Quest for Oonie

One evening last week, not feeling well and mourning the fresh loss of my beautiful earring (a Christmas gift from my husband Matthew), I ended my kids' bedtime ritual by clutching a ratty teddy bear to my chest and sobbing over it like a baby.

The emotional ordeal that would progress to my irrational breakdown began as I tucked my youngest daughter into bed.

"Ella, where is Oonie?" I asked. "I haven't see him."

I said the words and panic dropped with a thud into my chest. I hadn't seen Oonie, my little girl's best stuffed friend since toddlerhood, in a few days. He always slept with her, but he simply hadn't been around to tuck in beside her, to kiss his dingy brown fur as she usually wished me to do. She had asked for him the night before, but I hadn't been able to find him where she said he would be. I hadn't worried about it then, but now a new thought struck.

"Ella, did you leave him at the football field?" The panic had now traveled into my voice, and Ella responded anxiously, "I don't know."

"Ella, where is Oonie?" I repeated futilely and stridently as I left abruptly to check the likely places in the house.

"Maybe he's in the car," she called after me.

"I'll check," volunteered my son Berto, who saw the building emotional storm in my features, but I knew he wasn't there. He would have been buckled into the passenger seat beside me, and I had not noticed him there for some time. No, Oonie had been left at the football field where Berto had played Saturday. It was now Tuesday, and with each passing moment my conviction that he was lost forever grew by distressing leaps and bounds.

Foolishly, I spilled my anxious thoughts and began to bemoan the fact that I ever let Ella take Oonie out of the car. Matthew, irritated by the uproar over a bear and baffled by my mood, reiterated, "She should never have taken him onto the football field. He should always stay in the car. Ridiculous." And he strode out the back door with a flashlight to search.

My eldest daughter Ana was following me around, waiting for me to read her a Nancy Drew book. I settled uneasily into the recliner, and I tried - I did try - but my thoughts were agitated and visions of Oonie being thrown in a dumpster by a grizzled and sour-faced custodian played before my eyes. The first tears began to spill over on the book, and when my husband returned from the backyard, responding, No, to my urgent inquiry about Oonie, I dropped it.

"Ana, I can't. I'm too worried about Oonie," I said, and then I wailed to Matthew, "He's in a dumpster somewhere. A janitor found him at the football field and he's so dirty, they just threw him away."

My man was losing patience with me; I could see it in his eyes before I dashed down the hall to the girls' room. Ella was crying. Crying noisily myself, I didn't comfort my little girl. I was completely failing in my parental shore-them-up responsibilities. I should have held Ella, assured her sedately that we'd find Oonie very soon, that we'd search the length of the football field and ask the school's custodian. I should have recited "that's life" platitudes and invented tales about someone finding Oonie and keeping him safe until we could reclaim him. Instead I flipped on the bedroom light and leaned over her to peer with blurry eyes into the shadows under her big sister's bed. Ana was the one who held her little sis as she whimpered, "I'm sad about Oonie."

Then, suddenly, my man appeared at the door, holding out at arm's length a raggedy, saggy, big beige-colored teddy bear. He was holding him out more toward Ella than me, but I am ashamed to say that I snatched him from my husband's hands and let out great sobs as I squeezed him against my chest and buried my face in his fur. After a few moments, aware of my selfishness, I relinquished him into my baby girl's arms, pressing him to her chest now, and held them both against me as I rocked.

"Where did you find him?" I asked softly.

"In Berto's room."

I remembered then how I had let her play in there with an old game the day before. I also remembered how Oonie had been invited to a tea party in the afternoon of that day and had sat with other stuffed friends. Why had I forgotten that?

Meanwhile Berto was lecturing his little sister on why "that bear" should never have been in his room to begin with - that if he trespassed again, he might just stay lost forever. But nothing could disturb Ella and me now; we'd already swum through the sea of agitation to the shore of restoration. I tucked her into bed with Oonie, whispered, "I'm sorry," several times against her cheek, and gave the bear a kiss without being asked.

When it was all over, I couldn't explain myself very well to Matthew. I just kept saying the same things over and over. It's Oonie. She's had him since she was a little baby. I lost my earring today: I didn't want to lose something else, too. Natie gave him to her. But maybe that explains more than I could say. My big brother Nate, who I so rarely get to see because he lives far across the land and sea in England, gave the big, squishy bear to curly-haired baby Ella. In due time he became that special one, the bear she slept with nearly every night after moving to a big kid bed, the bear she christened "Oonie" as a toddler, the bear she dressed up in all manner of strange garb and buckled into the car with motherly care...the bear the firemen found securely strapped into the passenger seat after our car accident.

Ella Belle's best bear, Oonie, will never, ever, ever go to a football game again.





And I plan to grow up.

Buck Up, Boy; It Isn't Normandy (guest post by Dad)

The first time my grandfather said those words to me, I must have been about eight years old and had no idea what the heck he was talking about.

Normandy?

What? - a place where everybody was named Norman?  I didn't know.

Nor can I remember now what it was that was causing me to complain - okay, I was eight - whine. It must have seemed important, but then, at that age, everything is terrifically important, especially if it pokes at your young psyche in a negative way.

A couple of years later, I came to understand just what Normandy was all about. I studied the history of those horrifically lethal early morning hours of June 6, 1944, when a small stretch of Omaha Beach became the bloodiest piece of battlefield since Cannae.

And my grandfather's admonition came into sharp, clear perspective. He was right - I have never been subjected to the terrifying thump-thump-thump of a Krupp Arms 88mm that was aimed at me. I have never waded through pounding surf while strangers in bunkers on the clifftop above make every savage and desperate effort to end my life. I have never had to breath air that was more lead than air, while my friends and comrades are cut to pieces around me. I have never experienced the dark carnival of death.

No - whatever ailed me in those years of my youth - or anytime since - pales in comparison to that which far better men endured at Normandy.  My life has been, as they say, a piece of cake.

Nevertheless, every life's road has its share of bumps and potholes. Becoming an adult, or even an older adult like myself, does not negate the opportunities for life to disappoint and dismay, or even dispirit one's soul. The only thing that changes is the substance of the disappointments. And the quality, of course.

Lately, I have experienced a fairly long string of disappointments. I am a self-published author that has been recently, and accurately, described as obscure; only a few hundred people know of my work. The story I tell is an epic heroic fantasy, quite long. When finished it will contain more than 900,000 words, about 520,000 of which are now in print. It is one long book, told in five volumes. The problem for the reader is that none of the books are episodic; nothing is resolved at the end. The story is linear, so the ending of one book simply leads into the beginning of the next.

As a consequence, most readers of fantasy are reluctant to get involved, knowing they will have to wait for the next installment. And the wait between the first three, which are out, and books four and five has been unbearably long, not just for the readers who have taken an interest in my work, but for me as well.

It takes time and money to produce a book. For the past couple of years, my family has been rocked by one difficulty after another - difficulties that inevitably steal away time and money. But since family is of incomparable more value than a book, I have willingly set the book aside time after time, and gone to see to more important things.

I admit, however, that at times I have been disheartened and dismayed. Even dispirited.

Buck up, I tell myself, again and again and again. After all, like my grandfather said - it isn't Normandy.

No, it certainly isn't.

It's just a book.



Daniel Hylton is the author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series.

On My Plan to Gain Independence and End the Wash, Rinse and Dry Cycle of Misery

Can hand washing dishes change your life? Grant a new perspective? Give you a healthier, more luminous complexion? Buffer arms? More patience and forbearance? Make you a better housekeeper? A better person? A brilliant thinker?!

I believe so. I'm out to prove it, and I'm my own guinea pig - me and my kids.

Down with the dishwasher! I say. Overthrow the tyranny of major appliances! is my battle cry.

Does this mean I'm hunched over a fire pit in the backyard, slow roasting meals on flames and baking in the coals? No, no. Does it mean I'm keeping my super-salted meat and other perishables in a cellar 10 feet under? Nah. Washing my clothes in the bathtub, scrubbing them with stones from the landscaping? No way in Arizona (which is close enough)! I'm just done with my nemesis, that evil manipulator of my time and a chronic liar: the Dishwasher.

The beauty of my plan is that I don't have to replace it. I just wave my hand, say a few affirming words and Voila! In its place I now have a very fancy, ultra-expensive, built-into-the-counter drying rack. Ever heard of such a thing? Well, neither had I; though, I tell you, it's quite handy.

Yeah, yeah, some would say, Well, what about the germs? Those nasty, nasty germs? How do you intend to sanitize your dishes without a high temp/sani-rinse/heated dry cycle? My reply would be, just when did our standards get so high? Are we that civilized? Are public pools and Porta-potties still in existence or what? As for germs, I am a firm believer that what you don't know can't kill you...at least not immediately.

I'm on my fourth day of hand washing. It's humid work, but my complexion is dewy. Yes, it's tedious, menial labor, but I have so much time for quiet contemplation that in a few more years I'll be a great philosopher (was that your secret, Aristotle?). And it's bringing back memories of my childhood, good memories, like my brother hiding silverware behind the lip of the counter, so he wouldn't have to wash it.

As for the housekeeping part, my kitchen is cleaner than it has ever been since the dawn of children in this household. No more metal water bottles standing at attention for days by the sink, begging to be noticed and washed by a generous hand. No more piles of dishes, pleading for their turn in that next run of the dishwasher, if I can be bothered to unload and reload. No more funny smells coming from beneath that never ending but changeable tower of oddly-shaped utensils, lids and plastic in the left of the sink, because I just never seem to reach the end of it or the salmonella slime that is surely there below.

Oh, how many wasted years have I believed the lie that I can't properly wash my own dishes! That I must wait on the "dishwasher"? Now ALL my dishes get washed - every day - by my own two hands! My sink is so sparkly and stainless that I could churn homemade ice cream in the garbage disposal, and how often can one say that? (Would one want to say that? you ask. To which I reply, Yes! Come on over. I'll whip some up!) And since the sink is so often filled with hot soapy water, I wipe down my counters, stovetop and faucet alot more often, too.

Okay, I'll be honest. The rest of our home is suffering some neglect, hanging in the balance of disorder and probable collapse in the next few weeks, if not days, because of the dish labor. But if civilization does collapse in the rest of this house, I am cheered to know that thanks to my valiant and constant efforts, we can all retreat to the spotless, albeit tiny, kitchen with purified water (hey, the food's already here!), a crank radio and bug repellent and wait for someone to rescue us.

Today my son asked when we were going to get a new dishwasher, to which I replied with fervor, "Never! We're never getting a new dishwasher. I am the new dishwasher - mwah-ha-ha!"

And to which my husband responded, "When Mama breaks."

But I am a new woman, freed from the urge to delegate to a machine. And I have been inspired by my eldest daughter Ana to keep up the brave fight, for the most wonderful thing happened as she helped me wash dishes on the first day of my resolution/revolution. I gave an eloquent speech about how her saintly Aunt Vinca has gone without a dishwasher for nigh on twenty years - that if my big sis could do it it, I darn well could, too. As I droned on my precious girl did her chore cheerfully, and my heart expanded with pride when, reaching into the soapy water for some new thing to clean, she exclaimed enthusiastically, "It's like a treasure hunt; you never know what you're gonna find!"

Ah, a fresh perspective. A new era! Freedom! Unless.....

...shudder...

......Mama breaks.

Three Funny Things, too

1) My husband had drawn a map to the soccer field on my van's dusty window, but when we showed up at the park, my daughter Ana wasn't even sure it was the right one. We turned away from a playground and circumnavigated a huge field where we stopped at every softball practice to ask if they were playing soccer, which they weren't. I was anxiously herding my four kids around with balls, scooters and tricycles, shouting for them to Come on!. Other moms stared after us, congratulating themselves that they did not have four kids, could tell a game of softball from a game of soccer, and could juggle a water jug, tricycle, purse and preschooler better than I could.

Eventually we spotted the soccer practice - right behind the playground at the entrance to the park. I told everyone to make a dash across the field as I waddled after, spilling the water jug on my cellphone and urging my littlest to use the legs God had given him. My stress level was high and the child-rearing karma so unbalanced that I wasn't surprised when I heard the squelch of my tennis shoe sinking in a mud pit before I hit the sidewalk.

Still, our 4,237th misadventure came to a close, and my daughter was finally reunited with saner, more patient people: her coaches.

2) I told my husband to have a good day at work.

"You, too," he replied with irony.

"Yeah," I said languidly, recalling soccer practice. But then I called after him, "I am going to have a great day. I believe it!"

I turned around, and my little Danny Sam, picking apart an orange slice, said matter-of-factly, "You'wre not going to have a great day. Thaz sad."

I threw my head back and laughed: The Ides of April, delivered by a three-year-old.

3) My littlest guy thinks his good looks are a gift to the world.

He looks up at me in the morning light with those big blue eyes and golden hair and I declare, "Danny, you're so handsome. I love your new haircut!"

He casually replies as he turns away, "You're welcome."


This list was loosely based on Clare Law's blog, Three Beautiful Things. I always enjoy visiting her site, because I never fail to be reminded to enjoy each day and to take the time to relish all the silly, cute, sweet, unusual and beautiful things my kids do - and to laugh at the misadventures. It's all about accumulating the laugh lines.

Guest Post: The School Of Hard Knocks...and Cold Winters by Holly

I've been pestering my friend Holly to guest post for a while. She's funny, a talented artist and a traveler ( with kids in tow!). With her family she has hiked all over this great state of Arizona in which we live and has wandered outside the contiguous 48 states to explore Hawaii and Alaska. She and I are planning on taking a literary tour of England together; we'll live it up in honor of all the Dickens, Bronte and Austen nerds out there!

She has tales to tell. This one is about her grandfather, a WWII veteran. Enjoy and feel free to comment. Your comments are always appreciated, and Holly or I will respond.

 

It’s been a decade or so since my grandfather passed away, but the stories of his childhood, growing up an orphan in the early 1900’s, have a legendary status in my heart. Some of the stories are almost Dickensian to me, although his tales don’t always wrap up as neatly for the hero. It’s just hard to grasp that they are non-fiction when I look at the cushy, sheltered life that my children lead. William Shelden, along with his older sister and two brothers, was orphaned by the Spanish Flu epidemic that ravaged Philadelphia in 1918. He was six years old. Two faded black and white photographs of his parents were all that was left of them in his possession. He always kept them on his bureau, and I remember pondering these strangers as a child. His father was a mason, so the boys were sent to live at the Masonic Homes in Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania, a rural area of that state a few hours outside of Philadelphia. His sister went to live with an aunt.

Looking at the picture of this great estate with its Versailles-like gardens, I could not fathom that it be anything but comfortable and hospitable, but according to my grandfather the militant German immigrant, Mr. Lowenstein, who was the warden for the boys, made sure the boys knew this was not hospitality but charity that had graced them with a roof over their head and food to eat.

There were three sets of brothers among the home’s residents: the Grahams, the Sheldens and the Vanderslicers. Mr. Lowenstein’s philosophy was: if there was any trouble in the home, one of the sets of brothers was surely to blame. So he would call out, “Grahams, Sheldens and Vanderslicers!”, and the boys knew they were being summoned to his office for a beating doled out to all. Having regular beatings didn’t seem to curb the boys’ mischievous behavior, but a more subtle lesson taught to my grandfather made a lifelong impression. This brings me to my story of the red coat.

At the same time every fall each orphan was given a red wool coat to wear through the whole winter when trudging the long walk to school through sleet, snow, freezing rain, gusting winds, etc. My grandfather said it was two miles to school, two miles back for lunch, two miles back to school and then finally two miles home again. Some years in Pennsylvania they have what’s called an “Indian Summer” or a heat wave in the fall. As you can imagine, wearing a wool coat in 90 degree, swampy humidity would not be the free choice of any child, especially not an obstinate boy, who was numb to paddlings. William came up with what he deemed a very sly idea. There was a stone wall just beyond the doors of the orphanage. He decided to take off his jacket and hide it behind the wall and just pick it up when he returned that afternoon, slipping it back on before he was inspected by Lowenstein upon his return.

The first part of his plan went off without a hitch, but on his return, he discovered the coat was gone from its hiding place! Bracing himself for the beating that was surely awaiting him, he slowly climbed the steps of the orphanage. To his alarm, Lowenstein carried on as usual, not uttering a word about the coat. In fact, he never said a word about it the entire winter.

This tale always helps reinforce for me as a person and a parent that experience is our best teacher. My grandfather never knew whether Lowenstein found the coat or a classmate ratted him out, but a beating certainly would have been less painful than my grandfather's slow suffering of walking eight miles to and from school every day throughout the chilling rural Pennsylvania winter.