Pranksters in My House

2016 has eased into 2017, and I've done my traditional reflecting. The popular feeling seems to be that 2016 was a year we'd all rather forget--unless, as my nephew, Brad, pointed out, you're Laurie Hernandez. Not only did she win Olympic Gold in Brazil, she also took home the coveted Mirror Ball Trophy on Dancing with the Stars--go, Laurie! While I may not have won any shiny medals or trophies, I still feel like 2016 was pretty good to me. (Okay, there's that whole election debacle, but that's another blog entirely.)

Awesome Greg's and my "Borrowed Baby," our "Imaginary Granddaughter," Jordyn, came to stay with us in June, and she's completely changed the dynamics in our previously empty nest. We couldn't be happier!

Ever since she was tiny, Jordyn has loved to play tricks, and Greg has always been a favorite target. She used to delight in sneaking up behind him while he was working at his desk, and scaring the hair off his head by yelling "Boo!" then giggling uncontrollably. What is astounding to me is that no matter how many times she did it--sometimes twice in one day--he never expected it.

But now she's older. She has better skills, and a larger repertoire of pranks. She likes to bake. Especially cupcakes...

This one was from the last batch she made. When Greg saw that there were sprinkles involved, he said "Leave one without sprinkles for me, please."

"Okay."

I then watched as she hollowed out the top of a cupcake with a spoon, filled the crater with sprinkles, and then frosted over it. I wish we had a picture of Awesome's face when he bit into that mouthful of crunchy sweetness, but I'm afraid we were both laughing too hard to be concerned about capturing the moment.

But Greg likes pranks, too...

Jordyn planned her 14th birthday party in November. One of her primary activities was going to be making s'mores over a grill. She enlisted her buddy, Greg, to help her find suitable marshmallow-roasting sticks in the woods behind our house. Greg, however, had other plans for his Saturday, and they did not include whittling and carving 20 sticks--if they were able to find that many. He slipped out of the house while Jordyn and her friend, Kinsley, were still sleeping. A quick trip to Lowe's, and he was home with five packs of clean, beautiful sticks. Not wanting to deprive the girls of the thrill of the hunt, though, he went out and taped the packages randomly to trees, then came in to wake them. They donned boots and jackets and willingly headed out...

"Hey, what the...?!"

"Look what we found!"

And the real chocolate on the graham cracker was that during the party, which was held in the parking lot of an apartment complex, a neighbor (another prankster, perhaps?) called the Fire Department. A truck arrived, lights flashing and siren blaring. Fortunately, the guys just laughed when they saw the group of kids and a couple of adults roasting marshmallows over a grill.

Happy birthday to Jordyn--one I'll always remember with a smile.

Out of the Box: Haiku for the Christmas Season

A tree in a box,
Carried up a flight of stairs.
Open; assemble.

Hard to envision
A thing of beauty, aglow
With lights and baubles.

It just needs "fluffing."
A little here, some more there.
It's showing promise...

Wait--not finished yet.
This is not what I pictured.
Something must be done!

Voila! Masterpiece,
Save for lights and ornaments--
The best part of all.


Except for the people, of course. If not for My Awesome Husband Greg and My Imaginary Granddaughter Jordyn, it would all still be a tangle of branches in cardboard box in the basement. Thank you to my two favorite tree elves!

Anniversary

We were married! We'd dated, gotten engaged and survived planning our wedding. We'd enjoyed our reception so much that we were practically the last ones to leave. Now we were flying free...

This photo of the old biplane that pulled My Awesome Husband Greg and me up over the Pocono Mountains in a glider--professionally piloted, of course--then cut us free is from our DIY wedding album. It's the kind of album where the photos are permanently affixed by sticky strips of glue that turn yellow after a few years. The cellophane page covers that become brittle with time make the pages dangerous to touch, rendering the entire album unappealing, no matter how precious the memories.

It was 1973. We didn't do selfies back then, but we did take pictures of ourselves on road trips. I took this one as we started out for our "romantic" (that's what all the ads in Bride Magazine promised) Penn Hills honeymoon...

Possibly even more dangerous than texting while driving--taking photos of your spouse while driving...

Tucked among those brittle, sticky, yellowed old pages, I found a poem I had written for Awesome Greg on our 26th anniversary. Apparently I thought it was worth saving, which makes it worth repeating here, perhaps. Elizabeth Barrett Browning had nothing on me, as you can see...

How do I love thee...
How shall I explain?
I love thee like a new umbrella
Loves a gentle rain.

I love thee like a faithful dog
Loves the creaking door
That signals that his master
Has returned to him once more.

I love thee like the empty gut
Loves the morning meal,
And I love thee like a chilly morn
Craves the sunshine's feel.

I love thee like the poet,
With obsessive need to rhyme,
Loves the rare occasion
When there's ample "quiet time."

But mine will soon be over,
So this ballad must end here--
Just know somehow I love you
A little more each year.

Happy Anniversary to My Awesome Husband Greg!

A List of Memories

It comes around again tomorrow, just like it has every year since I've known him, and probably even before that--My Awesome Husband Greg's birthday.

Thinking that I'd like to honor him with a blog and thinking about how to approach writing it, I decided to borrow an idea from my friend, Cindy, who has been posting daily since the first of the year. Once a week, she shares a list. So the following is a (somewhat) chronological list of memories for you, Awesome Greg...

1. The summer when I was 11, my mom came into the kitchen one day with the mail and handed me an envelope. I'll never forget how impressive my name looked, boldly printed in black ink across the envelope. I can't remember if there was a return address, but I recall my face getting warm as Mom stood there watching me read...

"Dear Kathy, I've been watching and wondering how a pretty girl like you could be the girlfriend of an It like ______." (The name has been omitted to protect the innocent.) It was signed "Greg Fischer."

I only knew you then as the kid who lived next door to the Bommaritos. One day as we were pulling out of their driveway, there you were, up in the tree, singing "If I knew you were coming, I'd have baked a cake."

2. Riding the trolley car downtown during Lapeer Days, looking over my shoulder, and seeing you staring at me. You looked away, but I knew you'd been watching me. That was just a few days before I got your letter.

3. Seeing you in the halls at school, passing a few notes, but never having a conversation because I was so shy.

4. When I was 17 and had just broken up with _______ (again, name omitted to protect the innocent). The rich, smooth voice on the phone said, "Kathy, this is Greg Fischer." We went out that weekend, and I don't think there have been more than a dozen weekends in the last 43 years that we haven't spent together.

5. That time shortly after we started dating, when Mom and Dad went away for the weekend and left me in charge (details omitted to protect the innocent), and we got in trouble because Mom bribed Missy with candy.

6. When we got married at Immaculate Conception Church, and Pam and I giggled through the entire ceremony, kneeling beside each other up there on the altar. Maybe that's how I managed to get through it...I wasn't really paying attention.

7. When Meagan was born, and you weren't allowed to be in the delivery room. We didn't know whether we were having a boy or a girl, and the nurses thought it would be funny not to tell you. They brought her out to you and had you look in her diaper. You had been so hoping for a boy that you wore a blue shirt, but of course that all flew out the window as soon as you saw her. We drove her home from the hospital a week later in your "company car." Remember that big black Buick with the red velvet interior? We didn't even have a car seat!

Of course I have enough memories--45 years' worth--for at least a dozen blogs, but this is where this one ends. The list goes on, of course, and will hopefully continue to do so for a long time, but you know what I mean.

Happy Birthday, Honey. I love you forever!

Smoke

"I see smoke!" the young girl shouted, hoping she could be heard above the roaring engine of the tiny, ancient plane that was now circling over a thousand feet above the grassy airfield. She was sitting on a wooden box next to the pilot. Her daddy was behind her, all of his attention focused on the instructor as he prepared to take his first jump.

That's the part of the day I remember. The part where my daughter's sharp eyes alerted the crew to danger in time for the pilot to turn the plane around and make a safe landing before the insulation surrounding the fuel line burned completely through.

It was summer in North Carolina. I was pregnant, and it was hot--especially at that airfield. My Awesome Husband Greg was Operations Manager for WMAG. On-air personality, Rod Davis, was going to do a live broadcast as he parachuted from a plane. As Ops Manager, there was no way that Greg Fischer was not going to be involved!

My daughter, Meagan, who was eight, was also eager to participate. They gave her a shirt...

We gathered at the tiny airfield for the jump. First, Meagan and I watched as the guys took instructions, and then practiced rolling off the tail gate of a station wagon as it drove across the grass--without chutes.

A few more instructions, and they suited up.

Meagan didn't even look to me for permission when the pilot asked if she'd like to go up in the plane. That left me on the ground, nervous and uncomfortable, with a bunch of men I didn't know. I was only half listening to their muttered conversation, when I heard one of them say, "Uh-oh. They're coming back." Another one said, "There's smoke."

What, me worry?

The funny thing is that I don't remember how I felt as I watched the smoking plane land, and my husband and daughter get off safely. Meagan came running over to me, eager to let me know that she was the one who first saw the smoke. The plane didn't burn, but the jump had to be postponed for a few days to allow for repairs.

The day of the jump, Greg did great. Although I couldn't possibly have seen his face from where I stood on the ground, I have a clear image in my head of how he must have looked just before he stepped from the plane and trusted the attached tether to open his chute. He said he had never been so nervous in his life. He also said that, given the opportunity, he would jump again. He still says that.

Rod's live broadcast went well, but he scared all of the spectators as he pulled the wrong rope on his chute and floated over the expressway and some power lines before he landed, safely, but out of sight--of us, and his target.

Meagan was not allowed to go up in the plane again. But she did make a final inspection.

I've never asked her if she'd like to jump.

Carnations

Gilli flowers, members of the carnation family.

Today, for Valentine's Day, my daughter sent me a bunch of carnations that grew on the side of a volcano in Bogota, Colombia. She didn't even realize how much I love carnations...

When I first started dating My Awesome Husband Greg, he was working at Perkins' Flowers. He was tall and skinny back then. He still is, but then he had chin-length hair, which he wore parted in the middle. I thought he looked like the guy in Three Dog Night. (Coincidentally, "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" was our song.) He always wore boot-cut jeans with his "shit kickers," and a tee shirt. I remember a tan corduroy jacket with a belt. My heart did cartwheels whenever I saw him.

It was early spring, and we liked to walk at night. We'd get to Perkins', and Greg would let us in with a key that was hidden in a place that was (ahem) not exactly hard to reach. We'd go in and walk between the flats of carnations. It smelled wonderful. We walked and talked and fell in love in that damp, fragrant jungle.

We hadn't started dating until March, so there were no Valentine carnations for me that year, but on St. Patrick's Day, he gave me a white carnation that had been "tipped" in green.

Another time, when I had been grounded from seeing him for a week, he stopped the delivery van near where I was walking to work, jumped out and, without saying a word, handed me a white carnation and drove off. (Don't tell Mom.)

And when I had to go to Muskegon for a week for the Miss Michigan pageant, he came to my house early in the morning and handed me three yellow carnations wrapped in wet tissue and aluminum foil. I carried those flowers with me all day. They were as exhausted as I was by the time I was escorted to my "home" for the next few nights. I cried when I saw what I had put them through. But a night in a glass of water worked miracles. I awoke in a strange bed in a strange house in a strange town, but my beautiful flowers were the first thing I saw, and I knew everything was going to be all right.

The gift I received today from our daughter reminded me of how much I love carnations.

Three Momentous Christmases--Part One...

...The One Where Greg Asks Me To Marry Him (Or, as Greg would call it, "Thanks to Bev.")

Christmas 1972. We had been dating for almost two years, and I knew Greg was the one. I kind of knew he felt the same way. I dared to wonder if he might not think Christmas would be a good time to ask me to marry him. You know, merry...marry, and all. Deciding that that would be a great idea, I let my imagination play. I wondered how he'd ask. Would he take me someplace fancy, get down on his knee, maybe? Would he ask my dad for permission?

Then he started asking me to guess what he was giving me for Christmas. Hmmm. Clues? He said it was round. I knew it! I guessed "record album?" No. Not that. "Frisbee?" Nope. Guess again...I couldn't come up with a thing (wink, wink). I was happy with my little fantasies, but it was hard to wait.

One morning about a week before Christmas, Greg pulled up outside the trailer that was temporarily housing the savings and loan where I worked. He stuck his head in the door and asked if I could come outside for a minute. There were no customers, so Jane, the head teller, gave a nod. I think I knew what was coming down, but I couldn't figure out the awkward timing. There he stood in a tee-shirt and jeans, his jacket unzipped. I remember exactly how I felt, but I can't remember the words he said. He just told me that he had been planning to ask me to marry him, had bought a ring, and had showed it to Dave, my sister's boyfriend. Later, Dave told him that he had shared the information with Bev, but that she had promised not to tell. Greg, not sure that he could trust my sister with such enormous tidings, decided to hurry up and surprise me before it was too late.

That's how I came to be engaged, shivering outside a mobile home at the end of a parking lot on December 19, 1972. Oh--I said "Yes."

The Bird

Technically, my commitment to blog every day ended two days ago, but I haven't been able to stop. I was thinking of it as an obsession; it was bound to happen. But my friend, Cindy, who had made the same commitment, also wrote yesterday. She referred to it as her "writing habit." That sounds better.

Anyway, I thought of one more story that I haven't told yet...

Do you know who George Gaynes is? You will most likely remember him--if you remember him at all--from several of the Police Academy movies. He was also in Doctors' Wives and The Way We Were. Neither one of those merited him a credit in the "1999 Video Movie Guide." I never saw Doctors' Wives (which, by the way, got a black turkey silhouette as a rating), but I remember my mother saying that he had been shot off of Diane Cannon while making love. In The Way We Were, he played a doorman. He was in a scene with both Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand. I think both of those roles should have netted him at least an honorable mention, but I was not allowed to vote.

I know George Gaynes from when he came to Mott Community College in Flint, Michigan in 1971 or 1972 for a role in The Heiress. My Awesome Husband Greg was "Morris." At the time, Mr. Gaynes had only Doctors' Wives to his credit, but it was still a big deal for such an esteemed actor to grace our community college theater with his presence.

Greg's mom deserved an academy award for her role as "Most Thrilled" in all of this. She asked Greg to invite Mr. Gaynes to the house for dinner, which he did. G.G. accepted!

At that point in my life, I'm sure I didn't know George Gaynes from Santa Claus, but I was happy to be invited as well. I was after all, not yet Awesome Greg's wife. My role was that of "girlfriend." I was living in my own apartment near the library, and working at First Federal of Oakland, which was housed in a trailer beside the Yankee's parking lot out on M-21. I had no car. Greg, being as awesome then as he is now, often picked me up after work and drove me home. I was expecting him the day Mr. Gaynes was coming to dinner. But when it was time for me to leave, there was no sign of his awesome wheels. I was steamed, and walked the mile to my apartment in a huff, talking to myself on the way just to fuel my sense of injustice at being forgotten.

Meanwhile, Greg had the revered thespian in his car and was running only a little bit late. He said, "We'll go by and see if we can catch her." So he drove along the same route I had just walked--in uncomfortable shoes--and caught up with me when I was a block from my apartment. Caught midway through what I'm certain was a spectacular mental rant, I heard his horn and saw the light turquoise of his mother's BelAire out of the corner of my eye at the same moment. My left hand shot up with the middle finger extended.

It was a good story at dinner that night. Mr. Gaynes, in his deep theatrical voice, had said, "My goodness! Does she always greet you that way?"

(The house pictured above was owned by the Finnell family. I had spent many happy hours babysitting there. My apartment was in a house located behind this one. The incident related in this post happened right here, in front of the Finnell's beautiful home.)

I Was Thinking...

My Awesome Husband Greg eating ice cream in Muskegon, Michigan, July 2013.


I was thinking about how you always fall asleep halfway through an episode of Seinfeld with your mouth open and your head cocked off at a weird angle, and sometimes you don't even close your eyes; but then...

I thought about how you get up at 5:30 every morning, even on weekends, to let the cat out and start the coffee, and how you always bring me a cup with a straw in it and set it on my bedside table so I can just lean over and sip it as I lie there looking out the window, waking up gently.

I was thinking about how there are always wet, sweaty clothes (yours, not mine) draped in the laundry room and the bathroom and on the deck and in the garage, and it seems like they're never going to find their way to the laundry hamper; but then...

I thought about how a few times a week--if it's not raining too hard, but sometimes if it's been raining for several days, and you feel like you've got to "just do it," you dress for the weather, put on your shoes and hit the road running so you can stay strong and healthy and alert--yes, for you, but also for me--and I don't have to worry and nag you about getting enough exercise.

I was thinking about how you borrowed my best tweezers the other day--the ones that belonged to my mom, and I've never been able to find another pair that worked as well--and did God knows what (I probably don't want to know) with them, and then you didn't put them back in the tray, and I had to call you at work to find out if you knew where they were, and you had to think about it for a while before you called me back and told me to look in the pocket of your green shorts, and you are sooooooooo damned lucky they were there; but then...

I thought about how if you have anything that I need, you are more than willing to let me have/use/wear/drink/eat/sell/read/break it, and if you don't have something I need, you'll go to the store and get it for me.

I was thinking about how you lose your temper quickly, with little prompting (oh, all right--after I've pushed a few of your buttons), and you yell at me very vigorously; but then...

I thought how you go out and come back in and you're not mad anymore, and neither am I, and we've been married for 42 years, probably because of stuff like that, and I love you very much.

Boo-Ray for Bollywood

Carolina Theatre, Greensboro, North Carolina--MYSTIC INDIA: THE WORLD TOUR...

My Awesome Husband Greg and I were there. I wish I had more words, because the ones I know cannot begin to describe the extravaganza of exuberance I saw tonight. The music, the costumes, the joy!

I was all like:

But Greg...well, Greg was all like:

If you ask him, he'll tell you it was one long (two hours), repetitive dervish dance. By the second act, I think he knew he was being annoying when he kept leaning over and whispering in my ear, "Ooh, another costume change!" yet he still kept doing it. I actually began to detect sarcasm.

So I'd be lying if I said "a great time was had by all." But I had a hell of a good time, in spite of Mr. Poop. In fact, ten years ago, I would have been on the phone tomorrow, looking for a place to sign us both up for Bollywood lessons!

Why I Love You -- A Story for My Awesome Husband Greg

1973, when our love was new and our hair was brown...

Tomorrow is My Awesome Husband Greg's birthday. A while back, I was given an assignment: Write about a winter memory. I wrote this about a time when we were young, when our lives stretched out before us like a wondrous adventure. Maybe we're not so young anymore (maybe we wouldn't want to be), but the years have been good to us. I try to hold on to memories that can make me feel that way again.

***************

Winter doldrums are a thing, especially in Michigan, and especially when the calendar says it should be spring.

In Michigan, there is no such thing as "early" spring. Maybe a day or two to tease your senses, but winter always returns. Michigan has four seasons, and all of them are beautiful. Most of them don’t stay around long enough to wear out their welcome. Winter is Michigan’s default season. In most of my memories of Michigan, it is winter.

It was March, 1973. Winter was hanging on too long. My happy heart longed to put on spring cottons and skip in the grass with bare feet, to fill my arms with wild flower and then toss them into the air so they could rain down on my face.

I had every reason to be grass-skipping happy that year. My boyfriend, with whom I was madly in love, had asked me to marry him, and had given me a diamond ring for Christmas. But spring flowers were as much the stuff of dreams that March as the fairy tale future I envisioned for myself every time I looked at that ring on my finger.

So I sank into the doldrums. Evenings alone -- long, wintry nights, with a reception-poor television and a lamp that was barely bright enough for me to read by -- I would throw little pity parties for myself. I would sit in my cramped, dreary apartment, eating food I didn’t like, and imagine my charming Greg, laughing and flirting with co-workers and customers alike in the department store where he worked several nights a week.

Of course none of this was Greg’s fault. He always came after work, if only to kiss me good night and make sure I was okay. He was always in good humor, full of funny stories and songs to cheer me up. I’d like to say that I nobly tried to keep my blue funk a secret, but that wouldn’t be true. No, I made sure he knew that I was feeling morbidly sorry for myself.

The last thing that I could imagine brightening my mood was going out into that mean, cold air, but that is precisely what we did one snowy March day. Greg said he had something to show me.

We didn’t exactly bundle up, but we made an effort. Boots under jeans – jeans with legs so wide, it was like wearing skirts on each of our legs. The biting wind could blow straight up them, literally freezing our butts. They were long enough to cover our boots, allowing the snow through which we were trudging to wick up as far as our knees. Jackets, gloves, and we were ready for anything. The warmth that was not provided by our clothing or common sense would surely be taken care of by the indescribable love we shared, right?

After we had walked around and communed with winter for the better part of an hour, after our jeans were soaked halfway up our legs and starting to freeze, after our fingers had become so numb from the cold we couldn’t even tell if we were wearing gloves, we decided to take our adventure on the road.

As the car warmed up, we did, too. I was clueless, but Greg knew where we were going. There were several old, abandoned houses outside of town, and we pretended they were having “open houses.” Open indeed. No windows to break; that had already been done. Clearly, we were not the first “customers.” There were clothes strewn all over the empty rooms, and strange smells that I didn’t care to identify.

One of the houses on our tour -- my favorite -- had a barn. I climbed up on top of a pile of hay, where Greg took my picture, trying to look all serious and dismal like the painting of that couple with pitchforks. But the truth is that I wasn’t feeling dismal anymore. Greg, whom 42 years later, I refer to as “My Awesome Husband Greg,” knew exactly what I needed to shake the doldrums that winter. Spring came, then summer, and in the fall, we got married.

Greg may not always know what I need, but he gets it right often enough that I’m still here, ready for our next adventure.

***************

Happy Birthday, My Gregory. I love you forever.

The Letter

Coming up on our 42nd wedding anniversary in September, this was a fun memory to revisit and share...

Dear Kathy, I've been watching and wondering how a pretty girl like you could be the girlfriend of an IT like Willum (phonetic for William) Malcolm.

I’m standing in the kitchen of our house on Franklin Street with my mom, who has just handed me an envelope from the stack of mail she’s brought in. “Greg Fischer? What’s Greg Fischer sending you?”

Honestly, I have no idea, but I can feel my face getting red. I know Greg is the kid who lives next door to the Bommaritos. Mom and Irene Bommarito are good friends, and our two families often intermingle. I notice Greg, because he tries very hard to be noticed. He does things like climb up into a tree between the two houses, where he sings "If I knew you were a-comin', I’d have baked a cake.” I’m so shy, I would rather disappear from the face of the earth than let him know I that I’ve noticed him noticing me. But I think he’s cute, and I admire both his style and his smile.

Now, in our sunny kitchen, Mom, hands me the envelope with my name printed in bold, black letters. She is obviously waiting for me to open it, so I go ahead, although I would prefer to do so in the semi-privacy of the bedroom I share with my sister. The letter, like the envelope, is printed in black ink, pressed firmly into the paper. Mom would be able to read it from across the room, so I don’t bother trying to hide anything. After his comment about "Willum," Greg goes on to explain how he and William are friends, even though William goes to the Catholic school with me, and Greg attends the Lutheran school. He tells me again that he thinks I’m pretty, and asks me to write back.

My mother says, “It’s okay, if he wants to come over to the house and play with you kids, but I don’t like this letter-writing business. You can write to him one time and invite him over to play, but that’s it – tell him no more letters!”

Of course, I will die before I do that. I am beside myself with pleasure that this boy, who thinks I'm pretty, has gone to the trouble of writing me a letter in an attempt to “steal” me away from his friend. I wait until Mom is busy with something else before I sit down to reply. I then take a nickel from the desk and walk across the street to the Post Office to mail it myself.

I do not invite Greg Fischer over to play. I’m sorry to say that, in my letter, I dump William Malcolm on the spot. I explain that I’m not really his girlfriend, that it’s just something the kids at school say. After all, what does it mean to be someone’s girlfriend when you are 11 years old? For me, it means trying to stand next to William whenever any kind of a line is formed. It does not mean we ever actually speak to each other, and it certainly does not mean going on dates!

I do tell Greg that my mom doesn’t want me writing any more letters, but he sends another one. This time, I am the one who gets the mail from the box. Mom never sees the second letter. It’s the one where Greg asks if maybe we can just arrange to drop messages in the bush beside the church behind my house. He tells me to look for one the next day.

This kid has cast some kind of spell on me. I, who cannot sleep at night if I have disobeyed or disrespected my parents in any way, sneak over to the church the next day, and find it there it in the bushes, same black ink scratched almost through the paper.

The next time we visit the Bommaritos, I do not see Greg until we are pulling out of the driveway. He rides up the street on his bicycle with a sack of Grit newspapers anchored to the fender. Stopping the car, my mom calls him over, as I try to disappear between my sisters in the back seat.

“Greg, I told Kathy she can invite you over to the house to play, but I do not want you two writing letters to each other, do you understand?”

Greg shifts the weight of his bike between his legs, pulls a newspaper out of his bag and says, “Okay. Would you like to buy a Grit?” Mom buys a Grit from him, and admonishes him once again – “No more letters.”

We continue to correspond via our secret “drop” for the rest of the summer, into the school year. Some time in seventh grade the letters stop. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that Greg has become interested in another girl – one who is actually able to speak to him, one who he sees every day at school. I save his letters for a while, and then one day, with my sisters as witnesses, I make a little ritual out of tearing them up one by one, and throwing them away.

High school starts, and everyone now attends the same school – no more Catholic, Lutheran, whatever. I see Greg. He is still cute, and I am still shy. Even though we are in a couple of the same classes, we do not speak. Still, I ask him to write in my yearbook. He writes, “To the shyest and cutest girl I’ve known.”

A year after graduation, I am living at home. My mom is in the kitchen with me when the phone rings on a Saturday afternoon. I answer, and a deep voice on the other end of the line says, “Kathy? This is Greg Fischer.” I can feel my face getting warm as I say, “It is?”

Years later, when we are moving into our first apartment together, we discover that two or three of the letters that I wrote to Greg have survived. I regret that I don’t still have the ones he wrote to me.

"You Are My Special Angel..."

Tree Top Angel (12/16/10, LRDC)

This little angel has been with us since the first Christmas we were married -- 1973. I remember picking her out at Meier Thrifty Acres with My Awesome Husband Greg, along with a box of little puppies and kittens in baskets (ornaments, that is). The puppies and kittens now reside with our Beautiful Daughter Meagan, but the angel is still standing duty at the top of our tree, 37 years later. She looks pretty good for her age, don't you think? Sure, her hairstyle is a little outdated, and I doubt that the color is natural any longer (if it ever was), but all in all, I'd say she's holding up pretty well!

Well, actually, she's only topped 36 of our trees. She got a break last year, because that was the Christmas all of the boxes didn't make it down from the attic. It was Christmas Eve, and Greg said, "That's it -- There's enough stuff on that tree!" So our pretty little angel, along with a bunch of Santas and tiny Christmas trees, remained in her shoebox. (Maybe that's why she looks extra perky this year.)



My Awesome Husband Greg Angel (12/16/10, LRDC)

This is my other Christmas Angel. See how he's risking life and limb, standing on a wobbly stool (Okay, so you can't actually see the stool -- Use your imagination!) so that I won't have to? That's just one of the millions of things this man does for me. I could call him my Every Day Angel, but that sounds dumb. Besides, I already call him My Awesome Husband Greg. I think that's enough.

Bow Tie: The Award

My Awesome Husband Greg and Some Other Guys Wearing Bow Ties (Kate's LRDC, Oct. 24, 2009)

Last weekend the awards gods were smiling on the Fischers...

First, as I've already documented in this blog ("Barn Scene/Pencake Free Ecard">, Jan. 9, 2010), I found out that I had been named a co-winner in a drawing contest. Nothing worth blogging about, really, but I was inordinately pleased with myself for several hours.

Then, as My Awesome Husband Greg and I were on our way to the installation banquet for the Greensboro Tarheel Chorus later that evening, he informed me that he'd been informed by our Dazzling Daughter Meagan that her Awesome (but Untouted) Husband Joe had been dubbed "Employee of the Year" the night before! Now that's something to blog about. Unfortunately, Meagan doesn't blog; and since Joe doesn't, either, I get that he's not the kind of guy who likes to tell everyone about everything he does. So I'll just say that we're very proud of him, feel certain that he deserved the honor, and leave it at that...

But really, congratulations, Joe -- We've very proud of you, and know that you deserved it!

(On top of that, Meagan and Joe's team won the company's annual Trivial Pursuit tournament, but they probably wouldn't want me bragging about that either.)

Now let's see...Seems like there was something else...

Oh yeah! That installation banquet I mentioned earlier...the one we were on our way to when I heard Joe and Meagan's good news? Well, that was where MAHG was given a fine-looking framed document declaring that he was the Barbershopper of the Year! (That's BOTY. Bow Tie. Get it?)

You talk about proud!

Of course, I'm talking about myself being proud, not Greg. Greg was, in fact, humbled by the honor. He really hadn't seen it coming. But everything that the group's president said in presenting the award was absolutely true: Greg is always there, ready to help in any capacity necessary; but more than that, he's a natural leader -- he's able to see what needs to be done to improve a situation, knows how to get it done, and does it.

Greg's like that at home, too, but I'm sorry to say that he doesn't get plaques and accolades for it. He probably should, but he's lucky if I stop complaining and remember to say thanks every once in a while. That must be why he was so surprised to be lauded for those qualities.

Well, let me say here that MAHG also deserved his award, and that I was very proud to stand up with him that night (even though I'd worked all day, hadn't had time to put on fresh makeup, was wearing colors that were not on my "most flattering" list and my hair looked like a pile of multi-colored crap -- Sorry, Honey!)

Oh, one more thing: Greg has a wonderful voice, and he loves to sing. That's why he joined the Chorus. His singing around the house (as he has done nearly every single day that we've been together) is one thing about him that I will never take for granted!

Happy Father's Day to My Awesome Husband Greg

My Awesome Husband Greg Masquerading as My Awesome James Thurber, June 2009 (Kate's LRDC)

M y life would be so very different without you in it.
Y ou are that nagivational thingy -- whatever you call it
-- that keeps me on course (sort of).

A lways ready -- and mostly willing -- to fulfill my every desire...
W hatever I did to deserve you must have been good! (Wish I could remember what it was so I could do it some more!)
E ven though you'd never guess it from the way I act sometimes (okay -- most of the time), I truly do appreciate the wonderfulness of you!
S ometimes I shudder when I let myself think about what I might have become, if not for your love and strength...
O ne of those crazy ladies who just walks around striking up conversations with complete strangers in public places because she doesn't have any place else to be?
M aybe I would have joined the circus, probably as a clown/acrobat or something.
E ventually, though, our paths would have surely crossed...Probably at the circus one night, where you, freshly broken up from whatever other relationship you may have gotten yourself into, would have come, seeking to lighten your heavy heart. (Isn't that what the circus is for? I never really knew.) Our eyes would have met, and I would have fallen off the tightrope right into your lap...You can't fight Destiny, you know!

H ow fortunate for us, though, that we didn't need to waste time on all that stuff. (I could have been hurt!)
U seless to ponder such things now.
S omehow, even though we were only 11 years old when we first became aware of each other, our fate was sealed.
B ut I can only speak for myself, really...
A ll right -- I knew that my fate was sealed!
N o one else would even come close to being the answer to my dreams, although it would be ten more years before we made it "official!"
D amn! I must have been psychic!

G ood times have far outweighed the bad since then.
R egardless of the occasional messes and confusion we (I) may have created as we got on with the business of living, there is one thing on which I am absolutely clear:
E very day we've shared has been a pixel in the "big picture" or our lives, and as such, has been necessary -- and precious.
G etting this far with you as my partner has been a remarkable journey, and I am very much looking forward to the rest of it!

I love you, and am so grateful to have you, MAHG! You are the best husband -- and the best father to our two amazing kids -- that I could possibly have imagined -- had I been given the privilege of making you up!



(Our kids: Dominic, Meagan -- and Joe -- Father's Day 2009 (Kate's LRDC)


HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, MAHG!

Since You Asked...

Maybe it's just me...

Does it seem like there's one question you get asked more often than any other -- perhaps the same question every day?

For me, it's "Seriously -- What were you thinking?"

Well, I think I may have some answers to that question...

What was I thinking when (once again) I loaded the dishwasher "improperly," allowing the spoons to spoon, and placing the coffee pot over the water sprayer?

I imagine I was thinking As soon as I'm finished with this, I can dig through my big box of decorative trims to see if I have something I can incorporate into the curtains I'm going to make for the living room...

What was I thinking when I left a huge pile of decorative trims in the middle of the bed, instead of putting them back from whence they had come?

I was probably thinking Oh -- My Awesome Husband Greg's gone to the Post Office. Now would be a good time for me to dance in the living room!

What was I thinking when I ignored the water that got splashed behind the faucet on the bathroom sink?

Well, I know you thought I was thinking So what's the big deal? It's just a little water. I'm going to leave it there for someone else to clean up. But in actuality, I was thinking I wonder if there's anything made with nuts and dark chocolate in the cupboard...


What on earth was I thinking when I yelled "Stop!" as you approached a yellow light with the full weight your [huge] foot on the gas pedal?

That's easy...I'm pretty sure I was thinking Oh My God! He isn't going to stop -- We're going to die!!!!

And what was I thinking when I ignored your "suggestion" that I could roll up the garden hose and hang it back on the hook after you had pulled out of the driveway?

Another no-brainer...What do you think of whenever you see a garden hose? Snake!!! (Now why would I want to touch that?)

And finally...

What was I thinking when I spent more time than I was ever alloted running up and down the stairs to edit posts and make adjustments to my facebook wall?

Obviously, I was thinking This is so very important -- I must get it absolutely right so that the gazillions of people who read my blog and check my wall don't get the wrong idea...

Well, I hope this has helped clear some things up for you. Have a wonderful day now...


(Photo: Greg returning from his run 6/7/09, Kate's LRDC)

A Bee in Your Bonnet? That's Nothin'!

"Greg in a Straw Hat," MerleFest 2009 (Kate's LRDC)

Now surely you've seen a gentleman's head

With a straw hat perched upon it;

And you've most likely heard of the woman, as well,

Who had a bee within her bonnet.

But have you seen a wasp who built its nest

In a fedora made of straw?

"Settin' Up the Kids' Room," 5/11/09 (Kate's LRDC)

Well, before he plopped it on his head,

I guess Greg's glad he saw!

"Fedora Wasp's Nest," 5/11/09 (Kate's LRDC)

The End

(for now, anyway)

Things I've Learned About My Husband on...

"f is for facebook" by Kate, 5/11/09 (MSN Paint)

...Well, actually that title might be a little misleading. Perhaps I should call this post "The Thing I Learned About My Husband on Facebook." Or maybe, "Things I've Learned About My Husband Relative to Facebook."

You see, My Awesome Husband Greg doesn't really do much with his facebook account. Oh, he's reached out to a few old high school pals and, with a little help from his family, he was able to decide on a photo for his profile. And of course he's "confirmed" the Friends that have invited him. Other than that...

Well, let's just say Greg doesn't seem to embrace -- or even to grasp -- the entire purpose of fb, at least as I understand it: An ongoing "news" feed, keeping you informed as to what all of your Friends are thinking, eating, doing, reading, planning, etc. (At least as much as they care to share.) Plus, there all of those fascinating quizzes and questionnaires! And, oh, the photo albums and videos!

I know, right?

Alas, what I have found out about MAHG relative to fb is that he's the FBG (that's facebook Grinch)!

And just how did I happen to make this painful discovery, you ask? (Yes, you did! I know I heard someone ask!)

Well, it all began with a hunch I got the other night as we were spending some quality time together, each of us hunched (Oh, there I go again -- cracking myself up!) over our own computer, simultaneously monitoring the activities of our respective fb Friends. Absorbed though I was in what the Friend of one of my Friends' daughter's Friends was thinking about doing that night, I gradually became aware of a steady stream of colorful language blaring -- yes, blaring -- from the next room. Thinking that MAHG must have logged off his computer and was now watching some type of sporting activity on TV, I hollered,

"HEY -- WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?!!"

(I really didn't want to get up and go in there.)

But it was not the TV he was yelling at. It was his computer. It was facebook -- maybe even his Friends!

Apparently, wanting to go back and re-read (for me) something that he had written on Someone's "wall" (and you don't even get in trouble for that on facebook!) several days ago, he had quickly become extremely irate at all of the little bulletins informing him that So-and-So liked some other So-and-So's comment, or that Someone was having beans for supper. He didn't want to read that Another-One had taken a quiz and found out that the true color of her heart was black. And he certainly didn't care to know that What's-'is-Name wanted to punch three of the Teletubbies in the face!

And what he really, really hated most of all?

Apparently everything that I had had to offer in the last week or so! (OK, I admit it -- had I given a moment's thought to those dozens of little gems I put out there almost daily becoming evidence of the amount of time I spend "facing" people, I probably wouldn't have been quite so prolific!)

Ah well, I need worry no longer...I have now been officially relegated to "hidden" status by the FBG!

And the other thing I learned about MAHG relative to facebook is that apparently one time -- and one time only (sort of like the "save" option on American Idol this year) -- someone (and of course I mean someone other than me) would be able to talk him into taking one of those little quizzes that delves deep inside the psyche of anyone who dares, and reveals (for all of his Friends to see) some truly amazing, amazingly true (and deeply hidden) aspect of his personality.

Thanks to My Sparkling Son Dominic winning the honor of being the someone who talked his dad into taking the "Which X-Man Are You?" quiz, I came to learn that MAHG is...

Cyclops!

"My Awesome Husband Cyclops" by Kate, 5/11/09

(Original photographer unknown.)

Now that's awesome, right?

Another Awesome Husband Blog

Ah, my Awesome Husband, Greg...

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Actually, Bloggees, I can't seem to find the words to describe him for you...

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Here -- They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Let this one do the talking for me...

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My Awesome Husband Greg, circa 2008-2009, by Kate

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Actually, I have come up with some words...

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Vanilla, Wafers, with, Black, Magic-Marker, Eyeballs, Drawn, on and Them.

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How'd I do, Bloggees?

Payment Due...

Remember this pathetic little drawing, Bloggees?

It's the test I took for the U.S. Census Bureau -- and aced -- but that's beside the point, since they didn't hire me ANYWAY!

I used the picture to illustrate my February 11 post, Testing...Testing...

At the time, I was dismayed because I could not figure out what had happened to Paint on my computer. The picture looked perfectly normal when I did it, but when I uploaded it to my blog, voila -- cute little minuscule test! So in all my discombobulation, I began the post with a disclaimer: "When I find out who's responsible, there will be hell to pay, believe you me!"

Well, being a blogger of my word, I have come to announce that that day has come! There really is someone who is responsible for this, and it's not me! (Unless you point the finger of blame at me for my paltry knowledge about computer settings. Is there someone willing to cast the first stone? Okay. I thought not.)

Now at this point, I am not sure exactly what shall constitute "hell;" first, the accusation:

This may come as a shock to some of you, but the person guilty for this embarrassingly tiny illustration is -- my Awesome Husband Greg!

Yes, he is! Apparently, one day on his way to the bathroom, he happened to glance at my computer monitor. Being unable to read whatever was playing at the moment from the bathroom door (a mere ten feet or so behind my chair), he decided to fix it for me. So, unbeknownst to me, he actually sat down in my chair and messed with settings and images...things like that.

Now you're probably wondering why, when I next came to occupy that very same chair, I didn't realize that someone had been messing with settings and images and things like that, and just do some messing of my own. Well, that is something to consider, I suppose. UNLESS YOU KNOW ME AT ALL!

Eventually, I did come to mention to my Awesome Husband Greg that something had happened to my computer to make everything appear larger than life -- or at least larger than the screen on my monitor. I even asked him if he knew how to make it the way it used to be, back when I could view an entire document without having to scroll back and forth horizontally -- an activity made particularly difficult for me by my tiny-little-focus-point progressive lenses.

Do you know what he said, Bloggees? That man -- the person responsible for the size relationship between the "paper" and my artwork in MSN Paint being all out of whack (although I hadn't yet made that connection) -- that very same man stood before me and said, "I don't know anything about that, Babe."

Well, I've been thinking about what his punishment should be. There is one extenuating circumstance which may allow me to foresake Life in Hell and simply issue a Temporary Hell sentence -- the fact that my Awesome Husband Greg is beginning to forget a large portion of each day's occurrences. That means that, even though he did screw up my computer -- he admitted as much -- he may have no actual recall of doing so. Bloggees, I think I've reached my decision:

I am going to ignore my Awesome Husband Greg until he notices that he's being ignored.

That's it. We'll see if he ever messes with my computer again!

Oh, by the way -- my Brilliant Daughter Meagan wins my eternal gratitude for unfixing what her father fixed. And now that things appear to be normal again -- at least on my monitor -- here's that test the way I intended you to see it:

(And this post has been an exercise in making something out of nothing.)