You are currently browsing the Memories category.
There are places in the world where you can view several states or countries from a single spot. I’ve been to some of them, but I have only the haziest of memories to show for my visits. To me, tourist attractions like that are never very remarkable. I can’t understand the fuss about one side of a map line versus another. I’ve been on so many sides of so many map lines that one place has become pretty much the same as the next.
But I do know of one special place. Once upon a time, on a small farm where I once lived, I could watch persimmons grow from my front yard. I can’t remember my code for the money machine, but that view has earned a place in my memory. Those persimmons grew on a large, independent tree. Planted alone among countless Fescue blades pushing through a loamy soil near the crest of a hill, that tree was the only landmark in a field of green. It marked the edge of our property.
Cattle seemed to appreciate this gift as much as I. A symbiotic relationship ensued as cows and tree traded shade and snacks for camaraderie and closeness. If it was summer and the cattle were lowing, you could be sure they were lowing under their persimmon tree. Offering shade, all the persimmons a cow could eat, and a sturdy trunk for scratching persimmon squirts from cowhide, that tree was central to a bovine nirvana of sorts.
Persimmon trees are generally tall and leafy, and this one was no exception. By placing this tree in the middle of a field and surrounding it with good bovine brethren, God produced a scene bordering on the majestic. As far as I know, the tree still stands, but I think the cows were evicted when they put the place up for sale this last time. The cows can’t afford it, and neither can I.
Perhaps cows and hippos were not meant to own farms, but I hope that tree is allowed to stand for a while longer—even though it saddens me to think of it standing there with no cows for company.
As you may know, persimmons provide motivation for those who would pucker up, but their taste rarely fosters a mood of amour, so the effect is generally wasted. If I could, though, I would eat a persimmon right now. I’d close my eyes and hear once again the sound of my uncle’s cows. I’d see the tree swaying in the breeze of a humid summer day. And as I felt my lips begin to pucker, I’d whisper a soft, low whistle at the beauty of our world. I think I might take a ride this spring to see my tree once more before the hay comes in. I hope there are some cows nearby.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
Mrs. Hippo and I are at odds again over the drain in our bathroom. She says my whiskers are clogging the drain. The powdery remnants of my beard, she insists, are making a paste that clogs up the works. I suggested that if we were to disassemble that pipe, we’d find a big clog of her hair. This debate has been raging for years. In fact, we’ve been bickering about pasta plugs and hair balls for a full 29 years.
Today is our anniversary. On this momentous date, my mind wanders back over so many years together. So many years….So many memories…So many clogged drains.
We spent our newlywed days in California. We had a big window overlooking Pacific Grove. The view was great – when the fog and condensation weren’t too oppressive. We kept a squeegee on the window ledge, so we could see the fog rolling up the hill. One day I tore myself away from the view long enough to pour a bucket of ice water over the curtain while Mrs. Hippo was showering. That simple act launched a months’ long campaign of retaliatory ice water deluges. It got so bad we were each afraid to shower solo, so I guess there was an upside to the terror I created. Eventually, we agreed to a cease fire, but every once in a while, I still contemplate a renewal of hostilities. Those were good times.
We rode our bicycles everywhere in the early days. After a few months, we realized that Mrs. Hippo was peddling for two. We bought a car and moved to Texas before adding Hippo Junior and a mentally challenged dachshund to the family. When Junior finally arrived, he was too yellow to bring home right away, but my friends and I celebrated anyway. While the boy languished under bilirubin lights, my friends, my dog, and I all smoked cigars and drank beer. The wiener-dog’s smoking was all second hand but he lapped up quite a bit of first-hand beer.
Our little hippo junior was wearing pullover pants the day his momma pulled him off the ground by his belt loops. He swiveled perfectly at the waist, maintaining a stiffness that would’ve made a gymnast proud, and bashed his head on the tile-covered cement floors of our Okinawa house. I asked why she did that, and she yelled, “I didn’t mean to do it!”
Milton was off the pullover pants and Velcro shoe laces by the time the great Mandibula invented the pasta plug. For some mysterious reason, she opted to tamp leftover macaroni and cheese down the drain rather than toss it in the garbage. I asked why she did that, and she yelled, “I didn’t mean to!”
We’ve now been together for much longer than we ever were apart. Our romance has spanned the country and much of the globe. We’ve lived and laughed and loved for 29 years. I guess if she wants to interject a pasta plug or a hair ball every now and then, I’ll just add it to my list of memories.
From ice-water wars to bashed skulls, through scars and tears and fears, we’re still together. She says she can’t believe it has been 29 years. I thought for sure it was at least 30, but time seems to pass more slowly when you’re de-hairballing drains. The de-hairballification of a drain is a real clock stopper.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
Dad was a farmer who became a man of the world and then struggled to become a farmer again.
From humble beginnings as a child of the depression, Dad learned to be frugal. He traveled the globe but settled in Poor Valley where he found his happy place. No matter where he traveled, Dad was always ready to head back to his valley and his mountain. As his mind began to fail, he forgot many of the words he once used, but one of the last phrases he remembered was “let’s go home.” The very last was “I love you,” and that was a phrase he used liberally throughout his life. Dad was a loving father and husband to the last.
He was a world traveler, living in exotic places all over the world. From Alaska where he braved the cold to work on the “DEW line” to Libya where be braved the heat to maintain the infrastructure on Wheelus Air Base, Dad trotted the globe for years. Along the way, he managed to serve in World War 2, the Korean War, and in Vietnam. In 1972, he settled in Rogersville.
I remember mowing the cliff he called a yard. Dad would give me a quarter and tell me not to spend it all in one place. Dad liked walk-behind mowers. He said the exercise would do us good.
Early on, we decided to build a tobacco barn, so dad bought a dilapidated old barn from Drusilla Albright. We tore that one down, moved it to our house and raised a new barn up from the scraps. We harvested green oaks from our mountain for the main structure. Driving 16 penny nails into green oak made sparks fly from my hammer. Dad said that driving all those nails into heavy 2 by 10s and 2 by 12s would “put muscles in my ….” Well, he had a way with words, but he was right more often than not.
Dad was a military man—even in retirement. Although he no longer had a uniform allowance, he still bought his clothes at a base exchange whenever possible. From regulation shoes and haircuts to olive drab boxers, Dad never completely left the military. He loved words like “regulation” and “personnel.”
On one of our first days on the farm, Dad issued me an idiot stick. For those who are not familiar, an idiot stick is a blade at the end of a wooden handle which is used for clearing brush. Dad said it got its name from the fact that only an idiot would use it. We cleared several acres of overgrown brush using those sticks. When we were finished clearing the land, Dad bought a bush hog. Timing is everything when you live on a farm.
When we cleaned out dad’s basement and barn for the move to Knoxville, we found can after can of rusty bent nails. You never know when you’ll need to re-use a bent nail. Dad put things aside and saved them for later, but it was not just nails.
He gave freely of himself all his life. He gave his time and skills to people who needed help. Like seeds planted in the soil of my life, Dad’s lessons, gifts, and insights have continued to produce vegetation and fruit. I know we will always miss him, but he was ready to go. His purposes in raising a family and living a good life were complete. I’ve learned that God answers our prayers and God forgives. He answered my selfish prayer to keep my father safe for as long as we needed him, and now He has answered our prayers to take him home.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
Do you ever look at your parents and wonder if you’ll follow in their footsteps? Most of us have a real opportunity to exceed our parents’ accomplishments, but physical attributes are often handed down with our genetic makeup. We are very likely to follow in those “footsteps.” Alas, we can’t apply ourselves out of the bodies we were born with. We’re stuck with those.
If dad and mom both lost their hair, for example, it might be wise to consider some scalp polishing cream. Chances for baldness would be pretty good in that scenario. If both your parents had great big noses, it would be no surprise if you had one too. It is simple heredity. There is no getting around it.
But there is more to life that how we look. The way we feel trumps how we look every time. ‘How do you feel? Do you feel marvelous? You should, because you look marvelous!’ The comic’s routine aside, we all know that how we look has little to do with how we feel. People who look marvelous drop dead every day.
If we get really good jobs, we can often exceed our parents’ lot in life. We might look a lot more marvelous than our parents ever did because we can afford nicer clothes and better watches. Our cars might be shinier. Our houses might be fancier. Our lives might be glossier. We really might look marvelous. But on the inside, we won’t be so different from our parents.
You can dress up a pig, as they say, but underneath it is still just a pig. That is true of us, as well. No matter how we dress up or put on, we’re still the same inside. We can even go to a plastic surgeon if we want, but we can’t really change ourselves. What we are on the inside doesn’t change.
Last night, I stopped after work to visit my father. He drank a cup of milk in the time it might take me to read War and Peace. He wouldn’t touch anything but the milk. I held his hand as I poured the milk down, and I looked at him. I could see the man he once was and the man he has become. It is easy to slip into a contemplative mood while feeding an Alzheimer’s patient because there is no conversation to break up the reverie.
I remembered the knot on Dad’s shoulder where a muscle contracted permanently after an accident. It is smaller now, I guess, since all his muscles are atrophied, but I didn’t check. I did note all at the small scars on his hands and arms from minor accidents over the years. Some I was there to witness in the making, others I was not.
Dad still has strong hands. He doesn’t let go easily, which I guess should be no surprise. He was a blue collar worker for years, and he used those hands to make a living. He also walked religiously for years. Heart disease among the males in our family is a killer. When a brother died around the age of 50, Dad started eating heart healthy meals and walking. That didn’t stave off Alzheimer’s, though. In fact, all that striving to live seems like it may have been a bad idea now. Had he died of a heart attack, he’d have saved himself from this sad and lingering ending.
But all endings are sad in a way, aren’t they? That is why it is hard for me to avoid wondering if I’ll share my father’s ending or if something else will get me. Will I eat right and exercise to avoid heart disease just to end up in a rocking wheelchair, grimacing down lukewarm milk from a plastic cup? Will I forget my family members and friends? Will all the efforts I take now to succeed and do well ultimately mean nothing to me in the end? It is hard to say what is best. I don’t want to die from a failure of my heart or my head, but I know I can’t control the reality of my mortality.
Perhaps it is best to just live and leave those concerns to God. I found this verse that seems to sum it up pretty well:
Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The LORD, the LORD, is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation.” (Isaiah 12:2, New International Version)
It may be easier said than done, but today, I plan to trust and not be afraid. I urge you to do the same.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
I hate white Chevy trucks! I especially hate the ones with matching aluminum camper tops on the back. They’re a blight on the roadscape, an optical annoyance. That may sound harsh, but it is true. I was recently reminded of why I dislike like them so.
As I crested a hill, I spotted a white Chevy pickup truck. The sight quickly dredged up old memories of my father, who owned a similar model for years. For a foolish moment, I thought perhaps this was dad coming for a visit. But then I began to remember and to reminisce—even though reminiscing about dad is a mental activity I prefer to forgo these days. You see, my memories have a tendency to daisy chain themselves, and before I know it, I’ve had just that one too many. In my mind, moderation and memories do not go hand in hand. Usually my iPod helps to decrease the likelihood of stray memories, but an iPod is no match for those stupid white trucks. They are powerful memory joggers, and a jogger’s memories can be powerful.
In the blink of an eye, I remembered the days when dad would drive his white truck to visit me, and we would talk about my yard or one of our projects or work. I remembered how he would laugh and how he always wanted to go for a walk rather than sit around the house. I remembered how he was always ready to go home an hour or two before my mom was finished visiting. I remembered happier days.
Then I remembered that dad isn’t like that anymore, and I realized that a daisy chain of memories had burned me once again! One thought led to another and before I knew it, I had dredged up a memory that I could have done without. The thought of dad’s current condition abruptly jerked me back to a reality that I run to avoid. And that is the reason I hate white Chevy trucks with aluminum camper tops.
Sadly, Alzheimer’s has taken my dad and left an empty shell. You may have heard the old saying, “How can we miss you when you just won’t leave?” Well, Alzheimer’s makes a way. I miss my dad even though I can still go visit him. In fact, I saw him just this week, but visits with dad are hollow affairs. He doesn’t recognize me anymore. He no longer wants to talk or to go for a walk. He has a sore on his foot because he never moves it. We put his foot up on his chair’s foot rest to take the pressure off that spot and he puts it back where it was…right on that stupid sore. He has a big blue boot that doesn’t seem to do much good…
So what good does it do a hippo to run as an escape mechanism only to run right into a vision of a white chevy truck? I’ll tell you: Running helps him to keep running. That’s how. As that truck drove out of sight, my thoughts rolled over dad’s situation for a few more footfalls before returning to a more serene zone. Ozzy came on the iPod, singing “I don’t wanna stop.” Well, I don’t wanna stop, either. But I could live without white Chevy trucks with aluminum camper tops.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
My father used a word throughout my young years that sounded like kee wah tuss. He would threaten to put the kee wah tuss on me whenever I was acting up, which was rather frequently. I never saw the word in print, and frankly, I never encountered it elsewhere until I moved back to Tennessee after years away. One day, a co-worker used a word that could only be a variant on the same theme. Her word sounded like kwah hee tus and appeared to have a similar application.
My father’s word was filed away among the other words I’d never seen in print for decades. The variant went alongside it in the area of my brain reserved for these things. For me, keeping track of oddball words is something of hobby or at least a mild amusement. I’ve often suspected that people who habitually repeat common pronunciation errors do so because they’ve never seen a word in print, and the people they mimic never saw the word in print, either. They’ve certainly never looked it up in a sounding dictionary and they most assuredly do not share my little hobby. Personally, I avoid a word if I’m not sure about it, and that is why I never threatened anyone with the kee wah tus. That, and the fact that I’m a peace loving sort of hippo.
A good example of a chronically mispronounced word is “nucular” instead of “nuclear.” If you’re hooked on Phonix and you see that in print, you don’t make the mistake. Of course, depending on your group of friends and acquaintances, you may choose to be wrong on purpose. If everyone thinks you’re wrong when you’re really right is that any different than really being wrong? It makes you think.
There is one word I won’t pronounce correctly: “forte” refers to a strong suit as in ‘that is not my forte.’ To pronounce it correctly is to be thought incorrect, though, so I generally don’t use it. Most people in America, in my observation, pronounce the word “four tay,” but that is actually a musical term that does not mean strong suit. When you mean strong suit, you should pronounce it “fort” like “Fort Knox.”
Enough of that. This is “Q” day not “bogus word” day.
I’ve decided my father’s and my friend’s words for smackdown must certainly be “quietus,” and since quietus starts with a “Q” and is neither ”quintessential” nor “quadrabrilation” it is our word for the day. Fortunately, we can apply this word in our lives without resorting to violence or wrestling moves.
Let’s all put the quietus on ourselves. If you’re from Tennessee, you have my permission to put the kee wah tus or the kwah hee tus on yourself as an alternative. Either way, I hope you’ll take just a few minutes today to “shut your yap.” Turn off the television. Turn off the radio. Turn off yourself. And listen to the sounds of the world. Listen to your own thoughts for a few moments. What do you hear?
Do you hear yourself in there? Keep listening. Your voice will start to come through. When you hear it, what does it say? Are worries bubbling up? Are dreams of a better life starting to materialize? Are you pondering the meaning of it all? Once you’ve put the quietus on yourself, all these ideas and more may come to you, and when they do, give them to God. That is prayer.
Perhaps the psalmist wrote it best: ”Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)
May God bless and keep you… and help you to put the quietus on yourself from time to time.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
My father and I built a barn one summer for a little money and a lot of sweat. To save on lumber, we harvested oak trees on the mountain behind our house. We laid low those giants with our saws and axes. When they tangled with other trees, we climbed them and rode them to the ground. Our only safety gear was good balance and a strong instinct to stay alive.
I personally rode a few of those trees through falls of 50 feet or more. The thundering, shuddering stop at the bottom created good opportunities to wonder about my sanity as I inventoried vital body systems. Neither of us was ever hurt riding trees, which is remarkable given how many we rode. There must have been an angel watching over us on those hot summer days.
After trimming and loading the trees on our truck, we hauled them to the sawmill where they were transformed into posts and planks. When we brought them home, they were green and heavy with moisture. Those boards were nearly as hard as the nails we used. To drive a nail into one of them was to shower myself in sparks.
During sawmill delays, we prepared the site and poured the forms for the posts. We also bought a dilapidated old barn and began tearing it down for more lumber. Armed with gloves and crowbars and a dedication to barn destruction, we drove up to attack that aged structure. It took us a while, but we persevered and eventually transformed that barn into giant piles of boards, nails, and tin.
Dad worked nights and I went to school during the day, so he worked separately on the pile of recycled wood. He would hammer nails out of boards all morning, leaving them ready to be clawed out that afternoon when I returned home. I couldn’t stop clawing and scratching until I’d removed the nails dad banged back before he went to work. Dad did not take kindly to slackers.
In thinking back on that project, I could tell you I learned the value of hard work. I could tell you I learned to stick with a job until it’s done. I could tell you about the sense of accomplishment I had from finishing a project so big. In a way, all of things are true enough, but if I am honest with you, I’ll tell you a little something else, too.
What really sticks with me about those days spent swatting sweat bees and smashing thumbnails, is how much trouble my father went through to teach me a few simple life lessons.
Dad did not need a barn. That barn was built, so I could hang tobacco in it in the fall. We raised that barn against the clock because we needed to finish before the crop was ready for harvest. Dad bankrolled both projects and worked for free, while I took home all the profits. Dad’s only return on those investments was my education.
A lot of years have passed since those summer days of my youth, and the years have changed us. I spent this afternoon watching my father grasp his arthritic knee and doze in a hospital bed. In such a snapshot view, it can be difficult to discern the purpose of a life. You can’t look just at the end. An afternoon seated on a vinyl hospital chair provides a good opportunity to put things in perspective.
From time to time, it helps to look back on how things were “once upon a time.” So often fairy tale beginnings and happy endings provide brackets around a difficult middle. Dad’s story is no different. His happy times are gone and we’re still in the unpleasant middle part, but a happy ending is just ahead.
And that is enough looking back for one day, I guess.
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
I’m reminded today of a story from my youth.
My uncle, my father, and I needed a new pig, so we went to a man’s house. He was a one-armed man with a big mouth. I remember the big mouth part because it was also dark outside and he carried a full-size D-cell flashlight in his mouth while catching the piglet and putting it in burlap sack. It was rather impressive.
We bought that pig and brought it home–the proverbial pig in a poke. I had no idea what it looked like until the following sunrise, and to be honest, I found it rather porcine in the light of day, but my uncle seemed happy with it.
That piglet quickly grew into a boar hog, and we didn’t castrate him as early as would have been wise. Eventually, he weighed a couple hundred pounds and he was fighting with the other boar hogs. This could not be allowed to continue or we’d be forced to eat bacon sooner than we planned. Even in the 70s, we knew that bacon was not good for you, and heart disease runs in our family. (My dad outsmarted heart disease by eating bird food for most of his life, so Alzheimer’s got him instead.)
One Saturday morning, our neighbor came to visit with a knife and a can of kerosene. Those of you who have never lived on a farm should perhaps stop reading now since the story could cause squeamishness, I suppose.
The way you solve the problem of hormonal male aggression in boars is to castrate them. As near as I can recall all these years later, this involved an incision, some gouging around with a finger or two, and some indiscriminate yanking of internal parts found. The kerosene is used to sanitize everything, which might also explain why you rarely see a castrated boar smoking a cigarette.
For those who are wondering about the pig’s attitude during the incident, I’ll just say, he did not appear to be happy. There were four of us assigned to limb management. I had the back left leg, which I believe I was assigned to afford me a better view of the operation. Unfortunately, that is also one of the wiggly/jerky limbs.
I suppose I may hear from a few animal rights activists over this story, and I apologize that the world is hard on pigs. I hope I haven’t ruined bacon for anyone–unless you were seeking motivation to get bacon out of your diet anyway.
Personally, I like bacon. My family history and propensity for heart disease can’t stop that. It’s hereditary!
Sincerely,
Mister Hippo
