FoxCraft

You Can Call Me Hank--Or Not

Maybe he didn't exactly come out swinging, but Henry showed up with a major-league attitude. Of course, when you're only a few minutes old, and people are scrubbing you and weighing you and measuring you and taking pictures before you've had a chance to put any clothes on, a guy can be excused for feeling a little annoyed.

Henry Orrin made his appearance on Monday, April 16. He weighed seven pounds ten ounces and was 20 ½ inches long. (Since the powers that be subjected him to all that weighing and measuring, we might as well report the findings.) The brand-new pictures of his brand-new self showed him to be a sturdy, healthy little person and much better looking than Winston Churchill.

One of his grandfathers has already been caught on camera calling him "Hammerin' Hank." Whether the nickname sticks, or whether he and his parents will prefer the more formal Henry, remains to be seen.

Given that his parents are golfers rather than baseball fans, Hank Aaron won't necessarily be one of Henry's idols. Nor, I'm guessing, will Hank Williams. Henry VIII? Please, let's not even mention him. Henry's mom and dad are both articulate attorneys. His role models will probably be Patrick Henry and Henry Clay.

And a good thing, too. Henry also just happens to have an articulate, very bright older sister. She's probably going to treat him with that loving bossiness only big sisters can achieve. The kid is going to need all the verbal skills he can muster.

Of course, a good strong swing might sometimes come in handy, too.

Hi, Henry. Welcome to the family.

Dreaming of a Redneck Christmas

The man next to me was snoring. Thank goodness it wasn't that awful kind of snore that builds to a crescendo, then pauses for a few moments to prolong the suspense until, about the time the weary listener has resolved that tomorrow—no, make that today, it's 2:37 a.m.—is definitely the day to call the sleep apnea clinic, the hapless sleeper gives a strangled snort, gasps for breath, and starts in on the next measure.

This was a regular, rhythmic snore that wasn't really very loud. It probably wouldn't have kept me awake had I been in my own bed.

Of course, in my own bed I could also have easily poked him in the ribs with a loving elbow and asked him sweetly to roll over. That wasn't an option here. For one thing, I wasn't quite sure who the guy was.

Besides, we weren't in the same room. My lower bunk with its hard mattress was on one side of a thin wall and his was on the other. So much for sleeping like a baby at the annual family Christmas gathering. (Actually, I was sleeping like a baby—the one next door was awake several times during the night, too.)

Sleeping arrangements aside, here is the important question for this year's party: Did this qualify as a redneck Christmas?

Possibly. Here are the contributing factors:

1. We were at a hunting lodge in the South (well, South Dakota). It was decorated in Modern Taxidermy with mounted deer heads (the one with only one antler looked embarrassed), elk heads, turkeys, bobcats, and pheasants. One of the gifts in the joke gift exchange was a set of mounted antlers—from a deer personally shot by the giver, Great-Grandma (who was merely Grandma back when she shot it).

2. Grandma wouldn't have been up for any deer hunting this year though. A fall on the slippery back step a couple days earlier had left her stiff, sore, and with stitches in her arm. She joked that she hadn't exactly been run over by a reindeer; she just felt like it.

3. The entertainment included the usual board games and even a little bit of televised football, but the featured activity on Saturday afternoon was target shooting, with coaching from Great-Grandpa. Shooters included most of the granddaughters as well as the grandsons and sons-in-law. The great-grandkids are still too small to manage a shotgun, but they helped by picking up empties and unbroken targets. Next year, maybe.

4. The feature story of the weekend was the encounter some of us had with a dead skunk when we went for a walk. Someone suggested taking our picture with it, like the picture taken with the dead porcupine a few years ago (don't ask—that's a different story). As we approached, however, the "dead" skunk lifted its head and looked at us. An unhealthy-looking skunk out in broad daylight is not a good sign. We scrambled to a safe distance, my sister used her cell phone to call her husband the veterinarian, and he came and shot the critter. He also saw that it was caught by one leg in a trap. That immediately changed our perception of the skunk. Shooting it, instead of a necessity to get rid of a potential threat, became a necessity to put the poor thing out of its misery. (We skipped the picture.)

Arguments against this qualifying as a Redneck Christmas:

1. None of the in-laws were related except by marriage.

2. Too many teeth.

3. Too many e-readers.

4. Too many college degrees.

But I'll let you decide. Redneck Christmas, or just another ordinary family get-together?

And while you're making up your mind, have a Merry Christmas!

Jumping for Joy over Jack

We talk about "family trees," but even a tree is far too simple a symbol to capture the real complexity of a family. Maybe a vine would be better. Or a network of circles that overlap and link together into complex patterns.

Or a weaving, with its beginning lost in the past, its end undetermined somewhere far into the future, and its present a complicated tangle of interconnected threads. It is created from ties of blood, ties of marriage, and, above all, ties of love. They connect, overlap, blend, and sometimes clash in a complex mixture of colors and textures that create an ever-changing pattern.

And that may be a nice little bit of analogy, but actually a family is more like a sweater knit by a committee. Each person uses a different pattern, a different type and color of yarn, and different size needles, and there's always someone who shows up with a crochet hook. The finished garment might end up with seven sleeves and no neck opening--but it will be one of a kind.

All this imagery is an attempt to put into words my feelings about the arrival on July 21, 2011, of grandchild number ten: Jack Allen.

Since his father is my stepson, Jack is "my" grandson. He's also "my" grandson to his mother's parents, his father's mother, and his father's stepdad. And his father's father, whose thread in the family weaving was abruptly broken off nearly nine years ago.

Wayne will never get to hold this newest grandchild in his big, competent hands and grin at him with the smile that started in his bright blue eyes. Jack won't get to know the grandfather whose middle name he shares.

But he's there, nevertheless, just as we other grandparents are. Along with the rest of the family, we're all part of the pattern that right now comes together in this new baby.

Maybe that's a little too much heavy thinking for one little guy who isn't even a full day old yet. So, while Jack is getting to know his mom and his dad, the rest of us in the complicated connections that make up his family can wait a while.

For now, let's just keep it simple: He's here. His name is Jack. As in "Jeepers, he's cute." As in "Jump up and down with excitement," the way his father did right after his birth. As in Joy.

Welcome, Jack Allen. Your families are Jubilant about you.

Pot Problems

It's almost time to commit cacticide again.

Among the plants on the old library table in my kitchen are a Christmas cactus and a Thanksgiving cactus. Well, supposedly it's a Thanksgiving cactus, but this past year it bloomed around Halloween and then again at Easter, so it appears to be a bit conflicted in its religious beliefs.

Both plants are thriving, to the point of getting too big for their pots. It's time to either repot them, trim them back severely, or consider even more drastic measures.

I've gone the repotting route before, and I know where it leads. First the plant outgrows a nice middle-sized pot, then a big one, and the next thing you know it's firmly established in a container the size of a coffee table that is too heavy to move. It's having illicit pot parties in the living room and you're too intimidated to say anything.

The last time that happened with the Christmas cactus, I finally took drastic action. I clipped off eight or ten substantial cuttings, started a new plant in a medium-sized pot, and after it was well established I lugged the old plant out onto the deck.

In January. A couple of days later we had a blizzard, and there the poor thing sat, the wind making its frozen fingers scratch against the glass door as if it were pleading to be taken back in. I felt like a murderer. It reminded me of the stories about Eskimos leaving old people out on the ice to die.

Especially because that plant was so old. It had been part of my life for nearly 40 years, and part of the family for much longer. My plant was a gift from my mother when I moved into my first house. It started from cuttings from my grandmother's Christmas cactus. Hers bloomed magnificently every year and had grown into a majestic presence, its gnarled thick stalks growing out of a square wooden pot custom-made for it by my uncle. Grandma's plant, in turn, had come from one belonging to her cousin Minnie, which might well have begun with a gift of cuttings to her mother as early as about 1900.

So cutting back my Christmas cactus or restarting it isn't something to be done lightly. It has a venerable and honorable heritage. Of course, it has a promising future as well. The one I started from it for my daughter is flourishing in her living room.

If I do start a new plant and discard the older part of mine, it really wouldn't be cacticide. It's more like reincarnation.

No wonder the Thanksgiving cactus is so confused.

Not Your Grandpa's Father's Day

Fatherhood.

There was a lot of it showing at the family wedding last weekend. The father of the bride. The father of the groom. The father-to-be who is the youngest sibling in our blended family, and who many of us secretly still see as 12 years old and too young to be having children of his own. And the brothers, brothers-in-law, cousins, and friends who were fathers of the babies and all those little kids having so much fun on the dance floor.

This generation's young fathers are a joy to watch. They look just as comfortable with a baby tucked under one arm as they do with an iPad. They appear to share with their wives the "parent radar" that's always alert to what the kids are doing. They seem to take for granted that it's up to them to do a fair share of the yucky stuff like changing diapers and cleaning up messes.

Here's to all the young fathers in my family and elsewhere who aren't embarrassed to go out in public with little plastic bags of Cheerios in their pockets. Who matter-of-factly wipe sticky little fingerprints off their cell phones. Who, when they're looking after their own kids, don't call it "babysitting."

You're doing a great job, guys. Happy Father's Day.

Life Is Happening Everywhere

A wedding, a baby shower (for different couples, if anyone might be wondering), a funeral, two serious illnesses, visiting grandkids (oh, and their parents, too), plus a couple of birthdays and anniversaries and at least one threatened flood.

This week has been stressful, sad, exciting, and joyful. Our families are busy with transitions, beginnings, and endings. The reality of life--much of it delightful, some of it hard--is happening all over.

And the all-important common thread running through all of it? Family, of course. Love. It's worth every second, every tear, every smile, and every hug. Especially the ones made stickier with chokecherry jelly.

 

Late-Breaking News Flash

Hold on! News flash! Stop the presses!

Oh, wait, this is the Internet. Never mind the presses.

But make room, anyhow, for an important piece of late-breaking news that came in just at this week's publication deadline. Mackenna Marie has arrived.

She was born at 5:11 a.m. on January 21, weighing in at eight pounds, one ounce. When a lady is brand new, everybody wants to know how much she weighs. It's only later—after she's old enough to talk, maybe—that it's nobody's business but her own.

My morning started with a phone call letting me know Mackenna was here, a beautiful baby with all her fingers and toes and everything in perfect working order (including her lungs—I could hear her over the phone).

After a second cup of tea to celebrate, I went off to Curves for my usual Friday workout. Of course, I shared the good news. I'm sure the breathlessness of my account was due strictly to excitement rather than exertion as I huffed and puffed around the circuit.

Since all the other women working out were also grandmothers, it was the perfect place to celebrate. We agreed that grandchildren are wonderful and graciously allowed each other to take turns recounting the virtues of our own. We were jointly pleased at the shared hands-on parenting of today's young fathers. We appreciated the blessings of becoming good friends with grown daughters. It was an exercise in enjoying families as much as fitness.

By the time I got home, Mackenna's picture was already up on Facebook. She is, of course, beautiful, and no, she doesn't look anything like Winston Churchill.

Stop the Internet for a nanosecond and take note, everyone. Mackenna just joined the extended family of the World Wide Web.