Rambling Josh

I recently was in Salt Lake City to attend and present at a conference with a few of my colleagues. I won’t bore you with the details of the conference, but it was a pleasant trip and a good conference. We didn’t have much time for extensive sightseeing, but we managed to mosey around downtown a bit while in search of local fare to fill our gullets with.

I often hear some of my colleagues complain about “kids nowadays” and their students constantly farting around with their smart phones in class. To combat this they implement a variety of classroom electronics rules and policies in an attempt to divert student’s gazes away from their shiny “Google machines”. This “Google gaze” used to bother me, but then I thought about “why” it bothered me.

I think it mainly bothered me because I had spent three hours preparing for this one hour lecture, a lecture that I was sure my students would find quite educational and enlightening, and yet, some preferred what their smart phone had to offer. So the “why” turned out to be about me, not them. About “me” lecturing about what “I” thought they “should” be interested in. Strangely enough, a 20-year old college student may not be interested in what a 44-year old college professor has to say.

Faced with this revelation I decided to step off the stage, shut my mouth, and let the students and their interests guide the course. Strangely enough, 20-year old college students are very interested in what they are personally interested in, and will choose to engage with real people rather than their phones when not being bored to tears by some 44-year old college professor who thinks he knows what they are interested in. Go figure.

The conference I attended was regarding college education, which meant that there were college professors presenting to other college professors (poetic justice). I found some of the presentations to be engaging and interesting and some of them not so much. What I found most interesting was the number of college professors gazing at their smart phones while being lectured by other college professors. If only their students could have seen them.

My phone is not so smart, so even when a presentation is boring the shine off of my shoes, I’m forced to rely on old fashioned doodling to keep from slumping to the floor in heap of disinterest. Doodling…Googling…two sides of the same coin I suppose.

My son called while I was listening to what I’m sure was a riveting presentation had I not been doodling. Thankfully, I always put my phone on vibrate, because nobody can hear a phone vibrate. Although nobody can hear a whispering, hushed voice in a small, quiet room exclaiming, “I can’t talk right now” I did have the common courtesy not to answer.

After the presentation I called my son to see what he wanted or needed, because when he calls he either wants or needs something, and quite often mistakes wants for needs. He answered, and I said, “Hello, need something?” His response caught me off guard, “No, just calling to see what you’re doing, and how the conference was going.” Surprised, but still skeptical, I waited for the follow-up need or want to come as we chatted, but it never came.

Could it be that a seventeen-year-old boy would call his dad to just talk? It was an enjoyable visit that didn’t include me having to come up with any defensive arguments against a need or a want, or any cash for a need or want. I’m still not convinced that I wasn’t being softened up for an upcoming need or want, but as it currently stands, a son called his dad just to talk. Kid’s nowadays.

I rarely watch the news on television, but I do enjoy reading the newspaper each day to find out all the local, and worldly, goings-on. Reading the news with a cup of coffee, in the peace and quiet of our back deck, is a much more pleasant mode of delivery than having the news blabbed at me by one of the many talking heads on television.

Talking heads topped off with luxurious piles of hair, mouthfuls of shiny, perfect rows of teeth, all hovering above an impeccable ensemble of attire and accessories. One clone after another, blah, blah, blah, blah, look at me talk, blah, blah, blah. The local news isn’t quite so painful, the talking heads don’t take themselves as serious, but I have a difficult time enduring three weather reports in a thirty minute news cast.

I have a perfectly good window, or two, I can take a gander out to get an up-to-date weather report, or I can even step outside if I desire a more accurate climatic assessment. All of this without having to watch a meteorologist stammer and orchestrate little weather symbols around a green screen, and act as though they are in some way responsible for the weather conditions. “See that sunshine? I did that. That breeze? All me.”

The kids were always concerned about what the weather was going to be like when they were getting dressed for school in the morning. “Should I wear a short sleeve or long sleeve…shorts or pants…?” I would generally respond, “You are going to be in school, you’re not a longshoreman or a lumberjack, what’s it matter what you wear?” They would roll their eyes and Google the forecast. Hate to wind up stranded on the monkey bars wearing inadequate attire.

I do read the weather report in the newspaper though, actually I read everything in the newspaper, front-to-back…comics to classifieds. Occasionally, if I have a lot of time on my hands, or I just don’t feel like moving anything but my brain, I’ll do the crossword puzzle. My wife prefers Sudoku. Like most things numeral orientated (other than batting averages and bingo cards), I find Sudoku extremely confusing. My wife tried explaining it to me once. You would have thought she’d learned her lesson after attempting to explain algebra to me in college. I think she enjoys the confused, dim witted glaze that overtakes me.

The weather report in the paper generally has the local seven-day forecast listed. The high and low temperatures, a weather symbol of some sort for those too busy to read words, and a brief description for those that have time to read words. Words like, “Breezy and hot with clouds and sun”, “Sunshine with a thunderstorm in the area”, and “Partial sunshine”. Brief, but descriptive, just as it should be, no “blah, blah, blah”.

Generally, I glance through the seven-day forecast without much thought, but in this Friday’s paper the description of the weather for Saturday caught my eye. It simply said, “Delightful”, and delightful it was. Sunny, not to hot, hardly a whisper of a breeze, “delightful”. As I peddled my bike around town, enjoying the delightful day, I thought, “What if every day was delightful?”

I thought of the many days I’ve been granted that I would label as “delightful”. Some weren’t “forecasted” to be delightful, most were just ordinary days made “delightful” by the company of a loved one, a phone call from a good friend, or maybe stumbling upon an old photo album of memories. May your “delightful” days be plentiful.

Well it’s back-to-school time for the Ellis gang. Sierra headed west for her junior year at Montana State in Bozeman and Jackson is commencing his junior year at Stevens High School, and hopefully will progress to graduation commencement next year. Dawn’s prepping to dazzle her students at National American University and I’m a few weeks deep into my third year at Chadron State College. It was nice knowing you summer.

As has been the custom for many years now, the family convened for an end of summer supper. This year’s venue of choice was the Golden Phoenix for some Chinese cuisine, and the hopes that a small piece of paper, liberated from a stale cookie, may provide some wisdom for the year to come. No such luck on any useful wisdom from a crappy cookie, so I guess we’re going to have to fly blind into yet another academic year. So it goes.

Like a game of Tetris played with an assortment of shoes, cameras, and clothes, Sierra and I loaded up her little two-door Honda Civic, until the nooks and crannies were no more. Before she slid into the driver’s seat I offered up some last minute fatherly advice, “Don’t fart, there’s no room.” Then we both tried not to cry, neither one of us are good at trying not to cry, so we shed a few tears, and said as much as one can say when they’re trying not to cry.

It was good to have the family under one roof for the summer. Sierra and Dawn were working much of the time, but I found that simply being at the house to witness their many comings and goings to be a comfort.

It doesn’t seem to be possible, but it was 25 years ago that my parents left me to fend for myself at Northern State in Aberdeen. I can still see that big green Chrysler pulling away, with dad watching me wave goodbye in the rear view mirror. Dad later told me that Mom cried all the way to Jamestown, and all he could think was, “What are we doing? We can’t just leave him here all alone.”

I don’t remember thinking much of anything at the time (thinking isn’t something 18 year old boys do much of), but I laid in bed that night on a tear soaked pillow missing everyone and everything I had known for the past 18 years. I remember thinking, “This is stupid, I don’t belong here.” The only way I could make it stop was to convince myself that I would finish the semester at Northern and then transfer to Minot State, closer to everyone and everything I had always known.

That one semester turned into two, and I met people that are still my good friends today, people that made me feel like I belonged there. If it hadn’t been for them, and the distraction and joy playing college baseball brought, I don’t think I could have weathered all those homesick storms.

It takes great strength for a parent to let their child go off and find out who they are and what they want to do in this world, but it also takes strength for a child to leave everyone and everything they’ve ever known and face an unfamiliar unknown. I guess we each put on as brave a face as we can to try and put the other at ease.

It’s that time of year…be strong…all will be well.

Every four years, around this time of year, I find myself watching more television in a two week span than I do during the other 50 weeks of the year combined. No, I haven’t fallen victim to a “Say Yes to the Dress” or “Long Island Medium” marathon. I would prefer to stare at the back of your head for two weeks. It’s the Summer Olympics, the Games of the XXXI Olympiad in Rio de Janeiro.

For those that are a bit rusty on their Roman numerals and geography, that is the 31st in Brazil…South America. The games and events being contested on the Olympic stage vary as much as the athletes competing in them. It is the athlete’s that draw me in, more so than the games they play, their stories, their struggles, their triumphs, their sacrifices. They are why I watch.

They are why I find myself out of my seat, arms raised overhead, cheering on people I don’t know, from countries I couldn’t find on a map. They are why I find my eye’s welling up with tears over and over again, while I watch their eye’s do the same, as they listen to their countries national anthem play for them and their accomplishments. They are why I feel a lump form in my throat when I see the competitors loved ones, that have traveled near and far to support them, overcome with emotion.

The competitors' family, friends, and loved ones know the story, know the struggles, and have most likely made sacrifices themselves to help these athletes' reach this level. For many of these athlete’s this is it, these Olympic Games are what they’ve worked for, and when the games are over we may never hear of them again.

My son and I were watching one of the swimming events, and the commentator mentioned that for some of the medalist this would be their first and last Olympics, because they had graduated from college and had careers to pursue. My son said, “They should be able to get two weeks off of work for the Olympics.” As if it involved little more than packing up your goggles and little rubber hat for trip to the cement pond.

I felt my eyes widen in confused disbelief as I launched into a mini-lecture on the four-year commitment, and hours and hours, of practice involved in preparing for these two weeks. This got the usual dismissive shoulder shrug, and grunt, that the majority of my mini-lectures are welcomed with. The spectrum of drive and ambition amongst teenagers is baffling. Some willingly endure torturous workouts, day in and day out, in pursuit of an Olympic dream, and others, well they have Pokémon to pursue.

We can’t all be Olympians, for various reasons, muscle tone like ball of mozzarella cheese, the speed and agility of a limp dishrag, or possibly an acute aversion to any physical activity that may produce nausea (other than tequila shots). Besides, as Syndrome in the movie “The Incredibles” said, “When everyone’s super, no one is.”

Someone needs to watch, someone needs to cheer, someone needs to tear up when a member of the synchronized swim team overcomes a childhood fear of getting water in their ear to lead Kazakhstan to a hard fought victory over Estonia. The drama…the pageantry.

Go Team USA!

The Ellis clan, from the Fritz and Helen branch of the tree, are having a reunion in Lignite this weekend. Any and all are invited to come and visit with those you’re on speaking terms with, collect on a debt, or maybe settle an old score. Whatever brings you our way, know that most of you will be greeted with wide smiles and a healthy dose of sarcasm. Most of you.

It’s been five years since our last Ellis family gathering. A seemingly sufficient time for most wounds to heal and septic systems to be plunged and purged. We shall see.

Grandpa Fritz and Grandma Helen spent the first few years of their marriage moving their ever expanding family here and there. Going where the work was, moving on when it wasn’t, and eventually settling for good in Lignite.

We lost Grandpa back in 1987, but I can still walk by their old flat roofed house and see him sitting on the front step having a cigarette and cup of coffee. A good man, a nice man, gone, but not forgotten. Although he may have preferred the solitude of his woodshop over a large gathering, I’m sure he would have lent his ready smile and sweet chuckle to the mix if he were still here.

Grandma Helen stills calls Lignite home (when she’s not dabbing bingo cards), as do three of her nine children, four with Julie, who was taken from the clan in 1977, and lies next to Grandpa in St. Mary’s Cemetery just outside of town. My dad, his sisters, and his brothers are good people, and although I don’t remember Julie, as I was only four when she was killed, I assume she was much the same.

I have always been interested in the continuous ripple and growth of family through time, and often wonder what the people looking back at me from those old black and white photos were like. What is the story behind each of the names stretching back through the ages? What happened between the day they were born and the day they died? What were their dreams and aspirations? Many times, we can’t even answer those questions for those we’ve shared our allotted time with.

So it goes with us, so it probably went for those who came before, but a family reunion may offer a bit of mitigation in the matter, and provide us with a story to go with the face and the name. Sometimes the story may not be all that flattering, but flattering or not, a story is much more interesting than a list of dates.

The Ellis family story came from Wales to the United States with Thomas Ellis in 1707 when Thomas was 24 years old. Thomas, and his wife Jane Hughes, were of the Quaker faith, and he was said to come from ancient nobility in Wales, and was the most prominent Quaker in Pennsylvania in his time. A real hoity-toity one he was. Thomas and Jane were apparently buddies with Daniel Boone’s family and Abe Lincoln’s great-grandfather, Mordecai Lincoln.

“Coonskin Caps and Quakers” was the name of their band. Jane played tin whistle, Thomas was on kazoo, the Boone’s yodeled, and Mordecai twanged the mouth harp…honestly. Maybe, maybe not, but I can honestly say that I am looking forward to getting together with my clan, a noble clan at that. Swing by for some laughs and a swig of Red Eye.

The Lignite Community Calendar hanging on the wall in our kitchen tells me that today, July 17th, is my birthday. That calendar tells me a lot of things; birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, the moon phases, and that Doc Stevens is a quilter. Lounging under the stars on one of Doc’s quilts with a keg of his home brew within arm’s reach sounds about right. Maybe I’ll pencil that in on my calendar…“Q & K Night”.

As far as birthdays go, the calendar tells me the “when” but not the “how many” for each person listed. I suppose the “how many” didn’t seem like a necessary number to post as public knowledge. This allows for the conversational game surrounding the question of, “how old do you suppose so-and-so is” to be played amongst the curious and bored. For those that are curious, and/or bored, as of this writing I have managed to log 44 living and breathing calendar years on this earth.

To commemorate this grand achievement I decided to peddle my bike 22 miles up Highway 44 and meet my family at the Sugar Shack for a bacon cheeseburger deluxe and a beer. A Sugar Shack burger is probably the only burger I would exert that much effort to obtain, as they have been voted “best burger in the hills” for four years running. I was not disappointed.

Why didn’t I peddle the 22 miles back to Rapid City to make it 44 miles on Highway 44? The thought crossed my mind when I left the house, but 22 miles of uphill, a half-pound of beef, and a pint of beer later, I was convinced otherwise. Besides the roads were thick with “Rent Me” RVs, and age has diminished the brazen stupidity I used to peddle around the hills with.

Action without thought generally guarantees that more action will be necessary to remedy the thoughtlessness. I suppose this falls under the “measure twice, cut once” advice I’ve often failed to heed. I thought twice, and thought it would be enjoyable to ride back to town with my family rather than dodge Mini-Winnie’s pulling pontoons. Besides there was a second-hand birthday cake waiting for me at home, complete with second-hand candles to blow out.

As I’m sure I’ve blabbed about before, my son’s birthday is the day before mine, so for 17 years a second-hand celebration has been the way of it, and that way is just fine by me.

It was a lovely day in the hills, and the ride gave me some time to do a little birthday pondering. A little birthday pondering between the huffing and puffing, between perusing the ditch for treasures untold, between hoping the driver of the vehicle coming up behind wasn’t texting, between wishing the downhill outnumbered the uphill, between questioning why there was a solitary sock laying on the road, between wondering whether I should have a double bacon cheeseburger or a single.

Between all of that I managed to squeeze in some birthday pondering. Not too much, just enough. Just enough to remind me of how thankful and fortunate I am for all those that let me share in their lives. My family, my friends, my students, my colleagues…an embarrassment of riches that I cherish each and every day and twice on Sunday (whatever that means).

Happy 4th of July to you and yours. I hope you managed to sufficiently, and somewhat safely, celebrate our independence from those British rascals across the pond, in whatever manner you saw fit. I suspect for many, you saw fit to fire up the grill and put a well-tended flame to a variety of meats, and hot dogs (meats crazy, inbred cousin that you feel obligated to invite to family gatherings because he makes the kids smile and keeps their filthy little sausages away from the ribeye). We all have a cousin like that, if you can’t think of one in your family, you’re probably it.

If you are a vegan, you spent the day lecturing anyone who would listen about the humanely virtues of your tofu dogs, and horrified by the sight, smell, and sound of meat being perfectly seared, and gleefully devoured by your carnivorous kin. Just kidding, you probably weren’t invited, since at the last family barbecue you pointed to your grandmother’s white leather orthopedic shoes and accused her of being an accessory to murder. So it goes.

I like meat…grilled, smoked, “crocked”, fried in butter (real butter), wrapped in bacon (real bacon)…mmmm good. For special outdoor type occasions, such as Independence Day, a ballgame, camping, a manhunt for a deranged vegan, I will put aside my aversion to sitting in the hot sun, eating hot food on rickety plates with subpar cutlery, while simultaneously attempting to prevent the wind from toppling my red solo cup. Don’t expect the same concessions to be made if you accompany me to a restaurant with the option of indoor or outdoor seating.

My wife, who is perpetually chilly (literally, not figuratively), would choose dining under the blazing sun over dining under the pleasantly cool breeze of an air-conditioning vent anytime. My argument is that she can put on a coat, moon boots, mittens, ear muffs or any other source of warmth, but I am socially bound to keep a certain amount of clothing on in public.

Generally, I am about as laid back a person as you will find (my dad always claimed I would soil myself if I were any more laid back…so far so good), but I am not above pouting, whining, and breaking out my rarely used cranky face, if forced into daytime outdoor dining when a perfectly acceptable indoor option is available. I love the outdoors, but I believe that the price of your meal at a restaurant is inclusive of the use of their structure for the prevention of sweat pooling in the seat of your trousers.

Enough whining about sweat soaked Underoos and windswept napkins. I hope you had an enjoyable holiday weekend doing whatever it is you and yours like to do on holiday weekends. Perhaps it’s belting out a wonderfully off-key version of Lee Greenwoods, “God Bless the USA”? Perhaps not. Whatever blows your hair back, we have options, because we are independent. Independence didn’t come easy, and it wouldn’t remain without the efforts and sacrifices of those that lay it on the line for all that we stand for, past, present, and future.

Happy Independence Day.

Finally, the episode of This Old Camper I’ve been looking forward to since I started on the remodel of the 1966 Aristocrat Lo-Liner my parents bequeathed us a few years back. The episode where the camper is moved from the spot in our yard that it was backed into 5 years ago, when we brought the little rascal home to whip it into camping shape.

I whip slow, but every episode has been a process of learning processes that only seemed to lead to yet another process of processes. Now the time is drawing near, the time to make a reservation at a campground, drag the comforts of home out to the woods, and hob knob with campground folk.

Our sixteen-year-old son’s suspicion of our fun family camping intent has heightened since noticing the camper’s ceremonious move from the backyard to the driveway. I fielded his first question, “Does that thing have an air conditioner?” by pointing out that it had seven windows that are all in perfect working condition, and that the air does change condition from being outside the camper air to inside the camper air when it passes through them. So yes, there is “air conditioning”.

When he asked, “Where do you plan on taking it?” he seemed to put a lot of emphasis on “you”, but, like any good dad, I’m quite adept at ignoring noise from my children that doesn’t fit into the family fun scheme. It’s for his own good. Maybe for the first outing I’ll leave the camper hooked up to the pick-up at the campground, then if he decides to make a break for the comforts of his electronics riddled room in the middle of the night at least we won’t have to call a cab.

This travel trailer has done a lot of traveling over the past 50 years. It began its journey in California, where it was manufactured by the I.B. Perch Company. They sold five different models, and ours, the Lo-Liner, was called such, because it came with a set of small wheels that you could put on the camper so it would fit in your garage. “Stores in your garage as an extra bedroom for guests, a quiet place to study for the student, a playroom for the children, or a comfortable office for the salesman.” Handy-dandy indeed.

Sadly the lo-liner wheels have disappeared over the past 50 years, but we have used it as a guest room from time-to-time, our daughter spent the better part of a summer sacked out in it as apparent preparation for her separation from the main house when she went to college, and I’ve used it as a man cave when man stuff needed to be pondered.

All of the owner registrations for the camper, since it was rolled off the lot, are in a drawer in the camper. A couple in California were the first owners in 1966, it made a jump to Powers Lake, ND in the 70s, then to Minnesota, back to North Dakota in the 90s, and now South Dakota. It’s been around, but it’s been well taken care of by all that have owned it, and we are quite pleased to have been next in line for the Lo-Liner.

I’ll keep you posted on the “Goin' Campin'” episode of This Old Camper. Tis' the season.

A warm, sunny semblance of summer is beginning to trickle in and take shape. School has been kicked to the curb, and for a few glorious months kids can revel in the unbridled joy of being as dumb as a sack of hammers in an ungraded, academic free Eden of ignorance. Some have taken up permanent residence in this Eden of ignorance, and spend thirteen months a year (give or take) gazing at the hammer’s in their sack. Hammers are fun.

I believe it was Mark Twain who once said, “When you have a hammer everything looks like a nail.” Mr. Twain may have had a point, when my brother and I had hammers our Tonka trucks looked like nails. When I had a rubber hammer, my brother’s head looked like a nail, a big round mouthy nail that pushed my buttons until I was left with only one obvious choice. Obvious to all my big brother brethren living in relentless irritation from a little brother.

Every year around this time we hear scuttle about how much learning is lost over the summer, and that we should go to school year-round like other countries. Do you know the source of this scuttle? I have a sneaky suspicion it’s parents that are terrified of the prospect of being the entertainment director for their kids all summer. I’m fairly certain it’s not teachers, and if it were, they would be silenced right quick by their co-workers who would suddenly see them as big round mouthy nails.

“The other countries score better than us in math” the do-gooders lament. Well jolly good for them, but they have to live in other countries. We get to live in America baby! I’ll take our freedoms over long division supremacy any day. You want to sacrifice everyone’s summer so your precious child can score a few points higher in standardized math tests? I have something for you in this sack of hammers I like to lug around. Without summer break things would get ugly quick. To be more specific, teachers would get ugly quick.

As they say, “If you can read this thank a teacher.” If you can’t read this, it’s because the math score ranking lunatics had summer break abolished, and all the teachers quit to pursue their karaoke careers in bars that serve two-for-one fishbowl Kamikaze’s and half priced happy hour bacon and jalapeño poppers. So it goes.

Our daughter opted to come home from college this summer and occupy her rent-free room. She seems to be enjoying Mom and Dad’s reduced rate meal plan, complete with laundry service and dog petting privileges. Our son has not had the opportunity of fending for his own room and board thrust upon him as of yet, so he is blissfully unaware of the potential hunger and hardships life can saddle one with outside the confines of a house owned and occupied by two gainfully employed adults that have a vested interest in his wellbeing.

It is good to have the whole family under one roof for the summer. I know summer’s like this are becoming a precious commodity. As the kids get older, the variables that pull them away from home seem to increase more and more, so I’ll take what I can get when I can get it. What more can we do? Enjoy your summer…it’s hammer time.

When I think back to some of the earliest memories I have of my mom, they generally involve her sitting at her sewing machine surrounded by fabric, zippers, buttons, thread and all the other necessary “stuff” needed to create everything from elf aprons to leisure suits. The creations that fill the gap between elf aprons and leisure suits is not well defined in the sewing literature, but rest assured, if it could be constructed of cloth my mom has probably made it a time or two.

As a child I took the creativity and talent of my mom’s sewing abilities for granted. Mostly because she made it look so easy, but also because children are generally self-absorbed, and lousy judges of creativity or talent. In the eyes of a child, someone that can fart the first verse of Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” is vastly more talented and creative than someone than can sew a one of a kind Rhinestone Cowboy satin snap-up western shirt with tassels and a velvet yoke. My mom did the latter, my brother attempted the former.

Actually, it wasn’t “one-of-a-kind”, my brother had one as well. Mine was black, his was cream-colored, and, “yes” we asked our mother to make them for us. We held those shirts in such high regard that we wore them for our school pictures that year. Thankfully, by then everyone in town had grown accustomed to our “special ways” and we were spared ridicule or tassel tearing scuffles with satin and velvet opposed bullies. Lignite was such a nurturing, caring community. As they say, “It takes a village to raise an idiot.”

After a recent weekend project my appreciation of my mom’s sewing abilities has been elevated another notch or two on the Martha Stewart-O-Meter. This appreciation elevation was prompted by my attempt to sew curtains for our 1967 Aristocrat Camper. Technically, it was not an “attempt”, as I was successful in completing the curtain project, but I’m sure in the eyes of someone more skilled it would be classified as an “attempt”. I gave myself a C-, but I will have to wait for Mrs. Larsen, our high school home economics instructor, to swing by and issue the official grade.

I would have graded the project lower, but I gave myself extra credit for hardly using any foul language. I’m quite confident my mom could have completed the project in half the time with half the cursing. She could out-sew and out-curse me any day of the week, especially Saturdays. Keeping the people of Burke County in high fashion and raising nitwits prompted perfection in both arenas.

While I was sewing the curtains, the sound of the sewing machine kept taking me back to our old house in Lignite. The metallic “click” of the presser foot on the feed dogs (I googled sewing machine parts) slightly muffled by the fabric held firmly between them was a sound that was heard often in our house. I got so engrossed in the entire process that half a day went by without much notice.

Half a day. Precisely the time between the noon siren and the six-o-clock siren that marked the passing of each day during our youth. Now I know that when mom said, “Come home when the whistle blows” it was probably meant more as a command than a request. I had complete silence with no interruptions the entire time I was farting around with my curtain project. No worries of nitwit whereabouts, no progress interrupting lectures needed regarding why the sewing scissors should not be used to cut open freezie pops or trim your brother’s singed hair.

No fires to put out (literally), just peace and quiet punctuated by the “click” and “hum” of the sewing machine. I am my mother’s son, but thankfully, my kids are not like my mother’s nitwits. “Like a rhinestone cowboy…”