Scribbles and Scrambles ~ Father's Day Ideas or NOT...

If you could put a face and a personality on a mullet it would be that of my dad.  

Don't get me wrong...he doesn't dangle a wallet chain, rat tail or a full Joe Dirt doo. No. But the man can dress up or down for just about any occasion. 

When Dollar Shave Club asked me to participate in their “Father’s Day Gifts From Years Past,”blog extravaganza
where bloggers share memories and pictures of gifts we've given our dads, I just couldn't pass it up. Because I once captured the essence of my dad's multiple personalities in a handmade gift.

My dad's gift a few years back, quite a few...if you'll notice, the smudges in the middle of the faces are his mustache... a wee bit faded. But a decade or two will do that to an object d'art. 

This double-sided gift was personalized just for him. Respected, tie-rocking registered pharmacist, community and church leader, all around great guy. Flip the little bugger around to the back side and his near/dear ones all recognize that guy. See, Dad had/has this project self-challenge thing he does. The outfit, as in crazed standing up hair, and the plaid shorts and T-shirt got lots of play during DIY and self improvement remodeling adventures.  

I remember two pairs of project shorts from my formative years. The featured blue and yellow ones and a ratty red and blue more patriotic model (which I believe started as pants and ended up as shorts). Dad's super-remodeler costumed epic adventures were made all the more exciting by the split-second precision with which he could finish (or hide) the evidence of the project and disappear into the shower just as the guests began to arrive. 

He is pretty much legendary for this sweet ninja style skill. People wander in, comment on the smell of fresh paint or glue, wonder out loud about the sound of the running shower, or ask if the "project-of-the-day" was new. 

Dad has gotten a little more difficult to shop for. I mean, my parents have every handmade gift I've ever given them, and I almost hate to burden them with more of the same. However, I won't lie. This little guy does bring back some great memories. 

If you are looking for an easy gift for dad, I hear the Dollar Shave Club is epic in its own rights. Maybe up there with a mullet. Not my dad, of course, that mold was broken after he was made. There is only one of him. 

More about Dollar Shave Club ~ 

Dollar Shave Club couldn't be simpler. Select one of our great
razors, pay one low monthly fee, and we send 'em right to your
door. No more over-paying for fancy brand name shave tech.
No more forgetting to buy your blades.

Scribbles and Scrambles ~ Poetry and Photos by Pat

Yes. That Pat. My poet papa.





God can make the weeds in your life a magnificent testimony of His grace.


God's reminder that the canes of life's punishments and hardships are trumped by His all-atoning work. He turns the cursed into crowning glory. Amen.

Scribble and Scrambles ~ Hmmm Gene Pool?

This odd weekend coincidence totally cracked me up.

We have Pat and 23. Grandfather and grand-daughter. Do you see the resemblance?

Scribble and Scrambles ~ He's the Bee's Knees

They've been right in front of me and somehow I missed it.

All these years I've noticed my dad's legs and I never knew they were a thing of beauty -- nearly art in form and substance. Oh, I've stared transfixed at my dad's legs. When someone stumbled, his leg would shoot out in an attempt to save said stumbler and/or slow down the impending fall. Fortunately, no one ever lost an eye in that maneuver. I've also witnessed Dad's knees steering the car while both hands were busy with maps. Don't try that at home, kids.

But this pose, while lounging on a Floridian hammock, has caused quite a stir. Several ladies in Florida complimented Pat's legs. Thinking it was a Florida thing, Mom laughed as she shared the story, and hoped that all the attention wouldn't go to his head. Then, one of his co-workers saw this picture and blurted out, "Wow. Pat has great legs."

Any of you looking for a male foot and leg model? I think he'd be interested.

Scribble and Scrambles ~ St. Patty Lame-Poem...

Top of the Evenin to Ya

A little Poem in honor of St. Patrick and Green Stuff

My name is Kelly
Doesn't get more Irish than that... jiggity, jiggity, jig
I write, so I must be a poet... jiggity, jiggity, jig
I speak much blarney, I birthed a St Patty day babe...jiggity, jiggity, jig

My dad's name is Patrick...jiggity, jiggity, jig

St. Patrick, or someone, played songs and lured snakes, or was it rats, or mayhaps children...jiggity, jiggity, jig
I lure dogs with little brown bones and chewy fake steaks...jiggity, jiggity, jig
So if you're in Ireland kiss the Blarney Stone and if you are in America eat corned beef and cabbage and celebrate with a jiggity, jiggity, jig.

Mayhaps this poem is MUCH better if read after a stumble/minor head injury during a riverdance jiggity, jiggity, jig

Scribbles and Scrambles - Party Globe Pat

Grandma turned 90. That's pretty huge, even though she's not old enough to be on whichever morning show celebrates centenarians.

What do you do for a 90 year old who has either had everything she's ever wanted, or doesn't want to go there at this point in her life?

You have a party.

Since Rob tore down our kitchen wall turning our kitchen area into a KITCHEN AREA, we decided that we were the likely place to be able to tuck 40-plus people into a cozy atmosphere.

Pat came to decorate. It's been awhile since I picked on Pat. So you may have forgotten that he has a flair all his own, and a certain way to do things. However, I wasn't surprised to see my dad, (Pat) hauling in large plastic bags three nights before the party.

"Whatcha got?" I asked.

Now not only is Pat full of flair, he can't pass up a screamingly good bargain. He grinned. "Well, all the Christmas stuff is dirt cheap and look what I found." He reached into a bag and pulled out a set of three orbs in red, green and blue, each the size of a mammoth grapefruit.

"Cool." I said. "Maybe we could put them on the studs in front of the window." I've grown used to the bare stud look. I actually find it attractive in a primitive way.

Pat grinned. "Oh, I have a few of them. I thought we could put them on the ceiling."

Pat is precise, and our outlets were limited. But after two hours my ceiling looked an awful lot like a really anal-retentive prom decorating committee had come through and left their mark.

So, that was a full three months ago. Guess what's still hanging in my kitchen? And guess who still plugs them in on occasion? Ya know, sometimes life just demands party globes.

Scribble and Scrambles - Housekeeping Horror...Pat's Revenge

I mentioned recently that I've been published...in book form. A real book. Yes. It's true.

Unfortunately...I'm anonymous.

The call came several months ago.

A search for housekeeping moments that should never see the light of day. Embarrasing and horrific seconds that seem like lifetimes when our faults and faux pas become visible.

I'm not content to be anonymous.

I want to own my messes. Actually I'd like to give them away, but these are funny as well as embarrasing. And other than the few folk who stumble into dregs by accident, we're all friends here.

So here it goes. The first story. Page 32 of The House That Cleans Itself

by Kelly Klepfer aka Corinne Z.

"My child's birthday party brought much work -- closets to clean, floors to scrub, clutter to hide. Hours later I had conquered it all. (I have this bizarre compulsion to clean everything if I'm going to clean anything.) The closets, gleaming and organized, brought tears of satisfaction to my eyes.

Until my father wandered in. According to him, the moment was so rare that he wanted to capture it on film. He ran back and got the video camera, and then he returned and began filming. In awe, he traveled from room to room, immortalizing the cleanliness on film -- all the while quipping sarcastic commentary.

Sigh. At least he noticed it was clean. "

If you are a long-term reader you will understand why I've named this post - Pat's revenge.

Come back tomorrow for my review of the book. And Thursday will reveal an even more horrific housekeeping moment.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat's Problem Pet

Lest you think that Pat only has problem with fowl, allow me to reassure you. That is untrue. Pat has encountered peril and pet issues with cold-blooded pets also.

My brother owned a water dragon. This little creature is a cute lizard, if there is such a thing. One of the cutest things about the lizard is that it can run on it's hind legs. This lizard is also known as a basilisk lizard and Jesus Christ lizard because of their ability to run across water.

I witnessed the speedy hind-leg lizard sprinting once and there was no water to run across, just some children it desired to escape. Most of the time, Tyrone, the lizard hung out on a branch in it's sweet custom cage with it's paintpan swimming pool. He'd eat various tasty bugs, move an eye on occasion and mostly digest.

Because Tyrone was such a laid back kind of a guy, he had free access. The home was other pet free, which meant no predators and honestly, the lizard rarely left the branch. Except during egg laying season. Yep, Tyrone or maybe Tyrecia ,was a female water dragon.

Pat had trouble waking up one morning. He'd showered and gotten dressed in his shorts and t-shirt, ready for a day working around the homestead. But he'd made the mistake of sitting on the side of the bed and then went ahead and laid down. As he dozed and dreamed about getting up and getting on with it, he hadn't a clue that Tyrone wandered the upstairs, looking for a place to lay an egg.

Unfortunately, Tyrone found a branch of an unusual sort in my parent's bedroom. A hairy tree with a really funky root system. I've mentioned Pat's killer knee reflexes, right?

Tyrone came through unscathed (put the phone down. PETA does not need to be notified). Oh, Tyrone probably suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just because a lizard can run across water doesn't mean it likes to fly.

Pat lived to tell about it, too. No blood was drawn, just a simple failure to communicate.

Tyrone found a place to lay her egg, under a really nice hairless branch next to a lovely blue plastic paint pan pool.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat Cries Fowl

Pat’s fowl history extends beyond Sonny the parrot.

It involves strange roosters in obscure junk yards.

Pat needed a car part. Our town boasted a large junk yard, so the family piled into the good automobile to run for the part for the temperamental car.

Not sure why this was a family outing. Maybe because we were headed out toward “the country” and dad wanted us to see some wildlife. Or maybe he wanted company. Or just someone take out mechanically induced frustration on and he figured the children's legs would be the equivalent of a stress ball. There was a guaranteed opportunity for leg grabbing since the backseat would boast of at least one fight because we’d be in the car for over five minutes.

Regardless of the reason we were along – we became witnesses to an event we wouldn’t have believed if we didn’t see it unfold.

Pat left us all in the car while he disappeared behind the dilapidated fence. A quaint farm house sat to the left of the junk yard. We watched a woman as she weeded until she went back inside. None of us heard a barking junk yard dog, so we assumed Pat was safe. Eventually the tension around my mother's eyes faded and we relaxed into the assumption that this was indeed just a simple errand on a beautiful day.

As soon as I had that thought I spied Pat rounding the corner headed back to the car. As he drew closer to the car he started dancing a little jig. Wow, he must’ve gotten a great deal on that part.

Mom leaned forward and squinted. “What is he doing?”

So maybe it wasn’t the “I got a bargain dance.” Pat started laughing, but his hoots and hollers were interrupted with strange muttering and threats.

That’s when we noticed the rooster. A large white junk yard rooster attacked Pat’s legs with beak, spurs and enthusiasm. Pat spent his trip back to the car avoiding, dancing, kicking and laughing. Finally, he reached the car, opened the door and slid in, kicking all the while.

The woman from the farmhouse opened her door. “Henry!” The rooster took off, headed back to his house clucking in victory.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and Polly

Pat has a fowl history.

A certain fowl, one which lives in the spare bedroom at Pat's house, would like to write the final chapter.

Pat and Phyllis aka Mom and Dad purchased a parrot many years ago. I'm not sure how they found said parrot. It's a little sketchy to buy a used parrot -- but this was the situation. Mom sucumbed to parrot ownership because of compassion, Pat, well, I'd guess it was the challenge.

Sonny had a checkered past involving violent outbursts and bird temper tantrums. His name was the first thing changed, as his given name was reflective of the not-so-pleasant parrot personality.

Sonny is a one woman bird. Unfortunately, his woman is married to Pat. This weird triangle has not eased over the years. Oh, the males in the house have grown to respect one another, but it's a cold war.

Sonny doesn't get out of the cage often. He prefers the solitude and long distance relationships. He's a little bit of a control freak. His woman lets strangers into the home, or family members, even Pat -- and these situations cause Sonny's deep issues to stir.

On quiet days when stress is at a minimum Sonny gets a taste of freedom. Generally, this taste ignites some hunger for a piece of Pat. A hunting game of sorts has developed between man and bird. Pat's voice is all that's needed to ruffle Sonny's feathers, and Pat has the adolescent need to speak to Sonny when he is on one of his walkabouts. You've heard the phrase "them's fightin words" well, there is such a thing.

Several man vs. bird skirmishes occur during these moments. Mom says she can predict who'll win. When Pat is fully dressed his jean clad legs prove a fine defense. But oh the joy of Sonny when he catches Pat unaware. A man in his BVD's is no match for a parrot with an attitude.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pratfall Pats #4

I suppose I should tell on myself before I finish the Pat pratfall moments. Okay, here goes….keep in mind this happened before my first cup of coffee…this morning I used hair scrunching gel like fragrance.

Suppose that’s why my hair feels a little flat and my elbow pits make a horrid Velcro sound when I straighten my arms?

Back to Pat, who is getting ready to ride down the grassy knoll.

Boat shoes. For our family, those simple words conjure up snickers and the favorite phrase … “These shoes are outta here!”

I suppose boat shoes serve a purpose though the soles that can’t handle a little wet grass leave me scratching my head. Why on earth would someone design a shoe for a smooth wooden surface that is often covered in water?

Maybe they were invented by a sadist, or someone who loves a great water-bound pratfall. Or maybe the cheap knock-offs that Pat purchased ended up being the only brand in America that caused loss of limb, life or pride.

Who knows? If you do, I’m not sure I want you to shatter my carefully guarded naiveté, but if you must share your boat shoe wealth of knowledge you should be able to figure out how to comment.

But I digress. This post is not about boat shoes, it’s about Pat.

My mom and dad throw regular summer get togethers. Their place is perfect for them, a lush garden environment, great scenery, lots of room, a pool. Pat is always the last one to arrive even though he lives there. There are always projects and he’s usually neck deep in them as the first guests arrive.

Pat’s legendary pre-company protocol has become a “Where’s Waldo” sort of a game for the kids.

“Where’s Grandpa?”

“Oh, look, I see his crazy hair behind the horse tank.”

This particular get together was no different, except for the fine new boat shoes that clad Pat’s feet as he rounded the corner. We’d all settled at the side deck where the view was fine, the breeze was blowing and the hills gently sloped. Pat zipped toward us. He must have caught the gentle sloping hill just right though, because BAM! he was down sliding toward home. A baseball player would have been proud of the slide.

Pat’s head popped up over the hill. He sported a big, cheesy grin. “Oops.”

We all chuckled politely. Yeah, right.

Of course, the second time he road the same hill with the same shoes, his response was slightly more than “Oops.”

Hence one of our favorite family phrases.

Now that I ponder it, I think he still has those boat shoes.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pratfall Pats #3

I learned to drive in a Vega. A real live Vega. At the time I drove it, all systems had sprung leaks and I believe it probably was classified as either a lethal weapon or a death trap, maybe both.

The beauty of the Vega was the hatchback.

We also owned horses during the season of the Vega. Mainly pet horses as they tended to try to kill me, and once the other family members scraped me off the gravel, no one else wanted to ride them either.

As nice as a hay-filled barn is with all the warm horse and dried grass scents, someone has to stock the barn with hay. Enter the Vega and its wonderful truck-like back end.

Dad “let” me head out with him to gather some bales of hay. My brothers and I loved it when Dad “let” us help him. We rolled the Vega down the hill. It could travel up to three miles at a time and fortunately we were on a hay gathering mission less than a mile away. We pushed the seats down and slid glistening 800 pound golden rectangles of horse sustenance into the Vega. Okay, they weren’t 800 pounds, but they were really heavy.

We’d load three of four of the little scratchy gems, putt-putt up the hill, unload them in the barn, coast back down the hill and repeat. On one of the final passes I heard a grunt. I ignored it. Pat makes many noises, a grunt is not uncommon.

Peripherally my eye caught something. Maybe more of an absence of something. I glanced over my shoulder to discover my dad missing. I craned around then discovered the reason for the grunt.

Maybe it hadn’t been a grunt at all, possibly it was a desperate squeak for help. Pat’s toes were wedged between two hay bales. His body a perfect bridge between the pile of hay and the Vega, a bridge spanning his entire five-eleven frame, three feet off the ground. White-knuckled fingers clutched the edge of the Vega.

I froze. Once again, I struggled with controlling the hysteria that tickled the back of my throat. My eyes watered and the bridge who was my father quivered slightly. Oh boy. What to do? My voice cracked. “Dad, you need some help?”

“That’d be nice.” Then he laughed.

I eventually got around to helping him, once I could stand up straight again.

Coming up – Pat’s Public Pratfall.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pratfall Pat #2

Continued Pratfallian Memories..... Yesterday we visited Pat's silent dance of fall avoidance. Today we have the audio version.



The next tumble I remember witnessing was one of great sound and no visual. My brothers (though it seems there was usually only one brother’s name on my parents' lips) borrowed tools often.

Apparently, a project needing a screwdriver and basement stairs had been completed earlier that fateful day.

Someone didn’t get the screwdriver returned to its proper home but had instead left it lying on the wooden basement stairs.

This was in the day of glass soda bottles.

Full glass soda bottles containing sugary soda lined the basement stairs.

Pat returned home from work as the children innocently did homework at the kitchen table or helped with dinner preparation.

No man in his right mind would stop and ask the children if anyone had created a death-trap on the basement stairs.

No right-minded child of Pat’s would dream of creating a death-trap with Pat’s name on it.

So we’ll chalk it up to childish oopsidity.

Pat began his descent.

I think we’ve all forgotten what he needed from the basement.

A roar. A crash. A thumpity-whumpity-whump-thump poured out of the dark basement doorway. A crescendo of tinkling shattering glass then joined the rhythmic whump, thump, bump.

To say that all blood left the faces of the children in the kitchen would be an understatement. With large alien eyes we glanced nervously around the room bouncing our eyeballs from one sibling to the next to the mom who stood statue still with a tomato in one hand and a lip firmly captured between her teeth.

A long few seconds followed where no one breathed.

But suddenly, a giggle tickled the base of my brain. The sounds, the crash, the thought of my father sweeping the steps clean with his body began to torment me. I too, chomped on my lip.

A fist, holding a screwdriver appeared from the basement, followed by my non-too-thrilled father. “Who put this screwdriver on the stairs?” The words were a bark which only added to my need for a guffaw.

The boys scattered, a noise, issued forth from Pat. A snort. A chuckle? He shook his head, Mom put her hand to her mouth and let loose a nervous giggle. The flood gates opened.

We laughed and then we cleaned up soda pop.

Next week I'll share the private and public side of Pat's amazing pratfalls.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pratfall Pats #1

I suppose my delight with excellently executed tumbles stems from my upbringing, maybe as far back as birth because many of my memories are peppered with falling Pats.

It’s been awhile since I shared a Pat. And for those of you who haven’t been introduced, Pat is my dad. He has two distinct personas. Not personalities, but personas. He is a starched-white professional, church pillar and all around go-to guy. On the other hand he is a wild-haired crazy man who does his own stunts and sometimes other’s stunts as well. I believe I’ve mentioned the leg toss…this is when someone begins to tumble and Pat’s leg shoots out in some bizarre attempt to catch the person which really only adds another humor beat and an occasional bruise.

Pat, over the years, has mastered the art of the tumble. One could go as far as to say that Pat might be the Chuck Norris of falls. (If you don’t get this reference, Chuck is da man in many circles.)

My first Pat Pratfall encounter would be something I witnessed via home movies. This technology won’t ring a bell for the younger readers of this blog so I’ll explain it thus: think camcorder without sound which captures rapid-style still pictures on film which is then threaded through a machine, not unlike threading a sewing machine needle, for viewing pleasure.

My mother or grandparents had captured a slippery battle between man, car, child and snow – on a hill. Much sliding and twisting occurred. The child, clutched in Pat’s arms stared wide-eyed over his shoulder as she swooped and dipped in his dance to open the ice glazed door on the station wagon. Pat ended on a triumphant note in that little skirmish, which is good because I was said child.

He held me because I sported a war wound I’d received while playing in my closet and stepping on a huge nail attached to a six foot piece of woodwork. Which is a story for another day.

Tumble number two tomorrow.

Scribbles and Scrambles – Pat’s Practical Joke Part Two

I fumed while I walked to my bus-stop. He’d scared at least seven years off my life. Had to have. What kind of creep puts a monster picture on a mirror?

I shuddered in the cool November morning, and not because of the chill in the air. The photograph had been an 8 x 10 glossy with a light gray background and it blended right in with the shower wall – especially since my senses were not exactly honed so early in the morning.

The hideous monster wore globby, oozy flesh colored makeup. An eye protruded and draped over a scarred cheek. A partially severed hand dangled toward an unseen victim.

A genius in the art of practical joking had placed that picture. My dad probably hunkered down to about my height and placed the monster slightly off-center so it appeared like the nasty thing stood right behind me. Very bad dad!

How could I possibly come up with something to equal, let alone best, this sinister act?

I climbed onto the bus, mulling over inadequate and anemic possibilities.

The school day flew. I mentioned the rotten trick to a few friends. My dad gained cool points in their estimation so I stopped sharing. Other than setting his sock drawer on fire, or squirting syrup on his side of the bed, I got no input on possible retaliation. All day I rejected my own lame thoughts of revenge, too.

I stepped back onto the bus ready to surrender to the master as soon as I arrived home.

Mom met me at the door after I trudged dejectedly up the hill from the bus stop.

“Did you have a good day?” She asked.

“Not really. Did you see what Dad did?”

Mom laughed. Not a sympathy type of laugh either, it was outright rude. It should be enough to declare defeat with becoming the butt of the joke. I headed toward the stairs, so I could have a good pout in my room.

Mom laid her hand on my arm. “Wait. I’m not laughing at you. Dad got up and took his shower a little while after you left the house. And I heard a shriek from the bathroom. You left the picture on the mirror. He ended up scaring himself, too. It was perfect.”

Ah, the irony of life. Gotta love it.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat's Practical Joke

I suppose I should save this for Halloween since it factors heavily into this favorite-of-mine Pat moment. But today just feels like a great day for a spooky story.

You might want to avoid reading this after dark, and for heaven’s sake, scatter the children.

Just don’t suggest hiding under the bed, you know what’s under the bed don’t you? In my house it’s horrifying. In Iowa we grow huge dust bunnies with razor sharp teeth and they eat stray socks.

My dad, Pat, is a pharmacist. And pharmacists work in drugstores. (Not to be confused with the folk who sell drugs in the alley behind the high school.)

Drugstores sometimes have great benefits. Once, when dad owned his own drugstore he brought home some sample furniture that was perfect for Barbie and company. Well, actually it was perfect for Skipper. Barbie and Ken didn’t quite fit at the beautiful wood veneer dining room table. And Skipper had those stupid knees that wouldn’t bend. But, being Pollyanna even way back then, I made them work.

But that’s not what this story is about.

When I was a teenager, I was always the first one up in the morning. Being a teen girl in the late 70’s – early 80’s required quite a bit of bathroom time. The blue eyeshadow alone took several minutes per eye.

When I entered the bathroom each morning let’s just say I was pretty much out of it. I believe, but no one has ever confirmed this since they all slept the morning away, I continued my REM cycle in the shower. I remember the alarm, in a vague and hazy dreamlike sense. I remember sliding down the hallway or at least the bruises from smacking into the woodwork. The sound of water is there, in the recesses of my mind. My first conscience thoughts struggled to the surface and broke free as I stood under the cooling water.

One post-Halloween morning, after finally shaking off the sleep, I threw open the shower curtain and nearly died of fright.

A monster stared me in the eye. I panicked which means I stood there dripping and making fish faces. No sounds came out of my throat. Somehow, the monster was behind me, because I could see myself and the monster in the reflection.

Then it dawned on me that some rotten person had simply taped a photo of a dangly-eyed, fanged creature on the mirror.

I believed I knew exactly who that person was.

Since my heart had calmed down to its normal rhythm I pondered my response. My father slept soundly just a few steps down the hall. Hmmm. Whatever should I do? I brushed my teeth and considered a range of punishments starting with ice cold water. But then I recalled that revenge is better served cold.

To be continued…..

And a word from the sponsor of the day:

If you are interested in becoming a pharmacist as well, learn more ;here.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat - It's a Bird, It's a Plane - No, I'ts a Knee.

Let me remind you who Pat is. He is my sweet, big-hearted, gruff and grumbly Dad.
I visit him at work on occasion. The first question I ask his new co-workers is, “Has he made you cry yet?” This would be the gruff and grumbly part of his personality.

They usually look at me with the tilted head, confused puppy look. Then the next time I see them, they laugh and say, without me having to ask again. “Yep! Or Not yet!”

Pat has a special noise machine he and his male co-workers use to release tension. I’ll say no more about that. And he’s prone to practical joke-ism.

One of Pat’s very special tricks needs no accessories. He possesses a flying knee.

Mom and I have decided there is no purpose for the knee. It seems to be some sort of warning device like the white tail on a fleeing deer.

Here’s how it works: someone trips, or stumbles or teeters, crashes, falls or careens into something – and this somehow triggers the knee to an airborne position. Whether standing or sitting, Pat flies the knee. No one is certain if it’s a panicked warning of impending danger, or if it’s some lame attempt to protect. Even Pat is unsure.

Just like a mom will fling her arm out straight across the passenger seat at a sudden stop, is the reactive knee. And just as amusing as a mom “protecting” an empty passenger seat, or a bag of groceries, is the flying appendage.

Sometimes the knee is an outward, upward thrust, others a sideways swipe. Never backward and never have I seen Pat actually connect or protect anyone or thing from a tumble.

But sometimes the grasshopper-like hop he does is a nice diversion.

Pat maybe really does have super knees. I’ve seen him drive with them. Yep. He steers with them.
So maybe his hip-hop, jump, shimmy knee fling is some sort of directing move. Like a sheep dog guides the sheep with a growl or a nip, Pat wields a knobby hairy leg.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Parallel Parking Pat

I don’t parallel park.

That’s not entirely true. I will parallel park if there are two spots available so I can nose in and
straighten out.

I have issues.

You’ve heard of Pavlov’s Dogs. The guy – Pavlov, of course – trained the dogs to salivate by ringing a bell every time he fed them. Soon they salivated at the sound of a bell. After having a huge, slobbering creature dog (pun intended) my heels every time I set foot in my kitchen for seven years, I’m not so impressed. I think training dogs to salivate is kind of crazy, why not train children to do chores at the ding of a bell?

So this Pavlov thing factors into my parallel parking anxiety. When I see a lone parking spot that would require proper technique I break out in a sweat.

My father, Pat, taught me to parallel park.

He wasn’t the first to attempt. Let’s just say I was remedial.

I was chosen to take the actual physical driving test for the state because my Driver’s Education driving grades left a lot to be desired. If my instructor had been a little less spastic with the multiple usages of the passenger safety brakes I’d have done better.

Pat was irritated that I hadn’t mastered parallel parking. My brothers were in the car which always intensified Pat’s frustration level, not to mention mine.

Pat has this endearing quirk – he expects people to understand what he means with the minimum of explanation. When he gets a “duh” response he repeats the identical instructions with a bit more passion.

My brothers wrestled in the back seat as I jockeyed into parallel parking position. Poised, ready to go, I waited.

Pat said, “Turn the wheel.”

It occurred to me as cars whizzed past and a sweat beaded on my upper lip that there are two ways to turn the wheel. “Uh, which way?”

Pat sucked in a deep breath and forced a smile and explained with enough detail that I got step one nailed. Then said, “Turn.”

I looked at him, no doubt, like I assumed the strange word that popped out of his mouth was Swahili. He shot me a concentrated glare and increased volume. “Turn.”

It was a long afternoon.

I can announce proudly that I did learn to perfectly parallel park, once. And I left the Driver’s License Bureau with a card with a horrific picture of someone who was supposed to be me.

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and the Thanksgiving ABC's - Part 2

Did I mention Mom has a touch of Irish?

Cleaning the pantry cupboard was not okay with her. Pat proceeded to unload the cupboard contents onto the kitchen table that was being used for Thanksgiving preparation.

Did I mention Pat has a penchant for danger?

Most of the interaction between the two that morning has blurred into fuzzy, amusing memories, though I do remember seeing several lightning bolts shoot from Mom’s eyes.

Thanksgiving set-up took twice as long. We either had to wait until a can laden Pat scurried out of closet toward the table, or we went the back way around. I stopped asking “what?” when I realized Mom’s mutterings were probably best left as mutters.

The pantry cupboard sure started looking nice. Pat’s running commentary was unnecessary, though, except for his personal danger/adrenaline factor. He felt the need to point out odd or out-dated things, often with a laugh or wisecrack. To this day, I am impressed that Pat doesn’t walk with a permanent limp.

As was usual, the project got a little more involved. Apparently, Pat was inspired by the pristine shelves. He disappeared. Mom and I took advantage of the lull in cross traffic and rushed to the china cabinet to retrieve the serving dishes. Pat returned with an El Marko.

“What are you doing now?” Her knuckles clenched white around the turkey baster.

“Organizing.”

Mom’s mutterings increased in quantity and volume. I hummed happy songs and looked nervously between the two of them.

Pat grinned, turned around and got to work.

He finished about the same time the little temperature button popped on the turkey. And brandishing his victorious El Marko, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Mom’s pantry cupboard is alphabetized and organized. A shrine to her husband’s near loss of limb or life.

The woman deserves a great Mother’s Day.

Happy Mother's Day to all...

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and the Thanksgiving ABC's

In honor of Mother’s Day, I’d like to share another Pat story.

This one is about a special holiday. Not the one we are celebrating this weekend, but the warm and wonderful family Thanksgiving.

Procrastination, in Pat’s hands, is an art form. The closer the deadline, the more exciting the prize. Like some who keep scrapbooks of amazing accomplishments, Pat has a mental scrapbook of white-knuckled near misses.

All of my memories of events include stealth Pat as he runs up the stairs to the shower as the first guest arrives. Pat is fashionably late to all the parties at his house, because he begins party hygiene as he hears the crunch of gravel signifying the impending visitors arrivals.

Kind of like an elusive woodland creature, Pat skulks around cleaning, repairing, painting – whatever needs to be done – while the rest of the party planners lay out the final touches. I liken him to a woodland creature because his hair worried and teased by his frantic deadline angst, looks a bit like a black and silver poofy skunk pompadour.

“Where’s Pat?” is a common first question after the friends and family members arrive.

The answer, “in the shower.” Sometimes the project du jour warrants further explanation, followed by shaking heads, laughter and comments by all.

Thanksgiving is at Mom and Dad’s. The dining room and kitchen adjoin and we use both rooms to seat twenty plus people. In between the dining room and kitchen is a small pantry closet. With the door open, it blocks the passageway between rooms. Thanksgiving for twenty plus requires all the china, which lives in the dining room, and requires two fully set tables, and serving dishes for each table.

One Thanksgiving morning while Mom basted and stuffed and I chopped and washed, Dad decided to clean out the pantry cupboard. This is where Dad’s penchant for danger becomes crystal clear. Did I mention my mom has a touch of Irish?

Mom stood with hands on hips. “You’re cleaning what?”

Dad ran a hand through his bristly, perky hair. “It won’t take long.”

to be continued.........