Glimpsing Heaven

We had traveled long miles to be there—my brother at the wheel of a Jeep grand wagoneer, his eldest son then in his earliest years, his mom, my mom, my big sister. We rolled into the camp in Snow Canyon quietly and unseen. We hid out in a trailer overlooking the tents and fire circle. We peeked out through the curtains obscuring the wide, short windows to see men milling about, making preparations for dinner. When I poked my head up and scanned the camp, I spotted my Dad. The old, unsuspecting buffalo was talking, smiling, and laughing with owls, foxes, and other Wood Badge attendees. He did not realize that his family was watching him, nor that he was about to receive Scouting's highest service award, the Silver Beaver.

Thankfully our presence was made known before dinner, rather than after (I was a hungry teen). Dad was absolutely surprised and after huge smiles and hugs, we grabbed plates and got in line. One of the men let us in on a great Scout leader secret: in the cast iron pot, hidden beneath the layers of hamburger patties, were thick, juicy steaks and, as honored guests, we should dig deep.

I sat down near two men, Chuck Loveless and Bill Birch, both grinning, obviously happy to have a new, captive audience as the jibes started with no delay. Chuck leaned in toward me and began, "So I can tell that you are not two-faced . . . Or you wouldn't be wearing that one." Pun folllowed one-liner followed playful insult, the two winking and elbowing. I started to laugh and,  overcome with the suspense and now, the humor, I laughed until it hurt, barely choking down the meal with happy tears.

That was one of the best moments, hiding in a trailer with my family, waiting to surprise my Dad and see him honored by his peers for serving others. Today, it feels like we are all in the trailer again, though he is the one who is waiting and watching for us. It will be nice to hear him laugh.

Dad’s Pancakes

My dad passed away in 1998 and I do not believe anyone who knew him will ever recover from the loss. Nothing fills that void but I have found that, somehow, his pancakes can help a little. Thankfully I acquired some of his recipes before his earthly departure and found time (a decade ago) to put them into The Dad-Blasted Walker Family Cookbook which I shared with siblings and a few other persistent relations and friends. I am still working on my own copy; the laser-engraved aluminum cover currently sits unused in a box. Here’s the page with the recipe, in case you need some comfort food (for breakfast or dinner!) in the midst of this cold winter.

Fünfundvierzig und Mutter

Last Sunday a speaker asked us what we were doing back in 1964. My mom and I started laughing. For most of that year, she was 35 and I was zero. She and I were doing what we have been the last two weeks: hanging out together as much as possible.

My mom was always the straight man, the foil to my dad's ongoing joke- and storytelling. I know why he enjoyed her company so much: she is actually quite funny, a great sidekick as well as a source of humor. Mom is always up for an adventure and encourages the rest of us to be, as she is, forever young. Here's some highlights from her current visit.

A week before Thanksgiving, we had finished shopping at Walmart and were putting stuff in our car. A man approached us, asking, "Excuse me, sir, would you like to buy some tamales?" I responded automatically, the way I always do to unsolicited soliciting, "No thanks." As he walked away, I turned to close the car door for my mom. Before it shut, I heard her say, quietly, "Those might be the best tamales you've ever had." I smiled, then walked over and bought a dozen tamales.

So we watched Up the other night and when we switched back to cable, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was on. My mom asked my wife if she had ever read that book. I mentioned that I started it, but it was too deep for me. Mom asked, in all seriousness, "Really?" I laughed 'til I cried (and it hurt).

Then, the other day, we were in another parking lot, but driving this time, when she spotted a minivan. "There's an Odyssey." (Noteworthy because that's what one of my sisters is driving these days.) I mentioned that it was Homer's favorite vehicle; he liked it almost as much as the Iliad. She almost asked me who Homer was, but then caught on, and shook her head in disgust . . . the perfect response to a bad joke.

Yesterday, my younger son had peeled an orange and left the remains on a plate. Before Mom threw them away, she pointed at some white stuff and said, "This is my favorite part because it has the bioflavonoids." Not much later she referred to the decorative treads on her socks as "doodleywhips." She's a walking, fictive, vocabulary lesson.

What I'm trying to say here is that my mom is a blast, a real treasure. I am spending my "Fünfundvierzig" birthday with her and my eldest brother. (Of all the languages, German makes 45 sound like the most fun.) I feel honored to be with them. My dad's stories, wit, humor, and zest for life lives on in her and all of us who remember him. I think he would be pleased.