Kid Stories

So much for a report on current affairs. Once again we’re about to bedazzle you with tales out of the past. So hop into the Wayback Machine for Friday Letter #96.

T ‘n L visit Florida

Twice, in a time not so cluttered with travel encumbrances and barriers, Laura and I took commercial airline flights to get to Florida and back.

Disneyland? Bike Week? Auto races? Universal Studios? The beach? Not really. We went there to visit our daughter Monica and her daughter Brittany.

Looking back on those two visits, I’d have to say my youngest daughter is a consummate hostess.

Maybe Florida people are accustomed to visits from northern family and friends; we’d rather say Monica put a great deal of thought and effort into preparing for us.

The first time we went there, Monica took a day off from work to drive us across the state from her home in Orlando to St. Petersburg.

She chauffeured us directly to the front door of the Salvador Dali museum. (The Salvador Dali Museum)

The oil painter with whom I most closely identify is Mr. Dali. I was impressed with his work from the moment I saw any of it while studying art at the University of Wyoming.

The museum in Florida contains almost all of the artist’s best known works. To see that huge collection of Mr. Dali’s efforts – up close and personal – was the fulfillment of one of my life’s goals.

There it all was, in the flesh, so to speak. We were permitted to walk up within inches of the paintings. I could take my glasses off and get close enough to see the individual brush strokes as left by the master.

We spent several hours there. I kept going around and around the museum, trying to absorb every detail possible. In large part, I succeeded; I still have vivid memories of various paintings.

In addition to the museum outing, Monica and a friend of hers provided us with a white police-model Harley to ride. We went on a run with some crazies, and drank beer afterwards at a biker bar. Delightful.

What a hostess!

The basilica

The second Florida trip was a slightly different pilgrimage, but also showed off Monica’s thoughtfulness and intelligence.

She reserved a condo on the beach at St. Augustine over a weekend. We went to Mass at the ancient church. (Cathedral Basilica of St. Augustine, Fl)

The original church building burned when it was only a few years old. The parish, with 400 years behind it, is the oldest established Roman Catholic parish in America. (Sept. 8, 1565) The Spaniards started it. Ample evidence of Spanish domination remains in a seashore fort equipped with ancient cannon.

After Mass that day, all I could think was “I want to move to St. Augustine, live here the rest of my life, and pray in this church every day.” That isn’t a practical dream, but it gives you an idea of how delightful the visit was.

Once again, Monica had put a great deal of planning and effort, consideration, into our time there. She knew exactly how to please her visiting father and stepmother, and she did it well.

We spent some time walking on the beach, we found excellent dining close to the condo, we spent some three hours in a historical museum in downtown St. Augustine. It was an arduous weekend, and I’ll never forget it.

My kitchen stuff

Every time I go into the kitchen at home to prepare a meal, I am reminded of Monica and I smile a quiet smile of thanks.

Many of the pots and pans that hang overhead are high-dollar fancy items that came to us as gifts from Monica.

She also supplied the French knife that I use every day of the week. So too the fancy rolling cabinet with the stainless countertop .

And the electric kettle that provides boiling water at the push of a button? How about the various culinary knives, the cooking implements and tools? The toaster oven. Yep. Monica.

See how she is?

The camping trip

All right, turn the Wayback Switch even further back.

The Mom has loaded up the ’68 Ford Ranch Wagon and the little folding Camel tent trailer with supplies for a weekend away from Blackfoot.

We are headed to the Sawtooth Range, or perhaps Boise to show the kids around the state capitol.

Excitement abounds, including my own. I like camping, watching the kids play in a mountain stream, and taking photographs.

Perhaps due to the excitement or some unperceived dietary need, Monica, aged five or so, becomes unruly. She pesters the other three children, biting, scratching, pinching, kicking, shrieking.

There is a rest stop along Interstate 84 between Burley and Twin Falls. I pull off the highway. I’ve had enough – especially with the shrieking.

I extricate Monica from the rear of the car by tugging firmly on her little baby arm. I take her back to the camp trailer. I place her firmly on the trailer top, face down. I lift up her little pink skirt.

I spank her cute little bottom. Five fairly brisk swats, right on her cute little pink panties.

There, I thought, that ought to do it.

Back in the car she went. You won’t guess, will you? As soon as we reach highway speed again, the biting, fighting, shrieking resumes.

I look at the Mom. The Mom looks at me and shrugs her shoulders. She says, “Apparently, spanking doesn’t work.” I agree.

That’s our Monica. Thoughtful. Generous. Kind. Loving. And spanking definitely doesn’t work.

The dream

In March of 1983, Laura was preparing to move to Brighton from her parents’ home in Boise. The night before she was to leave, Laura dreamed of a small, young blonde woman. A blonde girl wearing white tennis shoes, lying on a gurney in a hospital.

In the evening, after Laura’s arrival two days later, she and I were in the living room, visiting, getting reacquainted. “Someone’s outside,” she said. Soon, there came a knock on the door.

Because I refused to have a telephone in those days, my brother Dick had driven over to tell me that Monica was in the hospital; some sort of intestinal problem.

Laura and I went there immediately, and there was tiny blonde Monica, wearing white tennis shoes, lying on a gurney, suffering intense pain.

So far as I know, that was the only time Laura ever experienced a prescient dream. Monica recovered, and after high school graduation, moved to Florida, where she lives to this day.

The reunion

For a while, Monica worked as a real estate salesperson. Her broker made a suggestion to improve her sales record: “Go to church in your neighborhood. Get to know people. You’ll make sales.”

Monica picked a church at random. It happened to be a Catholic church. One Sunday in his homily, the priest said, “If you have something weighing on you, some burden, you need to let go of it, get rid of it.”

Well, Monica had been carrying a burden. For ten long years (we forget why exactly) Monica hadn’t been communicating with her dad back in Colorado. What the priest said had struck a chord.

Monica made an appointment with the priest and told him what was weighing on her. She asked his advice. “How do I get back in touch with Dad?”

The priest replied: “Does he have a phone?” After a few days dreading it, Monica drank a glass of wine and punched the Greeley number into the phone. No problem. A daddy will always want to hear from his daughter. Always. No matter what.

By the way, Monica and Tammy: Happy Birthday May 5!

Word of the week: Apostasy. From the Latin and Greek, apostasia, a standing away. An abandonment of what one believed, a faith or a political party or principles. An apostate is a renegade, a person guilty of apostasy.

Next week’s word: Creed.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below!