Learning to Cuss

Two young brothers age 6 and 4 are talking one night in their bedroom. The older brother says “You know, I think we are old enough to cuss.” The four year old says “I think you are right,” nodding his head in approval. The older brother says “tomorrow at breakfast I am going to say ‘Hell,’ and you should say ‘Ass.’” The younger brother agreed with enthusiasm.

The next morning the two brothers came to the breakfast table. The mother asked the older one what he wanted for breakfast. He replied, “Aw, Hell Mom, I think I’ll have Cheerios.” WHACK! He flies out of his chair, tumbles across the kitchen floor, gets up, and runs upstairs crying his eyes out with his mother in hot pursuit, slapping his rear with every step. You could hear the wailing all the way to the kitchen.

In a matter of seconds, the mother returned and said to the younger brother, “And, exactly what do YOU want for breakfast?” The younger brother being a little sharper than his brother "I don't know," he blubbers, “but you can bet your FAT ASS I not gonna ask for Cheerios!”

The story isn’t true as far as I know. I received this joke in an email. But the story is strikingly similar to one which occurred when my brother and I were exactly the same age – six and four.

On Friday nights, Dad and Mom played bridge with Denny and Janet. I am not sure it was every Friday night, but at least it was once a month. One night we would be at their house, and every other time we would all be at our house. It was a great, cheap evening of entertainment with friends – family. It was regular – you could count on that evening being roughly the same every week.

I was a smart young lad. I learned to read and write (even in cursive) before first grade. And, I know many of you won’t believe this, but at the time I felt pretty “high on myself.” At six my ego was rather big.

The first day of first grade I rode the bus home, sitting directly in front of two third-graders. One of them tapped me on the shoulder and asked what grade I was in. “First.” “Can you read?” I replied, “of course!”

“What is this word?” as he unfolded a scrap of paper. "F#&ker.” “What? Say it louder.” “F#&KER.” They both laughed and I knew I had been had. I didn’t know exactly what I said, but all the kids around me were laughing – and I knew it was bad.

One Friday night, right after dinner, Dad said “you have to go to bed, and you can’t get up once I close the door.” He continued, “go to the bathroom and get ready for bed. You can’t have any water, or get up to go to the bathroom once you are in bed. Someone is coming over.”

Greg and I, being the obedient – yet somewhat curious, mischievous imps we are – proceeded to get ready for bed. We certainly weren’t tired – it was only 7 o’clock.

Lights were out and we were in our bunk beds. Our bedroom wall abutted the couch in the living room, 3 feet from the front door. Greg and I discussed who could possibly be coming over. It couldn’t be Denny, Janet, Kurt and Kathryn. We knew them. We would have gotten to stay up and play! It had to be someone else and we had to find out who it was!



The door bell rang, and we heard Dad answer the door. WHO IS IT? What could we do to find out? We knew we couldn’t get out of bed – but – maybe, just maybe, we could get one of us out to see who it was. I shouted “Daaaad, I have to go to the baaathroooom.” “No, I told you had to stay in bed,” came Dad’s reply.

I told Greg I didn’t know if this would work, but he should ask for some water. “Daaaad, can I have some waaaterrr?” “I said NO, you have already gone to the bathroom, and you have already had water. You need to stay in bed and be quiet.”

Greg said to me he didn’t think there was anything we could do. But – being the older brother, I knew different. I knew I could get that door open. I told my four year old brother, “Dad will let us get up if you yell F#&KER.” “Really?” “Yep,” I said with the confidence of an older brother.

“F#&KER!!!” Greg yelled.

My father isn’t the tallest man in the world, but when the door slammed open, I saw the silhouette of “The Hulk” – a monster of a man – green eyes piercing the darkness like lasers. Greg and I disagree over who got spanked – whether it was me, him or both of us. I only remember three distinct things: the light never came on; we were both crying, and we never found out who came over that night.

- Craig

Cowboy Boots

Even today my feet are like tree roots. They are narrow and pointed. Cowboy boots fit best, and while some may disagree, they are not suitable for “all occasions.” For instance I can’t wear them to the beach with a swimsuit or shorts. It might work well for some, but hanging out at the seashore, or around the pool on a lounge chair with the little umbrella drinks doesn’t make sense when half your calves are covered by boots. I don’t know which is worse – the cowboy boots or shorts and sandals with black socks. You are welcome to your opinion, but mine is “one is very bad and the other is worse.”

Plus cowboy boots are simply expensive. You need several pairs. “Shit kickers” are required for mucking stalls, or mowing the lawn. Shiny black patent-leather boots are the only kind you can wear with a tuxedo or suit. Generally a good boot in brown smooth leather is necessary for the swanky casual look – bar hopping and dates with the cowgirls. It is important to have a suede look when you are wearing a sport coat.

A man should never buy cowboy boots in red, pink or white unless they are “James Brown” or wearing a flamboyant jumpsuit. Navy blue can work with the right attire.

For years my dad wanted to wear cowboy boots to work. It really didn’t fit with Boeing’s Seattle style, but might have worked well in Wichita. Dad wore the classic “wingtips.” Some people think my father’s “gait” was due to having polio as a child, but I know it was wearing wingtips all those years.

At some point either the dress code relaxed, or Dad just “set the style,” but Dad started wearing cowboy boots to work. He looked good in them. When only your boss is wearing cowboy boots it sets a certain tone. I have never really wanted find out the true meaning of “put my boot where the sun don’t shine.”

At Dad’s retirement party several of the speakers mentioned the cowboy boots. I told this story (roughly – and not a true story, but it was perfect for a retirement party):

“When Boeing relaxed the dress code, my father stopped on the way home and bought a new pair of cowboy boots. He proudly wore them into the house that day, and he asked my mother if she noticed anything different. She politely replied ‘no.’ So he marched to the bedroom and stripped off all of his clothing except the cowboy boots. He said to my mom ‘notice anything different?’ ‘No, it’s still hanging there,’ she replied. ‘Jo – I am pointing at my new cowboy boots!’ ‘Oh – too bad you didn’t buy a cowboy hat.’”

Dad – do you remember how hard Grandma Vesta was laughing? I have never seen her laugh so hard!

- Craig

Moustaches

My father and I have moustaches – at least my father had one once. I have had a moustache since I could really grow one in my college days. I also have had a couple of beards – full and goatees. I keep thinking I will shave my moustache off permanently now that it is “blonder” than my occasionally touched up colored hair.

I have only shaved my moustache three times since I have been married – which is within a week of 25 years. The first time I shaved it was in our very first years of marriage. When asked how she liked it, Julie responded “I married a man, not a boy. Maybe I am just used to having it.” I grew it back immediately.

The second time I shaved it off, I got a cat. Julie had been to the local second hand store looking for the final touches of our Halloween costumes when she spied a box of “free” kittens. She dragged me back to the store where we picked out Willie. But the Halloween party would be an all-nighter, so we dropped Willie off with Mom. It was a great test for future babysitting duties. Julie and I were clowns and with the face paint it only made sense to shave the moustache. I grew it back immediately after the previous comment.

When Amanda was 5 months old I shaved it for Halloween again. When I picked her up after work - she cried. Obviously she didn't recognized me. I have never shaved it since – about 19 years.

I don’t know the year Dad had his moustache, but I know I was young – probably 4 or so. Dad was working in Huntsville while Mom, Greg and I lived in Renton. He didn’t get to come home often and usually didn’t stay long.

One time he showed up with a moustache and he was going to be here for a while. Mom said something to the effect – “you’re not sleeping in my bed until you shave that off.” One morning at breakfast Dad had shaved his moustache. I laughed quietly but Dad noticed and asked “what are you laughing at?” “Nothing.” I didn’t know the details, but I knew Mom had won.

- Craig

Parallel Parking

My father used to take me to downtown Kent to practice parallel parking. It is typically one of the hardest “driving test” requirements. Many people fail this part of the test – and I wasn’t going to be one of them.

Saturdays were usually the day of choice. Dad could take me - and traffic was usually light. Why is it that most mothers want fathers or an older brother to teach driving? Do kids really make mothers that nervous?

I don’t know if dad was ever really nervous with our driving. It just seems that fathers take their children parallel parking, on their first freeway “merge.” The problem with this line of thinking is the father or older brother is usually the one to show the “learner” how fast the car really goes, how to spot the cops with their noses sticking out from behind the trees up ahead, and what to say when you get pulled over. Sometimes I will let out a "shriek" and jam my foot to the floor. I might even say “what the hell are you thinking?!” When either or both of my kids go “What? WHAT!!?” (with panic in their voices). I say “oh – did I say that out loud? I was thinking about what your mother might do right then… just keep driving – you are doing fine.” I get varied responses between Amanda and Chad – everything from “don’t do that you scared the crap out of me” to “a-hole!” No kidding – I got the exact reaction I was looking for. It was exactly the point of me doing it. It keeps their awareness level high – shock therapy. One of the lessons a father might teach their kids is how their mothers might react the first time Mom is in the passenger seat.

I have taken lots of rides with my children behind the wheel. We start off slow. I hand them the keys, or flip them to them. At this point I say “think about what you are about to do.” They look at me for a second, and I follow up with “that’s your first lesson, tomorrow we can go sit in the car.” I try not to laugh, and then I let them off the hook.

I grew up near SeaTac airport. At one time, the city of Kent was a valley community isolated by the farm lands of vegetables, flowers and the occasional Boeing Aerospace center. Really! Mostly the valley was small family owned farms – and yes, Boeing had a fairly large plant on the way to Kent from our house. Of course over time, the valley filled with light industrial, warehouses and distribution centers sparsely interspersed with the occasional lunchtime only deli, quickie mart or gas station.

Kent was the target for parallel parking. Over the course of several Saturdays and the rare Sunday afternoon – combined with my father’s patience – I became an expert in parallel parking. I still couldn’t drive a stick worth crap (the Capri), but I could squeeze the station wagon into space only a VW bug would tackle – at least that’s the way I would like to remember it.

I took my driving test in the red ’64 Dodge Dart station wagon. It had the push button transmission on the left side of the steering wheel. Push “D” or “R” to move; “P” to park and it had a slide lever you pulled down to lock the buttons. It also had “1,” “2,” and “N”. I have them on my Acura as well plus 3, 4, and 5, but I have relabeled them with the maximum downshift speed at which I can use those gears “62” and “88” have replace the “2” and “3” from the old transmissions. I never have found a need to re-label “fourth” to 105. It seems like I never have to downshift to pass at that speed.

But the old red Dart was reliable and easy to drive. I took my test at the “Renton DMV” located on the backside of Highlands Elementary on Edmonds Ave. The first part of the drive consisted of backing around a corner keeping the car within 12 or 18 inches from the curb – passed! No sweat!

“Pull around to the back side of the facility and we will parallel park” barked the DMV “officer” intent on failing his third student of day. I honestly think they enjoy seeing "tears." Cool – I thought I would have to hunt for a spot! Nope! They have one all set up!

“What’s that?” I said to myself… I hope I don’t have to park there!

Much to my horror there were no cars – just four 4-foot high fluorescent orange tubes on stands! “Ready?” the officer questioned. “Yup.” This was easily twice as big as the “bug sized” spots my father had taught me with in Kent.

My first attempt was “curbed.” Out of the corner of the eye I see him write something on the clipboard. He said “wanna try again?” “Hell yes!" was the reply.

I hit the curb again, and he jotted quickly on the clipboard again “How many points did you take off?” I asked. He said “four points each time you missed – eight total.”

"What?" “Wanna try again?” he asked. “Nope.”

Failed parallel parking, but passed with an 82.

- Craig

Stampede

For several years, our family visited the Galacs in Calgary. Thelma is my mom’s cousin. Willie worked for the oil company up there for years. Uncle Willie and Aunt Thelma raised two wonderful daughters Marga and Cinda while in Calgary.

The Calgary Stampede is an amazing event spanning just under two weeks every July. If you have never been, you should consider going. The pageantry of the west comes alive with shows from the North American Natives, cowboys, rides, concerts, rodeos, and my all time favorite, Chuck Wagon races. I have never taken the kids or the wife, but I still have it on my list of to-dos.

The thrills and excitement we shared influenced friends to attend with us. The Lee Family and the Stark Family went with us. We had great times because our parents were all close, and the kids got along as well (reference “Pea Shooters,” August 25, 2007).

Driving to and from Calgary is a two, long-day trip directly, but we extended the adventure to include Lake Louise and Banff. The Canadian Rockies are some of the most spectacular you will ever see, and the drive up to Jasper runs right along the Columbia Glacier ice-field. The Columbia Glacier is the only place in the world where the melting run off feeds three different oceans! You can walk right out on it from the highway or take a tour “trak” ride in a sno-cat to get further up the glacier.

Outside of Yellowstone the highways of Revelstoke to Banff, and up to Jasper have the most free-roaming animals I have ever seen. Bears, elk, and moose were abundant on those trips. We never seemed to be in a hurry. It was probably the most relaxing vacations my father had.

We all learned to set up and break camp. We took lots of pictures of the animals and learned to appreciate the beauties of the wild. I have never been to Alaska but having seen this area of the world I have never felt I missed out on what I have envisioned Alaska to be.

Dad brought this to his family and friends. We enjoyed the closeness of friends and family; the wonders of nature. Fortunately for us, the Galac family was there to take us all in. I have included a picture from either our first or second trip to Calgary – maybe one of you know which one it was. Even without the picture I remembered the hats and boots. Willie didn’t have a boy until later in life, so I imagine Greg and I were his surrogate sons.


- Craig

Hawaii

I have only been to Hawaii once. My parents have been there several times, but unlike the “rich kids” whose parents took them – mine never did. No – I am not upset by that as they have offered to take us. I really don’t think most parents took their high school students to Hawaii. Parents were usually planning “college money” or they were on their “second honeymoon.” Most parents don’t want their teenage daughters wearing what daughters wear – on a beach in Hawaii… And, you certainly can’t take teenage boys – you’d never leave the beach to see the other sights.

Mom and Dad’s first Hawaiian vacation was probably marvelous. I really don’t remember any thing about it except Greg and I got our first Hawaiian shirts – I own about 10 now – and if it is only 7, then Julie and the kids have gift ideas for Christmas and Birthdays. I love the style and the comfort, plus while I am writing this blog I am in Hollywood Florida at a 4-star beach hotel… everyone wears Hawaiian style shirts so I tell them mine are “Jamaican.”


Grandma Vesta came to stay with us while Mom and Dad were in Hawaii. I think we were pretty good. At least she didn’t get stitches like some of our babysitters (I can see another blog coming!).

I have to say one thing about that first trip. Many couples purchase matching “wear” while they are touring the islands. Mom and Dad had good taste! I love the colors and the pattern! I wonder what ever happened to those outfits as I never saw them after they returned home.

Mom and Dad went to Hawaii with Ray and Mary a couple of times too. They are great long term friends. I think they have fun with each other and the pictures seem to indicate as much. Making reed baskets, tours to the beach, the submarine ride, the sailboat to Lanai (pronounced LA-nigh-EE). I guess I never pronounced the islands correctly because people kept correcting me on my trip. They said “Hey HOWL-EE, its MO-LA-KI-EE! (As opposed to MO-LA-KI). Whenever I look at some of the fish names, and the cities I want to say “can I by a consonant?”

I know my parents had fun with Ray and Mary they always came home friends – plus my hard-drive is full of pictures of that yellow and blue fish…

- Craig

Yogi or Booboo?

Bears have always been an important part of our family’s lives. All of our travels to and from Wyoming passed through Yellowstone. There we visited with Ranger Smith – the real Ranger Smith – not the one from the cartoon.

In the 60’s we saw lots of bears in Yellowstone. When we stayed at the cabins the bears came to check out the garbage cans at night. We saw them along the roads – cars pulled over; windows rolled down – people feeding them!

The last bears I saw in the wild were in Yellowstone less than a decade ago between Mammoth and Cooke City on the NE Entrance Road. It was a black bear sow with a cub in the tree. Even with the danger I joined the crowd walking down the side of the road – looking down the slope to catch a glimpse.

We tried all kinds of things to protect us from Grizzly when fishing up North Fork. Mothballs must work because I have never been eaten. Cowbells scare everything including the fish. Fortunately I have never crossed paths with a bear in the woods, black or otherwise.

The one time when the family came face to face with a bear, we were on our way back from the Calgary Stampede and our visit with the Galac clan. We stopped along the Kelowna – Revelstoke – Banff highway at a picnic rest stop. The wooden picnic tables were located down the hill from the parking area, and the outhouses were further down.

Greg had trotted off to the outhouse while food came out to the picnic table. Several cars were enjoying the weather and eating outdoors. Before Greg had gotten back from the outhouse, Yogi came up the trail to check on the picnic baskets…

People scrambled up the hill for the cars. Yogi was sniffing around the picnic tables when Greg came bopping up the trail for lunch. We started screaming for Greg to get to the car. He could hear us all yelling at him as he came toward the picnic tables – and Yogi… no one was at the table and he became confused. I don’t think he even saw the bear. It was between him and the car.

My memories have failed – was it the screams of the people or a little boy crying? The bear hung a right and headed down the hill from where he came. No picnic basket for you today Booboo!

- Craig

Blogger Note

I am not sure how many people read this blog. Some people tell me they read it every day. Others let it build up and read several in a single day. I know it doesn’t take long to read, and certainly takes longer to write – but not really that long. My pastor years ago said the Bible is not so daunting if you read a little every day. There are several cliché stories – a journey of a thousand miles begins with a step. How do you eat an elephant? – One bite at a time…

If I took a few minutes everyday to read a few verses, reading the whole Bible would still be a feat unto itself. I am impressed by those who have done it, and those that are committed to doing it.

I have heard back from many people about this blog. Some people I see frequently, and some I haven’t seen for years. Some people I send Christmas cards to every year and then every few years there is the phone call. I have heard from people via email, the phone, and through comments to these stories. Ideas for stories have been generated, and this blog has triggered memories of their own childhood, a friend, a sibling or their parent. Several of Dad’s friends have called or written. I have had wonderful conversations via all of the media above.

Memories and experiences are not always pleasant. Fortunately I only have happy or “non-denominational” memories.

This has been a wonderful experience for me. Blogging has gotten me to remember. I hope it has for you too. Keep the comments, emails and phone calls coming, and I will keep writing.

“People say, oh I could never do that! But when you meet cancer patients you understand the bravery and sprit those people show each and every day. Their struggles motivate and inspire you to test the limits of your endurance and to cross that finish line. You’ll be surprised by what you can do.”
- John Kellenyi, Eight-time marathoner and leading fundraiser with The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team In Training.

“Our greatest prejudice is against death. It spans age, gender and race. We spend immeasurable amounts of energy fighting an event that will eventually triumph. Though it is noble not to give in easily, the most alive people I’ve ever met are those who embrace their death. They love, laugh and live more fully.”
- Andy Webster, Hospice Chaplain in Plymouth, Michigan.

- Craig

Completeness of Life

There have been many books written discussing how one knows when their life is complete. There really isn’t a “checklist.” You can’t itemize and tick down the list saying “this counts – 9999 to go!” Completeness of a person’s life is very subjective. What makes one person’s life complete is much different than for another person.

“He swam the English Channel!” “He climbed Mt Everest.” “He holds the world record for…” - whatever. Yes, these can be great accomplishments, and yes, these can be admired.

I believe there are other measures much more valuable. “He touches people’s lives.” “He is loved by everyone.” “He helps people.”

Someone I admire very much sent me an email a couple of weeks ago as a response to this blog. He said “read through all of it. I enjoyed everything. Those memories are incredible – you’re looking at the mundane, everyday moments and creating a wonderful tapestry of your Dad. I even began to reminisce about those little moments I shared with my Dad, merely by reading yours.” Kevin did not get the opportunity to spend as many years with his father as I have with mine. My father did not get to spend as many years with his father either.

But it is not about the amount of time you spend with your father. It is clearly about the quality. If you spend enough time with someone – whether your father or someone else – you learn things. Sometimes it can be something simple – like tying your shoe. Sometimes it is bigger and more complex. You learn to see the world through another person’s eyes.

Dad has always been a hard worker. I can’t say I always worked hard, but he definitely instilled a strong work ethic in his boys – both of us.

My dad has “caring eyes.” As a youngster on the wrong end of a swat you might not have thought so, but he is extremely caring. Take care of people. Take care of your family, your friends, old people, and children. Help people you don’t know. Help them in anyway you can.

My dad’s email tag line is “Anyone can make a difference. Everyone should try.” How perfect is that?! The year 2000 movie “Pay It Forward” is a perfect example of how a simple “act” can change lives.

Dad has spent countless hours volunteering for many charities and organizations. The list is long. I won’t list them because I will certainly leave out an important one. He helps anyone and everyone who asks. This means commitment. We talked about this last week. He has to give up some of these volunteer efforts – not because they aren’t rewarding or deserving, but simply because they are commitments – and when you volunteer for something, it means you need to “follow through.” People count on your word when you accept an opportunity to help others.

I volunteer. Not nearly enough. Sometimes I feel guilty that I have more to offer, but I hold back. I don’t want the “commitment” or mostly the “guilty feeling” when you can’t meet the commitment.

Kevin wrote further “I said this to a buddy of mine two months ago… This guy and I are college friends who are wheeling and dealing with youngsters (I have 2 boys, Sean [4] and Adam [1]) – and we were talking about fatherhood and how we were affected by our own fathers. Thought you might like it…”

I liked it – a lot. I hope it spurs discussion. Thanks KDoc!

“A father’s life becomes complete when his kids strive to bestow on others what their Dad bestowed on them.”

No – it doesn’t mean a father’s life is over. There is always more to do. It simply means “completeness of life.” Success. Fulfilled.

“Anyone can make a difference. Everyone should try.”

- Craig

Swimming

When we lived in Renton Greg and I learned to swim. We took swimming lessons for several years. My first swimming lessons were at the Aqua Barn. It was a “bubble covered” pool at a “riding stable” along the Maple Valley Highway leading out of downtown Renton. We went here with the Cub Scouts one time after my mother gave me a crew cut. This time she had nicked me pretty good on top – like a reverse Mohawk. She said it was because I wouldn’t sit still – and the odd lump I had on my head. Talk about giving your kid a “complex.”

At some point we started talking lessons at Liberty Park Pool in downtown Renton. Today the pool is a skateboard park, and has been that way for many years.

When we moved to SeaTac we started taking lessons at the Highline pool.

My brother completed the Boy Scout “mile swim” badge – “Brinkley” style. Camp Brinkley was the scout camp we went to for several summers. I never even tried the mile swim because of the floating “peat.” If you could imagine water with Canadian “Peat Moss” floating in it you will know what I mean. It was bad enough having peat moss clinging to you when you got out – a shower will solve that – but knowing there were snapping turtles… Ouch!

I don’t know where my father learned to swim, but I know he made the mistake of leaving this picture laying around… Puerto Rico 1954. I think I know what mom saw in dad!



- Craig

Halloween

“All Hallows Eve” was a special night for the kids. My friend Mark S. would take a pillow case. Long after everyone else had quit, Mark continued. I never saw a kid with so much candy.

When you are young you really don’t have any idea about “Trick or Treat.” Some parents bring their one-year-olds dressed in pajamas with ears. Are they a teddy bear or a rabbit? I know the candy went to their father.

My dad liked Heath Bars. I hated them. Fortunately I don’t ever recall getting Heath Bars for Halloween. We did get Butterfingers. My mother liked those and Almond Joys. I wasn’t a fan of Almond Joys or Mounds, so mom got those. I don’t think dad ever raided our candy, but I am pretty sure mom did. I know Julie and I raided our kids' when they forgot they still had some left – usually by Thanksgiving.

When you got a little older, your mom would make or buy your costume. Regardless, it seems you got a new costume every year. You never wore the same one twice. It is almost like a bridesmaid’s dress. Some one picks it out, and you wear it once. There are not a lot of places to wear a bridesmaid’s dress after the wedding, and unless you had a Batman or Superman costume, there really wasn’t a place to wear your costume after Halloween.

When my daughter was little, she wore her dance costume from the recital held the previous spring. If we were really lucky – Chad could wear it a couple of years later – like the Tigger costume when Amanda’s dance recital song was “The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” from Winnie the Pooh.

Most frequently Chad got to wear his youngest uncle’s hand-me-down costumes. The “Hobo Clown” was a favorite.

In 1962 when I was five, and my brother Greg had just turned three, my mother made our costumes. A simple sheet with holes cut out for eyes and we were “ghosts.” But Greg was afraid of ghosts. He insisted on being a happy ghost. Mom got out her bright red lipstick, and Greg became a “happy ghost” or a “clown ghost.” SCARY!

Dad would pull one of mom’s nylon’s over his head and dragged us around the neighborhood. He looked like a mugger.

- Craig

Twins

In the 1988 movie “Twins” starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger, twin brothers, Julius and Vincent search for their long lost mother. The twins were a by product of an experiment to produce the perfect child (Schwarzenegger). Arnold got the looks, the body, and brains, while Danny got everything leftover. The tagline for the movie was “only their mother can tell them apart.”

My father and his twin brother Dwight were far from perfect children. Grandma Vesta told all of her grandchildren numerous stories of the antics of her twin boys. Jack and Janet, their younger siblings, contributed to those stories as well. I am sure dad has captured many in writing maybe even some the kids have never heard.

But this blog is not about all of those stories. Today I want to recall one specific story that my dad may not remember, and my cousins may never have heard.

Some studies indicate an uncanny closeness between identical twins. Dad and Uncle Dwight were identical in many many ways. These studies document eerie closeness in twins separated from birth and raised by different parents miles apart. The twins have similar interests; do about the same in school, etc.

At one point in their youth, besides Dad wearing glasses, the only distinctive difference most people could discern was the variation in their voices. Now that is identical!

Dad and Dwight were not raised apart by different parents miles apart. But later in life they did live a few thousand miles apart. Dad lived in Seattle and Dwight lived in Kitchener Ontario.

One summer Dwight and Myrna stop by for a few days on their way to Alaska. They arrived late one afternoon. It might have been a Friday, but dad was at work. He came home, wearing his suit, and went through his normal routine (reference “Wait Until Your Father Gets Home,” 8-10-07). Dwight, Myrna and Dad engaged in small talk “how was your drive?” while my father emptied his suit pockets of keys, change, wallet, glasses, pens, his Boeing badge etc. Mom was in the kitchen starting on dinner.

Dad said “why don’t you fix yourself a drink and read the newspaper while I change my clothes.” Uncle Dwight had some come back like “I’ll wait on the drink since I am a guest,” or some such. Myrna joined my mother asking what she could do to help.

Dwight grabbed the paper, picked up the glasses on the fireplace and waited for his drink. A few minutes later my father came out, asking what Uncle Dwight wanted to drink. After a few minutes in the kitchen dad brought out the drinks. He went to the fireplace mantel to retrieve his glasses so he could read the newspaper with Dwight. But his glasses were not there.

“Dwight, you have my glasses. I need them to read.”
“These are my glasses.”
“No. I just got them 3 weeks ago. Those are my glasses.”
“These are my glasses. I just got them a few weeks ago. I know my glasses.”
“I just set them on the fireplace mantel when I came home from work.”
“If these are not my glasses, where are mine? These look exactly like mine.”

“Dwight, yours are in the bedroom” Myrna said from the kitchen.

I don’t recall whether the glasses were “exactly the same,” but for all intents and purposes they were. They both had bought new glasses, the same prescription, same frames (or very nearly), had eye exams – three weeks earlier, 2500 miles apart.

Creepy!

- Craig