Today....
my parents did something that is almost considered the impossible. Today, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.

Fifty years. That's 600 months. 18,250 days. 438,000 hours. 26,280,000 minutes.

No matter how you measure it, that's a LONG time.

We're throwing a party for my parents, but it's later in the month because my sister can't get here from Atlanta any sooner. So, we sent my parents a bouquet of flowers so we could at least acknowledge the day. Personally, I think it needed acknowledgement. Fifty years...wow...

Anyway, in honor of my parents, I am posting a column I wrote about them several years ago. I know that I have posted about them, and sometimes I haven't painted them in the best light...but I could have done a helluva lot worse in the parent department. So, Skip..MB...happy 50th anniversary....I love ya!

Odd Apples Come From Odd Trees

I aadmit it -- I'm an odd person. I've been told that I think, for lack of a better description, weird. However, I can't take all the credit. My mind is the meld of two of the strangest people I have ever known.

My mother is five-foot nothing, while my dad is over six feet tall. She's a worrier, he's so laid back he's almost horizontal.

Mom was a nurse and dad was a drill sergeant in the Army. Mom could give me a clinical reason not to do anything. Dad could tell me how to prepare...just in case I didn't listen to my mother.

Once Mom told me there were many toxins in the air; therefore, I should only breathe when necessary. She was half joking. Dad taught me how to detect a nuclear bomb attack, and the ins and outs of wearing a gas mask. He was serious.

Mom gave me the clinical explanation for why I should not have sex when I started dating. Dad taught me four ways to paralyze a guy just in case he went too far.

She taught me how to clean a house. He taught me how to clean a carburetor and use a flame-thrower (good for cleaning up anything you can't throw away...but always have a hose nearby!).

Mom showed me how to clean, sanitize and fold laundry --hospital-style. Dad taught me how to pack two-weeks worth of clothes in a 4X2 footlocker in ten minutes or less.

According to mom, if someone was pressing me for personal information I should politely state: "I'm sorry, I don't give that information to people I don't know." Dad simply told me to say, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you".

Mom, the caring considerate nurse was a strict disciplinarian; it was her way or the highway. Dad, the gruff drill sergeant was an old softy. If there was something I wanted to do and money was involved I'd go to dad first. Mom was a hard sell; in addition, she never carried cash.

She taught me how to make a bed with hospital corners. He taught me how to make a bed with sheets pulled so tightly you could bounce a quarter off them. Because of the sometimes daily bed-making drills, I haven't made a bed since 1988.

Mom took care of the kids; dad nursed the pets. Mom was a screamer, and would often yell about the same things repeatedly, to make sure you got the message. However, dad's famous line, spoken in the quietest of tones was "I don't like to repeat myself".

She taught me to polish white hospital shoes. He taught me to spit shine black jump boots. I was much older before I realized how much free labor I gave them.

Mom could never remember my name. She would go through every member in our family and sometimes half our pets before she finally got to me. My father never remembered my age. I was 15 for six years straight.

If I had to ask permission to do something, I always made sure I wore comfortable shoes for the impending game of what I used to call "Permission Ping-Pong". Getting a decision from my parents was an exercise...sometimes in futility. Here's an excerpt. I'll start with mom, but the scenario played out the same way if I started with dad:

Me: Mom, can I go (insert destination here)?
Mom: What did your dad say?
Me: Haven't asked him yet.
Mom: Well go ask him.

The search for my father would ensue. Normally he was outside...under the hood of a car.

Me: Dad, can I go (insert destination here)
Dad: Did you ask your mother?
Me: Yes.
Dad: Well, what did she say?
Me: she told me to ask you
Dad: (mumbles annoyance that she passed the buck) Well it's fine with me.

Sounds simple enough, right? It's not over. Although my father said it was okay to him, he would never assume to answer for my mother. Therefore, it was implied that I should go back to my mother and tell her what dad said. I found this out the hard way, and my assumption got me grounded for a week.

After that, I got it in writing.

I'm older now and my parents are as well. However, they are still the walking contradictions they were when I was growing up. My telephone will ring and my mother's voice will be on the other end. As I look up from the dishes I'm washing I see her standing on her porch...20 feet away. I'll come back from the store to find dad has started a home improvement project--at my house. Mom can't remember my name, and dad still has no idea how old I am.

I wouldn't change a thing.


- posted by Kim @ 9:55 PM