Tom's Relay

Hello? Hello? Are you there? This poor little neglected blog probably is not the best place for a worldwide marketing campaign, but here goes.

This is my friend Tom and his daughter Lucy, who I would also be happy to call my friend except she probably doesn't remember me. Tom has a perfectly wonderful wife named Mary (it follows but can be left unwritten that Lucy has a perfectly wonderful mother named Mary,) who does remember me (thereby making her my friend), but who does not like to have her picture taken (thereby making her a lousy blog topic.) I knew them in lovely North Carolina, when Tom and I worked at a newspaper together. But one day, Tom and Mary got it in there heads that it would be a smart thing run headlong into the snow drifts of Ohio, leaving perfectly perfect Asheville weather behind. Lucy, who is still cursing them, had no vote in the matter. Another day, completely unrelated, my mother and I thought the exact same thing, except we left saying, "Ha! Tom and Mary, such cowards! We are going to blaze a westward trail," and in Illinois we landed, in a snowdrift.

But in truth, Tom and Mary are probably not such cowards and here is the very important part. Tom had cancer in Asheville and again in Ohio and now he's doing the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life. STOP HERE and read that sentence again. That's a mouthful, but I'll leave it at that. Being a good journalist, I am now including the obligatory quote from Tom:

My lofty goal is to make a difference in my daughter's life. I know I do that every day by being the goofiest dad on the block. But, I want to do it in a good way too. Lucy will grow up facing a battery of tests beginning as a young adult because of her father's history. My hope is that if she ever needs treatment,the treatment would not be as extreme as mine.

So, if you've ever spent a couple of minutes reading this blog, I invite you to visit Tom's Relay for Life page, then consider the glories of tax season and the promise of hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions, of dollars that will arrive unexpectedly in your bank account and our dear president's recent mandate, "Stimulate the economy! Buy a TV! Get a bigger car! Oh, yeah, and drop a buck or two on Tom Graser! He's for cancer and I'm for cancer! Get out there and support cancer!"

Mom and I in art

A few months ago, an editor from the L.A.-based KoreAm Journal asked if I was interested in writing about my mother having seen the obituary published in the Chicago Tribune. The story, along with the lovely art you see above ran in November and is now available on the internet at this link.
If you have trouble finding it, you visit koreamjournal.com and look down the left side for the Exiles on Main Street feature.

I hope you all are doing well!

Epilogue

Likely, it's time to wind this little blog down. It helped me move through a lot of heartache and is a wonderful way to procrastinate, but other matters are calling. At the moment, that would be grandma.

I've not mentioned grandma much, but she is my father's mother. Honestly, she's been a terribly unhappy, complaining woman for as long as I can remember and she makes me thankful I am my mother's daughter. Grandma wasn't always nice to mom, but I know mom is fussing at me right now, telling me to make sure grandma is settled comfortably.

She was ailing and came to our house just before mom got sick, the idea being that mom would be her caregiver. Of course, life had other plans. So we put grandma in a nursing home near the house and have considered what ought to happen next. She has improved greatly and in the next few days, we're going to get her back home to Indiana to see how she does. I'm pretty optimistic that she'll do well.

And once that's done, it'll be time to concentrate on writing. What kind? you ask. I suppose there are things we dream about and things we do and should you be lucky enough to have a chance to merge the dreaming and the doing, you ought to take it.

In a couple of weeks, the new issue of Koream, a magazine for Korean Americans, should hit newsstands. The editor of that publication contacted me after reading the obit about my mom and asked that I write for a feature called Exiles on Main Street. It features several photos of mom and an illustration that made me cry. I believe it will also publish online, but am not sure.

The photos you see, by the way, were taken of my mom and dad in Korea in 1970, likely just before their marriage. My father must have thought he had hold of the most beautiful thing in the whole country.

Perhaps I'll post from time to time. I'm not sure. But thanks for reading and following this little journey. Send an email. Keep in touch.

Mini-me

Poor, poor Bailey. Each week, a new torment. Ear drops to clear up an infection or antelope skins draped on his back or yells when he can no longer resist the mouse in the garden and plunges in.

Abuse. Neglect. And now this.
Meet Sophie. Or, her registered name, "SophieNO!"

For months, I have been attempting to have intelligent conversations with Mike about getting another dog, but he's always bringing up completely irrational, unrelated points.

Me: Oh, another sweet little pup to cuddle!
Irrational Mike: More dog hair.
Me: Someone for Bailey to romp with! He loves to romp!
IM: More dog poop.
Me: A little baby dog! Think of that sweet puppy smell!
IM: Of dog poop in the house.

And then there she was. A darling little Brittany in a local shelter. Turns out she was in a litter and the owner died. His widow doled the pups out to friends, saying "My husband really wanted you to have this dog." Well, our girl landed on the plate of the mother of three young children. She didn't stay long.

I can see why. Below is how Soph usually looks, a blur of a thing, pulling up plants (SophieNO!), dragging out shoes (SophieNO!), tripping me underfoot (SophieNO!), dropping fleas in the house (Sophieyou'vemademeworkharderinaweekthanBaileydoesinayear!). She's only six months or so, younger than I intended, but I'm a sucker for a liver and white dog. Though I do remember that Bailey was a perfect pup who learned all of his commands instantly, never chewed people things and never, ever made messes in the house.

Mike calls this Bailey amnesia. But I have SophieNO! amnesia too. At night, when we're sitting on the sofa, she drops into my lap like a little rag doll and the day's turmoil is lost.

Bailey is handling the matter beautifully. He's lost that forlorn "I'm so bored" look that is ingrained on his face whenever he's hasn't been the center of the universe within the last 15 minutes. They frolic around often, till Bailey decides he needs a nap and Soph decides to go check Blanche out.

Grow baby grow!

After raiding Home Depot of nearly end of season plant it has available, here's where we are:

We love sitting out here! That's lavender around the border, and we moved the little magnolia we had against the evergreens.

If you blow up the image, you'll see good old Blanche, who is always staring at me. It's a little disconcerting. We put in a couple of red twigged dogwoods to the left of the evergreens. Toad lily, stone crop and rose shrubs near the birdbath.

Magnolia! Let's see if it does half as well here as it does in the South. With daisies, tickseed and some other random items.

Black-eyed Susans and stone crop around a Rose of Sharon. My mom would always say they are the flower of Korea when she saw one.

The skeleton of a rock garden. I'll build up the flagstone a little more, then fill it with small plants.

Bailey thinks there's a mouse that lives in the garden. He can waste hours a day doing this.

On another note, poor Mike has torn ligaments in his shoulder. I feel bad for making fun of him earlier.

Renovation nation

Isn't it funny how the projects that devour your time, drain your wallet and generally suck lifeblood from your soul always begin with innocent, carefree statements?

That trim really ought to be painted!
Hey, we should finally get those awnings down!
When are we going to fix that sidewalk?

Ah, such simple, breezy words. Words that have claimed the past week of my life and cost Mike a broken shoulder. Well, maybe not exactly a broken shoulder, but you wouldn't know that from last night's moaning and frequent curses.

First, the trim. After much pondering, I decided to move my office into mom's room. I'm pretty sure she'd second that idea. She would love the thought of me reading and writing here, Bailey on the chaise at my side.



That's some big hair ladies! High school graduation pic mom always liked to display prominently. I follow suit.

So here I am. Somewhere in the process, Mike and I looked at the old pine trim. You know the kind, orange with age, battered and paint-splattered from previous home owners who did not have the patience to paint a straight line, or at least use tape.

So three days I spent primering and painting trim and doors in both my new office and my old office, which Mike will inherit. Amid this, my friend Heather called.

H: What are you doing?
M: We're painting trim.
H (who also has lost days of her life in this endeavor): (Small gasp) Trim? That takes forever.
M: Yeah. Also, I'm not sure why I say we're painting trim. One of us is pretending to have a paint allergy and has yet to lift a brush.
H: (Gasp) But he wouldn't even need a ladder!
M: I know, I know.

Ah, but beware the power of ladder karma. And Bailey karma. Let's move on to the awnings, shall we?

The previous house owner painted the aluminum awnings silver. Apparently they used to be white with blue stripes. That's right, he painted them to look like they were bare, fresh off the factory floor, which is not the look most people with sense are going for. They were so bad that I once got a letter from the city of Berwyn, threatening a fine if I didn't paint the awnings immediately. But they are painted, I wanted to whine.

Many moons ago, mom and I got the front awning off, thereby averting city and neighborhood embarrassment. This past week, I volunteered Mike to take down the aluminum tacked to the side and back of the house. So there we are, he on the ladder and me inside the house, pushing up an awning so he can reach the last screws. Mike says he has forgotten something, and heads down to ground level. I watch as he takes a little hop off the next-to-last rung and BLAMO! jumps right onto one of Bailey's toys, a fat rubber ball.

The giant tumbled into the grass, grabbed his shoulder, rolled around a bit and moaned. I stood in the window, staring down at him for a good 10, 15 seconds before he finally looked up, realizing I had yet to spring outside and play nursemaid.

Later, when he complained that didn't you just take your dear, sweet time getting outdoors, I replied, But sweetie, I just wanted to make sure there wasn't any blood. I wanted to see if I needed to call an ambulance before I came out.

Really, I was just trying hard to gather my composure so I wouldn't laugh when I kneeled at his side. The man fell like 16 inches. All week we've been watching The War on PBS and commenting on the horror of it all. So it's not exactly like Mike took a paratrooper jump in WWII.

Also, poetic justice was cranking away on a couple of levels here and I needed to savor the moment. First, some of us had our own aching backs from three straight days of hunching over trim and we didn't see fit to roll around on the floor moaning about the matter. Second, a particular man of the house occasionally likes to riff on a particular dog of the house about said dog's girlie nature and his lack of, ahem, manhood.

Well, as it turns out, Bailey boy does have balls, and baby, those balls are lethal.

And finally, the matter of the sidewalk on the side of the house.

Level that thing, brick guy!

It used to cant toward the house, making a nice little pool during thunderstorms and a vicious walking hazard when it glazed over with winter ice. I have fallen there more than once. So we decided months ago to brick the sidewalk and add a back patio. I hoped mom would be able to enjoy the area, but when she became too ill to go out much, we decided the construction noise would only add to her discomfort and nixed the project.

Now it is revived. Mike, who used to be in landscaping, has gotten a crew to dig up and brick the whole shebang. It's almost done and it'll look lovely with a few plantings.
Bailey tested and approved sidewalk.

See that window on the right. That's the site of the great Berwyn 2007 fall. Only there was grass underneath.

Some flagstone I laid yesterday around transplanted Cheddars, which were languishing in a shady spot before the move. That would be the rather unkempt veggie garden in the background.

Future site of a small rock garden.

So now I am compelled to retool the garden, add lavender around the patio and put in some bushes or small trees to soften the edges. I'll keep you posted. Just know that some of us are digging sod, laying flagstone and planting plants, while others of us are nursing bruised shoulders like a linebacker on Monday morning. I feel sorry for their wives.

The mentor

When mom and I moved into this house a couple of years back, the guy who lived here informed us that we were about to inherit the best neighbors in the whole world.

Now, Bill and Ev will have to forgive my initial skepticism. The previous owner was not noted for his taste. He thought he was Elvis. No, not cute early Elvis who went into the military and wowed all the girls with his lean, swinging pelvis. He was gaudy Elvis of rhinestone jumpsuit, popped pills and Vegas fame.

He painted the living room the color of a Coke can, put leopard spots on bedroom walls, made the basement teal with purple flames. He painted the awnings silver. It looked like a tattoo artist flunkie threw up in here.

But back to Bill and Ev. Turns out ole Elvis wannabe was right on one point. They are fabulous neighbors. We share a fenced yard with them and Bailey goes charging in their house like he lives there. With a little vino flowing, Bill and Ev sound like the Honeymooners, 50 plus years into matrimony. (Ev: Bill, you're a patient man. Bill: I have to be to have stayed married to you this long.) Ev brings over a nice pasta dish now and again. And on top of it all, Bill is Mr. Fix It. He knows pretty much everything about home repair. Which is handy, considering our house needs a lot of repairs.

Bill is forever the mentor, the Bob Vila of Berwyn. Mike is the trusty sidekick Norm, who knows a lot himself but forever will be the apprentice, a shadow of Mr. Vila.

So this past weekend, Mike started to replace a light fixture outside the front door. A 15 minute job. 30 tops.

Right. Why does every quickie job have to turn into a 5-hour ordeal?

I'll spare the details, but the light wouldn't sit flush against the brick because half the hard wiring in this house is goofy.

The apprentice decided to install a rather shady looking box to make the mess fit. That would have been, as Bill so aptly says of a crapola job, generic.

Enter the mentor. A little advice, a little chipped brick and we have ourselves a light that looks like a guy who knows what he was doing installed it.

And Bill, who has a level for eyes, noticed our new mailbox was an eighth of an inch off, so Mike redrilled the holes.

Now, if I can just get Mr. Norm to replace the door.