A few weeks ago, I wrote about a problem I was having with my meat loaf falling apart in the pan. Then yesterday I received a nice note from a lady who sent me her recipe for making a good meatloaf. In order to protect her privacy, I won’t tell you her name but her note went on to tell me that she grew up in Smalltown, Indiana, a neighboring town not far from where I grew up. She also knew some of the same people I knew and in fact, with her girlfriends, haunted some of the same places that I did growing up. Then, when she mentioned her age, (the same as mine), it really gave me pause. Good Lord, we went to different schools together. Although she did not mention knowing me as a teenager, I should have known this lady, at least when she was a teenage girl.
I racked my brain, mulling over long ago nights in the cafés of my hometown of Loogootee, Indiana, trying to recall if I had used one of my famous pick-up lines (note 1) on any girls from Smalltown. None of the dim, shadowy memories of young people crammed into booths at the Arrow café produced anyone with this lady’s name. For the life me, I couldn’t recall any meetings although that’s not too say it didn’t happen. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.
She mentioned her evenings with friends at the skating rink in my town and I wondered if she could have been one of the girls who ignored me as I stood around with my nerdy friends waiting on a member of the fairer sex to take my hand and pull me out onto the rink floor for the romantic Sadie Hawkins skate. (Note 2)
She also talked of being friends with Ernie and Keith, friends of mine as well. Both Ernie and Keith were killed in a car accident in 1956 and her note told me that she had a crush on Ernie although he never knew it. This left me wondering if she had been at one or the other of their funerals? Would I have even noticed?
The note ended with her telling me about her family, her husband and children of which she is rightfully very proud. I gave up trying to figure out if I knew this lady and handed my wife, Susie the note. As she read, I could feel a barely perceptible sadness creeping into my sunny disposition.
“That was very nice.” Susie said, handing me the note.
“Yes it was even though it leaves me feeling a little bit sad.“
“Sad? Why? Why would you be sad?”
“I don’t know. I just am.” It was true. I didn’t know why. Our neighbor and friend asked me the same question when I showed her the note. I couldn’t tell her either although I tried. I just wasn’t able to articulate what I felt. I was able to say that it bothered me, not being able to recall meeting this lady and her friends. I would like to have had the opportunity.
“Well, you can’t know everyone.” My friend told me and she was right. But still there are so many stories out there to hear and I hate it when I have missed one.
“Why would you even expect to meet everyone?” Susie chimed in.
I didn’t bother to explain. Susie, like other folks who grew up in the big city, would never understand the camaraderie of a small town atmosphere where everyone knows everyone and being from the wrong side of the tracks meant almost nothing. It was just another place to watch the trains go through town.
One thing that might have been the source of my sadness was the reminder of Ernie and Keith’s accident 55 years ago. Still, I came to terms with that a long time ago so it shouldn’t have bothered me. Another possibility is that I realize I didn’t take the time then to appreciate what a great part of my life those growing up years were. I was too busy wanting to get on with living and now I’m sitting here wondering; what the hell was my hurry?
I don’t know but I give up. I’m never going to figure it out. I guess neither you nor I are going to find out why the note produced that feeling of sadness but its okay. I don’t need to know now anyway. The moment has passed and right now, I’m off on another undertaking; trying out that meatloaf recipe.
I’ll let you know how it turns out.
* * * * * * * *
G2 notes:
1. One of my favorite pickup lines: ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you walked into this one. This must be my lucky day.” Yep, that’s right. In those days, I looked a little bit like Humphrey Bogart. .
2. Never happened. No girls ever came to my rescue. A pox on Sadie Hawkins.

“It’s okay. I found it. Thanks.”

Note from Susie: I’m trying to keep quiet (a New Years resolution) but, with apologies to Jackie Gleason, One of these days, POW, …….

But then he added; ‘with the wind chill, it feels like 39 below.’

I’ve often wondered why weathermen feel this is necessary and today, it dawned on me. I think our populace feels the need to prove they’re tough and made out of that same pioneer stock that built this country. . 

In reality, we’re all a bunch of pansies but I guess we can feel better about ourselves if we make conditions worse than they already are.

Go on, John Wayne. Take your shirt off when it’s 20 below. We’ll go you one better. We’ll look out the window of our centrally heated homes when it feels like minus 39.    

Taking care of my honey dipper duties. Pulling that 240 pounds of honey for half a block is great for my pecs.

                                                        * * * * * * * * *

The pains were 3 minutes apart and the weather was terrible. Snow on the ground had never been unusual in December so it was not unexpected but we sure didn’t need it on this day. My wife, Susie, was on the telephone with her mother describing the pains and I was pacing the floor because I didn’t have anything else to do. Everything was done.

I looked in the baby’s room where Susie’s overnight bag sat just inside the door where I could grab it at a moment’s notice. The freshly sanded and painted bassinet, with it’s yellow skirt and white dust ruffle, hand made by Susie, stood in the corner. The lamp with the cute little animals marching around the lampshade cast it’s glow on the polished top of the chest of drawers where the 2 dozen white cloth diapers were stacked neatly.  The chest was my pride and joy. After I had sanded and painted the whole thing, Susie had attached Alphabet blocks in place of the normal drawer pulls. I didn’t think there was a neater chest in the whole city. 

An unopened bottle of black olives sat next to the lamp waiting to be opened after Susie’s return from the hospital. I had bought them the morning after Thanksgiving as a peace offering to her after I had made her cry when we had set down with her family to our holiday dinner. While the rest of the folks around the table were loading their plates with turkey and all the trimmings, Susie, 8 months pregnant with our first child, had skipped everything else and dumped the chafing dish full of black olives on her plate. She was eating them one by one and I told her she had to eat something else as well.

“I can’t help it.” She said, the tears already starting to flow. I was a 25 year old man who had no experience dealing with pregnant women and any emotional imbalances they might be suffering. Much to my dismay, the looks I got from Susie’s 6 sisters as well as her mother told me I’d better back off.  I did.

The bottle of olives had sat in the baby’s room while I was sprucing up the walls with new, lead free paint. The recent disclosures that paint loaded with lead could be harmful to babies had me reading fine print on everything I brought into the house.

We had picked the yellow color on the walls since it was suitable for either sex.

“You know what?” I had said to Susie the day I was painstakingly using a tiny brush to touch up the white ceiling where I’d gotten bits of yellow paint.

“What?”

“I bet I could make a million dollars if I could figure out some way to predict the sex of babies before they’re born.”

“Right. And how would you go about doing that?”

“Don’t have the foggiest notion.”

“I don’t think people would want to know anyway. I know I wouldn’t.”

“Me neither.” I said agreeably, concentrating on the paint brush  in my hand.

My thoughts of paint, olives and gender predictions were interrupted when Susie walked out of the bedroom, suitcase in hand and announced “Time to go.” How could she be so calm?

I took the suitcase from her and guided her to the car. I had mapped out the route to the hospital weeks ago, making daily dry runs on the primary course and averaging the times down to the seconds so I could have a pretty good idea how long it would take to get there. I also had two alternate routes laid out but they were to be used only if some sort of disaster had the primary route blocked.

There were no disasters in our vicinity that evening of December 20^th, 1965 and we reached the hospital in 16 minutes and 14 seconds; 22 seconds better than my fastest practice run.

It was a long night. I spent several hours holding Susie’s hand in the labor room and when they finally took her to the delivery room, my job was done because men were not allowed in there.  

I spent a frightened hour or so, pacing up and downRitter Avenuein the snow, smoking one cigarette after another. I went back inside to see how things were going and met the doctor in the hall. We had a boy, he told me and Susie was doing fine. I excitedly told him we were naming the baby John but he interrupted me to tell me there was a problem with our son. He had been born with a cleft palate but he assured me it was repairable. We would just have to wait until the baby was older. 

I had no idea what he was talking about. I needed to talk to Susie and let her know what had happened. When I walked into her room, I could tell from the tear stained cheeks that she already knew. Neither of us really knew what this birth defect was all about but we assured one another we would get it taken care of.

We took John home in a few days after lessons on feeding him. He was such a good baby. Unlike the babies of our friends, he never cried but feeding him was a constant chore for Susie because he choked so easily. She persevered however and John began to grow. He wasn’t doing things other babies were though, so when we went for his one year checkup, I asked why. Tests were scheduled and taken. A week or so later, a very serious Dr. Kirkhoff,  John’s pediatrician, sat us down in his office and told us that John would never be like other children. In addition to the Cleft Palate, he had also been born with Cerebral Palsy and would be mentally and physically challenged.

That was forty five years ago when we sat down to be told that our lives would be forever altered but not like one might think. As it turned out, the alteration was difficult at times but for the most part, it was a good one.  John was a wonderful little boy with a constant smile on his face. He wasn’t immobile either. He never learned to walk but he could scoot across a floor faster than any of his 3 younger siblings. When he wasn’t scooting, he was busy teaching our other kids how to clap. Taking their hands in his, he would sit in his wheelchair clapping his hands to the beat of the music emanating from the radio. I expect he would still be at it but he died midway through his 26^th year, the victim of advancing scoliosis that put too much strain on his lungs and his heart. 

Today, the 21^st of December, John would be 46. Every year about this time, I wonder what he might have been like had he just been a regular kid. I look at his brothers and his sister and try to see him in one of them.  Which of their traits would he have had? He could have been an artist like his mom.  He might also have been a musician; it was obvious he loved music. Of course, there was also the chance that being my son, he might not have been able to carry a tune in a bucket.

            Even though I periodically speculate on what John might have been, I realize it’s a useless exercise because I always come to the same conclusion. It doesn’t matter. But there is something that does. Even though I didn’t know it at the time, I now realize just how lucky we were to have him in our lives for the time that we did.

* * * * * * * * *

If there any 46 year olds out there who happen to stumble over this posting, could you let me know what kind of life you have had. I’m not maudlin or anything like that. Just curious about what John’s life might have been like through the eyes of his peers.

Gordon Grindstaff
P.O. box 501
Mooresville, In 46158

Include the following:

number of copies
Shipping address:
dedication or dedications
personal check 21.00 per copy.

Books will be mailed by mid -December.

Approved -TWTD- cover-10-20-2011

If you live in the Central / Southern Indiana area and want to save the shipping cost, I will be publishing a list of book signings in the next couple of days.

The sun rises on Fiona II

We were up early because of the time change but also because our dog, Poco, was bouncing off the walls needing to get outside. Were we back in Indiana, I’d just open the door and let her out but of course, dogs have to be on a leash here in old people land.

Poco in her new haircut

We settled in with a cup of coffee to watch the morning news but didn’t stick with it very long. The media is absolutely giddy over the possibility of a new heir in the British Royal family. Thank God, however, the term ‘baby bump’ was not thrown into the report. I abhor that phrase.
There was also news of Justin Bieber’s possible fling which he is vehemently denying. This is completely counter to my teenage years. If a beautiful young woman would have accused me (and that would never have happened), there would have been no denunciations from me even if I hadn’t gotten within five miles of her.
Instead, I would have whipped out my comb and ran it through my hair before pronouncing “Hell yeah, I nailed her.”

There was also more news of the Kardashian fiasco and that’s when I turned the television off. I’m afraid that if this is all we have to talk about, our country is doomed. Why this woman is on the morning news and not on the Jerry Springer show is beyond me. I suspect even Jerry has too many scruples to talk to her.