Category: My Family and Friends

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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.

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Duck and Cover

Sometime in the early 50’s, Leo Fortier’s uncle was a member of the Civil Air Patrol, so Leo knew all about enemy aircraft. He said that his uncle had an assigned time every week, where he would sit on the roof of his house and watch for enemy planes flying over. 

“The attack could come at any time, so we have to be vigilant,” Leo said.

I asked him was vigilant meant. “I don’t know, but it’s important,” he answered.

One summer day, we were out on the St. Peter’s School playground playing 500. This is a game where one guy hits fly balls to kids in the outfield. If you catch a fly ball with one hand, you get 200 points. If you use two hands, you only get 100 points. Catch the ball on one hop, 75 points. Two hops, 50 points and grounders were 25 points. If you drop a fly ball, trying to catch it one-handed, you forfeit 200 points.

The first fielder to get 500 points wins and then he gets to bat. The first batter goes to the field and the game starts over. Each person was responsible for his own score, so there was plenty of arguing over just what the real score was.

Well, on this particular afternoon, a really big plane with four propellors (two on each wing) was flying really low right over the playground. Leo told us guys (Davey Cournoyer, Carl Olson and me) that the plane was a Russian bomber and we would all be toast in the next five minutes. There was nothing we could do about it since nobody in North St. Paul had a bomb shelter.

About this time, maybe 1954, we had regular air raid drills and fire drills at school. During fire drills, we walked out of  school and crossed the street. We waited there, in front of the church, until the bell rang and we could file back into school without a word being spoken. For some reason, fire drills only occurred on nice Spring and Fall days.

The air raid drills were different. Sister Evangelista came over the loud speaker and shouted, “Air raid drill! Get under your desk immediately. Duck And Cover!”

We all jumped up, crawled under our desks with our heads facing forward and our butts in the air. We were told to lock our hands over our heads and close our eyes until we got the all clear from the loud speaker. I did everything right but I didn’t close my eyes because I could see Germaine Pierre’s white underpants straight ahead, where her uniform dress was hiked up.

The same year, there was a new house on the corner of Prosperity and Carpenter Avenues, across from the Jewish cemetery, and it was supposed to have a bomb shelter in the basement. We drove by the house every other Sunday on our way to our Grandma’s house for dinner. Every time we went by that corner, I would ask my did if we were going to get a bomb shelter. 

Dad knew better than to say no, so he would answer, “Maybe someday.”

I would ask him what food and soda pop we would have in it. “Can we invite some people to stay with us?”

“This is just for our family,” he would say.

Then I would beg him to let Leo Fortier come and stay with us. He would hear about how Leo’s uncle was in the Civil Air patrol, and he’d say, “OK. Leo can come, but that’s all.”

When I asked if Leo’s mother could join us, his answer was, “She’s the last person in the world who would get into our bomb shelter.”

By this time we were almost to our grandmother’s house and the conversation was over until the next Sunday, in two more weeks, when it started all over again.

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A Road Trip West

After two summer vacations in Minnesota, my mother was ready for something more. She wanted a road trip.

My father’s sister, Gwen, lived in Riverton, Wyoming and my father suggested a trip to see her, Uncle Neil and their family. It was an ambitious trip, with stops in the Badlands and a visit to Mount Rushmore. I had never heard of Mount Rushmore but I was happy at the thought of seeing my Aunt Gwen again. It was 1957. I had just turned thirteen and was going to high school in the fall.

In spite of having a houseful of children, Gwen wrote to my grandparents every week. She was a wonderful writer and was wickedly funny. I missed hearing from her after my grandparents died. Gwen’s letters were an early version of blogs ~ full of good news and funny anecdotes. 

In preparation for the trip, my mother fashioned a board on hinges to put in the back seat, so my brother, sister and I had room to move around. Our cooler and luggage fit under the board. We put blankets on top and added pillows and games. I brought along a lot of books to read. My mother’s intent was to keep us quiet so we wouldn’t argue with each other. I’m not sure that worked. 

My father always drove and my mother was the navigator. My father was a safe, patient driver but had no sense of direction. My mother was a wizard with a map. Without her, we might have ended up on the east coast.

Our trip through the Badlands was remarkable for the shear number of Burma Shave signs and advertisements for Wall Drug. My parents promised that we could stop at Wall Drug. We were so hyped-up, you would have thought we were going to Disneyland. We counted the miles to Wall Drug, getting more excited with every mile.

 

 

Finally we pulled into the dry, dusty Wall Drug parking lot, which was packed with cars. When we got inside, we were horrified to see aisles full of junky merchandise. That was all there was. We bought ice cream cones and ate them outside as we looked through chicken wire at an exhibit of snakes in a box. We got back in our car and headed for Wyoming.

I loved seeing my Aunt Gwen and Uncle Neil again but we didn’t stay long. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because there was a uranium mine in the distance, which my parents said was full of uranium dust.

“You can play in the front yard, but don’t go in the back yard. The dust could kill you if you breathe it in.”

After three days,  my mother decided we needed to give Aunt Gwen a rest. Mom wanted us to drive up the mountain to have a picnic. So much for uranium dust! Uncle Neil told my father that when it was time to come down the mountain, he should turn off the car and coast all the way to the bottom “to save gas.” My father did just that, breaking only on the curves. My mother was terrified and screamed all the way to the bottom. We left the next day.

The trip home took us to North Platt, Nebraska, where we stopped at the Buffalo Bill Trading Post. We shook hands with Buffalo Bill Cody, Jr. (or maybe the third) and he looked just like the pictures in our history books. When we asked if we could buy something at the trading post, my mother’s answered with a swift “No. You kids have enough stuff already. We need to get going.”

The final leg of our trip was through an Indian reservation. It was the most desolate place I’d ever seen. We stopped when we saw an Indian man sitting on the side of the road, dressed in native clothes including a beautiful headdess made of feathers. We thought he must be the chief. He sat with a sign that said, “Pictures. 25 cents.” My father paid the man a quarter, grouped us children around him and snapped a picture. Our road trip was finished.

As we drove through the reservation, on our way back to Minnesota, my parents reinforced how lucky we were to live in a nice home, go to a good school, and have green grass and flowers all around us. We were ready to go home. We knew we were lucky indeed.

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My Family Goes To Duluth

After our semi-successful family vacation in Leech Lake, my mother wanted us to go somewhere else the next year. I don’t know how she found our cabin in Duluth. It was a pretty, knotty pine cabin, high on a cliff above Lake Superior. We had all the comforts of home, including an indoor toilet, and a working kitchen with running water and electricity. The cabin was remote, hidden away from other cabins in the woods. We heard sounds from the forest as we fell asleep at night. I was eleven years old.

After we unpacked our car and hauled supplies into our cabin, we were eager to check out Lake Superior, a lake so big we couldn’t see the opposite shore. We climbed down a steep path to the water below. The shore was rocky and muddy, not like the flat, sandy shore of Silver Lake, where we swam every day.

I jumped in the water and jumped right back out. The water was cold. Bitterly cold! Cold enough to turn your skin blue. I was happy to watch from the shore, but no amount of coaxing could convince me to go back in that icy water.

The highlight of our Duluth vacation was a trip to see my father’s uncle, Frank Fay, in Brainard, Minnesota. Frank ran illegal gambling operations in Florida during the winter. In the summer he moved to Brainard and ran a restaurant, The Bar Harbor, on Gull Lake and a bait store in the same location.

My dad said we were going to buy bait at Uncle Frank’s store. After we bought our worms, Frank said, “Bob, I want to show you something.” He opened a hatch in the floor and we all trooped down to the cellar, where Frank proudly showed off his casino in the basement of the bait shop.

It was about 11:00 in the morning and no one else was there. We went back upstairs and Frank took us kids behind the counter and filled our pockets with candy bars. He let us have all the coca-cola we could drink. We thought he was the coolest person we’d ever met.

Frank’s Bar Harbor restaurant was infamous. Brainard was far from the Twin Cities in the days after WWII, and the Bar Harbor was a destination for serious gamblers. Rich people with summer cabins on Gull Lake, docked their big, fancy boats and went inside for dinner and a night of gambling. Frank paid off the local authorities and ran a casino in the back room of the restaurant with slot machines, Black Jack, and Poker.

We went back to Duluth and spent the rest of the week, full of questions about Uncle Frank. I think my brother, especially, wanted to grow up to be just like him. We didn’t think of Uncle Frank as a crook and a gambler, although surely he was that. We thought of him as a generous man with a quick laugh and a love for children.

As I look back on our week in Duluth, I smile when I think of the connection between my brother and my Dad’s uncle. Both men are generous, gregarious and kind.

The gambling gene runs deep in my family. Uncle Frank enjoyed running casinos, albeit outside the law. For years Bob was part of a group of men who owned race horses. Every summer we went to Canterbury Park to bet on the horses. But Uncle Frank’s true legacy is that he knew how to have fun and how to spread happiness to everyone around him. Bob is just like him.

 

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How My Father Quit Smoking

What is the first things you think of when you think of your parents? My thoughts are of Grain Belt beer and Chesterfield cigarettes.

As a pharmacist, Dad worked long hours. He often closed the store at 10:00 p.m. We were happy on those nights when he was home by 6:00. He worked every other weekend, with no days off in between. 

On the nights when Dad didn’t need to stay late at the drug store, he stopped at North Liquor Store in North St. Paul on his way home. There he would buy cases of Grain Belt Premium in white bottles and cartons of Chesterfield cigarettes. I can only imagine how good that beer tasted after working long hours. How much he enjoyed those cigarettes!

As the oldest child, my job every morning was to fix the coffee in the percolator, turn on the stove, and make sure the coffee was ready for my mother when she got up. I was probably about seven or eight years old. I liked being responsible. I especially enjoyed being the first person to get up in my house. School started with Mass at 8:15. 

My other early morning task was to put the empty beer bottles back in the case and clean the ashtrays that were overflowing with cigarette butts. It wasn’t hard. I liked counting the number of beer bottles before I put them away. Twelve beer bottles and two ashtrays were usually waiting for me as I tidied up the living room, checked on the coffee, and told my mother it was time to wake up.

I had graduated from school and was living in Denver, when my mother called to tell me that she and Dad had “quit everything.” No more beer. No more cigarettes. 

“What happened? How can you do that?” I asked.

“Dad went to the doctor and the doctor told him he was worried about his liver.”

When Dad came home and told Mom the doctor said he had to stop drinking, my mother said that if he couldn’t drink, she wouldn’t drink any more either.

“But if we have to stop drinking, we have to stop smoking, too. The two go together. I can’t imagine not having a drink if I’m still smoking,” she announced.

My father wasn’t all-in on the decision to stop smoking. The next night my mother said that she was going to go to a six-week class to help her quit.

“That’s good,” said my Dad. “But I’m going to stay right here and keep smoking while you are in class.”

After six weeks my mother came home. She was no longer smoking, but my Dad was smoking as much as ever.

“Ok, that’s it,” my mother told him. “I can’t be around people who are smoking, so you have to quit now, too.” And so, just like that, he did.

My father, who was almost six-feet tall, never weighed more than 145 pounds during his Grain Belt and Chesterfield days. When he quit those habits, he started making bundt cakes and gained thirty pounds. 

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God Bless The Cowgirls

Hearing aids are a staple in my family. Nearly all of us need them.  How do you know when it’s time? Here is a story my brother, Bob, told me.  He swears it’s true.

Bob was a dentist in downtown St. Paul for forty years. Forty years of hearing his dental drill constantly buzzing in his ear. At least fifteen years of asking his wife, Sandy, to repeat herself because he couldn’t quite catch what she was saying. His girls began to raise their voices to a low shout, in order to have a conversation with him.

A few years ago, Bob and Sandy were invited to the wedding of a close friend. The bride, a native of Alaska, wanted a “cowboy wedding.” The cake was topped with a cowboy bride and groom. Flowers were placed in mason jars on the tables. The music was loud and there was laughter, clinking glasses, and plenty of dancing.

Some of the guests dressed for the occasion in cowboy clothes but Bob and Sandy were dressed as they normally would for a wedding. They don’t own any cowboy clothes.

Suddenly Sandy spotted a friend, the mother of the bride.

Sandy turned to Bob and said, “Here comes Diane. She had her boobs done.”

“Really?” my brother answered. “That’s news to me. Why did she have her boobs done?  I thought they looked fine the way they were.”

“Bob! I didn’t say she had her boobs done.” Sandy shouted above the noise. “I said, Here comes Diann with her boots on!”

Bob made an appointment with an audiologist the following Monday.