Grace and Stature

We reach an age when we measure years by the stature of the children we know. Has it been six months already we gasp when we run into a friend with a new baby. Can that be that the same curly headed child that used to stand on tiptoes at the counter we ask as we look up into the face of a teenager that is now taller than we are. I ran into one of my old friends recently. We were young once. She was third grade teacher to both my daughters. Many of our family’s favorite stories from their childhood happened in her classroom; learning with her was such a gentle, joyful, communal experience. Denise also taught our son-in-law. He was five years older than my daughter and already in junior high when our daughter reached third grade. The future lovebirds were oblivious to each other in those days of pre-pubescent, elementary learning. It is magical to look back at the process of growing up with the perspective of an old person. Not only your own childhood, but also your kids’ childhoods takes on a quality of foreshadowing in retrospect as you consider the way things unfold. To our family, there is something almost time-warped about Denise’s third grade classroom now. Denise grinned affectionately and shook her head, as if in bewilderment, at the thought of those two little ones, now all grown up and creating a home together. They are perfect for each other, opposites balancing each other out by delightful design, but who knew it back then? In third grade, his gangly legs, like the sprouting limbs of all little boys tucked under a miniature desk, were jittery, stillness eluding them ever few seconds. His mind struggled to focus while he was trying not to daydream about after school adventures with his brothers. A few years later, our daughter sat in the same classroom, her eager mind soaking up history and reading, always in the moment. I can easily picture her, like so many third-grade girls, with her hand raised, eager with an answer and a joyous smile. Her younger sister followed close behind, soaking up math and science, creating soccer anthems out of hymns on the playground with a close friend who is also all grown up now. As we age, we get to teach our kiddoes to extend grace to one another in school. Because we remember our own childhood and the idiosyncrasies of the kids we shared it with, we understand how those stories unfold. My son-in-law tells me that his clearest memory of third grade was the day his dad accidentally let a rat snake loose in Denise’s classroom. They don’t pay teachers enough. Perhaps one of the best rewards of experience is knowing how some of the stories turn out. Seeing kiddoes grow in grace and stature, a reward of age. Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at checklistcharlie.blogspot.com.

Easter gloves and hats

I am old enough to remember when no one went to Easter Sunday service without gloves and a hat.
Say what you want to about the 60s, but the fashion was historic.
There is something so spiritual for a tiny girl about having to keep beautiful white gloves clean.
No easy assignment.
However, as if to compensate for the responsibility of gloves, there was the incentive of the perfect new straw hat, haloed in ribbon and silk flowers, delicious enough to buzz with tiny, felt bumblebees and butterflies made of silk.
Nothing took the stress out of keeping gloves clean like a perfect Easter bonnet.
Over forty years later, I can’t say that I remember a single Easter Sermon.
In the days before air-conditioning, I do remember concentrating to sit perfectly still as the preacher droned on. And I remember the relief of getting to pop up and sing resurrection’s joyful and thankfully loud choruses.
Even kneeling was a relief on hot, spring Sundays because a breeze might catch you as you prayed.
In fact, the sermons were probably a waste on little ears burdened with the dignity of the proper head attire.
On the other hand, bouncing alive to glorious music accompanied by trumpets was probably the perfect metaphor for the resurrection.
Anyway, that’s the way I remember it.
May your Easter celebration include joyful music, trumpets, short sermons, and lots of children in perfect bonnets.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at checklistcharlie.blogspot.com.

Pee in the Cup

The last time I applied for a job a million years ago, no one asked me to pee in a cup.
For those of you who are retired and missed this phenomenon, now days, if you want a job with almost any big company, you have to submit to a drug test.
There was a time many moons ago, when you could look for a job without anyone even once recommending that you head to the potty. In fact, in those ancient days, people considered it poor etiquette to even mention the potty during an interview.
We even had euphemisms in the unlikely event that the subject could not possibly be avoided.
Like powder room. What a lovely concept!
Of course, powder was an extremely feminine luxury and putting powder on your nose was considered a complex and perplexing mystery.
Nothing at all like peeing in a cup. Which is pretty vulgar.
If you ask me, peeing in a cup is an incentive for keeping the job you’ve got.
While I was looking for a job, I applied at some temp agencies. I can write, but apparently I can’t type, so they never called me.
I was relieved. Not in the euphemistic sense.
Young people coming out of college seem to assume that peeing in a cup is just part of the process of landing their first big job. They have such good attitudes about the whole thing.
I try to tell myself that I should emulate their example, change with the times, accept what I cannot change.
And I will, too. Right after I write this column.
My goal is to write something that employers can give to their prospective employees along with all the proper medical forms, to acknowledge that, yes, the new system is really icky.
Imagine how happy I was to learn that peeing in the cup happens at a lab and not at the work place.
Picture yourself handing a cup of pee to your boss and you have the general concept. Try not to think about it.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at checklistcharlie.blogspot.com.

Well-aged and Well-adjusted

Nothing made my Granddaddy happier than an excuse to fish.
He was a gentle man with a small-ish frame and a ready grin. Cataracts had taken their toll on his vision, but not on the sweet way he always interacted with us.
I can still see him standing on the end of a pier with cane pole in hand. There was something so inherently peaceful in his demeanor.
We never heard him say a cross word, although there were a few occasions when he firmly encouraged my grandmother that it was time for their visit to come to an end; she would have stayed indefinitely.
“I don’t believe in retirement,” said the gentleman at the Bullard Kiwanis meeting when I asked for help with this column. He was the picture of why I agree with him, busy mentoring young people, happily contributing to a better community.
What we believe about retirement and aging will shape our future. As I age, I can’t help but notice some of the mythology out there:
-“Retirement means you lose your identity.” What retirement really means is that now you can serve in the way you want to without concern for making the next buck.
- “I worked; now I can play.” I call this RTS, Retirement Teenager Syndrome. The happiest teenagers and old folks I know are the ones who are NOT focused on self-indulgence, but are busy sharing their lives with others.
-“Caretaking is an imposition.” You might be surprised to learn that your kids don’t mind the hours with you at the doctor’s office or the midnight trips to the emergency room. In fact, they might actually savor the quite and tenderness of those moments spent waiting with you.
-“Nobody is interested in the elderly.” The truth is that in many cultures, the elderly are still esteemed for their wisdom. In our own culture, I meet young people all the time who are craving the interest of someone wiser. The trick is to be wise enough to recognize the need and secure enough to offer whatever you can.
My kids and I met a retired gentleman recently at the picture framing counter who is a perfect example of offering whatever you can. He simply congratulated my daughter about her diploma. A few words later and we were pressing him with questions about his experience as a Korean veteran. He is now a friend and a valuable source of insight. All because he took a minute to encourage a young person.
“Drawing closer to the Lord and wanting others to do so too,” is crucial explained one friend, adding with a grin, “at our age, you know you’re gonna face Him sooner rather than later.”
So, what’s the best way to avoid getting caught in the trap of mythology about aging?
Spend time with young people.
If your grandkids live far away, why not adopt some more close to home? Next door. At church. By tutoring kids who need help with school work.
Why not do what my granddaddy did? Grab a cane pole and take a young person fishing.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

The Gift of Perspective, Mom’s Day 2009

Life has a way of putting things into perspective.
My mom is the kind of person who everybody wishes would mentor them.
Even if I could list all the community service she has done over the years, I wouldn’t do it. She’d be mad at me for the attention. And, even though I’m fifty now, she is still my mom and I know better than to mess with her.
Anyway, the things she did around my home town are not nearly as impressive as the things she did accidentally along the way with her kids.
Take, for instance, the last time we saw her Uncle Ernest alive.
Ernest Wilson grew up on a farm with four other brothers, eeking out a living in a family accustomed to the struggle of surviving.
He volunteered for WWII and soon found himself assigned to Dwight D. Eisenhower. After the war, he was invited to stay on as personal secretary to the general, soon to be president.
It was an invitation Ernest turned down because he had other dreams.
So, he came back to Texas, studied geology and was soon helping to guarantee that our nation’s oil supplies would be coming out of the ground in Texas.
At which point, he did a profound thing with his newfound wealth.
He paid for his nieces to go to college. Thus, my mom became a geologist herself. And she also met a cute Austin boy with a charming personality at the university.
The last time I saw Uncle Ernest, he was a few days away from death, pretty much comatose, in a nursing home in Dallas.
I can imagine my mom’s perspective; it was probably a difficult decision to take us kids to see him in that condition. She would have worried that we would remember him the wrong way, as frail rather than amazing.
My perspective is entirely different, of course.
I remember the tender way she sat on the edge of his bed and whispered her affection to him. I remember that he stirred briefly as if to respond.
Mom and I were remembering that day recently and we wondered what Uncle Ernest’s perspective would have been.
Was he disappointed to be confined to a bed, this man with the insatiable drive? Honestly, he didn’t seem restless at all; he seemed peaceful.
When you think about it from a certain perspective, sleep feels pretty good.
Waking occasionally to find someone you love hovering over you to tenderly tell you again how much they love and appreciate you, that’s pretty good, too.
This is how you treat the people you love, I remember thinking as a kid.
Thanks, Mom. I’m the lucky kid who got to be mentored by you in the quiet, accidental places where Life really matters.
And Happy Mother’s Day to all the gentle, loving moms out there, mentoring as you go.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.

All My Friends Are Movie Stars

All my friends are movie stars. I’m not sure when this trend began, several years ago I think, but its in full force now.
There’s the nice young man at the bank who remembers all my account numbers for me and is something of a financial guru, Jeremy Irons.
And there’s the funeral home director, Jimmy Stewart, who I invariably introduce to someone else about once a month, as I attend the funerals of all the people who used to seem like old folks to me.
There’s the publisher at the paper who I have asked for as Calvin Klein. You can imagine the blank stares this produced.
Can you imagine how surprised my kids were to learn that my first date in high school was with Jerry Falwell?
Of course, there’s my old high school buddy, Lorne Greene.
“Do you think he noticed that I called him Lorne Greene?” I asked my husband after I introduced them at a little league game a few years ago.
“Maybe his hearing isn’t what it used to be,” answered my husband.
One can only hope.
“Who is Lorne Greene?” asked a young friend recently when I was explaining my movie star problem.
Okay, if you’re under forty, and you actually read my column, which is doubtful unless you are my children, in which case you read faithfully to see what I’m writing about you publically this week, Lorne Greene is the dad on Bonanza. My kids already know this because one of them has a thing about Bonanza and the rest of us have suffered through re-runs for approximately ten of his twelve years of life.
Lorne Greene passed away in 1987. This could be awkward if I have to introduce him to anybody else besides my husband.
I don’t know who attended Lorne’s funeral, but I assume it was a bunch of movie stars. I wasn’t invited.
Speaking of funerals, have you noticed that the obituary pictures just got a lot bigger in one of our regional newspapers?
Personally, I think this is a great marketing idea. Obviously, there are some of us who turn to the obits first every morning. Sad, but true.
Now, I can see those bigger pictures without my reading glasses. This is a great mercy because I can’t always remember where my glasses are.
I suspect my friend, Cindy Crawford, who helps me with the housekeeping, is hiding them from me.
Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http:/checklistcharlie.blogspot.com or cathykrafve@gmail.com.