Dad Didn't Make 89, But He Does Live On

Dad would have been 89 years old today. Since he died in 1985, I can't even picture Dad at 89. (And it does not seem like 25 years since he died!) I do have quite a collection of pictures in my brain, though.

My claim to family fame is teaching Dad how to eat a hamburger. Dad sold life and health insurance, and sometimes he had appointments during the dinner hour. He didn't like missing dinner with the family, and he hated to eat alone. On those occasions when he missed dinner, he would hijack one of his kids to a restaurant. I must have been about 14 or 15 years old the night Dad decided to take me to the Chocolate Pit. The Chocolate Pit was a friendly coffee shop, or as Dad would have said, "hamburger joint." Dad and I were talking, eating, and enjoying one another's company. He stopped almost mid-sentence and got the funniest look on his face--one of the permanent pictures in my brain. He looked at his hamburger, and then he looked at mine. He said, "How in the heck do you do that?! How do you eat a hamburger without it falling apart?! Mine always falls apart!" I then explained to him that once I pick up my hamburger and begin to eat, I never set it down. If you set it down, it falls apart. I hold my hamburger with my left hand, leaving my right dominant hand to pick up french fries, dip in ketchup (catsup, if you prefer), drink my soda, and use my napkin. Dad was so delighted! (Another permanent brain picture.) He could not believe that I could have figured out this perfect system for neatness. (Those who didn't know my very excentric father, he was a total neat freak!)

I'm sure all of Dad's kids have one particular image: Dad dancing and doing the "goose step" in the grocery store aisle. This was a favorite Dick Janes pastime. There were no video cameras in those days, but they had those big mirrors at the ends of the aisles to discourage shoplifting. Dad delighted in seeing if he could "goose step" without getting caught in the mirrors.

My favorite photograph of Dad is one that I took without his knowledge. My first job after high school was working at Breuner's Furniture Store in Reno. The employee discount allowed me to buy my first stereo--and it was a nice one! I bought excellent quality headphones, with a cord long enough to stretch from the living room down the hall to my bedroom. That way during the day the family could enjoy the stereo, and at night, I could use the headphones to go to sleep to music. I bought my first Johnny Mathis album, and Dad loved it! He had never heard of Johnny Mathis, so he teased me about Johnny Mathis being Nat King Cole's imitator. Dad loved to get up on Sunday morning and cook breakfast. I woke up early one Sunday morning and discovered Dad in the kitchen peeling potatoes for hashbrowns with the headphones on listening to Johnny Mathis. (Picture above.)

Dad's laugh is still with me too. I can still hear him all these years later--and I can see his face getting red and tears running down his face as he laughed. Somewhere at home I have an audio tape that includes his laugh. I haven't listened to it in a long time. It's actually very hard to listen to it.

There is a piece of Dad in all of his children. And at least one of his grandchildren, Ezra, has his mannerisms, which is a little creepy since Dad died when Ezra was 2 years old. Ezra doesn't even remember Dad.

Maybe the reason it doesn't seem like Dad has been gone for 25 years is because he lives on in the stories. Dad was such an excentric character that he has provided literally hundreds of stories for the family history. It's difficult for me to teach a lesson or give a talk in church without using a Dick Janes story. There are just so many ways to use him as an example to teach others! Maybe he really didn't need to live past 64 after all; he had already provided the example and the lessons for his children and grandchildren. We just need to keep telling the stories.

Question to my siblings: Who has the original picture below? The only copy I have was printed on cheap photocopy paper years ago, and it's one of my favorites. If you have it, can you scan it and send it to me?



July 24, 2010 - Update: This missing picture has been found!

The Clock Keeps Ticking

Picture from here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grandfather_clock

I'm getting old. I know that's not news to those who know me, but I seem to be reminded lately on a daily basis. It's not a bad thing; in fact, I'm rather enjoying the process. There are, however, some stark realizations along the way.

Last night we received last minute free tickets to a minor league baseball game from someone who couldn't use the tickets. My husband, two daughters, one grandson, and I went for a lovely evening in the ballpark. My grandson is about to celebrate his first birthday. He was the best little guy last night! He had a great time watching people, listening to the music, enjoying the fresh air, and bouncing from one person to the next. Long after his normal bedtime he was still grinning and laughing. I had a really good time enjoying both the game and little Joey last night. By the time I got home, though, I was wiped out! I'm barely functioning today after a night's sleep! What happened to the days when I bounced babies at ballparks and then went home to laundry and cleaning and got up the next morning to do it all over again? As we left the ballpark, I watched my pregnant daughter carry Joey on her hip, with a diaper bag strapped to her back. I knew I should offer to carry Joey, but I just didn't think I'd make it to the parking lot without hyperventillating! So I waited until we were halfway to the car and said, "Do you want Dad to carry Joey?" Knowing Dad is 12 years my senior, she declined. I've experienced this same feeling over the last few months with the rest of my grandchildren. I love them to pieces and cherish each moment I'm with them--but, wow, what a revelation as to my lack of stamina.

A couple of months ago I painted my family room and made new drapes. The room required more than one coat, and I actually accepted help with some of the work. It doesn't seem that long ago that I painted that room all by myself in one day with energy to spare.

There are definite advantages in growing older, though. When I speak, people seem to listen more--as if I might really have something worthwhile to say. The irony is that because I'm getting older, I'm also getting more cynical. If people had listened to me 20-30 years ago, they probably would have found solutions to world problems; now I'm part of the problem.

If I make a mistake, people forgive me because they presume "I'm losing it." What's not to forgive in my "matronly" face? Doesn't everybody love a fuzzy-faced, wrinkled granny?

I've decided to embrace my age. I can't change it, so I may as well go along for the ride. Hiding under the covers is not an option, although wrapping myself in bubble wrap when around my grandkids might be. Just kidding! As the clock keeps ticking, I hope I remember to live each day to the fullest. I don't want to waste a moment wishing I were young again. Each new day should be embraced and appreciated. As the old Timex watch slogan goes, "It takes a licking and keeps on ticking."

My Grandfather's Clock

By Henry Clay Work

My Grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Yet it weighed not a pennyweight more.

It was bought on the morn on the day that he was born,
It was always his treasure and pride.
But it stopped, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.

CHORUS:
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick tock tick tock.
His life’s seconds numbering,
Tick tock tick tock.
But it stopped short,
Never to run again,
When the old man died

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours he had spent when a boy.
And through childhood and manhood, the clock seemed to know,
And to share both his grief and his joy.

For it struck 24 when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride.
But it stopped, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.

CHORUS:
My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Tick tock tick tock,
Not a servant so faithful he’d found.
Tick tock tick tock.
For it kept perfect time,
And it had one desire,
At the close of each day to be wound.

As it kept to its place, not a frown upon its face,
As its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopped, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the still of the night,
An alarm that for years had been dumb.
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight,
That his hour of departure had come.

CHORUS:
Still the clock kept the time,
Tick tock tick tock,
With a soft and muffled chime,
Tick tock tick tock,
As we silently stood by his side.
But it stopped, short, never to go again,
When the old man died.

Granny's Treasures

When my oldest daughter told me that she would have to adopt children, my heart ached for her, but I knew that everything would somehow be okay. As I had more time to think about it, I wondered if I could love an adopted grandchild the same way I love my other grandchildren. It sounds silly now, but those are the thoughts that went through my mind.

The day Molly and Jim brought Michael home from the hospital, he was one day old. They picked me up at the airport, and we went to breakfast. I needn't have worried. The minute I laid eyes on Michael, I knew he was my grandson.

Last Thanksgiving, I made the mistake of calling Michael "a little poop," when he was teasing his Granny. Little did I know that potty humor had been a topic of conversation prior to our arrival, and Michael decided that Granny and Grandpa were pretty cool because we could say poop. Michael still calls Grandpa "poophead," but he does it with respect and a grin, and at 3 1/2 that's okay.

Michael has a little sister now, Jocelyn. Ironically, the thought crossed my mind again -- could I love her? Were my feelings for Michael just a fluke? Again, I needn't have worried. Molly and Jim sent the pictures above, and I was in love. It took me a few days to get down to see her, but when I finally got there and held her, I didn't want to let go. We got there after midnight, and I held her sleeping in my arms all night. I look forward to teaching Jocelyn a few things to drive her mother crazy too.

Adoption is a wonderful thing. We love our two birth mothers for the unselfish gift they have given us. They have also given these beautiful children great opportunities. I'm so grateful to have these two beautiful children in my family. I'm grateful that Heavenly Father has provided a way for my daughter to have children. I'm grateful for two incredibly wonderful women who gave so unselfishly to their babies and to my family. My heart is full!

The Choice

"Happiness is a choice that requires effort at times." -- Aeschylus

A couple of months ago I saw the quote above on Twitter. I was in a really bad mood, which had been building for a couple of months. There had been days on end when I just kept putting one foot in front of the other just to make it through the week. I don't remember who posted that quote, but if I did, I would certain express my gratitude. I wrote it down on a yellow "sticky" note, and taped it to the bottom of my computer screen at work. In the days that followed, I developed a plan to "make myself happy." It turned out that I was not really "unhappy" at all; I just had a bad attitude.

God gave us "agency" to make choices. We generally think about those choices as being between good and evil, but we also have the choice to be happy or unhappy. We've all heard stories about incredibly disadvantaged or disabled people who are joyful and lead productive lives. Their lives are productive because they choose to be happy.

Everyone has a bad day now and then, and that's to be expected. Life is full of peaks and valleys. It's what we do with our lives when we are in the deepest valleys that determine who we are, and where we are going -- maybe even how fast we get to the next mountain peak.

My plan to make myself happy was simple enough. All I had to do was to stop dwelling on a situation that I perceived to be unfair to me. A funny thing happened: as soon as I stopped dwelling on it, the situation evaporated. I realize now that the situation only existed because others were walking on egg shells around me trying to avoid my increasingly bad attitude.

Mom's Day--NOT

Being a woman sometimes stinks. Don't stop reading; bear with me here. Women are taught from the time they are born to be the strong ones. Women are supposed to bear the burdens of the world--and do so willingly and without complaint. Men are allowed to complain all they want, but women have to be strong. We have to be the glue that holds our husbands together, the glue that holds our children together, and the glue that holds our families together.

For the most part, learning to be strong for our families is good. We are the nurturers. We are there for the tender moments when our husband and children are hurt, and we can be the one who helps them through the trials in their lives. That can be an extremely rewarding experience.

On the flip side, the inner strength of a mother can become a burden. It may seem as if there isn't enough of Mom to go around. It may feel as if no one understands that Mom is hurting too. Who is there to buoy up Mom? Who is there when Mom is at her wits end or hurt? Oh, Moms don't get hurt, you say? No, Mom's feelings never get hurt. Mom is a rock. Mom has broad shoulders. You can say anything to Mom! Sometimes even Dad forgets that Mom has feelings.

I really hate Mother's Day. It's wrong on so many levels. I used to tell my kids, "If you love me, clean your room and don't fight today." Occasionally, they would clean their rooms for Mother's Day, but the fighting didn't stop until they left home. Correction: I didn't have to listen to them fight anymore after they left home. So the one day of the year that mothers are to be "honored," we spend trying to graciously accept trinkets and tokens of "love" in between sorting out who did what to whom.

Kids: Take a look at your lives and realize that whether you like it or not, what you are is because your parents never gave up. Then look at your own kids and realize that all the nasty things you've thought (and said) about your parents will rest on your own children's lips in just a few short years about you. There's no need to send me a card, or flowers, or a gift. Just stiffle your thoughts the next time you think your mother has done something evil--like maybe given you the advice you asked for, but didn't really want to hear. In 20 years, feel free to steal this post and give it to your kids. It will take that long before you understand.

It's taken years for me to get through Mother's Day without wanting to curl up in the fetal position and stay in bed all day. Maybe that's because I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. While I still have one at home, all my kids are now adults. The last one will be gone when the economy stops tanking. This Mother's Day, maybe I can actually smile--and mean it. I do love my kids; I just hate Mother's Day.

The Old Table, or A Call for Civility

Mom refinished my grandmother's old round oak table with claw feet. Every night our family had dinner around that old table. As a kid, I told Mom that someday I wanted the table. My children grew up around that table. Dinnertime conversation was and is important to our family, and the table symbolizes every dinnertime conversation we every had.

I think the first conversation I can remember was a political discussion as to whether President John F. Kennedy should have appeared in a swim suit on a public beach with his children. I was only six years old when he was elected, so I don't remember whether this was during the campaign, or whether it was after he became president. I think it was after he became president.

During the Vietnam war, there were many political conversations around the table. We discussed everything, and no subject was taboo. My Uncle Dale and Aunt Wilma would come to town once or twice a year, and Dale would purposely take the opposite side of any discussion just to see what arguments you could make. Danny and I taught our children around the table. We talked about school strikes and the space shuttle that blew up. We talked about presidents and politics.

As a result of these dinnertime talks, I've had many conversations with friends and co-workers about politics, religion, etc. I don't remember ever getting into a situation of animosity in these discussions--until recently. Something has happened in our country. Something has gone dreadfully wrong. People can't "discuss" anymore. It has to be name calling and fury. I've noticed this over the last couple of years, but it all came to head with me over the last couple of days.

A friend of mine posted a video on Facebook with her comments. I began a discussion with her about the topic, and posted a video for her to watch, as well. This was all very friendly. Suddenly, two "gentlemen" who I've never met were attacking me with verbal barbs. I will sum it up like this: in the course of about 12 hours, I was called an irresponsible, idiotic liar and a racist retard. All this because I believe that socialized medicine will turn out to be a mistake for our country. I was aghast at the hostility shown by these men toward a woman they've never met. I'm pretty sure that if they were standing in the same room with me, they would have toned down the barbs somewhat, but because they were hiding behind a computer screen, I was a clear target for venting their hostility.

I'm not sure what this says about society in America, but whatever it says, I don't like it. What happened to the America I grew up in where the opinions of others were respected as freedom of speech? I am respectful of the opinions of others. I'm respectful of their opinions, but I certainly don't have to tolerate personal attacks on my character. Those who know me well, know that I can (and will) come up fighting when attacked personally.

For those who will read this blog post, I'm calling for civility in our political discussions with others. This is America where all are supposed to be free to express an opinion. Be respectful of others. Be respectful of their opinions. Discuss; don't attack. My Dad used to say that you can learn something from everyone you meet. Of course, that can only happen if you are open to hear what those people have to say. Maybe we all should have an old round oak table. Maybe Mom's table has magic powers to teach people the art of civilized discussion.

Patterns

Sometime during my first grade year, I spent some time with Nana Janes in Portola, California. Nana was not staying at her home that week; she was taking care of the Knotty Pine Motel for a friend who was on vacation. The lobby of this place was knotty pine, and was gorgeous! I've loved knotty pine ever since, and have dreamed of buidling a knotty pine bedroom.















(Picture from here: http://www.redcrestresort.com/-- my favorite getaway spot.)

Nana Janes was an early riser, and she didn't realize that I also arose with the sun. She was very prim and proper. She woke up early in the morning so that she could dress in front of a wood stove to keep warm. The first morning I was there I startled her when I caught her dressing in front of the wood stove. I continued to wake up early every morning that week, but Nana was always dressed. She must have set an alarm prior to sunrise the rest of the week to get some privacy.

I remember Nana's hands. There were patterns in the lines on her hands. I remember wanting to take a crayon and connect some of the lines to see if I could make a picture--but I didn't dare ask her.

Years later I looked at my Dad's hands and saw those same patterns. I remember thinking that it must be "a Janes thing." The other day I found myself staring at my own hands at those same patterns. What I used to think was a fascinating jigsaw puzzle, turns out to be "old" skin. There's nothing intriguing about it at all. I don't mind having "old" skin; I've earned every wrinkle and every gray hair. I do find disappointment in this little discovery, however. I'm not sure why, but something I thought was "special" about my family just bit the dust.

Early morning seminary for me (and later my children) spoiled the fun of getting up early in the morning. Dragging myself out of bed is the norm these days. I'd better not build the knotty pine bedroom I've always wanted to build after all. Maybe it wouldn't be as "special" as the memory.