Paying it backward 26 years

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am still basking in the glow of the work of others. The unveiling of the talented Hoover clan’s limerick writing was fun and always generates a lot of readership for the week. It is sad to admit. However, it is true. I do not write for the creative outlet, the opportunity to let my mind soar to new heights, or to gain and express insight about the human condition; at least not exclusively. A part of me writes for the attention. So last week, I was able to ride on the creative coattails of others, copy down their fabulous words and still get a lot of readers for the week. Also feel free to reach out to Bill Hoover, winner of the 2014 cousin’s limerick contest. As of writing this, he still has not claimed his pie prize or let the lovely Miss Beverly know what flavor he will savor.

As mentioned in the opening paragraph of last week’s blog, life has been coming at a fast and furious pace. In fact, I have three of four topics backed up in line, waiting on exposition. This is a new and welcome phenomenon. In the early days of the blog, I would struggle to have any idea for thematic topics. In fact a time or two, I had to set down with a blank screen and just start typing in hopes that, like spaghetti, some of the words would stick together on the wall and something coherent would emerge from the mental soup.

Last weekend was big; very big. Last weekend I had the opportunity to pay off a debt that was approximately 26 years old. No it wasn’t a mortgage. Although if I had had the good sense to stay in that same house since then, we would have been rounding third and heading for home on owning the house that we live in. 

It seems that many couples in their early married lives move around so often that they out maneuver their friends. Friends go off to their own worlds. The car that takes them off to a honeymoon is followed by a Uhaul to destinations far flung. Inevitably, with each move, the pool of moving friends shrinks. Until one weekend, you find yourself with a house full of boxes; you and your significant other looking at each other; both coming to the realization that you need to get more friends.

So 26 years ago, the lovely Miss Beverly and I came to that realization. After my Purdue graduation we had stayed in Lafayette while Bev finished up her teaching degree. Many of our friends had moved off. We found a nice little house a block from where we were renting. Because of poor planning on our part the lingering friends still in town weren’t that weekend. So we had a very small crew. Plus, I was very cheap. Rather than rent a Uhaul and make a couple of trips, I figured that we could just walk all of our worldly possessions across the street and down the alley; easy peasy.

By mid afternoon, we had had it. We were tired. It was hot and muggy. The stress had caused me to find the lovely Miss Beverly not so lovely any more. That is when mom and dad showed up. This was a time when they probably didn’t have time to come up. Central Indiana was in the throes of an eight week drought. Dad was milking 100 cows at the time. Time was at a premium, and they showed up. After that the move went easier. We finished around three and were giving the “this is what we want to do to the house tour.” After mentioning that we wanted to put in a ceiling fan in the bedroom, dad suggested that he had time for that. 

I don’t know if you know where milk comes from. While it does come from the dairy aisle at the grocery store in plastic jugs, its journey actually starts on a farm with the most time bracketed people in the world. Every day there is a hard start and a hard stop to all activities. 5:00 a.m. to start milking the cows in the morning, 5:00 p.m. in the evening, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. While a cow’s udder is somewhat elastic, there are limits. It starts to get pretty full at the 12 hour mark. As a result, dairy farmers, through the ages, have tried to keep to that 12 hour schedule. 

If my parents had left at about 3:00, the milking would have started at 5:00. The two hours spent getting to the hardware store; making the proper selection and hanging a ceiling fan would definitely make for a late evening and some tight udders. At five the light came on, the fan started whirring and the rain started to fall. Nothing smells as sweet at rain that breaks a drought. It is like the country side exhales a sigh and on its breath is a sweet, loamy, tired scent. A rain like that is to be enjoyed on a front porch swing with a pitcher of iced tea. That is what we did. Mom, dad, Bev and I sitting on the front porch listening to the soaking rain wash the dust off the maple tree, while swinging on the porch swing and sitting in wicker chairs. Five became six and dad announced that it was time to get going.

Time being time, I figure that the last cow would have been milked around 11:00. Dad would have crawled into bed around midnight with a 5:00 a.m. wake up call to get the cows back on schedule.

Last weekend, the Kozaks and the Sharritts had the opportunity to help their fiercely independent son and daughter. Being fiercely independent, I don’t think that it was necessarily easy for them to accept the assistance that was joyfully given. That is okay; independence being what it is, it would be difficult.

Isn't that the challenge with raising fiercely independent children. They don't turn out that way on their own; no matter what they may believe. Philosophically, those parents sit back and watch. The kids fall. The parents wait to see if they can dust themselves off and get back in the race. Over time, one finds that there is little that cannot be over come with time and tears. Yet the falls are watched, breaths are held, hands are wrung. Then one day when help was needed we had the opportunity to pay back a helping hand 26 years later. 

Take care

Roger

We have a New Winner in the Hoover Limerick Challenge

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am getting back into the swim of things after a week of glorious vacation in SW Michigan. The week was a wonderful opportunity to unplug and get away from the daily drive to work. The lovely Miss Beverly and I were able to spend some quality beach time. In a significant development, the lovely Miss Beverly accompanied me on a 50 mile bike ride. By the end, I think that she was ready to go down to the bike shop and buy a cool looking bike jersey. You know the ones with the three pockets on the small of the back. Bev's bike geekdom is just around the corner.

Life continues to come at us at a dizzying pace. Taking my limerick judging duties very seriously, I took quality time to read all 32 submissions. I pondered and pondered. I read them out loud into my iphone. This allowed me to close my eyes and listen for the rhythm that limericks are known for. The final analysis? You guys are great and you love writing about your cousins.

In fact you inspired the following  limerick:

There once was a family of Hoover’s

County Wabash from the state of the Hoosiers

Cousin Dave was a hoot

And the women all cute

When writing limericks there were no losers.

Being a family of 4-Her’s who knew their way around the show ring, the competition was set up nearly the same way. We are going to announce the honorable mention mentions; then the second place winner and finally the best of show. The rest can pick up their participants ribbon on the way out, but you should all know that you are all winners in my book.

First off showing great promise by winning the Jr. participant category is Michelle Stilger;

Joe, Max, and Sam

Together like green eggs and ham.

They sometimes left me out

But with no worry or doubt

That I am still part of the fam.

Honorable Mention from Sam White:

A 4-H rookie name Sam

Raised a fine pig, not a lamb

It was ironic mixed luck

When Otis died on that truck

Cause the cousins all shared in the ham!

Honorable Mention from Joyce Young:

My cousin always came to bale hay

For dinner sometimes he would stay

Stacked seven pieces high

He’d eat pumpkin pie

Matt White makes us smile everyday.

Honorable Mention from Cathy Heinhold:

We once went to visit Indiana

‘Twas a very long drive in the van-a

Of twins there were two

Singing “Bunny Foo-Foo”

And more cousins, and aunts, and a Gramm-a!

And last but not least in the Honorably Mentioned from Bonnie Hoover;

Today is the day of his birth

He loved his time here on earth

I’m sure he’s a revin

The tractors up in heaven

And farmin for all he’s a worth

The second place limerick was by Sam White. As the runner up, Sam will eat the pie should the first place limerick writer be unable to fulfill their duties.

They move to the farm from the town.

For fun, they’d keep coming round.

Any game of red rover

Would bring them right over.

Or was it just Missy Brown?

That leaves us with the overall winner; Bill Hoover.

Grew up as a Hoover Cousin

Who’s counting, but almost 8 dozen

You could call yourself cool

When allowed to play pool

Cause Burt’s basement was always a buzzin.

Congratulations, everyone. You did great. I think that the only thing that could make next year’s limerick challenge better is if someone invited all of the Hoover’s to their house in late July. All of the limericks could be placed on a table (those unable to attend could mail their entries in) and the afternoon could be spent reminiscing, eating, and voting on the best entry. That way the winner would get their pie from the lovely Miss Beverly right away.

Take care,

Roger 

What Treasure is Inside?

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am on the banks of Lake Indiana in Sawyer, Michigan. I know that you may be saying to yourself that there is no Lake Indiana in Sawyer Michigan. I have dealt with this topic extensively in previous blogs. It is a sore subject. How my forefathers would let the Michiganders, or Michigan goose people as I like to call them, usurp the Indiana name when it was our territory to begin with is beyond me? As I said, it is a sore subject and I find myself sitting here on the edge of this great lake contemplating how to get the naming rights back. I do take a bit of comfort in the irony that I am sitting in the town of Sawyer, Michigan not 7 miles from the Warren woods. It is an old growth forest set aside by Mr. Warren, he of the corset fortune, for the purpose of tormenting all of the “saw-yers”, who made a living, turning other old growth logs into 2x4’s

Last week was a special week in Sharritt land. We received a text from a cousin informing us that two old Army trunks were found in her mom’s garage. She had figured that they were filled with her father’s army gear but upon opening the rusted hinges all of the tags said Sharritt, which meant that they were my dad’s old Army issued gear. Having been hermetically sealed in those trunks for close to 60 years, they were in amazingly good shape. Donning gas masks to eliminate the strong odor of still pungent moth balls, we went looking for treasure.

Treasure item number 1 was a pair of blue silk toddler pajamas. I suppose that he was planning ahead. I know that mom wasn’t pregnant with me at the time. I am a little disappointed that they had already been relegated to a sister’s garage and forgotten by the time I came along. I would have been stylin in powder blue silk pajamas with Korean hooha on the lapels.

Treasure item number 2 was a five year diary. I opened it carefully, hopeful and expectant of the details that I might find about dad’s Korean adventure. Before I go further, I have to say that for dad it was an adventure. Hostilities were over. Dad was there for the rebuilding. He was part of a construction battalion. He drove semi’s and heavy bulldozers all over the south end of the peninsula. He would have been the first to admit that he was fortunate to not have been in the contingent of brave men, my father-in-law included, who were thrown into a violent and desperate situation and fought bravely against overwhelming odds.

While revelatory expectations were high, they were not to be fulfilled. There were just two lines written on one page of the 1825 available for posterity. On the very last page, on the back cover, Herman Lloyd Sharritt was written just below the “Property of” imprint. The hand writing was terrible, a trait passed on to his son. Just below his name in much neater script was written “Who is property of Estella Mae Sharritt.” That is all that it said, but it said a lot.

The rest? The chest was filled with dress greens, field greens, warm weather gear, rain gear, wool socks, everything that a soldier needs to help rebuild a country. Everything was in pristine condition. It was like he had not spent two years in Korea wearing army issue. This made perfect sense to the lovely Miss Beverly. She astutely pointed out that dad would wear one shirt until it fell apart and it was time to get a new one. He had no concept of a laundry rotation. He had his reasons, and we kids had our embarrassment.

That was all. Move along there is nothing else to see here folks. It appears that dad brought home some stuff from Korea. It appears that his sister thought that they should be kept for posterity. Fifty year later the posterity has worn off.

However, dad did bring back something else, or maybe left something off for the kids to sort though. It is a story that was told on the back of a tractor in farm fields and repeated from time to time to eager kids who wanted to hear a story that reverberated in our collective world view DNA.

Dad was the rookie; new kid on the block. His platoon was to go down to the depot in a 6 truck convoy to pick up a load. The company had a fleet of trucks; all grade A Army issue. However, all trucks are not created equal. They have different sized motors, different gearing ratios. Some trucks suck. It was the tradition in the company to saddle the newbie with a particularly sucky truck. The convoy would take off and leave the newbie who was to dutifully follow the others to the destination. Unable to keep up the newbie would become lost, wander around in a foreign country with road signs that made no sense on a road system that had been designed for oxen and carts. The befuddled newbie would finally get back to base with no load and then get yelled at by the sergeant for being an incompetent.

Dad had heard rumblings of the upcoming initiation. He had vowed to not be the butt of the company’s jokes. In today’s world, he decided that nothing parties like a rental, especially and US Army rental. He got behind the wheel; instructions in hand; follow the truck in front of you. Everything will be fine and don’t get lost. Being a farm kid, he quickly diagnosed that the problem was one of insufficient power for the gearing that was set to high. So when you shifted the transmission into a higher gear, the engine would bog down and never recover. The solution was to have more speed before shifting into the higher gear.

Hat pulled down low over his eyes, he pulled out behind all of the other trucks. They immediately sped off in an attempt to leave him in their dust. With them pulling away he needed more speed. So he stamped the pedal to the floor and refused to shift. As the tachometer climbed to the red line, he was gaining speed and his brothers in arms were no longer pulling away so fast. The truck was screaming now and starting to shake. Dad said that he thought he would either keep up or the truck would blow apart. If it blew apart it would be the army’s problem so keep it in the red for another second. Then with things shaking in the cab, he shifted into second. The truck, with the gearing needed to carry speed, leapt forward and he was catching up.

He followed the same pattern all of the way up through the gears. 20 miles later, he pulled into the depot with the other guys. As he got out, he received the slaps on the back of the entire convoy. They loaded and everyone headed back.

The trip back he did the same thing pulling into base right on the heals of his buddies. The sergeant came storming out of the barracks and started to tear into dad. He was told to follow the convoy all of the way to the depot and he had obviously stopped outside base and waited for the convoy to return. He was derelict in his duties. The others came over to the sergeant and got him to calm down. They assured the sergeant that he had indeed kept up. “Look in the back. He has a full load.”

Nature or nurture? It is hard to say. But that story 40 years later still makes my inner motor hum.

Take care,

Roger