FoxCraft

Slamming the Door on an Era

The fishing fly was startling to strangers.

It had spent years hooked into the front screen door in a strategic spot, looking like a fuzzy insect a bit the worse for wear which had happened to land there just in time to look you in the eye as you stepped up to the door. It served as a conversation starter for numerous political campaigners, missionaries, door-to-door solicitors, and first-time visitors.

The screen door was so old it was made entirely out of wood. It was so old it could be slammed instead of shutting with the dignified whoosh of modern doors equipped with hydraulic closers. It was also old enough so that replacing the torn screen would have been a project. Old enough so that wrapping the screen with plastic wasn't enough to keep out winter drafts.

Old enough, finally, to need replaced. We went and bought a shiny new combination screen and storm door with insulation, thermal window panes, and the latest and greatest thing—a "disappearing screen" that rolls up into the top.

A door that, supposedly, would be easy to hang. Just line it up, drill a few holes, put in a few screws, install the latch and closer, and adjust the handy little extender at the bottom to make it fit well. The step-by-step directions, complete with drawings, were in real English and quite clear.

Even the part in the beginning that read, "The door opening must be perfectly square."

This house was built in the 1950's. It was moved to this site after Rapid City's disastrous flood in 1970. It was well-built to begin with, but at this stage in its life, nothing about it is perfectly square. The door was surprisingly close, actually, with only about a quarter of an inch difference from the top to the bottom. Then there was the small matter of the top of the door frame being out of plumb, as if it were leaning back slightly toward the inside of the house. Probably to keep warm, since the screen door wasn't doing much to keep out the drafts.

Still, all those little imprecisions didn't seem to be that big a problem. We forged ahead in blissful ignorance.

Even with a scientist partner who is the kind of person who measures twice and cuts once, hanging the door turned into more of a project than either the salesman or the instructions had implied. Directions were read and reread. Holes were drilled. Shims were used. Adjustments were made.

We started early in the afternoon. By the time darkness fell, the door was hung, all right. Think "horse thief" rather than "construction" and you'd get the general idea. It wasn't straight from top to bottom. It didn't line up from side to side. It didn't align against the frame. These minor details were discouraging. The $100 the store would have charged for installation was starting to seem like a bargain.

On the positive side, however, no swearing or throwing of tools had taken place. And I had discovered my true talent when it comes to carpentry—holding the flashlight.

The next step was not printed in the directions, but it was clear nevertheless. Obviously, the only thing to do was temporarily abandon the project and go have dinner.

The next day, we consulted a friend who has tools, skills, and genuine carpentry experience. He looked at our handiwork. He very courteously made no disparaging comments. He analyzed. He made suggestions. He adjusted here. He shimmed there.

And now we have a fully installed new storm door. It has a latch. It has a closer. It lines up quite nicely. It keeps out the drafts.

The only thing missing is the fly. You just can't leave a fuzzy object an inch long hooked to a disappearing screen.

The missionaries and solicitors are going to be so disappointed.

Feminist, Pregnant, and In the Kitchen

Forty years of feminism, and it all comes down to this?

My daughter, eight-plus months pregnant. In her kitchen, cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Barefoot, yet. At least until her feet got tired and cold. In South Dakota in November, one can only carry a cliché so far.

Is this what all those women back in the 60's and 70's protested for? Insisted on being called Ms. for? Pushed their way into law schools and med schools and men-only organizations for?

Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Because feminism is about being respected and having choices. On this particular Thanksgiving Day, cooking the holiday meal was what my daughter wanted to do. Being a loving mother, I graciously allowed her to. Anything for her. Especially anything that would keep me out of the kitchen.

Cooking has always been something I do for love. Not love of the culinary process, though—love of the family needing to be fed. My aim is to put a reasonably healthy meal on the table as quickly as possible, get out of the kitchen, and move on to more interesting things. That attitude is most likely the reason for what I've always seen as one of my parenting failures: not teaching the kids to cook.

In my defense, I did give each of them some sort of basic cookbook when they were brand-new adults. Despite my bad example, most of them have actually used those cookbooks. (Betty Crocker's classic was open on my daughter's counter yesterday.) They also use the Internet, of course. They've even, in occasional scraping-the-bottom-of-the-barrel moments, called me for advice. None of them, or their kids, have starved to death yet.

Thanksgiving Dinner was scrumptious. Somewhere around the third bite of my daughter's delicious made-from-scratch key lime pie, I decided to stop feeling guilty about letting the kids figure out cooking on their own. They seem to have managed it perfectly well.

Even more important, they've all married spouses who share the household responsibilities. My daughter's husband, who does most of the everyday cooking at their house, pointed out quite truthfully, "Without me, she would eat like a bachelor."

If that isn't feminism at its finest, I'll eat another piece of key lime pie.

A Dozen and Counting

It's incredible that a perfect human being can come in such a miniature package. But there she is, complete in every detail right down to fingernails, toenails, and eyelashes. Kendall Kathryn, grandchild number twelve.

I was fortunate enough to get to meet her when she was only eight days old, and it occurred to me as I was watching her sleep on my lap that she may be the tiniest baby I've ever had the privilege of holding. Her six pounds and five ounces, while certainly a normal and healthy weight, was downright petite compared to her cousins. Most of the rest of the dozen tipped the scales at eight or nine or even ten pounds.

Kendall is a dainty little person, with long slender fingers and narrow feet. Her head, with its delicate tracery of brownish hair, is too small for even her newborn sized hats. She seems much too tiny to hold her own in a household that includes a lively big brother and two opinionated beagles.

So far, her brother, just past babyhood himself, seems to find her mildly intriguing but not all that significant. No doubt he'll show a lot more interest when she gets old enough to pull his hair and grab his toys.

The dogs tend to regard her with a similar mild curiosity. One of them, the nervous type, has already conceded her superior position after she scared him into submission by getting the hiccups. The other one, whose heart is reachable via a direct line through her stomach, will become a devoted follower as soon as the baby is old enough to drop edible bits onto the floor.

She may be tiny, but my guess is that Kendall will more than hold her own. Her dark blue eyes are direct and clear, and there's a firm chin beneath her dainty mouth. Big brother Jack and the beagles had better make room for her. Kendall is clearly an alpha baby.

Keeping the Cows Moving

One day years ago, in the middle of a busy day of working cattle, my father had to make a quick trip to town for more vaccine. He had been roping calves, so in addition to his usual boots and his battered cowboy hat, he was wearing his leather chaps and his spurs.

He parked the pickup on Main Street near the veterinarian’s office, went in, and got the vaccine. While he was there, he also picked up a new rope. As he was headed back to the pickup, he met a young mom and her little boy, who was about three or four.

The little kid looked at my dad. His eyes got bigger and bigger as they went from the boots and the spurs, to the chaps, to the coiled lariat, and up to the cowboy hat. He said, "Wow! Are you a real cowboy?"

My dad chuckled. He said, "Well, not really. But I reckon I can keep the cows moving till one comes along."

Actually, he was a real cowboy. To this day, he has the scars and broken bones to prove it. He wasn't always lucky enough to have a crew of real cowhands, though. Sometimes he had to make do with the help at hand: his four daughters.

We didn’t always do things exactly in the proper cowboy way. It’s hard to wrestle a calf to the ground with flair and style when it weighs more than you do; we had to gang up on them. But we could help sort calves and keep the cows moving through the chute. My youngest sister could keep an accurate tally in a notebook when she was just barely old enough to read. And we were good at rounding up the cattle and bringing them in from the pasture. We knew that real cowboying was often done at a walk, not the dramatic galloping seen in the movies. We knew how to keep the cows moving in the direction they were supposed to go.

True, we were just kids. But we were willing, eager, and enthusiastic because we didn't see working cattle as a chore. We though it was fun. We did it strictly as an amateur production, with more enthusiasm than expertise and a lot of on-the-job training.

Which, if you think about it, is also true of a lot of the stuff we do in our lives. Like growing up. Getting jobs. Getting married. Having kids. We go through all sorts of unexpected trials and adventures, joys and losses.

We’re amateurs at all of it. Nobody is handing out instruction manuals. About the time we think we have life figured out, something new pops up, and we're back at the beginning again, without a clue.

I used to believe a time would come when I would become a real, certified grownup. After that, I imagined, I would have all the answers and know exactly what to do.

Fat chance. I'm still waiting. What I've finally figured out, though, is that being a real grownup doesn't mean having all the answers. It doesn't even mean knowing all the questions. It just means being willing to proceed with the task at hand anyway.

It means you don't wait around for the "real" cowboys” to show up. You just keep the cows moving. And if you're really lucky, you think it's fun.

Halloween Treats: The Good, The Bad, and the Left Over

I was told this week that the origins of Halloween go back some 6000 years. I have no idea whether that's true, but it certainly explains why some of that candy is so stale.

The dilemma of buying Halloween candy is always whether to get some you like so you can eat what's left over, or whether to get some you don't like so you won't eat what's left over.

Or whether to get the cheapest junk you can find, which not even the kids like. Like those individually wrapped bits of sugar and corn starch with a vaguely toffee-like consistency that tend to show up months later as petrified little lumps in the dusty corners underneath the kids' beds.

Or candy corn. It is mildly decorative, I suppose, and will keep for weeks in a candy dish—mostly because even kids will only eat it when it's the only sweet stuff left in the house. As a child, the only reason I found to eat it all was for the entertainment value. The process was first to bite off the white tip, trying to sever it precisely without leaving any white behind; then to nibble off the broad yellow end, and then finally to gobble down the boring orange part in the middle.

We didn't go Trick or Treating when I was a kid, so we missed spending the first week of November glazed over in a sugar high. Most of my experience with Halloween candy came later, second-hand from my own kids. I would dutifully look through the candy like responsible parents were supposed to do, supposedly checking for hidden threats or active health hazards but mostly conducting an inventory of the dark chocolate.

I usually asked each kid for a "donation" of one piece of chocolate, which they gave graciously. A couple of them (you know who you are, and yes, your names are spelled right in the will) even were generous enough to offer more than one.

Where we live now, on a dead-end road in a house that's a long, dark driveway away from the street, we tend not to get Trick or Treaters. Since the neighborhood is changing, with several young families recently moving in, I did buy candy this year and leave the porch light on, just in case. No little vampires or princesses or super-heroes rang the doorbell, though.

Oh, well. Dealing with the leftover candy is a huge responsibility, but sometimes a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do. Especially when she was smart enough to buy M&M's instead of candy corn.