December 17, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
It may seem that you spend an inordinate of your day in time-out: I suppose that to a five year old it might certainly appear that way. Although you lament quite dramatically that you must be truly bad as evidenced by your frequent trips to the time-out chair, I offer an alternate theory; mischievous behavior is hardwired into your DNA. Little one you are headstrong, stubborn and tenacious to be sure; but you come by those characteristics honestly. I remember when I was in my teens, after having just been admonished for doing something inappropriate, accusing my father of being incapable of relating to me since I had never once in my life heard a story about any missteps that he had taken as a juvenile. In my angst ridden adolescent mind; my father came out of the womb already a sage old man incapable of misguided behavior. However, to my delight your Bumpa regaled me with a tale of his misdeeds as a youngster; to this day I believe it was the only way he knew how to articulate his humanness in a manner which I could comprehend. When Bumpa was a teenager he did not attend the local high school in his home town, he attended a boy’s agricultural school about an hour away in Morris, MN. All of the boys had chores during the week in addition to their studies as a working farm was an integral element to the school. Grandma Jo says that Bumpa had intended to study animal husbandry after high school (which is why he went to this boy’s school to begin with) but moved to the west coast to work on the natural gas pipeline after graduation instead. The school that Bumpa went to as a boy is now known as University of Minnesota Morris and it was during his senior year of high school that the inaugural freshman class of the university arrived on campus. Rules were more strict back then and being out past curfew or smoking in the men’s lavatory could earn the offender a variety of punishments; but none so dreaded as milker cleaning duty. Several heads of dairy cows were also residents of the campus and their milk was consumed by the students and made into various other products as a means of creating an income for the institution. Back then the elaborate systems used to milk the cows regularly had to be cleaned by hand; the task was long, arduous and reserved as punishment for the boys convicted of committing the most serious of infractions. To hear Bumpa tell it, he rarely got into trouble; as a matter of fact he was well respected by the instructors and the dairy foreman and enjoyed working in the barns. However during the last month of his senior year, he and his buddies decided they wanted to pull off a campus prank so legendary that folks would talk about it long after they had departed. One night Bumpa and his partners in crime led a cow from the milking stall to the front steps of the main class building and urged the cow to the top of the steps. It is important to note that, while cows can walk down hills and short steps, they are not inclined to do so. A bovine’s field of vision is such that walking down stairs is not something that a cow does eagerly or willingly. The next morning there was somewhat of an uproar outside the hall where the cow had patiently spent the night as it took several individuals and some quickly fashioned ramps to remove the animal from the porch and return her to the stall. Bumpa’s glory in having pulled off such a prank was short lived as one of his accomplices caved and confessed. Bumpa and the others were sentenced to cleaning milkers daily for the remainder of the semester; he and the others wore the punishment like a badge of honor, proof that they had pulled off the prank to end all pranks. It seems little one that in agriculture schools this particular brand of shenanigans is not rare; there are dozens of urban legends and myths about cows being led up stairs into strange places. To this day I am not quite sure if Bumpa’s story is fact or fiction. What I do know is the story was Bumpa’s way to express that, while he could not begin to understand the maelstrom of emotions that are the hallmark of female adolescence, he loved me enough to make me accountable for my actions. That is what a good parent does little one; they give you freedom to make mistakes, the character to atone for them and the wisdom to learn from experience.
Posted in December 2012 | Tagged bovine, Bumpa, cows, farm, high school, milking, prank, University of Minnesota Morris | Leave a Comment »
December 14, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
Today I picked you up earlier than usual from school. You were ecstatic when you saw me with Gigi on a leash to meet your bus and announce that as soon as we got home we would be donning on our pjs and watching Scooby Doo until bedtime. Tonight, little one, many parents in Newtown, Connecticut will not be able to hug their children and tuck them in; tonight heaven has many new angels. Some day when you are older and have children of your own, you will read this post and understand what it means to love another human being so much that your heart hurts just a little bit. While I may have to constantly remind you to pick up your toys and nag endlessly about issues that are seemingly unimportant to your five year old mind, never doubt that you are loved and every day I have with you is a gift.
Posted in December 2012 | Tagged heaven angels, Newtown Connecticut, Scooby Doo | Leave a Comment »
December 12, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
In my last letter I introduced you to my childhood friend Granny Bailey. While Granny was special to our family there were many others at the nursing home that we looked forward to visiting on a regular basis. Bumpa struck up friendships with many of the residents that lived at the facility opposite the shore of the lake on which we lived. What a beautiful view at that nursing home; one could watch the soothing roll of the lake all day long if so inclined. Bumpa soon realized that although, the panorama was spectacular, many of its inhabitants lived incredibly solitary lives. Too many souls had no family to speak of and unfortunately even more had absentee family members. It is a sad reality little one that the aged in our culture are often overlooked or discarded; a judgment that somehow they had outlived their usefulness and had nothing more to offer. Bumpa would categorically deny such a fallacious conclusion, he would argue that the stories they have to tell are a rich bounty deserving of our respect and admiration. Many who knew Bumpa and Grandma Jo would characterize him as dynamic and assertive and Grandma as nurturing and stable; these assessments are both correct. However, your Grandma is a tiger little one and your Bumpa was all mush on the inside. Together Bumpa and Grandma knew that once introduced to these sage and interesting individuals it was an impossibility to forget their existence; to ignore the need for human interaction would be the unkindest cut of all. That winter Bumpa and Grandma began a holiday tradition that lasted until after I had left for college. Beginning in November Grandma would rally the troops to make dozens upon dozens of cut out sugar cookies; when December arrived an assembly line at the kitchen table was established to decorate the cookies. It was a sight to see; the family covered in frosting of bright Christmas colors and sprinkles everywhere! A week before Christmas all of the cookies had been adorned and it was time to make old fashioned fudge; Patti and I frequently fought over who got to lick the spoon. On December 23rd, as there was no school, Grandma, Patti and I would begin to assemble individual goodie packages; it took all day long. Grandma always made it a fun experience; there would be hot cocoa, Christmas music and lots of laughs. Bumpa, normally an imposing and larger than life character, became almost childlike; he was more likely to steal cookies and fudge than Patti and me. Those Christmases when it snowed lightly during these preparations were my favorite, it was almost like a blessing from heaven; an acknowledgment of our holiday offerings. On Christmas Eve day we would sleep in and lounge in our PJs as long as possible; it would be a long night. That evening we would get dressed up in our holiday best and head to church. To me candlelight services are always special and magical; but when I was younger singing the last strains of “Silent Night” meant that our Christmas Eve had just begun. Having loaded up the goodies prior to church meant we would only have to go back to the house to pick up one item before heading out on our appointment rounds; the dog. Our dog Mutley played prominently in our plans for holiday merriment. Dressed in a red and green sweater, resplendent with tinkling bells, Mutley would lead our family through the front doors of the nursing home; this is when our Christmas Eve really began! We went from room to room giving each resident a pack full of goodies; Grandma even made sure there were special sugar free treats for those with diabetes and a huge plate of holiday cheer for the staff. I loved this part of our Christmas tradition; how fabulous to have that many surrogate grandparents. Endless hugs and kisses were offered as gifts in kind. Sometimes a resident would break out in song, so what else were we to do but join in! These were magical nights for our family, how blessed we were to be so loved and welcomed on one of the most special eves of the year. As we made our way through the facility to head home Bumpa and I would stop one last time to see Granny Bailey. As I got older I understood the pain of what it meant to have no family left to care for or about our elderly friends and I was in a melancholy state by the time I reached Granny’s room. Granny immediately sensed I was in distress and so I shared my grief with her; she smiled, patted my hand and said “Dear, you are their family.” She was right little one; when you give of yourself to others the love you share will find its way back, in spades.
Posted in December 2012 | Tagged Bumpa, Christmas Eve, cookies, food, Grandma Jo, Granny Bailey, holidays, home, lifestyle, Mutley, nursing home, Patti | 2 Comments »
December 10, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
It has long been my policy that the word family is fairly broad term. It can be used to describe the people that you are related to; happy accidents of fate that result in shared DNA. Family can also denote those you chose to embrace and care for regardless of blood bonds. Lucky are the families that are diverse and numerous in their membership. Your Grandma Jo would say that ever since I was little I brought home strays; dogs, ducks, turtles, chipmunks and people. She would joke that I never met anyone that I didn’t like or see a problem that I felt I couldn’t fix. While there may be some truth to that, I learned my compassion for others from my parents. I can scarcely remember a holiday where there was not seated at the family table a neighbor or acquaintance that had no family to claim them; and so they became part of our family. I learned to “collect” people from your Bumpa; he could find the unique and special qualities in almost everyone he met, conversation flowed easily from his lips. Bumpa especially liked to chat with those from an older generation; he loved their stories and was eager to soak up their knowledge and wisdom. One winter he was doing renovation on a nursing home in the area and met an elderly woman who had been blind for years. Apparently one day she called out to him to “come and sit a spell”; she offered the invitation because liked the sound of his voice. Never one to shun a compliment, Bumpa began to spend his lunches with this elderly sage; her name was Granny Bailey. On the weekends Aunt Patti and I would frequently help Bumpa at construction work sites cleaning up debris or painting. It was during one of these mandatory work details that I met Granny Bailey. She knew who I was without being introduced; she knew by my cadence and incessant magpie-like talking that I must be Bumpa’s daughter. Granny Bailey summoned me to her room to sit and “chew the fat”; she wanted to know all about my friends, the music programs at school, my family and any subject you would expect your grandma to want to be kept abreast. In hindsight, I suspect that Granny didn’t have any family to speak of and she adopted us as her own. Long after the renovation was done we continued to visit Granny Bailey. Bumpa tried to coax her into coming to our house for holidays but she did not want to leave the familiarity of the nursing home and so we went to her. In high school I read the daily news announcements for a local radio station; Granny tuned in every day to hear what her adopted kin would have to tell the community about the comings and goings of the town. The details of Granny’s face are muted in my memory but the feel of her warm, frail hands clutching mine as we would talk is still fresh in my mind. Granny Bailey was someone that would hear all of my troubles without judgment or sanction; at times during my turbulent teens she served as a port in the storm. When I could drive I would regularly visit Granny. I am not sure if Bumpa or Grandma Jo knew about our extended visits; I did not apprise them of my outings to see Granny because time with her was a private and special just between us. Granny Bailey has long since gone to heaven little one, but I miss her. What I wouldn’t give for just one more visit to tell Granny how special she was and how lucky we were to call her family.
Posted in December 2012 | Tagged Bumpa, Grandma Jo, Granny Bailey, home, lifestyle, nursing home | Leave a Comment »
December 7, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
If I could choose the shape of the family tree on Mommy’s side it would be a Christmas tree. Like you, I love all of the holidays but have special place in my heart for the yuletide. The magic of Christmas has long been an accepted fact for the Pier clan; and the adoption of that particular viewpoint starts at a very young age. Evidence of our love for the season can be seen on the Christmas tree in our front room, there are ornaments on that tree that I made in preschool; lovingly preserved for me by Grandma Jo and passed down to me at an age when I was old enough to understand the value in such rudimentary handiwork made by tiny hands. You and I watch the same Christmas specials that have been around for over 40 years; yet the cadence and timbre of Boris Karloff’s voice as he narrates “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” resonates with each new generation. As I grew older I began to appreciate and relish how children envision the season; how they make sense of the impossibility of a large jolly man stuffing himself down every chimney in one short night. The sweetness of the revelation that, for those who believe, the night represents that birth of a baby that would be a light to the world; a gift of sacrifice. Long before you came into our lives Daddy and I had the pleasure of watching our nieces and nephews experience the awe of the season. Your cousin Kaila was the first of the grandchildren to be born to Bumpa and Grandma Jo; overboard does not even begin to describe the spoils the little urchin gathered on that first Christmas. It was a good many years before Kaila had any competition around the Christmas tree and then Koel was born. Daddy and I lived very far away from Kaila and Koel when they were little and we did not get to see them very often. However, there was one Christmas when Koel was about a year younger than you are now that we traveled up to the lake to see everyone. How excited the children were for Christmas to finally arrive; they counted the days and nights with the solemnity that belongs only to children waiting for Santa can express at this time of year. Koel was finally at the age where he could identify and recount for any adult who would listen all of the trappings of Christmas. So enamored was he with Santa that Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, pronounced “Roo Doo,” became his best friend and constant companion. The adults in the room would receive frequent admonishments because of our rude behavior; we were forever stepping on poor Roo Doo’s toes or blocking his path. Afraid of another tongue lashing from our wee nephew we would ask as to Roo Doo’s whereabouts before entering; often Koel would tell us that his friend was outside having a snowball snack or taking a snooze on his bed, the coast was clear. Koel’s conviction and faith in the symbols of Christmas was so strong that he inserted himself into that holiday narrative. At sixteen Koel no longer carries on conversations with his childhood friend Roo Doo, but I do believe he still believes in the magic of Christmas. How blessed you are little one to have such colorful ornamentation decorating your family tree. I hope my little cherub that you and I never reach the age when we no longer believe.
Posted in December 2012 | Tagged boris karloff, Christmas, christmas specials, Christmas Tree, Family, grinch stole christmas, Holiday, home, Koel, magic of christmas, nieces and nephews, Rudolph | Leave a Comment »
December 5, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
Your relatives on Daddy’s side of the family, whom you affectionately call “my people,” all originate from a place called Panther Valley. Specifically, your people hail from Panther Creek (pronounced “crik” in Southern Missouri) where your Great Grandma Evelyn and Great Grandpa Raymond’s farm is located. Your Great Grandma Evelyn’s daddy actually built the house that she and Raymond lived in their entire married life. Evelyn and Raymond had four children; Dave, your Grandpa Dwight, Debbie and Darrell. Between the four siblings they have 15 children and countless grandchildren; you come from a very large family. Grandpa Dwight, as you know, loves to host a big barbecue on the Fourth of July holiday where everyone sits in their lawn chairs at dusk to watch the cousins set off a truckload, literally, of fireworks. I am not sure who has more fun with the fireworks; you and your cousins or your aunts and uncles. What makes these family gatherings so memorable is that your Daddy’s kin have an amazing aptitude for wit, sarcasm and endless teasing. Unlucky is the individual who becomes the target of relentless irritation at these gatherings. Your Grandpa Dwight and Great Uncle Darrell tend to be the ringleaders of the operation and never fail to offer a comment or two when the opportunity arises. All of your relatives in Missouri have a certain cadence to their voices; a slight drawl and warm elongation of particular words. The rhythm of their voices is soothing, comforting and perfectly suited to telling tales; it is like coming home. Your Great Uncle Darrell’s voice is the most distinct of them all. While shy around strangers, when he is relaxed his drawl is unmistakable; resonant and clear with a gravel quality that makes him seem almost sage. Darrell has been a favorite of your Daddy’s since he was a boy; I think their sense of humor is very similar and they are kindred spirits when it comes to being reserved around strangers. In the pitch black of night between the exploding colors of the fireworks it was Darrell’s voice that could be heard across the expansive field behind Grandpa’s house barking critique to his sons and nephews as they set off the mountain of fireworks from that back of a truck. One year the boys purchased some fireworks that had no sparks or color, they simply created a sound similar to a cannon being fired. With no prior warning the motley crew setting off the explosives decided it was time for those of us watching to lose our hearing temporarily; the boom was so loud and unexpected that none of said anything for more than a few seconds following the blast. Permeating the quiet aftermath of the cannon blast was Darrell’s distinctive drawl declaring “That’ll make the babies cry.” Laughter, of course, ensued after his profound observation. A few days later I dragged your Daddy to a wedding of a colleague of mine. So uninterested was he in the couple about to exchange vows that prior to the ceremony he was playing a pocket computer game; I made him put it away before the processional. You would think after so many years of being with your Daddy that I would learn my lesson; if I drag your Daddy to an event there is no telling what behaviors he may exhibit as an expression of his frustration and/or indifference. I should have known I was in for it when, after seeing the groom walk in with his parents and the bride’s mom escorted to her pew, Daddy asked “where is the bride’s dad?” I gently informed him that her father would be the guy escorting her down the aisle; he chuckled at his own mistake, a clear admission that he had not been paying attention since arriving. The wedding was, in a word, awkward. It was clear that the two families did not get along and, in an effort to appease both sides of the family, there were more bridesmaids standing at the altar than I care to recall. Boredom brings out the worst, or best he would argue, in your Daddy; he began to whisper a running commentary in an effort to amuse himself and get me to crack up. Half way through the ceremony the bride’s aunt came to the microphone to sing a ballad while the couple lit the unity candle. I must confess, the singing was horrific; I would not be surprised if dogs three counties over began to howl in response to the cacophony of sound emanating from the church. It was during a particularly high note when your Daddy leaned over and whispered in my ear, “That’ll make the babies cry.” I was completely undone by his unbelievably perfect sense of comedic timing; both of us tried desperately to muffle our laughter. To this day the phrase that Uncle Darrell first uttered many years ago has become part of our family’s private lexicon. To utter those words in front of anyone who heard Darrell speak them that night is to illicit specific meaning and evoke the feeling that only inside jokes can provide; you are now in on the joke little one. While a funny anecdote, this tale also serves as a reminder that you come from a family with deep roots and large branches. Treasure your family tree little one and find delight in the twisted branches and colorful leaves, these are your people.
Posted in December 2012 | Tagged babies, Daddy, Fourth of July, Grandpa Dwight, Humor, inside jokes, laughter, Uncle Darrell, videogames, wedding | Leave a Comment »
December 3, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
You come from a long line of foodies. On both sides of your family tree there is a deep appreciation for meals and treats that are tasty. As I have told you many times, feeding another person is one of the most basic functions you can perform for another; it is both nourishment for the body and the soul. At a young age my mother encouraged your Aunt Patti and I to join her in the kitchen to learn how to make the most rustic of foods taste scrumptious. You know by now that Daddy’s mom, Grandma Carolyn, was not the greatest of cooks; for a decent meal Daddy would look forward to visiting Great Grandma Evelyn’s farm. To this day your Daddy says no one makes scrambled eggs like his grandma. It is true that poor Grandma Carolyn is the target of much teasing about her cooking and many non-family members have said that the stories seem to be an exaggeration of the truth; they have never tasted her food. Your Bumpa was one who doubted the accuracy of our stories about Grandma Carolyn’s culinary skills. Bumpa loved food and would be the last person to intentionally subject himself to a poorly executed dish if he could avoid it; he was incredibly polite and would never insult a chef but refusing to eat the food even if it made him sick so he was not about to take any chances. As a result of having heard countless gastronomic horror stories coming from Grandma Carolyn’s kitchen; every time Bumpa would visit Springfield he would offer to take us all out for dinner. This ruse was effective for a few years until one Christmas Grandma Carolyn was bound and determined that she was going to make a meal for us; it caused some friction between Daddy and me because at that time Bumpa was sick and his stomach was sensitive. To spare Grandma Carolyn’s feelings and Bumpa’s stomach it was decided that we would stop at a restaurant to eat before we got to Grandma Carolyn’s house. When we arrived, the house smelled delicious and the table looked beautiful; there was brisket, caramelized carrots, cold salad and steamed green beans with sea salt. Daddy and I were dumbfounded; it appeared that your Grandma Carolyn could really cook if she concentrated and set her mind to it. To this day I will never forget the look on Bumpa’s face; he was furious at Daddy and me. Throughout the four hour car ride back to Columbia, Bumpa admonished the two of us severely; how dare we let him believe that Grandma Carolyn was a bad cook, how dare we allow him to insult someone in that way by refusing to eat at her table. Daddy and I were well into our late twenties but we both felt as if we were young children after that tongue lashing. Bumpa was not someone who forgave or forgot easily and for the rest of our holiday he made sure that we knew he was displeased with our behavior. Daddy and I felt horrible; not only for making Bumpa feel like a fool but for disrespecting Grandma Carolyn by misrepresenting her cooking talents. For weeks Daddy and I tormented ourselves, apologized to Bumpa profusely and called Grandma Carolyn on more than one occasion to thank her for the meal and to rave about how wonderful it was. You must understand little one that we were utterly perplexed, every experience prior to this was irrefutable proof that Grandma Carolyn couldn’t boil water (in fact there is a really interesting story from your Great Aunt Debbie about learning to boil water, but I will let her tell that story). A few weeks later Daddy received a phone call from your Uncle Aaron: he called to tell us that he could no longer keep the secret, Grandma Carolyn had bought all of the food from Boston Market and had put it in her own serving dishes to make it appear as if she had prepared it. Daddy and I laughed until we cried; partly because we were relieved that our reality of the universe had not shifted as drastically as we thought, Grandma still couldn’t cook. I immediately called Bumpa to relate the story to him for two reasons; because I did not want him to think we would really lie about Grandma’s talents and I knew he would find it hysterically funny. Bumpa laughed long and heartily at Grandma’s deception and at the end pardoned Daddy and me from any perceived crime that had been committed. I believe on that day Bumpa’s respect for your Grandma Carolyn rose ten-fold; she understood her own deficiencies and was clever enough to compensate for them. Well played Grandma Carolyn, well played. How wonderful little one that you come from a family that appreciates cunning and mirth as much as they do food; your cup runneth over.
Posted in December 2012 | Tagged Boston Market, Bumpa, cooking, decent meal, food, Grandma Carolyn, horror stories, one christmas, restaurants, Uncle Aaron | Leave a Comment »
November 30, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
It is interesting how the human desire for a good story can result in otherwise logical human beings accepting myths as fact. Urban legends permeate every culture and perhaps they were intentionally created in order to add importance to a morality tale. Families are no different; familial history is often passed from generation to generation, each putting its own spin on family lore. Such stories provide a sense of belonging within the family circle and they tie us to our past in seemingly tangible ways. I love these fables as much as anyone; except the ones in which I am the central character. There is one family myth that persists today about my driving skills that are based upon conjecture and an utterly false rumor started by your Bumpa when I first started to drive. It is true that I had a car accident shortly after earning my license (I was not at fault mind you) but I have an exemplary driving record. Although your Daddy would dispute my prowess at operating a motor vehicle, when one compares our citation and accident track records it is clear who the better driver is. However, the false accusation that I am a bad driver began when I was in high school. I had a job at the local nursing home and my shift started at 6am, meaning I had to get into my car no later than 5:30am in order to make it on time. Teenagers are notorious for wanting to sleep to the last possible minute, I was no exception. I would calculate how much time I needed to shower and get dressed to the exact second and roll out of bed accordingly. In the spring, summer and fall this plan worked beautifully. Unfortunately this plan could not be easily executed during the winter months since we only had a two car garage; Bumpa and Grandma Jo would park in the garage and I would park in the driveway. During the winter if a car sits outside overnight a thick layer of frost inevitably covers the entirety of the windshield, this was the case with my little Ford Escort. Rather than get up 15 minutes earlier I would simply jump in the car, turn the heaters up full blast and scrape an area the size of a standard letter through which to navigate. By the time I got half way to work, I no longer had to hunch over the steering wheel in order to see the road. This system seemed perfectly reasonable to my teenage mind; I could persevere my precious slumber and still make it to work on time with a modicum of hassle. To Bumpa, it was an accident waiting to happen and so for a few weeks he would get up when I got into the shower and would head outside to scrape the windshield for me. This routine soon lost its appeal to Bumpa who also valued sleep and a solution was born; in the winter months Bumpa would park outside and I would park in the garage. To me, this was a most excellent plan. For a while it worked well; until the first snowfall when dad had to get up before all of the rest of us to blow out our considerably long driveway. That first snowstorm was a doozy; dumping almost seven inches of wet, heavy snow. My mother drove a Cadillac which took up the majority of her side of the garage and, while my Ford Escort hatchback was small, I had not pulled all the way into the garage and so Bumpa could not get the snow blower out. Bumpa was forced to shovel a three foot wide and five foot long length of snow in order to back my car out and get to the snow blower. Needless to say, Bumpa was not thrilled with me. That afternoon when I got home Bumpa met me in the garage, motioned for me to stay in my car and pointed to a white orb most enthusiastically. He had hung a golf ball from a rafter in the garage and I was to pull my car forward until the ball lightly tapped my windshield. He had measured exactly how far I need to pull into the garage in order to get the snow blower out in case it was needed. Your Bumpa was a clever man and this was a very simple solution to avoid a repeat of the day’s earlier calamity. This is not the story that has been handed down for over twenty some odd years. Instead Bumpa relished in telling anyone who would listen that I had, on several occasions, overshot my distance into the garage and threatened to drive right through the wall. Utter nonsense, it never happened, and I would vehemently tell anyone who would listen how events truly unfolded. My stories fell on deaf ears each and every time. It was more fun to believe the myth than the truth, even though everyone knew that Bumpa was a storyteller and loved to tease us more than anything. There you have it little one, your mama has her own familial urban legend to live down. If you think about it Bumpa’s story, even though it is pure fiction, is a tribute and a gift. Stories keep us alive in others’ hearts, sometimes even long after they leave us. So here’s to history little one, may our stories live for generations to come.
Posted in November | Tagged Bumpa, Cadillac, cars, Driving, false accusation, family lore, Ford Escort, garage, Golf Ball, snow, time teenagers, transportation | Leave a Comment »
November 28, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
Humor is one of the most valuable assets an individual can possess. A sense of humor indicates a heightened intellect, an ability to cope with adversity and it keeps one humble. One of the reasons that I fell in love with your Daddy is his wicked sense of humor; he would call it finely honed sarcasm crafted over decades of dedicated practice. You come from a long line of laughter and teasing on Daddy’s side of the family. When I watch Daddy tease you I can see his father and grandfather’s influence. Your uncles are all big goofs too; they love to irritate you girls to the point of utter and complete frustration (it comes from a place of love and affection so try not to let it get to you). One’s aptitude for humor can present itself at a very early age, which was the case with your Uncle Aaron. Grandma Carolyn was a favorite target for your Daddy and Aunt Sara, who are considerably older than Uncle Aaron; they were bad influences on that young sweet boy. Back in the 1990’s there was a very popular film called “Forrest Gump” about a loveable but intellectually challenged man who was being bullied early on in the film. There is a memorable scene in which his friend Jenny told him to “Run Forrest….Run!” to escape the bullies. So popular was this film that certain lines from the film found their way into everyday vernacular. One night your Daddy, Uncle Aaron, Aunt Sara and I were at Grandma Carolyn’s house. We all wanted to watch a movie which was fine with grandma but she insisted that she got to choose the movie. She chose a Steven Seagal movie called “On Deadly Ground.” Sorry little one but your grandma does not have excellent taste in movies, this movie gets an average rating of 4 out of 10. There was a collective groan from all of us when she chose it, but we sat down to watch it. Your Daddy and his siblings offered running commentary throughout the entire movie and the objective of the running diatribe was to irritate grandma to the point that she would give up and let them watch something else. They were relentless your Daddy and Aunt Sara, to the point where grandma snipped at them a bit. Uncle Aaron was much younger then and out of the three he was most likely to defend grandma and at the beginning of the film he did. However, even to a twelve year old, it was clear that this movie about a heavily armed environmentalist taking on big oil in Alaska would not be winning any Oscars. Your grandma would not capitulate; she was bound and determined that she would see this movie through to the end. Half way through the movie the main character, named Forrest Taft, was surrounded by menacing bad guys and Uncle Aaron shouted “Run Forrest….Run!” Your Daddy, Aunt Sara and I collapsed from fits of laughter. The juxtaposition of grandma’s stern determination to watch the film and Uncle Aaron’s effuse warning to Steven Seagal was a textbook offering of perfect comedic timing. Even Grandma Carolyn could not ignore the humor of the situation; it was at that point she admitted she didn’t think the movie was very good either. It was well over twenty years ago that this story took place but it is still fresh in my memory. When Daddy, Sara, Aaron or I say the phrase “Run Forrest…Run!” the purpose of its utterance is to evoke laughter by remembering that night. It is a reminder that teasing grandma was, and still is, one of their favorite pursuits. I wish for you these kinds of memories little one. That you think back on your life when you are older and your remember laughter being central to your childhood. You and your Daddy are a lot of alike; you are already honing a sharp sense of humor and understand the concept of sarcasm and before the age of six. I encourage you to continue to develop your wit; knowing full well that I will be the favorite target for you and Daddy.
Posted in November | Tagged Aunt Sara, comedy, Daddy, entertainment, Forrest Gump, Grandma Carolyn, Humor, memorable scene, Sarcasm, Steven Seagal, Uncle Aaron, Wit | Leave a Comment »
November 26, 2012 by Penni Pier
Dear Lyla,
If not already clear to you, I wanted to let you in a little secret; you come from a family with quirky tastes and sometimes seemingly odd eccentricities. I say that not to make you question the sanity of your family heritage but to give you some context for the story I am about to tell you. Every family has their share of interesting relatives; we appear to have them in abundance. I am convinced, however, that our propensity for embracing the unusual and finding solace in the ridiculous does not stem from a history of mental unbalance but from a surprising capacity for adaptation. Your people, little one, come from mostly rural areas and from a time removed from electronic gadgetry and on-demand entertainment choices. Instead your ancestors embraced the cultural fashions of the day and created playthings from everyday objects. While I did not grow up in the dark ages, although your daddy would argue that I grew up in a pop cultural black hole (he may be right), there was limited television entertainment to be had when I was younger. Television channels did not operate on a twenty four hour cycle, satellite television was a choice for the well-to-do and there were no cool apps to sync with your favorite television show. My sister and I were also limited by the choices made by the adults and I have seen every episode of Gunsmoke, HeeHaw and the Lawrence Welk show ever aired; I am sure that explains my penchant for all things pop culture now. When I was growing up we watched a few shows with some regularity but television viewing was not something we did a lot of (other than the news). We played a lot of cards and board games during the winter and during the summer we worked on the resort so television was not an ingrained part of our psyche. But for many back in those days it was a sole source of entertainment and folks would set their schedules so an episode would not be missed. This was the case with my Grandma Lyla and when we went to visit her it was understood: come hell or high water she would not miss her regularly scheduled programs. Remember earlier when I mentioned the uniqueness of the personalities in our clan? It is not that grandma watched her shows with the passion and loyalty of a true fan that makes this story somewhat interesting; it is the subject of her favorite show which may give you pause. When I was just a few years older than you are now grandma’s favorite show was the weekly WWF broadcast. You might be thinking, oh how sweet, grandma liked wild life. I can see how one might make that mistake as WWF now exclusively stands for World Wildlife Fund. However, before the copyright lawsuit dust settled, WWF used to also stand for the World Wrestling Federation. While wrestling (most specifically Greco-Roman style) has been an athletic staple for a millennium, this is not the kind of wrestling that you see at local high school and college tournaments. Back in the 80s WWF wrestling was the equivalent of a soap opera with sanctioned violence. There were colorful characters like Hulk Hogan and The Undertaker who had story lines that underwrote the matches. There were masks, costumes of every color and a loyal fan base that followed every nuance of this wildly entertaining sport. Your Grandma Lyla was truly a dyed in the wool fan. I so vividly remember my sweet, soft-spoken, squishy to hug grandma yelling at the television. She would give the wrestlers she loved encouragement, instructions and warnings of the occasional folding chair that would be brought into the ring in an unfair fight. Grandma Lyla was so animated and determined that her hero would be victorious. The image was, and still is, jarring to see the juxtaposition between a woman who was the idyllic grandmother in every way and the senior citizen calling for wrestling blood-lust. Memories like this are burned into my psyche and the behaviors and quirks have likely made their way into our family DNA. I am not ashamed or embarrassed by Grandma Lyla’s love for the WWF; on the contrary, I am inspired by it. You should not be alarmed little one, eclectic tastes in the human disposition are a good thing. The more varied both your experiences and the company you keep the better equipped you are to be a compassionate and caring individual because you will not be limited by a myopic sense of the world. So go ahead little one and let the family freak flag fly, you will be in good company.
Posted in November | Tagged celebrities, entertainment, gaming, Grandma Lyla, Gunsmoke, HeeHaw, Hulk Hogan, Lawrence Welk, Television, The Undertaker, wrestling, WWF | Leave a Comment »
« Newer Posts - Older Posts »
Letters To Lyla 