We Will Never Go to Jimmy Johns Again

Out of the blue D2 announced that she hoped she could marry a man like her dad some day. I wanted more detail so I probed, “What is it about Dad that makes you want to marry someone like him?”

“Well,” she began, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Admittedly I was distracted at the onset of the conversation, but I glanced her direction during her pause and saw her holding her arms up in a traditional muscle man pose. I hid my smile.

“Bu-uff,” she announced, flexing her own gymnastics-enhanced guns.

And the she quickly added, “And remember that time at Jimmy Johns when that worker yelled at you and he was mean and that was not nice and Dad went back in there and yelled at him and now we will never go to Jimmy Johns again?”

A Very Rich Man

When I was about 10 years old, it seemed everyone we knew was getting a dishwasher. Often it was avocado green and on wheels. The butcher-block top allowed it to double as a kitchen island. When it was full of dirty dishes, you could wheel it over to the sink, secure the hose to the faucet, dump in some soap, turn on the hot water, and wah-lah, 2 1/2 hours later your dishes were clean.

Such luxuries, however, were not for us. Regularly, my younger sisters and I were sent to the kitchen to wash dishes after dinner. With orange vinyl kitchen chairs pushed up to the sink, inevitably, we would get the counters, the floor and our clothes as wet as the dishes.

Occasionally, we hosted guests for Sunday dinner. After the meal, they would begin to rise and offer to help with the dishes.

"Sit down," my dad would insist, "The girls will clear the plates." And even though we really wanted help with our chore, obediently four little girls ages 5-10 would get up and begin clearing the table.

"Well I can help wash the dishes," the guest would often offer, "You don't have a dishwasher do you?"

"A dishwasher?" my dad would brag, "Are you kidding? We've got four!" And with that his four dishwashers would take the dirty plates, glasses, bowls, and silverware and disappear into the kitchen for a water fest.

Dad and His Five "Deere's"

Me (in front of S2 and D2 this morning): When I was little we woke up on Saturdays at 5 AM to watch Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. We didn't really like that cartoon, but we knew Dad would have us up at 6 AM to do chores, so that was our only chance for Saturday morning cartoons. And when I say we got up to do chores, I'm not talkin' clean-the-house chores. Oh, we did those, and then we went out to work in the garden.

S2: But it's not like you lived on a big farm.

Me: No. We lived in town and gardened a small plot of land in our backyard and another at the neighbor's. I big farm would have been easier! There you have tractors to help you. My dad did not have any tractors or plows. He had five daughters instead.

Skirting the Issue

Armed with a gift certificate from my friend Mindy, I hit the Ann Taylor Summer Sale. I brought this darling stretch twill skirt, but since I am not 5' 10" and 102 pounds it looks slightly different on me.

Nonetheless, I like it. So I wore it to church Sunday.

That evening we went to dinner at my parents' house. Shortly after arriving, my fashion oblivious father donned in a checkered western- cut shirt from Shephlers which was unbutton at the neck one too many buttons, commented, "Did you get a new skirt?"

"Er, yeah. I can't believe you noticed."

"Well of course I'd notice! You haven't worn anything that stylish in years."

Was that a compliment? Either way it is certain his head injury from 2004 is much more serious than we originally thought.

Movie Misconceptions

I come from the small town of Sidney, Iowa. Sidney is home to what was once one of the largest championship rodeos in the United States. For a small town, those are huge bragging rights. I went to Friday night football games to root for the Sidney Cowboys, and attended pep rallys, and school plays in a gym painted with a red and white bucking bronco logo. With the rodeo quite literally in our back yard, we saw many talented cowboys and cowgirls perform each year. While I have since come to question some of the ethics surrounding rodeoing, it was a part of my family's life in Iowa.

A couple years ago, I had a memorable discussion about cowboys with my conservative and sometimes naive parents. Mom mentioned how she saw a preview for a movie she wanted to see. It was a cowboy love story she explained, and she was certain that it would be one both she and my dad could enjoy together.

I tentatively asked if she was referring to Brokeback Mountain to which she replied, "Why yes! I think that is it."

In proceeding to summarize the plot as I knew it, I was careful to emphasize that the love affair is not a heterosexual one. This was vital as I knew such a detail would be important to her. She thoughtfully listened, and while she was surprised she had missed the whole point of who is in love with whom in the previews, she wondered out loud, "Do you think it is based on a true story?"

At this point, my father, who had been listening in on our conversation the entire time, could remain silent no longer. He quickly chided in absolute complete seriousness, "Of course not, Linda! There are no gay cowboys in real life!"

Dance for a Quarter?

Most teenagers look forward to turning 16 so they can drive, but for me 14 was the magic number. Turning fourteen made me old enough to start attending church dances. Most of these festivities were held 40 miles from our home. With a collection of 7 or 8 units from our church joining together, these large youth activities had the reputation for being a ton of fun.

My stomach was in knots that June Saturday evening Mom, Dad and I drove to my first youth dance. As there was no one in our congregation my age, I was on my own walking into the dimly lit gym. A D.J. flanked by a pair of black oversized Peavey speakers was playing a Lionel Richie ballad. Kids mingled on and around the dance floor as shots of light from a disco ball dotted people, walls, and the floor.

Suddenly feeling very lost, I ran out to the hallway, found my parents, and said simply, "Let's go." My parents were not going to let me off that easily, so with Mom by my side I was coerced to return to the gym where I stubbornly played the part of wall flower. After two songs I was ready, once again, to make the hour drive back home. Mom insisted we needed to stay a little longer. She pointed out a kid named Paul that I supposedly knew when I was a toddler. Her suggestion that I go ask him to dance was met with flat refusal. After two more songs, again, I assured her, it was time to go.

Before talking her into leaving, some guy asked me dance. We danced. Then grabbing my mom's arm, I dragged her out of the gym, found Dad by the refreshment table, and at my unusually adamant insistence, we all headed home.

Having left so early it was still light outside as I sulked in the back seat of the car all the way home. In my best martyr voice I told my parents I was sorry we drove so far for something so dumb, but not to worry, I'd never ask to go to one of those dances again.

A few days later I received a letter in the mail from the one boy that had asked me to dance that night. It turns out he was a friend of Paul, the kid my parents said we knew. I was flattered that he would write, and with my parents encouragement, I attended the July dance.

This dance was very unlike the first. Having exchanged a couple letters by this point, I had an acquaintance, as well as the supposed friend from pre-school. I spent much of the evening dancing with the letter-writer and Paul, and hanging with their crowd of friends.

On the way home, (in the dark this time) I excitedly leaned forward from the back seat to relay to my mom every detail of the evening. My dad then turned to her, "Can you believe on our way out tonight Paul tried to collect on his quarters?" Mom smiled, and Dad continued, "I told him, no way. That was a deal we made for last month, not this month."

Completely confused I asked what Dad was talking about. Matter of factly, Mom replied that since he was worried about my first dance in June, Dad had bargained with Paul early during the dance last month that he would pay him a quarter for every time he danced with me.

I was shocked! How humiliating to spend an entire evening with this guy, not knowing about the prior month's business arrangement. More upsetting was the incredible fact that my parents found nothing wrong with making that kind of agreement. And why hadn't Paul found a quarter price enough to ask me to dance in June?

As if I could not get someone to ask me to dance on my own, my father was walking the halls looking for anyone he remotely knew to strike a deal. And a quarter? Yes it was 1983, but still, a quarter?

Lost Loafer

For many years, in the family I grew up in, there were only girls. After a few pregnancies, when my mom would announce she was expecting another, invariably people would ask, "Think you'll get a boy this time?" In all, five daughters were born to my parents and the hope for ever having a boy seemed dismal. But when I was almost ten years-old, my parents had their sixth and final child: a boy.

For a mother of six children, getting ready for church on Sunday mornings was an incredible task. No matter how much preparation of bathing, washing and ironing was done the night before, Sunday mornings were still chaotic for Mom.

Dad, on the other hand, would get himself ready and then go sit in the car, parked on the street in front of the house, and honk the horn until the rest of us were sent out, one by one, after passing mom's approval for our appearance being Sabbath Day worthy. Having claimed ignorance on how to curl hair, put on a child's tights, buckle little Mary Janes, or select matching ribbons, Dad had excused himself from being any sort of help with dressing five daughters on a Sunday morning.

But with the birth of a boy, things changed. Mom committed to him a special task: before he could go out to the car on Sunday mornings, he was in charge of dressing Steven. Dad complied with this request and accepted the challenge to dress one child for church each week. So on would go Steven's Sunday shirt, pants, tie, shoes, socks and belt. A quick slick of the hair with a comb and voila - one of mom's six children was ready for church.

Once ready, he and Steven would go out to the car and with the little toddler boy sitting on his dad's lap, they would honk the horn until the girls made their way to the station wagon as well.

One particularly special Sunday, the morning process had gone about as crazy as usual, except a little worse. Dad could find only one of Steven's church shoes. Since this was a semi-annual conference meeting Sunday, Mom was particularly stressed that we all look especially nice. With the added pressure and the seemingly helpless nature of Dad and Steve, Mom finally concluded in exasperation, that if they could not find the missing shoe, Steven would have to wear his old shoes to church.

Digging through closets and under beds, Dad and Steven had spent quite some time searching for the AWOL shoe. But even with the unforeseen delay, they still easily beat Mom and five daughters to the car that morning.

After the 15 mile drive to our chapel, as we piled out of the station wagon, one of my sisters noticed Steven's feet, "Hey! How come Steve is wearing one church shoe and one tennis shoe?" Mom threw an icy glare at my dad, "Roger!?"

Dad quickly explained, "The boy has two good church shoes. Why would I put two old shoes on him? This way everyone knows we have purchased nice church shoes for him, but we only could find one of them today."

The Church of Free Glazed Donuts

For many years in Iowa my dad was the leader of our church "branch," as our little congregation was called. In those days, it was common for congregations of our faith to hold yearly fund raisers to raise money for local church activities. One year, it was decided that our branch would sell refreshments along the route of a well-attended annual summer state-wide bike race.

The church members did much to prepare for the large undertaking. We were a small group so everyone's help was needed. There were signs to make, tables to haul, refreshments to purchase, and a stand to man in anticipation of the hungry and thirsty bikers.

A very cool and shady location along the bike route was selected. With beautifully painted signs posted along the route, tables set up with an array of refreshments, and plenty of beverages on tap, early one Saturday morning, our congregation stood ready to service the athletes.

As the Iowa summer sun rose, we were more than pleased with our selected sunless spot we had nicknamed Shady Grove for the day. The heat and humidity intensified and we were confident our green grass and well treed refreshment stand would be the one selected over any other by the bikers. In fact, we began to worry we might be too successful. Had we purchased enough goods? Would we sell out in only an hour or two and have to pack up early?

Soon the first bikers were spotted. We ran to the edge of the street to see their bikes coasting down the hill before us and swoosh, they flew past our stand and coasted half way up the next hill before they started furiously pedaling again. Unfortunately, they were not the only bikers that day to forgo a rare easy coast halfway up the next hill. And so the day continued with most bikers by-passing Shady Grove nestled, yes among the trees, but also at the valley of two rather sizable hills.

At the close of a long, disappointing day, after everything was cleaned up and accounted for, we realized that our fund raiser had barely broken even. A few extra goods were returned to suppliers, but some perishables were considered a loss. Among those perishables were boxes and boxes of glazed donuts. One of the church members offered a large freezer in which to store the dozens and dozens of donuts.

For the rest of the summer, Sunday afternoons were a little different. After church services concluded, all the children ages 1 - 18 were invited out on the side lawn, where we were greeted with several boxes of freshly-thawed donuts. Taking no regard for being in our Sunday best, we gobbled up the sticky sweet treats with delight.

One Sunday a traveling church authority had come to visit our branch from several miles away. He happened to have brought a couple of his young teen-age sons with him. When services had concluded, like clockwork all the kids went directly outside to await the no longer surprising dispersal of treats.

My dad made a quick appearance to supposedly check on things. The two visiting boys had also made their way outside and stood on the edge of the lawn a bit bewildered at the boxes of donuts lined up and the children freely taking the confections by the handfuls.

Quickly noticing their wide eyes my dad stepped alongside them and offered, "You boys seem a bit surprised. Everything all right?" "Yes sir," they responded. "It's just..." "Then my dad pressed, "Don't they do this at your church?" "No sir," the boys responded slowly shaking their heads, unable to take their eyes off the lawn filled with children and donuts. Not willing to let such easy targets off so easily, my dad continued, "Really? Huh. All the kids here get free refreshments after church every week. Just ask 'em." And then he abandoned the amazed boys and ran off to sneak his own handful of complimentary sugary pastries.

A Cash Cow

Every now and then I start to get melancholy for the years I spent growing up in Iowa and Pennsylvania. In those days, if there were any towns with people, stop lights, or businesses, my parents managed to live as far away from them as humanly possible. We usually dwelt somewhere on the edge of town, over the hill from a field full of stinky cows. And when the wind blew, even the slightest bit, we were reminded as to who our neighbors were.

Living in such rural areas, typical part-time jobs were difficult to come by. My senior year in high school, I landed a coveted job at the County Market and bent over backwards to make sure I was the best cashier they had, so as to not jeopardize my minimum wage position.

My younger sisters, however, were not so fortunate. With no McDonald's or car wash in town at which to seek employment, they were forced to be more creative, or desperate, depending on how you looked at it.

As an Agriculture Economics scholar, my dad always had the beat on local agriculture opportunities. One day he came home with a profitable pile of crap. It wasn't really crap, not literally. It smelled much worse. It was a 5-gallon bucket reeking of rotten cow that he firmly planted on the front porch.

Then he called all the girls outside. With the last screen door bang, we were finally lined up along the railing with our noses in an exagerated pinch so as to mitigate the odor as well as show our disdain for the interuption.

Standing above the bucket, Dad explained that he was able to attain this pile of used cow magnets for free from a nearby butchering facility. The used cow magnets had been salvaged from old dairy cows' stomachs. After some explaining, we understood that every dairy cow had one of these 3-inch missle shaped magnets crammed down their throats to permanently settle in one of their stomachs. Then, for the lifetime of the cow, the magnet would keep small metal pieces of barbed wire, and nails, and who knows what else from wearing holes in the cow's stomach lining. Typically, when the old dairy cows were finally butchered, the used magnets were discarded.

In a moment of pure genius, Dad realized we could clean of the metal shavings and cow guts that coated the magnets and sell them back to the local dairy farmers at $2 a pop. New cow magnets at the time cost double that, so there was a potential for quick sales and good profit

At this point, I loudly excused myself, overly stating I was late for work at my real job.

My sisters balked at the idea of cleaning the powerful, stinky, slippery magnets, but without any other options, after a few days, they finally dug into the bucket. Slowly, at first, they began scrubbing the bodily remnants and carefully removing the metal pieces that stuck like super glue to the powerfully strong magnets.

Amazingly, they got very good at the chore and were soon easily making much more per hour than the $3.35 I received from the grocery store.

Soon we had cow magnets in various stages of cleanliness, filling buckets across the porch and yard. In fact, they were so prolific, when Grandma Terry came to visit, she managed to snag a few and crochet covers for them. They made the dandiest refrigerator magnets ever! You could put a semesters worth of school art work under one of those and it held as firmly as if you had nailed the papers to the fridge.

But mostly those crocheted cow-turned-refrigerator magnets held my sisters' lists. Lists of how many cow magents they had cleaned, multiplied out to determine how many dollars they had earned. My meager County Market checks were held up by the thin, cheap magnets that came with the phone book advertising the town plumber.

Why Did God Make This Place?

When I was growing up my father took us on a mandatory nature hike at Waubonsie State Park every spring and every fall. He insisted we go so that we could enjoy nature and take notice of the miraculous signs of spring as well as meditate on the stunning colors of autumn.

I acknowledge the wisdom in this tradition now as an adult. As a child and teenager, such thoughts completely escaped my reasoning. We lived in a very small town with a large span of empty land in our backyard. We worked in gardens, fruit trees, and farm fields all summer accompanied by bugs and noxious weeds and so I was confident we got plenty of nature. But whatever Dad said we did. And so we hiked at Waubonsie consistently to view the change of seasons.

After a few years of this practice, the walks became mundane and my sisters Jackie and Christine and I agreed we could handle something other than the routine stroll of the geriatric park visitors. We convinced Dad we should make our own path and explore the unmarked portions of the park. And surprisingly we also persuaded him to let us be the guides. However, Dad always followed at the back of the pack, presumably to make sure since he left home with five daughters, that he would return home with five daughters. I am certain he had promised Mom at least that much.

Many times my younger sisters Michelle and Kim were helplessly victim to the adventure seeking older sisters. One fall we were on our biannual hike and had gotten severely off course. Much more so than any hikes previous to this one. Our trek had turned out to be longer than expected. By late afternoon, our packed lunches had been devoured hours ago and were nothing but a distant memory in our minds and stomachs.

Finally , we came around a knoll and found a rather steep, mangled hill that we soon realized would lead back to the main trail close to the entrance of the park. We quickly decided we had been gone long enough and we would make the now recognizable return via the direction the crow flies. As in straight up the hill. A task simple enough for a crow, but not so for five young girls. Our steep ascent was complicated by sticker bushes, slippery piles of fallen leaves and branches that although were pushed aside by the person in front of you, would mercilessly snap back in place just as your unsuspecting face passed by. In this manner we made the hairy climb. Finally at one point my youngest sister Kim, who was only five or six at the time, stopped and turned to Dad. Tired, hungry and nearly beaten she implored, “Why did God make this place?”

As I watch the news and read the newspaper, and especially today, on a day set aside for remembering the victims of the Holocaust, I can’t help but wonder as my sister did, “Why did God make this place?”

But as the thought is verbalized in my mind, I quickly know the answer. Just like the hill at Waubonsie State Park, this world was formed because it adds a measure of beauty and joy to our lives and the experiences and trials we are facing will make our final welcome home a sweet and worthwhile one. These trials are ours, and allowed to be so by a loving Heavenly Father.

And when those branches keep slapping my unsuspecting face, I try to keep my sights on the safe passage just over the rugged hill. All the while I am fully aware that I would not be truly happy forced to follow a predetermined path. And though at times my trials seem so impossibly difficult, I am reassured to know someone bigger and all-knowing is watching over me to eventually bring me safely home.