Category: My Family and Friends

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Dorothy’s Cat

I remember my sweet mother-in-law every day of my life. She died in 2008, at the age of 98. I often wear her fuzzy bathrobe when I get up in the morning. I wear one of her sweatshirts it the winter, when it is cold outside. Snuggled in my memories of her, I am cozy and warm.

I loved spending time with Dorothy. She was pretty and funny, sweet and a little naive. But Dorothy was also determined and brave. She survived losing her father in the influenza outbreak when she was eight years old. She survived diphtheria and being quarantined at Denver General Hospital for six weeks when she was ten. She was the mother of six children, two of whom died before she did. Even as she approached 100 years old, she was determined to stay in her own home.

For many years, Dorothy and I spent every Friday evening together. Often we would go to the neighborhood restaurant for dinner and a glass of wine. Other times, we would sit in Dorothy’s kitchen and talk about our week. At various times, Dorothy shared her home with her husband, her children, her nephew, her mother, and Jim’s dog, Adolph.

Adolph was a medium-size, brown dog. Not a big dog, but not small, either. He was part Airedale and mostly mutt. Adolph was happy and  lovable, but not especially smart. Although Dorothy tolerated Adolph, her real love were her cats. She nearly always had a cat in the house. When one died, usually from crossing busy Grant Street, another one showed up, asking to be adopted.

One Friday afternoon, I stopped in to see Dorothy and I knew something was wrong. Her grey kitty was meowing around the kitchen. Dorothy poured each of us a glass of wine.

“Is everything ok?” I asked. “You seem a little flustered.”

“I am flustered. I had a weird phone call today.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. It was a man’s voice. He said he saw me at church.”

“Are you sure you don’t know him?”

“His voice wasn’t familiar at all. He said he wanted to see my pussy.”

“Oh, my. That’s terrible. What did you say?”

“I was very cross with him. I asked him why he would say such a thing. My cat was right there in the kitchen with me and I wasn’t going to take her outside to show her to him or anyone else.”

“What did the man say then?”

“Nothing. He hung up.”

Dorothy told that same story to everyone she saw that weekend. No one had the heart to tell her why we thought the story was funny.

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D-Day

They called him “Doc.”  As a pharmacist Mate 3, my father was the highest ranking medical officer on his ship, an LST (tank landing ship) used during WWII.

Dad graduated from pharmacy college at the University of Minnesota in June, 1941. Pearl Harbor was attacked six months later. My father knew he didn’t want to be drafted into the Army, so he enlisted in the Navy in June, 1942. He was twenty-four years old.

Dad did not go through traditional “boot camp” but was sent, instead, to the Great Lakes Naval Hospital, north of Chicago. His first assignment was the Brooklyn Naval Hospital, where my mother joined him. He then moved to the Naval Station in Geneva, New York, where he and my mother were married and where I was born. In June, 1943, Dad was sent to the naval base in Maryland. My mother and I went to live with Dad’s family in St. Paul.

Dad’s assignment, the LST 492, was his home for the next two years. The ship left Maryland and  traveled to England to prepare for the first wave on Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944.

The following words are from an article written by David Chrisinger, published in the New York Times Magazine, June 5, 2019: “Most of the men in the first wave never stood a chance. In the predawn darkness of June 6, 1944, thousands of American soldiers crawled down swaying cargo nets and thudded into steel landing craft bound for the Normandy coast.”

My father’s ship was one of those landing crafts. When they reached Normandy, the doors to the LST swung open, rolling out tanks and army men into the ocean. As a medical officer, my father stayed on the ship with the other sailors, waiting to treat wounded American and German prisons of war, alike.

“Allied troops kept landing, wave after wave, and by midday they had crossed the 300 yards of sandy killing ground, scaled the bluffs and overpowered the German defenses. By the end of the day, the beaches had been secured and the heaviest fighting had moved at least a mile inland. In the biggest and most complicated amphibious operation in military history, it wasn’t bombs, artillery or tanks that overwhelmed the Germans; it was men — many of them boys, really — slogging up the beaches and crawling over the corpses of their friends that won the Allies a toehold at the western edge of Europe.” ~ David Chrisinger

Going through old files, I came across a letter, written by Lt. Commander, Ralph Newman, commander of the LST 492, to my mother on July 4, 1944:

“I would like to take this opportunity to write a few words about your husband, Robert. We point with some pride to the record of the good old 492. No one has so much as broken a little finger. And no one has more friends than Bob. The “doc” has the respect of his officers and shipmates, alike.’

From Normandy, the LST 492 traveled to North Africa, Italy and Sicily, with German POW’s still onboard. On August 15, 1944, they were part of the second D-Day, invasion, Operation Dragoon, an assault against German forces in Southern France that eventually led to the liberation of Paris.

After leaving the  south of  France in September, 1944. The LST 492 was assigned to the Pacific fleet, and traveled to Hawaii, Guam, the Philippines and the Wake Islands. The ship was based in Okinawa. Japan, when bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

When asked about his feelings about the Atom Bomb, my father later wrote, “I felt relieved that the war was going to be terminated and I could return to my family and my normal lifestyle. I was happy only for myself. I had no feelings for the eventual consequences of it. I suppose that was selfish. Now I’m don’t believe it was justified.”

My father was always a kind-heart, quiet man. I can’t imagine how difficult war must have been for him. But he has also a man who always did what he was called upon to do. Later, reflecting back on his time in the Navy, my father commented that at the time, he felt that WWII was necessary to defeat Hitler. But overall, he was opposed to war, which he labeled as  “senseless.”

Every year, on Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, my father took his trumpet out of its case, stood outside in the dark, and played Taps. I imagine he thought of his days on the LST 492  as those sweet sounds floated through the air, for all of the neighbors to hear.

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Johnny

Johnny and his mother, Gail, lived on my floor in Heather Gardens. I am using their real names because they are no long alive. Gail died on Christmas Day. Johnny died this spring. They were two of my favorite, most memorable, neighbors. I am one of the few people who would say that.

I believe each person has a story. After we die, there is one story that becomes our legacy. Gail’s legacy is that she was born profoundly deaf. That is her story. But she was also a very bright, social woman who had a college degree and raised two sons. Her speech was almost impossible to understand but that didn’t stop her from being the first person to welcome  me to the building. She was always happy to see me. Even as I was getting ready to move and she had advanced dementia and was scaring people, Gail remained one of my favorite people.

Johnny’s story is that he was homeless before he moved in to take care of his mother. That is his legacy, but he was so much more than a dutiful son. He was a tall, unkempt man who was a licensed electrician. He preferred to sleep outside. He made friends easily (except in my building) because he was kind and generous. He was creative and loved to play tricks on people. He decorated his door in elaborate motifs for every holiday. He was especially fond of St. Patrick’s Day and thought of himself as an overgrown leprechaun. Once he decorated his doorway in giant spiders.

Johnny had a special love for his homeless friends, a love that was not shared by the residents of my building. He hired a woman named Marie, who may or may not have been his common-law wife, to move in to his take care of Gail so he could earn money as an on-call electrician for the local electrician’s union.

The bond between Gail and Marie was obvious. Whereas other people fought with Gail and insisted they were right, Marie never told her no. When Gail wanted to play games, they played games. When Gail wanted to put together jigsaw puzzles, they did puzzles. If Gail didn’t want to take a shower, Marie took a shower herself, and called it “good enough.” Marie cooked food and Gail ate it. Gail stopped going out in the hallway and bothering people. Marie did their laundry in the community laundry room, even though she could hear the mean things that the residents said to her. I thought she was a skinny saint in rags and purple hair.

After Marie moved in, Johnny gradually started inviting some of his other homeless friends to stop by, as well. They came to say hello to Gail and Marie. Many of them came to take a shower and wash their hair. They left after about an hour, clean and happy. I liked talking to them. Many of them were intelligent people who had made some very bad choices in their lives. Most of them still had all their teeth.

One night in May, 2023, I rode down in the elevator with a newly washed young man and his bicycle. I wished him a good night and then told him that I was on my way to meet some friends. I was celebrating my 80th birthday. The man shook my hand and then reached into his back pocket for his billfold. He took out the only money he had, a five dollar bill, and gave it to me.

“Happy Birthday!” he said.

“Oh, no. I can’t take your money.”

“But I want you to have it. It isn’t everyday that you turn eighty years old.”

“That’s true. But if you really want me to have a happy birthday, you will take that money and buy yourself something to eat.”

My last day in the building, I knocked on Gail’s door to say goodby. She wasn’t wearing any clothes and obviously didn’t remember who i was. She looked happy. I told Marie to let Johnny know that I came to say goodby.

Three months later Gail died in hospice care. Six months later, Johnny also died. He had multiple forms of cancer and was in terrible pain. We never knew he was sick.

May Johnny and Gail rest in peace. I will hold them in my heart forever.

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Memorial Day

 

 

Before Memorial Day became  known as “The Day The Pools Open” it was called Decoration Day. It was a day to decorate soldiers’ graves in honor of their memory. In my small town, families decorated the graves of loved ones in the local cemetery, whether they were soldiers or not. I loved going to the cemetery with my mother and grandmother on Memorial Day to plant flowers on the Hunt family graves.

I’ve always liked going to cemeteries. They are never spooky or depressing. Being from a small town, I knew most of the family names at St. Mary’s Cemetery in North St. Paul.. They were the names of my classmates at St. Peter School. Schmidt…Roy…Luger…Olson …Scanlon … Knospe. They were all there. Some of my classmates were there on Memorial Day, too, planting flowers just like we did.

I don’t remember what kind of flowers my mother planted every year. I don’t remember if she planted the same thing or not. I think they were probably small and easy to grow. Maybe zinnias or marigolds?

Mostly I remember there was a small grave next to the Hunt family plot. It was smaller than the other graves and was always decorated with yellow pansies. Every year my mother would tell the same story. The grave belonged to a little boy who died before he was old enough to go to school. His mother and grandmother came every year and surrounded the grave in yellow flowers because it was his favorite color. It was the most beautiful grave I’ve ever seen.

As I got older, and learned to ride a bike, I often rode through the cemetery in the evening, after dinner. It was a quiet, friendly place, near Silver Lake. Later, after I moved to Denver, my grandmother was also buried in st. Mary’s Cemetery, next to her husband and her son, my mother’s brother, Frank, who died when he was thirteen. I haven’t been back to St. Mary’s Cemetery in a very long time. I wonder if anyone still plants flowers there on Memorial Day?

Now both of my parents are buried at Fort Snelling military cemetery. It is an especially beautiful place on Memorial Day. There are flags on every tombstone to honor the soldiers and their spouses.

My father was proud of his service in the Navy during World War II. He wanted to be buried at Fort Snelling and six years ago my mother was buried there alongside him.

There is something very solemn about Memorial Day. Yes, it is the day the pools open. But It is also a day for remembering.

After planting flowers on Memorial Day, we would have a picnic in our back yard  ~ the first picnic of the summer.  The menu wasn’t fancy and it was always the same: hot dogs, potato salad, chips, beer and soft drinks. At the end of the day, my Dad would take out his trumpet, stand in the front yard and play Taps. It was a signal that it was time for bed. Summer had started.

TAPS: Gone the sun, from the hills, from the lake, from the skies.

All is well. Safely rest. God is nigh.

 

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Graduation

Connor, the oldest of my three grandsons, graduated from the University of Colorado this week. His older sisters graduated years ago. I didn’t attend their graduations because they were out of state. I didn’t want to miss this one.

Connor is a young man with many talents. He’s a journalism major, who wrote a book in fourth grade. He has a beautiful singing voice and plays guitar. He and his roommate throw big parties and invite the whole neighborhood. But mostly, he is a sweet, kind, thoughtful young man who makes me smile when I remember the past twenty-two years with him.

When Connor was two years, I picked him up from daycare every Thursday. We came to my house, sat in the rocking chair and watched Monsters, Inc.  together. Connor knew every word of the movie. At the end, when Sulley sings, “You’ve got a friend in me,” Connor jumped off my lap, threw his hands in the air and sang along. Even then, he had the voice of an angel. It was pure magic.

Sometimes I think Sulley shaped Connor’s character more than I did. This is the official description of James P. Sullivan:

“Humble and caring, Sulley is extremely modest. And in spite of his utmost devotion (to his friends), his moral standards remain more important to him than anything; he is willing to sacrifice his personal gains for what he feels is right.”

This is Connor! But he’s much better looking.

This week Connor graduated with a bachelor of science degree, with a special interest in sports journalism. He plans to stay in Boulder for a year, while he looks for a job in his field. My darling boy is all grown up.

As Connor prepares for the world ahead, I am reminded of Sulley’s song, written by Randy Newman. It was our song, too.

“When the road looks rough ahead and you’re miles and miles from your nice warm bed, you just remember what your old pal said:  Boy, you’ve got a friend in me. Yeah, you’ve got a friend in me.

“If you’ve got troubles, I’ve got ’em too. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. We stick together and see it through, cause you’ve got a friend in me. Yes, you’ve got a friend in me.

“And as the years go by our friendship will never die. You’re gonna see it’s our destiny. You’ve got a friend in me!”

I love you, sweet man! I always will!

Grandma Lynda

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Hero

My mother grew up on a farm in Minnesota during the Depression. There were eight children ~ two girls and six boys. My mom was the youngest. Uncle Bob, not quite two years older, was her best friend and ally against their older twin brothers, who conspired to make their lives absolutely frightful. The twins taught Bob to steer a car when he was five, and my mother, in the back seat, was three. On Christmas Eve the twins sat outside with their air rifles, threatening to shoot Santa out of the sky, while my mother and Bob clutched each other and cried. Bob consoled my mother from a very young age and spent the rest of his life taking care of people. He was a hero.

Uncle Bob was one of the few young men who didn’t serve in WWII. He desperately wanted to enlist but my grandfather wouldn’t allow it. Grandpa wrote a letter saying that all his other sons were married with children. Bob was the only one left to help him run the farm. Without Bob’s help, my grandfather wrote, he would lose the farm.

According to my mother, Bob was devastated. He wanted to go to war, like his friends. He was determined to leave the farm as soon as he could. Eventually my grandparents sold the farm and moved into town. Bob went to work as a mechanic at Thornton Motors, a local Chrysler/Plymouth dealer, one block away from the North St. Paul fire station.

During the war, Uncle Bob continued to help his family. Because my father was in the Navy when my brother was born in 1944, Uncle Bob drove my mother to the hospital. He was still her main confident and friend as she raised my brother and I alone until the war was over and Dad came home again. 

As he watched the other young men return home, Uncle Bob didn’t feel like a hero. Because he wasn’t a veteran, he wasn’t allowed to join the American Legion or the VFW, although he was always welcome to come inside and drink with his friends.

Until he met my Aunt Leslie, the fire station was Bob’s life. He drove the fire truck and made sure it was in good working order.

Because he worked just one block away, Uncle Bob was always the first person to arrive at the station when the siren sounded. He jumped into the truck  and took off. If another firefighter happened get there in time, he would hang onto the back of the truck for dear life as Bob raced to the fire. Other volunteers called the town telephone operator to find out where the emergency was. By the time the other volunteers drove themselves to the fire, Bob was already there, taking care of everything until they arrived.

Later, when the fire call was over, the men met back in the station, drank beer and rehashed what they had just seen. Bob always had a great sense of humor and a huge circle of friends. He was handsome and charming. He was hard-working and kind. He was the guy who drove the fire truck. He was the town hero. 

Eventually North St. Paul hired a paid chief of police. Uncle Bob wanted that position, but he didn’t get it. My family believed that Bob was the most qualified, but didn’t get the job because he wasn’t a veteran.

Unlike my mother’s other brothers who married young, Uncle Bob waited until he was in the late 20’s to get married. When he met Leslie Webster, the whole small town was buzzing. Leslie was the granddaughter of  the town doctor, Dr. Cowan, and the daughter of Bud Webster, the president of the school board. They lived in a big house near Silver Lake. Leslie was young and beautiful. Bob finally found the girl he wanted to marry. 

My brother and I were in Bob’s wedding. I was five years old and my brother was four. The reception was held in a big barn-like building. My only memory of the wedding was the shivaree, performed by Bob’s friends at midnight. Suddenly, in the midst of the celebration, there was a horrible racket outside. There were whoops and yelling like I had never heard before. Bob’s drunken friends were banging on pots and pans with spoons and other utensils in some sort of  mock serenade. My brother and I were terrified. Uncle Bob laughed as he comforted us and warned that we needed to keep his friends outside. If they came inside they might steal the pretty bride. 

Bob and Leslie had four children and lived in a big, beautiful home near Leslie’s parents. Uncle Bob was a devoted husband and father. He loved Aunt Leslie and very much enjoyed spending time with his children. Mom and Leslie were good friends. Dad and Uncle Bob had great times together. 

In 1963, Bob was promoted to branch manager of LP gas sales for Skelly Oil. The job was based in Barron, Wisconsin, near the Minnesota border. Bob accepted the job, but wasn’t happy about leaving North St. Paul. My grandmother was very ill and being cared for in the town nursing home. Bob drove his family back to North St. Paul most weekends to visit her.  It was hard for all of us to see Grandma dying in that small bedroom. I think it must have broken Bob’s heart. 

In 1967, Bob was transferred to Berlin, Wisconsin, a town much further from North St. Paul than his previous assignment. Bob’s job was stressful and he dreamed of returning to North St. Paul when he retired.  But that never happened. In 1977, at the age of 57, Uncle Bob had a massive heart attack. Everyone was devastated. We lost a hero. 

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Peonies

The official flower of the Jones family is the peony. Just kidding. But if we had an official flower, it would definitely be a peony.

After retiring from the Northern Pacific railroad, my grandfather, Robert Jones, bought a small log cabin in West St. Paul where he began growing peonies. Acres and acres of beautiful peonies.

Grandpa Jones cultivated new species. He entered them in local and national peony shows. He and my grandmother sold bunches of flowers and whole peony bushes to people who stopped by his cabin. He became renown throughout the country and was a prominent member of the Minnesota Peony Society. I’m sure that many of his peonies are still growing throughout Minnesota and are in full bloom as I write this story.

Sometimes my brother and I were sent to the cabin for a week in the summer to help Grandpa work in the peony gardens. There were flowers of every color ~ pink, red, white, and magenta. It’s what Heaven must look like, with just a few angels floating around on clouds for special effects. Our job was to sit in the wheelbarrow, on top of weeds and debris that Grandpa dumped onto the trash pile away from the house. We laughed when the ride was over and we were dumped in the trash pile along with the weeds.

The cabin was tiny, with just a living room and one bedroom on the main floor. In the basement there was a small kitchen and the only bathroom. The steps from the bedroom to the bathroom were steep ~ too steep to navigate at night. If we needed to use the bathroom, we peed in a coffee can, which my grandmother carefully emptied the next morning.

My grandparents had only one narrow bunk bed in the bedroom. Grandpa slept in the top bunk with my brother, Bob. There was no railing on the bed, but Grandpa’s body kept him safely next to the wall. I slept with Grandma on the bottom bunk.

One night Bob and I went to sleep early. When it was time for her to come to bed, Grandma changed into her nightgown and was kneeling beside the bed, saying her nightly prayers, just as Bob rolled over and fell on top of her.  In my Catholic family, it was considered a miracle. Grandma’s prayers saved his life.

Grandpa’s most famous peony was a soft pink, double show peony, the Shirley Jones Peony (Seedling # P127) named for his daughter, Shirley. For her wedding, Aunt Shirley carried a lovely small bouquet of white flowers. The pink peonies named in her honor were on the altar and throughout the church.

Bob and I were in Aunt Shirley’s wedding. I think we were four and five years old. People commented on the beautiful bride and all the gorgeous flowers.

Most of the guests also murmured as my brother walked down the aisle sporting a big black eye. It was my fault. The day before the wedding, we were chasing each other around the yard. I came through the front door first and slammed the screen door shut, right in Bob’s face. It was too late to get another flower girl and ring-bearer. The wedding went on, as planned, 

Grandpa sold the cabin sometime in the early 1950’s. After my grandparents died in 1954 and 1956, my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Pat moved into their home at 731 Delaware Avenue. Grandpa’s office was still  in the basement of the home.

I loved going to the basement and seeing Grandpa’s big ledgers, where he kept careful records of all the flowers he owned and sold. One whole wall was covered with ribbons ~ white, red, and blue ribbons with the year they were awarded in the Minnesota Peony Show. And right in the middle were the biggest ribbons of all: the purple Best of Show ribbons

Robert and Irene Jones, two quiet people who raised children and flowers, left their mark throughout Minnesota with their gentle spirits and their beautiful peonies.

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The Luck of the Irish

I have always thought that the Mexican people and the Irish had a lot in common. In addition to being from devoutly Catholic countries with a distinct tendency toward alcoholism, they both have some of the worst luck in the world. They just don’t know it.

I am lucky to be one-fourth Irish. That comes from my dear Grandmother, Irene Fay Jones. My grandmother and her family were Irish to the core.

I was also lucky to marry into an Irish family. My mother-in-law, Dorothy Gorman Hein, was my mother, too. Her sister, Margaret Gorman Gessing, was my beloved aunt. 

Irene and Dorothy had a lot in common: Both lost their fathers at a very young age. Dorothy’s father died in the flu epidemic of 1918, when she was eight years old. Irene’s father was crushed between two boxcars, working for the railroad, when she was eleven. 

Both Irene and Dorothy grew-up poor, raised by single mothers at a time when jobs for women were scarce. They both became hard-working, brave women who loved their spouses, their children and their grandchildren. Both Irene and Dorothy had sisters who were their best friends, and both married men who were stable, hard-working, and NOT Irish. Irene and Dorothy also loved to drink, now and then. Dorothy and Margaret drank wine out of a pretty glasses. Irene drank whiskey, with her sister Ruth, out of lovely porcelain cups.

St. Patrick’s Day was the most important day of the year for Dorothy and Margaret. They had their own booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern in downtown Denver. They arrived early and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe.

 

I don’t know if Irene Fay was proud of her Irish heritage. My Welsh grandfather didn’t approve of her wild Irish family. Too often the Fays were in trouble with the law and Grandpa was embarrassed when their names appeared, yet again, in the local newspaper.

Irene Fay was a serious woman. She married my grandfather, Robert Jones, when she was seventeen and he was twenty-four. Grandpa was a studious, sober Welshman, who never drank a drop of alcohol. Irene’s younger sister, Ruth Fay, was Grandma’s opposite. Ruth was fun-loving, friendly, exceptionally pretty and always ready for the next drink, even if it wasn’t legal.

Ruth married Johnny Quinn in the St. Paul Cathedral in 1923, three years after the start of prohibition. I can only assume it was a Roaring 20’s courtship, filled with music, dancing, and bootleg liquor. Ruthie’s hair was short, she dressed as a flapper and she loved to drive a car. Johnny was a small-built, dapper, charming Irishman.

As a child, I loved to hear Johnny and Ruth tell stories of gangsters running out the back door of their house. I grew up hearing stories of machine guns hidden in guitar cases, of people being gunned down in the streets, of crooked policemen and gangsters “with a heart of gold.”  Uncle Johnny taught my sister how to shoot Craps when she was seven years old.

Johnny Quinn killed a man at the Green Lantern Saloon in St. Paul in 1931. He said it was self-defense, but it probably wasn’t. Grandma’s brother, Frank Fay, and her brother-in-law, George Hurley, were also implicated in the Green Lantern “situation.”  Johnny was eventually convicted of the murder and spent time in the Stillwater, Minnesota prison before being pardoned by the governor. Meanwhile, Frank escaped to Canada, and George ran away to California. 

I wish I could tell you that Johnny and Ruth lived a straight life after he returned home from prison, but that wouldn’t be true. Prohibition was repealed, so they needed to find another business. They bought a small dry-cleaning business in St. Paul, and set up an illegal gambling operation in the back room. They ran that business until Uncle Johnny died of natural causes in 1963.

Aunt Ruth lived fifteen more years after Johnny died. She outlived my grandmother by twenty-two years. Ruth was always the life of the party. She was always beautiful. Always everyone’s favorite aunt. Always a baseball fan. Always generous.  And like the Gorman sisters ~ Dorothy and Margaret ~ Aunt Ruth was always ready with a laugh and another story.

I was lucky to have Irish men and women in my life. They taught me to work hard. To believe in leprechauns and four-leaf clovers. To ask for forgiveness, instead of permission. To look for fun and laughter. To make music and tell stories. And to take a drink, every now and then. Everyone should be so lucky.

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Boys Birthday Parties

My second grandson goes off to college next week. That leaves me with just one grandson still in high school. The years go by too fast!

Watching children go back to school always makes me nostalgic. I remember summer fun with my children and their children. Boys Birthday Parties at the water parks were simply the best.

All three of my grandsons have birthdays between May 2 – June 1. When they were smaller, we celebrated their birthdays together, usually at one of Denver’s many water parks.

Our first outing was to Water World, a huge water park north of Denver when Connor and Chance were still toddlers. We set up near the kiddie pool and they played and splashed until they were exhausted. 

As the boys got older, we went to the Broomfield water park. Everyone was free to explore the different slides, but the main attraction was the giant family slide. It was so big enough that five people could go down at the same time.

Afternoons at the water park included lots of food, birthday cupcakes, gifts and always a piñata. Max, being the youngest, never wanted to be left out. He explored the big pools and often made new friends along the way.

As the boys have gotten older, their schedules are more difficult to manage. Connor and Chance have jobs and Max has baseball.

Grandpa Jim and I no longer have jobs to go to. Now we have memories.

 

 

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The Twins Are Back!

My favorite uncles, the twins Ray and Len Hunt, were born in 1909. I remember them every August on their birthday.

Ray and Len were born mischievous and stayed that way for the rest of their lives. They were identical in every way but they were “mirror twins.” Ray was right-handed and Len was left-handed. 

Ray and Len played tricks on everyone, even my sweet Grandma when she wasn’t looking. One time, when they were very young, they noticed that Grandma had gone down into the farm house cellar to get something. She left the trap door open so when she pulled the string to turn out the light, she could climb back up the ladder to the kitchen. 

The boys waited until Grandma had turned out the light, then they closed the cellar door with a bang. They stood on the door and Grandma couldn’t get out. She was trapped in the cold, dark cellar.

Grandma yelled at the twins to let her out, but they stood on the door, laughing and congratulating themselves. Finally their older brother, my Uncle Bill, grabbed both of them and pushed them off the door. Bill opened the door for Grandma, who told the twins to go outside and bring in a switch, so she could hit them for being so naughty.

My grandmother told the story at every family party. No one laughed harder than she did, when she remembered what the twins had done.

When Ray and Len were in their early 20s, they played tricks on each other as well as on everyone they met. One day Ray noticed there was a new Asian restaurant on Rice Street. He wanted to try it, so he went inside one day for lunch. When he finished eating, he slipped outside without paying the bill.

That night Ray called Len and bragged about what a great lunch he had. He told Len it was the best Asian food he had ever eaten. He convinced Len to go to the restaurant the following night and to take his wife, Mary, with him.

As soon as Len and Mary entered the restaurant, the cook came running toward them. He had a cleaver in his hand and waved it over his head as he screamed at Len.

“You crook. You no pay for lunch. You pay right now or I call police. Don’t sit down.”

Len started to argue with the cook. Mary couldn’t believe this was happening. And then Len realized that Ray deliberately didn’t pay the bill and then sent him to face the consequences. Len paid Ray’s bill and then he and Mary sat down and had a fine meal.