Labor Day

It's Labor Day again.  Time to take out the pier at Grandma Albright's house on the lake.

When I was growing up there were several holidays that brought Nana's family together. Christmas and Thanksgiving were big ones, and the May birthday party for Bob, Nancy, Nana, my mother, and the others later.  Homecoming weekend for VU was one for a while, and the Fourth of July parade back when they had the Soapbox Derby on Lincolnway.  All of these were held in Valparaiso, many of them at Nana's house (and later and Marilyn and Gerts' house as Nana grew older.)

Labor Day was the only one held out of Valpo at Grandma and Grandpa Albright's house on Flint Lake.  The May Birthday Party tradition started out as a Memorial Day picnic when we met at the lake to put in the pier for fishing and swimming.  Labor Day was the bookended picnic to take the pier out for the season.

During the summer I caught a lot of fish off that pier.  I jumped more than a few cannonballs off that pier, and pushed my fair shar of boats from that pier.  The pier was originally a rather dubious piece of construction by Grnadpa Albright of scrap lumber and diftwood that was the size and weight of a small span form the Golden Gate bridge, but in later years Uncle Gerts would make more sturdy, simple, and elegant designs from treated lumber that lasted longer and were better constructed.  They evolved from shaky affairs with thin ganglplanks tying them to the shore into sturdy outcroppings suitable for diving or launching small fleets of fishing boats.

The shoreline always looked full of hope and promise for the summer when the Pier was put out in May.  The shoreline looked desolate and forlorn when the pier disappeared in September.  But the lead-in to "Taking Out The Pier" was more celebration than wake.  Uncle Gerts manned the barbecue, as swarms of aunts set out a carry-in potluck feast of potato salads, beans, creamed corn, and corn-on-the-cob.  A watermelon or two were de riguer as well, and a cooler of beer was always around the corner.

Somewhere on the lake water-skiers were slaloming around the boat and leaving great waves that rocked our innertubes as we floated just offshore.  The sand and small fish were shadowboxed in the circles of the innertubes beneath us.  The sound of the outboard motors was deeper and richer traveling through the water

Towards the end of the day the glare from the sun in the western sky glared off the lake and hurt the eyes of the older relatives, so they would retreat to the cottage and talk.  Not me; I'd sit ont the shore and watch the waterskiers dwindle in number as the waves lapped gently on the shore.  A fish would jump here and there from time to time, as the mayflies skipped across the waves.

Writing that, I can smell the barbecues and the soft smell of seaweed and lake water.  The tang of a gasoline engine wafts thru from time to time as the outboards roar in the background.

Somewhere there's a cheeseburger with my name on it as Uncle Gerts leads the cousins and uncles into the water with a sledgehammer to knock out the pilings and return the pier to land for the winter.

Labor Day.  Here again, and gone forever.

~~JD~~

Kate Cook Arrives in San Antonio!

And goes to the Alamo. (She wanted to see the basement.)



She thinks this is a better pose.



Kate on a bridge over the Riverwalk. The restaurant we ate at (and fed the ducks at) is on the right.

So, yes, Nancy, your little girl is fine and happy.

~~JD~~

Happy Birthday Dear Nana

Today is May 23rd, 2009. Mt Nana. Isobel Florence Foster Shurr, was born 103 years ago today.

Whom I miss every single day.

I don't think I've ever recovered from her loss.

~~JD~~

Julian's Senior Concert May 12th, 2009

The audio's pretty muddy, the video is from a camera phone, but there are places where you can hear his solo quite well. It's a Tchaikovsky piece, and I loved it.

He's been accepted to George Washington university in Washington DC. Almost a full ride, First Chair in violin this year. Summa Cum Laude with a 4.35 gpa. Voted "Most Likely To Succeed," literally.

Better kid than I deserve, certainly.

~~JD~~

My Cousin Bob

Sorry For My Absence . . . I needed a personal day after my trip to Chicago last week for the funeral of my cousin Bob. His passing has been kind of difficult for me because of the closeness of our ages. So after working three nights in a row, I needed to decompress.

It’s hard to describe my cousin Bob. But if you had known him for more than five minutes in your life, you felt as if you had known him forever.

Bob loved life, and life loved Bob back ferociously. Bob taught me how to ride a bike – no hands – down a hill at full speed. Bob taught his sister and brother how to hide and make snowballs in the window wells of their house and pelt passing cars; whose drivers would crane their heads this way and that, unable to see Bob huddling down in the window wells, giggling madly. Bob talked me into doing all his yard work by raking all the leaves into a pile and jumping into them from the roof of the garage when we were 7 years old. He even made me a parachute for me out of one of his mom’s new sheets. But he forgot to tell me he’d put his tricycle in the pile while I climbed up the ladder to the garage roof.

Bob was the one during the summer at the lake during our teenaged years who gunned the ancient outboard motor and jumped it off the boat's transom to sink into the depths of Flint Lake, never to be seen again by man. Bob was the one who arranged the trip to Iowa for himself and me, forgetting to tell our grandmother he’d be borrowing her car for a week. Bob was the one who peppered his conversations with “Dang It – Sucka!!!!” when he tripped over a hammer, felt the ladder shake, or was called out at second playing a modified game of softball that included every kid for four blocks on his team and bases that mysteriously moved during play.

The hands-down funniest story I heard about Bob was one his sister told. When she was learning to drive, she was terrified of hitting another car, and didn't get her license at 16 like most of us. So her father drove her to the family farm of her grandparents in Iowa where she could drive in great slow circles around the barn and learn some confidence with the vehicle. After a few hours of practice, and just as she was almost gaining her confidence back, Bob popped out from around the corner of the barn and ran screaming towards the car, arms flailing and screaming "LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!!!" (It was a week before she could bring herself to drive again.)

Bob was the one whose record collection included James Brown, Jethro Tull, and the Isley Brothers when I was still listening to the Carpenters (we were only 10 months apart, and in the same grade level at school.) Bob was the one who picked a mudball fight with the Tucker kids next door, and sought shelter by hiding amongst his mothers new clean sheets drying on the clotheslines. Bob had the suitors for his daughters shaking in abject terror because of his reputation – his first son-in-law Rodney was so scared he literally couldn’t form the question to ask for Bob’s daughter’s hand in marriage. But Bob put him at ease by saying, “Rodney, I know why we’re here, and I know what you want to ask me; and it would be an honor to have you as a son-in-law.”

Bob was a good person; and I’m the kind of person who doesn’t give that name lightly. He was genuine salt-of-the-earth good, as in the type of person who would drop everything and come running if you needed help. Need some yard work done? Bob’s there. Need some home repair or painting done? Bob’s got that covered. Need somebody to listen to your problems? Bob’s got two ears, no waiting; and a cold beer in the fridge. Need somebody to help you move? Bob will bring the truck, and his whole family to help you get unloaded – and they’ll stay until the work was done. (That’s how we got unloaded when we moved back to my hometown after we got out of the Army. Bob and his family were there at 5:30 pm – interrupting their own dinner – and stayed until almost 11:00 pm to get it all inside in freezing March weather.)

I like to think that Bob started out mowing yards for the neighborhood old ladies and parlayed that into a lifelong career. He mowed lawns in the summer, raked leaves in the fall, shoveled snow in the winter, and started over again in the spring. When his brothers and sister got older, he farmed the work out to them and started a family cottage industry. When the Presbyterian Church moved to their new building in 1973 and needed a custodian, Bob did the work for free for a year until the Elders decided they’d better hire him before he got away. Bob then added light carpentry to his job skills and painting when my Dad needed a helper, and a Jack-of-All-Trades was born.

Bob’s generosity was even more limitless than his occasional fits of insanity. Bob would clean out the gutters of the house he painted for little old ladies. No extra charge; and he barely charged enough to cover the cost of paint, if that. When the elders at his church were at an impasse how to appropriate money and which contractor to choose for some repair and paint work for the Sanctuary, Bob snuck in one afternoon and did the work himself - no charge - and refused to admit he’d done it. The next year he built a stage riser for the sanctuary band and carpeted it at his own cost without being asked. When Bob visited his sister down south and saw she had a hole in her wall, he went out after everyone was asleep and bought the materials and had the repair fixed, spackled, and painted by morning.

I mentioned at Bob’s eulogy that the greatest measure of the man is that his funeral and wake were not sad, depressing things, but joyful reunions with Bob’s memory. While his wife and daughters had a few sniffles and the occasional tear or two, it’s impossible to put two or more people who knew my cousin in the same room and not have half-a-dozen stories about Bob pop up, to much laughter and smiles. The mood in the wake Friday night was laughter, smiles, and rejoicing. There were no tears of sadness there; just tears of joy at how Bob made our lives so enjoyable.

My supervisor gave me one of the greatest compliments of my life after I got back from the funeral. She said that I didn’t just do my own work well; I volunteered to help others until the work was done and didn’t think twice about it. It was a sad moment for me, but that’s just the way Bob and I were raised. The work’s not done until everyone’s work is done. My work is your work. I’m done when you’re done, and not until. It’s a little something of him I’ll take with me always.

~~JD~~

My Butt's In The Air . . .

. . . as you read this. Thanks to the Miracle of wireless Internet, I have access in San Antonio airport. The Pundit's taking it on the road this morning.

Got up at 4am, showered, took the bags to the car. Blood sugar is 87, so apparently I'm nervous about flying (again.) Much as I love to have my butt at 30,000 feet going 650 mph, it always makes me a bit nervous; US Airways notwithstanding. Actually, US Airways is very likely the safest airline to fly on. MUslims are boycotting it for some damned reason; plus they appear to have excellent pilots.

It makes me feel no better that I'm flying on American Airlines. Visions of 9-11 dance in my head. Peachy.

Plane's scheduled to depart at 7:00am and arrive in Chicago at 10:00. I should be able to connect when I get to my hotel (I hope.) Updates as they happen.

~~JD~~

On The Road Again . . .

On my way to do some family business today. I'll be posting sporadically throughout the day as I get (a) time and (b) internet connectivity.

Stay Tuned.

~~JD~~