and went a few days early. I met a man named Uli on the airplane, and he introduced me to his great group of friends. Mom, Joan and I were included in many social gatherings with them, and even stayed by the Czech border (then still communist) at one of their nice, small resorts.
We traveled from Germany to Greece, then back to Germany where we drove to Switzerland and Italy. Daddy joined us in Greece for a few weeks. We toured all the usual things with great enthusiasm. When our taxi dropped us off at the National Museum, the taxi driver stuck his head out the window and queried; "Should I come back in an hour and a half to pick you back up?" to which my father quickly quipped "What? You think we're going to view the museum on ROLLER SKATES, for gosh sake?!!!" and turned on his heel in disgust. He was right - we ended up spending 4 hours there and still didn't see everything.
Then on the way out, I heard someone calling my name - it was a man we met on a tour before Daddy arrived. He invited us to a taverna to join him for a party, and unbelievable, my dad said we'd all go. We had a blast! We all even danced at the end, complete with the waving hankies. My dad had too much ouzo! My mother got miffed at something (she'd had too much wine) and said something snippy. My dad gave her the finger! Joan and I gasped in amazement! This had never before happened; this is a man who never even cursed!
The next day, Mom was still mad at Dad. We were planning to take a hydrofoil and tour the Islands, soak up some beach time. Daddy, Joan and I set out. We took a bus first, and met some lovely Irish girls who had just arrived from Rome. They were exclaiming about getting their 'bums pinched, even in the Vatican, THE VATICAN FOR gosh sake!' and my dad was trying not to laugh out loud in front of them. We arrived at the pier to catch the ferry, and someone again called my name and waved - another fellow we'd met on a tour. My dad said "Oh, Christmas; this one looks chatty!" and he was right. Luckily, he was going to a different island or I swear my father was going to get off the boat. The fellow chatted our ears off, quizzed us about our future plans and my dad cut me off during an explanation "We're going to be doing family things, young man!" and that was that.
We got to our destination still early in the day, gathered up personal items and walked down to the beach. We had our suits on under our clothing, so we picked a nice spot and spread out. Joan and I flopped down but my dad stayed sitting up, just enjoying the view. It was gorgeous.
After a while, I started reading. That went on for awhile and Daddy offered to go buy some lunch. Joan and I gave him some lunch ideas and went back to dozing and reading. Daddy came back with yummy food and sodas and Joan and I sat up. And immediately noticed that we were, in fact, on a topless beach.
Joan and I had taken our father to a topless beach.
I immediately felt like an idiot in my one piece. I told Joan that I might feel more comfortable if I rolled down my top. My father sputtered in horror "You are absolutely NOT going to remove your top! Well, that-that-THAT would look STUPID!" I busted out laughing so hard I was crying. The look of horror on his face was priceless.
We enjoyed our lunch. Then I poked Joan in the ribs and whispered: "Look at Daddy!" The man was trying to surreptitiously watch all the beautiful bare-breasted girls around us. But once in a while, a group of lovely German girls would trot down the hill to the beach and the man, really quite a prude and extremely shy, could not help himself: His head would bob with their lovely, bouncing breasts as they made their way down the beach to the water.
We stayed on that beach until my father was red as a lobster. Getting back on the bus to go to the pier to go back to Athens, my dad said "That was a Great idea, girls! What a wonderful day!" and Joan and I roared with laughter. When my mother asked why in the heck we had stayed 'til the man was toast, I airily said "Oh, there was so much to SEE, Mom; I didn't know but we took poor Dad to a nudie beach!"
For the life of me, I can't remember my mother's reaction.
Dad Diaries: #8
We toured almost daily and hiked when we could. The roofs are torn off a few of the castles to avoid taxation, so some of the sites are quite dangerous. Did this stop us? Heck, No! Aunt Rita, attired in dresses, heels and accessories, led the way. Daddy had told Joan and I "No Blue Jeans!" for the trip, but we were dressed very casually.
One site was very remote and on a steep overlook. The wind was whistling through the open roof and windows. It was incredibly beautiful and we spent a long time there, poking around, pondering what life must've been like so many centuries ago. When we left, we got a bit turned around and ended up going through a marshy area. Joan, Uncle Billy and I followed Aunt Rita through a maze of high reeds, bushes and scruffy grass. Daddy decided to take the easy path - "Well, look at that road!" he exclaimed, and leaped wtih his long legs to get to it. Rita looked up and went to shout a warning - too late! Daddy had landed in a mud pit, and had to keep leaping to get out of it. Every step deposited a larger layer on his hiking shoes. By the time he got out of the muck, his shoes resembled cartoon boots - hugely oversized and heavy. He dragged them to firm ground and collapsed, laughing. It took us ten minutes to clean them up enough for him to get in the car.
Uncle Billy and Dad decided that we had to go pub crawling after that, as the only shoes Daddy had left were fancy dress shoes. Joan and I groaned about 'having' to go to the pubs - but were delighted once we got there. Who knew they would be full of attentive, handsome young men?! We played darts, listened to stories tumbling out one after another told in their charming accents and turned down many pints and cigarettes. Billy, Rita and Dad had to drag us out of every one of them.
One site was very remote and on a steep overlook. The wind was whistling through the open roof and windows. It was incredibly beautiful and we spent a long time there, poking around, pondering what life must've been like so many centuries ago. When we left, we got a bit turned around and ended up going through a marshy area. Joan, Uncle Billy and I followed Aunt Rita through a maze of high reeds, bushes and scruffy grass. Daddy decided to take the easy path - "Well, look at that road!" he exclaimed, and leaped wtih his long legs to get to it. Rita looked up and went to shout a warning - too late! Daddy had landed in a mud pit, and had to keep leaping to get out of it. Every step deposited a larger layer on his hiking shoes. By the time he got out of the muck, his shoes resembled cartoon boots - hugely oversized and heavy. He dragged them to firm ground and collapsed, laughing. It took us ten minutes to clean them up enough for him to get in the car.
Uncle Billy and Dad decided that we had to go pub crawling after that, as the only shoes Daddy had left were fancy dress shoes. Joan and I groaned about 'having' to go to the pubs - but were delighted once we got there. Who knew they would be full of attentive, handsome young men?! We played darts, listened to stories tumbling out one after another told in their charming accents and turned down many pints and cigarettes. Billy, Rita and Dad had to drag us out of every one of them.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Dad Diaries: #7
Ireland is surrounded by the sea, which creates a richness of atmosphere and lush vegetation. Ireland is also a nation of stones. The endless grid of stone walled farm plots aren't there for decoration; they are one good way to use the stones from the fields.
Uncle Billy's charming little cottage has a stone wall, of course. It has a small plot of land, but not enough to farm, barely enough to garden. Since it is not a full-time residence, only perennial flowers are maintained.
Just a short walk down the lane is the sea. There is no beach - it is rocky and sometimes perilous. I had no knowledge of tides, so I didn't wander too far along the coast. Plus, I had my ever-present sidekick Joan with me, and she was only 12; not exactly the Age of Reason.
The neighbor closest to the sea also manages Uncle Billy's cottage for him, and they are good friends. She is a widow, and her sons were then 28 and 25 - beautiful young men who spoke mainly Erse. I wanted to spend some time on the sea, and her oldest offered to take me out one morning while he set their nets. We motored out on a choppy sea (he asked me "Ya don't get ill from the waves now, right?") and they tossed out tons of nets which they would haul in that night. Then we motored back. It was nice out there, listening to the lilt of Gaelic, the waves slapping the boat, the light of early morning. He told us to come back later that evening, and he would give us some fish for Uncle Billy to cook.
Joan and I wandered down the lane later that evening after a full day of touring, castle gazing and hiking. I was starving and rather grouchy. We arrived at the house of the fishermen, and the mother hands me a sack of beautiful fish - medium sized, gleaming and fresh. The sons are smiling behind her, and cleaning piles of fish. We thanked them profusely and head back down the rock wall lined lane. It has gotten really dark in the time we have meandered back and forth, really surprisingly dark. There are no lights on the path; this is country property, not city streets. I am thankful that Billy wisely handed me a flashlight as we headed out.
Suddenly Joan, who had been skipping around with the sack of fish, yelped "What's that sound?!" and stood dead still. There was a definite rustling in the vines on the rock wall. I hissed "IT'S RATS!" and Joan jumped about a foot in the air, terror on her face. Then I added the hammer: "And - THE RATS ARE AFTER THE FISH!" Joan screamed and took off running, holding the fish straight-armed out in front of her, heels thudding on the packed dirt road. She beat me to the house by a good two minutes, even though I am running, too. I cannot run fast as I am laughing so hard! As I get near the cottage, I hear Billy assuring Joan that he has never heard of rats leaping onto bags of fish whilst strolling down a lane, but that he supposed she used good judgment to run her lungs out. I opened the door and busted out laughing anew. Joan's hair was standing out like a lambswool duster, her cheeks were bright pink and she was sweating bullets from the exertion of her sprint.
The fish were divine. Served with - what else - potatoes and a green salad.
Uncle Billy's charming little cottage has a stone wall, of course. It has a small plot of land, but not enough to farm, barely enough to garden. Since it is not a full-time residence, only perennial flowers are maintained.
Just a short walk down the lane is the sea. There is no beach - it is rocky and sometimes perilous. I had no knowledge of tides, so I didn't wander too far along the coast. Plus, I had my ever-present sidekick Joan with me, and she was only 12; not exactly the Age of Reason.
The neighbor closest to the sea also manages Uncle Billy's cottage for him, and they are good friends. She is a widow, and her sons were then 28 and 25 - beautiful young men who spoke mainly Erse. I wanted to spend some time on the sea, and her oldest offered to take me out one morning while he set their nets. We motored out on a choppy sea (he asked me "Ya don't get ill from the waves now, right?") and they tossed out tons of nets which they would haul in that night. Then we motored back. It was nice out there, listening to the lilt of Gaelic, the waves slapping the boat, the light of early morning. He told us to come back later that evening, and he would give us some fish for Uncle Billy to cook.
Joan and I wandered down the lane later that evening after a full day of touring, castle gazing and hiking. I was starving and rather grouchy. We arrived at the house of the fishermen, and the mother hands me a sack of beautiful fish - medium sized, gleaming and fresh. The sons are smiling behind her, and cleaning piles of fish. We thanked them profusely and head back down the rock wall lined lane. It has gotten really dark in the time we have meandered back and forth, really surprisingly dark. There are no lights on the path; this is country property, not city streets. I am thankful that Billy wisely handed me a flashlight as we headed out.
Suddenly Joan, who had been skipping around with the sack of fish, yelped "What's that sound?!" and stood dead still. There was a definite rustling in the vines on the rock wall. I hissed "IT'S RATS!" and Joan jumped about a foot in the air, terror on her face. Then I added the hammer: "And - THE RATS ARE AFTER THE FISH!" Joan screamed and took off running, holding the fish straight-armed out in front of her, heels thudding on the packed dirt road. She beat me to the house by a good two minutes, even though I am running, too. I cannot run fast as I am laughing so hard! As I get near the cottage, I hear Billy assuring Joan that he has never heard of rats leaping onto bags of fish whilst strolling down a lane, but that he supposed she used good judgment to run her lungs out. I opened the door and busted out laughing anew. Joan's hair was standing out like a lambswool duster, her cheeks were bright pink and she was sweating bullets from the exertion of her sprint.
The fish were divine. Served with - what else - potatoes and a green salad.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Dad Diaries: #6
I left you in Shannon, Ireland, drinking black and tans...
My Aunt Rita and Uncle Billy, parents of 9, arrive in Shannon and we begin our journey to a small village near Youghal, where Billy inherited a nice cottage by the sea. We arrive, and Joan and I are in HEAVEN - the place is cosy, and has a large, fenced yard with -- CHICKENS! These chickens are so friendly, we can hold them. They will follow us into the house. These wonderful, fat chickens provide us with lovely eggs every day. There is also a big yellow lab from down the lane who visits frequently. He is given tasty tidbits from our plates. Neither my aunt, uncle or Dad say a word about this dog or the chickens frequently in the house.
The huge fireplace in the kitchen is what heated the house. There was a mechanical bellows that assisted with creating a good blaze. Joan sets to getting the fire going, with my direction, first morning there. I neglect to actually light the kindling, and she works up quite a sweat before I say "Oh! I guess we better light the wood!"
May I just say a few words about my love of rashers of bacon? Oh yummy, this bacon from Ireland. It's from the back v. the belly as in America, and is so much leaner. We polished off pounds of the stuff. Joan and I would shoot out of bed, scramble into our clothes and run out to the chickens. They were waiting in their hen house and we quickly got brave enough to reach under their toasty bellies and get the eggs. We'd run the eggs into the house and then play with the chicken for a while. We'd cook up the bacon and a dozen eggs every day, and I remember my dad expressing a great love of those eggs. In fact, he was asking Rita if she'd successfully carted any home in their luggage. She said "Oh yes, in socks!" and he was planning to do just that. He loved those eggs that much.
After a couple of days, Joan and I found if we turned over the big garden stones, the chicken would grab the big grubs and any bugs under them. Well, one morning, Daddy comes out with his cup of tea, stretching and remarking what a glorious day it was. He didn't notice what we were doing at first. Suddenly he squawked "Oh NO! Is that what these chickens have been eating?!" He declined to have any eggs that day and for the rest of the trip!
Next up: A Fishing Story
My Aunt Rita and Uncle Billy, parents of 9, arrive in Shannon and we begin our journey to a small village near Youghal, where Billy inherited a nice cottage by the sea. We arrive, and Joan and I are in HEAVEN - the place is cosy, and has a large, fenced yard with -- CHICKENS! These chickens are so friendly, we can hold them. They will follow us into the house. These wonderful, fat chickens provide us with lovely eggs every day. There is also a big yellow lab from down the lane who visits frequently. He is given tasty tidbits from our plates. Neither my aunt, uncle or Dad say a word about this dog or the chickens frequently in the house.
The huge fireplace in the kitchen is what heated the house. There was a mechanical bellows that assisted with creating a good blaze. Joan sets to getting the fire going, with my direction, first morning there. I neglect to actually light the kindling, and she works up quite a sweat before I say "Oh! I guess we better light the wood!"
May I just say a few words about my love of rashers of bacon? Oh yummy, this bacon from Ireland. It's from the back v. the belly as in America, and is so much leaner. We polished off pounds of the stuff. Joan and I would shoot out of bed, scramble into our clothes and run out to the chickens. They were waiting in their hen house and we quickly got brave enough to reach under their toasty bellies and get the eggs. We'd run the eggs into the house and then play with the chicken for a while. We'd cook up the bacon and a dozen eggs every day, and I remember my dad expressing a great love of those eggs. In fact, he was asking Rita if she'd successfully carted any home in their luggage. She said "Oh yes, in socks!" and he was planning to do just that. He loved those eggs that much.
After a couple of days, Joan and I found if we turned over the big garden stones, the chicken would grab the big grubs and any bugs under them. Well, one morning, Daddy comes out with his cup of tea, stretching and remarking what a glorious day it was. He didn't notice what we were doing at first. Suddenly he squawked "Oh NO! Is that what these chickens have been eating?!" He declined to have any eggs that day and for the rest of the trip!
Next up: A Fishing Story
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Dad Diaries: #5
Dad took my sister Joan and I to Ireland when I was 27 and Joan was 12, in May of 1980. Who knows what prompted him to set up this 'quality' time with Joan and I, but my mother very wisely declined to go.
Daddy worked for United Air Lines from 1965 - 1995. The entire family benefitted tremendously by his employment; not just monetarily, but the trips - Oh the TRIPS! We flew as non-revenue, space available passengers. Back in the 1970's and 80's travel was quite nice. They had not started squeezing the passengers like cattle into smaller and smaller spaces. There was food! You won't believe this, but there was room enough between your legs and the seat in front of you for someone to walk to their seat! I know! We frequently flew first class, and I'm telling you; it was really something back in the 1970's. For one thing, you dressed nicely to fly. Everyone was in business attire. You were served juice before take-off. A huge roast would be wheeled out and carved right in front of your nose. Seems incredible now, doesn't it?!
For the Ireland trip in 1980, the first leg of the journey was uneventful. We landed in New York to catch the connecting flight to Shannon, Ireland. Daddy came back from the ticketing agent sporting a Cheshire Cat grin. "I've gotten us great seats, girls!" he exclaimed, taking his seat in the waiting area. I looked up from my book and said "Great! Maybe I can sleep!" We get on the airplane, and sure enough, our seats are great. First row of bulkhead coach seats, first 3 seats in the center row of 5 seats. The plane continues to fill up. Amazing amounts of people are sliding through the doors! We think we have really scored - nobody takes the other 2 sets in our middle row!
Just then, a family with 7 kids blows into the plane. Their seats are all over the place, and the dad immediately grabs the 2 bulkhead seats for himself and one of the oldest sons. The mom trails behind, struggling with young children. Their youngest son, around 4 or 5 probably, starts screaming and crying, wanting to sit with his father. The child is beside himself crying, so I offer up my seat - the other available seat is 3 rows back, and on an aisle. The little boy gets into my seat before I'm even all the way out, and the father and mother are so grateful. My sister immediately says "Oh NO! Daddy will give us HIS seat because we are sitting together!" My dad sighs, gets up and goes to sit back in cockroach alley. For 8 hours. Joan and I are happy as larks in our plenty-of-legroom seats. I sleep, as does she - with the little guy slumped on her shoulder.
We deplane in Shannon, and take a taxi to a hotel. We're spending one day there, waiting for my Aunt Rita and Uncle Billy to arrive. From there, we'll go to their summer house on the ocean on the South. We open the hotel door and take stock of the room. Rather seedy, but we are just going to sleep and then get on our way the next day. Joan and I try out a bed each. Dad plops his suitcase down on the one closest to the door. I sit on the bed I've chosen, and the thing about tips over! Turns out one leg is shorter than the others. I yelp "We have to change rooms, this bed is busted!" and dear old daddy sighs and says "Look for a phone book. I'm taking that bed." I find a phone book, hand it to him and it raises the bed about half of what it needs. He crawls in and says "No sneaking out into the bars while I'm asleep."
Joan and I looked at each other. Hey - we had not even thought about going out! Of course, the minute he's snoring, our feet hit the floor. We went into the hotel lobby and I try to order me a beer and Joan a coke. The barkeep wags a finger and says "Only WHOOOOORES come into a bar without a man. I saw you girls check in with your Da. If you want something from this bar, you go get your da!" and that was that. So we went back up and went to bed. The next morning, Daddy said "Well, did you get a beer?" And I said "No! They don't serve women beer here unless they have a man with them." Dad said "Kiddo, we're in a different country now. That's your first lesson. But if you want a black and tan, I'll take you later. And he did. It was 'meh'. Haven't had one since.
Writing this, I can remember the smells of Ireland. I think of a place there, and I smell it. The sea is commanding when you live in the desert.
This will take a few entries. We spent a long time there, and it was so special. Of course, I did not know that until years later.
Daddy worked for United Air Lines from 1965 - 1995. The entire family benefitted tremendously by his employment; not just monetarily, but the trips - Oh the TRIPS! We flew as non-revenue, space available passengers. Back in the 1970's and 80's travel was quite nice. They had not started squeezing the passengers like cattle into smaller and smaller spaces. There was food! You won't believe this, but there was room enough between your legs and the seat in front of you for someone to walk to their seat! I know! We frequently flew first class, and I'm telling you; it was really something back in the 1970's. For one thing, you dressed nicely to fly. Everyone was in business attire. You were served juice before take-off. A huge roast would be wheeled out and carved right in front of your nose. Seems incredible now, doesn't it?!
For the Ireland trip in 1980, the first leg of the journey was uneventful. We landed in New York to catch the connecting flight to Shannon, Ireland. Daddy came back from the ticketing agent sporting a Cheshire Cat grin. "I've gotten us great seats, girls!" he exclaimed, taking his seat in the waiting area. I looked up from my book and said "Great! Maybe I can sleep!" We get on the airplane, and sure enough, our seats are great. First row of bulkhead coach seats, first 3 seats in the center row of 5 seats. The plane continues to fill up. Amazing amounts of people are sliding through the doors! We think we have really scored - nobody takes the other 2 sets in our middle row!
Just then, a family with 7 kids blows into the plane. Their seats are all over the place, and the dad immediately grabs the 2 bulkhead seats for himself and one of the oldest sons. The mom trails behind, struggling with young children. Their youngest son, around 4 or 5 probably, starts screaming and crying, wanting to sit with his father. The child is beside himself crying, so I offer up my seat - the other available seat is 3 rows back, and on an aisle. The little boy gets into my seat before I'm even all the way out, and the father and mother are so grateful. My sister immediately says "Oh NO! Daddy will give us HIS seat because we are sitting together!" My dad sighs, gets up and goes to sit back in cockroach alley. For 8 hours. Joan and I are happy as larks in our plenty-of-legroom seats. I sleep, as does she - with the little guy slumped on her shoulder.
We deplane in Shannon, and take a taxi to a hotel. We're spending one day there, waiting for my Aunt Rita and Uncle Billy to arrive. From there, we'll go to their summer house on the ocean on the South. We open the hotel door and take stock of the room. Rather seedy, but we are just going to sleep and then get on our way the next day. Joan and I try out a bed each. Dad plops his suitcase down on the one closest to the door. I sit on the bed I've chosen, and the thing about tips over! Turns out one leg is shorter than the others. I yelp "We have to change rooms, this bed is busted!" and dear old daddy sighs and says "Look for a phone book. I'm taking that bed." I find a phone book, hand it to him and it raises the bed about half of what it needs. He crawls in and says "No sneaking out into the bars while I'm asleep."
Joan and I looked at each other. Hey - we had not even thought about going out! Of course, the minute he's snoring, our feet hit the floor. We went into the hotel lobby and I try to order me a beer and Joan a coke. The barkeep wags a finger and says "Only WHOOOOORES come into a bar without a man. I saw you girls check in with your Da. If you want something from this bar, you go get your da!" and that was that. So we went back up and went to bed. The next morning, Daddy said "Well, did you get a beer?" And I said "No! They don't serve women beer here unless they have a man with them." Dad said "Kiddo, we're in a different country now. That's your first lesson. But if you want a black and tan, I'll take you later. And he did. It was 'meh'. Haven't had one since.
Writing this, I can remember the smells of Ireland. I think of a place there, and I smell it. The sea is commanding when you live in the desert.
This will take a few entries. We spent a long time there, and it was so special. Of course, I did not know that until years later.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Dad Diaries: #4
About once a day, I forget my dad has died. I will think "Oh, I've got to tell Daddy..." and then it hits. Again. The pain of the loss is more a familiar feeling, but not a friend. Will it ever be, as some say? I don't know.
Most of my father's eight brothers and sisters passed before him. He was the middle child, but fared better economically than most of them and therefore lived a lot longer. I have 65 first cousins on my father's side - those Irish are a prolific lot. We didn't visit Pittsburgh, where my father was born and reared, very often, but when we did it was a blast!
From the time I was 10 until about 24, we had a Cessna 182 (1950's taildragger) airplane. We flew from Colorado to Pennsylvania a couple of times when I was in junior high (that's what middle school was back in The Day). Daddy would give airplane rides to all the cousins, which meant my mother, sister and I 'got to' stay at the po-dunk airport for hours, Oh Joy. Luckily, that also meant the aunts and uncles were also at said po-dunk airport, along with their 9, 10 or 11 kids, so it's not like we were lacking for playmates. My dad would do touch and go's, zip around and fly over their houses, and come back down to pick up 4 more kids. After hours, he started insisting he was seeing the same kids again and again. The cousin would insist, "Nah, that was Gerry, Eric and Marty you took last time, not us!"
Then we'd decamp to one of the Aunt's houses for dinner. There would be piles upon mounds of food. Four chickens would come sailing out of the oven. The piles of spuds were astonishing. Loaves of bread and quarters of butter would disappear, but not the pitchers of milk; every aunt had the same rule: The first kid who poured a glass of milk had to pour for the entire table, including high chairs and hangers on! Before the meal had progressed too far, the uncle would stand up and count and say "Ok, ok, ok; YOU - you're not mine and I've already fed you twice this week - OUTTA HERE! - ok, ok, ok, ok, Um - Oh, you're ok (me and my sister), Ok, OK!" The kid he had dismissed would go "AW!" but leave the table, and reappear for dessert later.
It was exhausting and exciting being around the swarm. There was an insistence on manners and some quiet (ha!) at the dinner table, but otherwise, it was total chaos. And my sister and I loved the few times we got to go visit all those cousins. Later, I got to go spend summers in Pittsburgh.
But, that's another story...
Most of my father's eight brothers and sisters passed before him. He was the middle child, but fared better economically than most of them and therefore lived a lot longer. I have 65 first cousins on my father's side - those Irish are a prolific lot. We didn't visit Pittsburgh, where my father was born and reared, very often, but when we did it was a blast!
From the time I was 10 until about 24, we had a Cessna 182 (1950's taildragger) airplane. We flew from Colorado to Pennsylvania a couple of times when I was in junior high (that's what middle school was back in The Day). Daddy would give airplane rides to all the cousins, which meant my mother, sister and I 'got to' stay at the po-dunk airport for hours, Oh Joy. Luckily, that also meant the aunts and uncles were also at said po-dunk airport, along with their 9, 10 or 11 kids, so it's not like we were lacking for playmates. My dad would do touch and go's, zip around and fly over their houses, and come back down to pick up 4 more kids. After hours, he started insisting he was seeing the same kids again and again. The cousin would insist, "Nah, that was Gerry, Eric and Marty you took last time, not us!"
Then we'd decamp to one of the Aunt's houses for dinner. There would be piles upon mounds of food. Four chickens would come sailing out of the oven. The piles of spuds were astonishing. Loaves of bread and quarters of butter would disappear, but not the pitchers of milk; every aunt had the same rule: The first kid who poured a glass of milk had to pour for the entire table, including high chairs and hangers on! Before the meal had progressed too far, the uncle would stand up and count and say "Ok, ok, ok; YOU - you're not mine and I've already fed you twice this week - OUTTA HERE! - ok, ok, ok, ok, Um - Oh, you're ok (me and my sister), Ok, OK!" The kid he had dismissed would go "AW!" but leave the table, and reappear for dessert later.
It was exhausting and exciting being around the swarm. There was an insistence on manners and some quiet (ha!) at the dinner table, but otherwise, it was total chaos. And my sister and I loved the few times we got to go visit all those cousins. Later, I got to go spend summers in Pittsburgh.
But, that's another story...
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
The Dad Diaries: #3
Growing up military is different from most families. You move around a lot, you change schools, sometimes mid-year; you have to adapt to different learning systems and you have to be able to make friends fast. One embarrassing leftover from moving so many places is that I instantly adapt speech patterns, accents and slang to whomever I'm speaking with, even to this day. If I'm in Chicago, I'm a Northsider. If we're in Asia, I'll start in with pigeonesque English. If I'm in Texas, my vowels are looooooooong and slooooooooooow. It's all about being 8 and surviving in a new situation.
The accent to which I default in times of anger is, God forgive me, Texan.
When I was almost 15, the acre lot next to my parents was still undeveloped. It was sporting tall grasses and weeds by mid summer, and was a source of aggravation for my dad. One late afternoon, we noticed some kids hanging around but thought nothing of it. That is, until smoke and flames started shooting up and the kids beat a hasty retreat. I was sitting on the patio reading when I heard my dad bellowing for help. I jumped up, barefooted and in shorts, and ran out to see what the commotion was about. I saw the flames jumping around in the grass, heading towards our house and seemingly nipping at my father's heels! My dad ran into our yard, grabbed a hose, turned on the water and sprinted towards the fire - only to be jerked nearly off his feet when the hose tangled. Dad yelped "Throw me more hose!" and I did just that - threw the entire tangled mess about 20 feet, turning the water gushing out of the hose to an old man's piddle stream. Daddy snarled, "Get out here and untangle this mess NOW." I whimpered that I was in bare feet, shorts, and - ALLERGIC TO WEEDS. Didn't matter - out I tromped, muttering under my breath and crying. The thistles stabbled me feet and legs, brambles were snarling in my long hair - and the hose was hopelessly twisted.
Daddy took over, and I fled back into the house. I washed off my hands and arms in the kitchen, then realized I needed to shower. I stomped back into the bedroom area, and spied my older sister sitting on her bed watching the entire situation play out from her window. I spat out in my rage-filled Texas Twang: "Who does Daddy think he is, the fucking far (fire) chief?!"
My mom poked her head out from the other bedroom and said "Watch your mouth, Miss..." and then her eyes about bugged out. My sister gasped and I started to turn -- just in time to notice that my father was right on my heels! I screamed and about fainted, and wet my pants right on the spot.
I forget what happened next. But forever after, when my dad would annoy my mother, sister or myself, one of us would mutter "Who does he think he is, the f'ing FAR CHIEF?!" and hilarity would ensue.
The accent to which I default in times of anger is, God forgive me, Texan.
When I was almost 15, the acre lot next to my parents was still undeveloped. It was sporting tall grasses and weeds by mid summer, and was a source of aggravation for my dad. One late afternoon, we noticed some kids hanging around but thought nothing of it. That is, until smoke and flames started shooting up and the kids beat a hasty retreat. I was sitting on the patio reading when I heard my dad bellowing for help. I jumped up, barefooted and in shorts, and ran out to see what the commotion was about. I saw the flames jumping around in the grass, heading towards our house and seemingly nipping at my father's heels! My dad ran into our yard, grabbed a hose, turned on the water and sprinted towards the fire - only to be jerked nearly off his feet when the hose tangled. Dad yelped "Throw me more hose!" and I did just that - threw the entire tangled mess about 20 feet, turning the water gushing out of the hose to an old man's piddle stream. Daddy snarled, "Get out here and untangle this mess NOW." I whimpered that I was in bare feet, shorts, and - ALLERGIC TO WEEDS. Didn't matter - out I tromped, muttering under my breath and crying. The thistles stabbled me feet and legs, brambles were snarling in my long hair - and the hose was hopelessly twisted.
Daddy took over, and I fled back into the house. I washed off my hands and arms in the kitchen, then realized I needed to shower. I stomped back into the bedroom area, and spied my older sister sitting on her bed watching the entire situation play out from her window. I spat out in my rage-filled Texas Twang: "Who does Daddy think he is, the fucking far (fire) chief?!"
My mom poked her head out from the other bedroom and said "Watch your mouth, Miss..." and then her eyes about bugged out. My sister gasped and I started to turn -- just in time to notice that my father was right on my heels! I screamed and about fainted, and wet my pants right on the spot.
I forget what happened next. But forever after, when my dad would annoy my mother, sister or myself, one of us would mutter "Who does he think he is, the f'ing FAR CHIEF?!" and hilarity would ensue.
Monday, November 02, 2009
The Dad Diaries: #2
Our sons loved my dad. He was their second daddy, their PopPop, as their own daddy travels so much.
What I miss every day about my dad is that he got each of my boys. He knew Parker needed a little bit of assurance and confidence building. He loved seeing Parker excel at reading, Taekwondo and art. Dad completely believed in Ryan's ability to soar beyond expectations. When I would be ready to run screaming from the house, I would call my dad. He would say "Well, of COURSE he reacted ______! Here's how that probably felt to him...." and he would gently tell me how I could better handle my little one, trapped nearly wordless in this world for so long, with respect and consideration for Ryan's many gifts.
Dad was always catching the boys doing something good, long before it was trendy.
Parker is 9 now, and Ryan 8. They were 8 and 7 when Dad died, and got to go to the visitation, the party at my parents' house afterward and the funeral. They wrote letters to PopPop to read at the eulogy. The letters were read by my youngest sister's husband, as we were all too emotional to read them.
Ryan's letter was lovely. He told PopPop how much he was going to miss him and how much he loved him. Ryan mentioned trips that would happen in a few weeks without him and that he felt badly about that. Ryan told my dad that he would love him forever.
Parker's letter made the entire church cry. He said he loved PopPop and would miss him terribly. Then he said that he knew PopPop was not far away as Heaven was in everyone's heart, and that was where PopPop was now. And that was a whole lot of heaven for everyone to love.
What I miss every day about my dad is that he got each of my boys. He knew Parker needed a little bit of assurance and confidence building. He loved seeing Parker excel at reading, Taekwondo and art. Dad completely believed in Ryan's ability to soar beyond expectations. When I would be ready to run screaming from the house, I would call my dad. He would say "Well, of COURSE he reacted ______! Here's how that probably felt to him...." and he would gently tell me how I could better handle my little one, trapped nearly wordless in this world for so long, with respect and consideration for Ryan's many gifts.
Dad was always catching the boys doing something good, long before it was trendy.
Parker is 9 now, and Ryan 8. They were 8 and 7 when Dad died, and got to go to the visitation, the party at my parents' house afterward and the funeral. They wrote letters to PopPop to read at the eulogy. The letters were read by my youngest sister's husband, as we were all too emotional to read them.
Ryan's letter was lovely. He told PopPop how much he was going to miss him and how much he loved him. Ryan mentioned trips that would happen in a few weeks without him and that he felt badly about that. Ryan told my dad that he would love him forever.
Parker's letter made the entire church cry. He said he loved PopPop and would miss him terribly. Then he said that he knew PopPop was not far away as Heaven was in everyone's heart, and that was where PopPop was now. And that was a whole lot of heaven for everyone to love.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The Dad Diaries: The beginning
My dad died 27 May 2009. The loss to our family is staggering as he was my sons' 2nd daddy. Their daddy travels alot, so their beloved PopPop and Nana came over often to help entertain. It was heaps of work for me as I then felt obliged to cook myself into a stupor for some ridiculous reason, and send them home with food for a few meals. Hey! They are elderly!
There is a post soon after Daddy's death a couple of entries down. I'm not going back to re-read it, and I can't remember how much I talked about Dad's dying. I'm not going to get all morose on your shoulder; the purpose of my coming out of hibernation for NaBloWriMo is to force myself to tell some of the adventures of living with my father for 55 years.
Which brings up another fact: YES! I am an OLD mother! I am now 56 and have 9 and 8 year old sons. My husband is 8 years younger than I. I would highly recommend it.
So, back to memory-land.
My father was an officer in the Air Force. We lived all over the world for the first 12 years of my life. If you get an opportunity to live overseas, anywhere, GRAB IT. I can tell you for a fact that you and your family will be better off for it.
We lived in Okinawa for 4 years. My family actually built a house on the island, but we moved into base housing (complete with live-in maid and gardener) within 1.5 years. The house Dad built was on a steep hill, on acreage, and we did have neighbors, albeit not in view. The house came with a surprise papasan. He showed up one day to garden and that was that. He also turned out to be a watchdog; stories started filtering in to my parents about neighbors' small appliances going missing. Turns out that it was the work of "stealie boys"; young men who would strip naked except for a mask, grease themselves with cooking oil so they could not be caught, sneak into a house and nick the irons, toasters, electric fry pans, etc, to sell on the street! One night we heard a heck of a racket outside and Papasan was getting dragged down the side of the hill; hanging on for dear life, by a nekkid, masked man! My Dad, who was stark naked himself, grabbed a couple of flyswatters and took off after them. He smacked that boy's back, haunches and backside a few times and that guy took off like a rocket down the hill. Papasan and Dad came back to the house, victorious. I stage whispered to my mom "Oh dear, Daddy forgot his panties, Mommy!" They got the neighbor's toaster and hand mixer to boot. And word got out among the Stealie Boys to avoid our hood; we had a crazy-ass WatchDad and a Papasan on alert.
There is a post soon after Daddy's death a couple of entries down. I'm not going back to re-read it, and I can't remember how much I talked about Dad's dying. I'm not going to get all morose on your shoulder; the purpose of my coming out of hibernation for NaBloWriMo is to force myself to tell some of the adventures of living with my father for 55 years.
Which brings up another fact: YES! I am an OLD mother! I am now 56 and have 9 and 8 year old sons. My husband is 8 years younger than I. I would highly recommend it.
So, back to memory-land.
My father was an officer in the Air Force. We lived all over the world for the first 12 years of my life. If you get an opportunity to live overseas, anywhere, GRAB IT. I can tell you for a fact that you and your family will be better off for it.
We lived in Okinawa for 4 years. My family actually built a house on the island, but we moved into base housing (complete with live-in maid and gardener) within 1.5 years. The house Dad built was on a steep hill, on acreage, and we did have neighbors, albeit not in view. The house came with a surprise papasan. He showed up one day to garden and that was that. He also turned out to be a watchdog; stories started filtering in to my parents about neighbors' small appliances going missing. Turns out that it was the work of "stealie boys"; young men who would strip naked except for a mask, grease themselves with cooking oil so they could not be caught, sneak into a house and nick the irons, toasters, electric fry pans, etc, to sell on the street! One night we heard a heck of a racket outside and Papasan was getting dragged down the side of the hill; hanging on for dear life, by a nekkid, masked man! My Dad, who was stark naked himself, grabbed a couple of flyswatters and took off after them. He smacked that boy's back, haunches and backside a few times and that guy took off like a rocket down the hill. Papasan and Dad came back to the house, victorious. I stage whispered to my mom "Oh dear, Daddy forgot his panties, Mommy!" They got the neighbor's toaster and hand mixer to boot. And word got out among the Stealie Boys to avoid our hood; we had a crazy-ass WatchDad and a Papasan on alert.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)