Firewood, Firearms, & Firemen

Animal lovers read at your own risk:  

The three F’s:

Firewood

Firearms

Firemen

All these very ominous words suspiciously start with the same letter as that perniciously troublesome word: “Father”.  

Is this chance?    I think not.

Last Saturday afternoon Chloe and I decided to spend the day at the local bookstore while the boys headed for the barn to cut and stack wood.  And that right there is where this little narrative goes wrong.  Right from the start, which is to say that Chloe and I leaving the boys on their own was our first mistake.  Male brains make way better decisions when estrogen is nearby and unfortunately on this Saturday, it wasn’t.

First, the firewood:  We needed some.  But the getting is not as labor intensive as you would imagine.  In the modern age, cutting and stacking wood is not what it used to be.  Mark uses his chainsaw while the boys man the gas-powered wood splitter.  Barely an ounce of sweat is produced by these activities.  Stacking the wood is another matter but we still don’t feel sorry for them.  Especially since I helped split and stack the incident-free weekend before.

Out behind are barn is plenty of wood, it just needs to be cut up.  There were a dozen large timber trees that Mark had gotten off a property that had just been thinned.  Mark would cut sections off the tree into rounds, roll them to Mitchell who’d split them, and toss them into a pile for Connor to stack.  How wrong can that go?

Wrong enough. 

At some point during Mark’s chain sawing, he cut through the tree and it looked as if it were starting to bleed.  He stopped the chainsaw, wondered if he’d cut himself and inspected his hands and legs.  Nothing wrong there.  He returned to cutting and more blood gushed from the tree.  Once the tree was sliced through he discovered a squirrel --or more accurately, two halves of a once whole squirrel, who made the unfortunate decision to take a cozy winter nap inside the tree right smack in the center of his cutting line. 

The boys decided the best plan of action would be to cremate the poor squirrel by piling up all the excess bark into a big mound, setting it on fire, and tossing in the upper and lower regions of their fallen comrade along with a jumble of associated guts. 

The bark pile was set ablaze with a brazen amount of gas, sprinkled with squirrel parts, lit with a match, and then they went back to work.

Soon more cutting and splitting ensued and once more another tree began to bleed.  Apparently our tree was a squirrel duplex and another cruel eviction had been served.  This time when the tree split in half they found its occupant miraculously alive yet horrifically mutilated beyond repair.  Now what?

Well according to testosterone this is where the second “F” comes in:  Firearms.

Mark went and got the gun.  Had estrogen been on the scene, any gaggle of girls would have been running away from the grisly scene to seek refuge in the house leaving the poor squirrel to meet its maker unassisted.  This is not the way of testosterone.  In sharp contrast, the boys were posturing as to who among them would be the best henchman to put the thing out of its misery.  Somehow Connor prevailed.  In some bizarre male bonding experiment a proud father loaded the gun and unleashed the weapon into his son’s hands.  Soon the deed was done.  Squirrel dead, young boy hopped up on adrenaline. 

One more for the crematorium, which was fully ablaze by this time.

With that, they set off back to work once more cutting and stacking.  They weren’t at it long when a few visitors showed up at the barn.  These visitors brought with them an enormous fire truck.  Yes, the third F: Firemen.

Mark looked up at the fully clad crew, put down his chain saw and said, “Let me guess…today is NOT a burn day.”

They smiled and nodded.

Mark has never been known for his fact-checking.  He had simply surveyed the valley surrounding our house, spotted several smoke plumes, and assumed it was a burn day.  Unfortunately it was only a burn day for the government.  So when the local fire department saw the smoke they jumped in their biggest firetruck and came to check things out (my theory is that perhaps they got a tip from an irritated neighbor who had had it with the copious amounts of chain-sawing, gun-firing, and fire making going on next door).  But soon they admitted they weren't really concerned about the now identified fire and that they were simply bored and this gave them something to do.

Meanwhile Connor got a little nervous as this was his first brush with the law (that we know about anyway) and was hoping the firefighters wouldn’t notice the dead carcasses in the fire--or the gun.  He was relieved when they finally left and he "wasn't arrested".

At the end of the day when Chloe and I returned nothing about their firewood shenanigans was ever mentioned.  But late that night, right before bed, we always ask our kids what their favorite part of the day was.  Connor couldn't contain his excitement over the days events any longer and bluntly stated,  

“I got to shoot an animal and the fire department showed up.”

And there you have it.  Quite a contrast to girls day at the bookstore.  When a Father's in charge anything can happen, and around here it usually does.

Conversations with a Baby

I Skype a lot with my grand baby Kendra.  Our conversations are pretty much centered around one thing: Peek-A-Boo! 

Gotta love Skype...and CUTE grand babies!
 

Connor Skillman's Day Off

NOTE: Despite the seemingly reckless nature in which it may appear that I’ve treated this sensitive subject, I did indeed get permission from living persons involved with this story--HOWEVER--deceased persons were not available for comment.

Ferris Bueller has nothing on Connor.  Connor got the day off school earlier this week and I think he got way way more than he bargained for.

His adventurous day started off with a mid-morning visit to the doctors office to get current on all his vaccinations.  A few days prior we received a letter in the mail from his school alerting us to the fact that the kid was perniciously behind on his shots and was about to be barred from going back to school. 

 

At the doctor’s office, we found out which shot Connor was not current on:  Tetanus.  TETANUS!  Now there’s a contagion that spreads like wildfire.

So after doing our civic duty and inoculating the kid so he could once again qualify for an education, I decided to take him to Dairy Queen--where all the woes of a kid who just got a big ol' shot in the arm can be soothed away in frosted splendor.  Connor sat and consoled himself over a chicken strip basket and frozen Oreo Blizzard while silently concocting a scheme that entailed and elaborate ruse which he hoped would result in not going back to school.  In a swirl of ice cream-induced bravado, he then commenced a short soliloquy on this endeavor.  As he was mid-proposal, I got a phone call which put his little truancy speech on hold.

The phone call came from an acquaintance whose sweet mother had passed away.  A very sad thing indeed.  She had called to see if there was any way I thought a coffin might fit in the back of my excursion, the car we call “The Beast”, the mother of all SUV's that I’ve always claimed was big enough to haul anything.  It now appeared as though I was about to get the chance to do a little fact-checking.

This friend actually makes coffins and she needed to transport it from her house to the funeral home and did not want to incur the hefty $750 charge the funeral home would bill her if she used their hearse.

Well, why not?

But there was one teensy weensy little hitch.  The coffin they wanted me to transport was not an empty one.  Yes, it would have a passenger inside.  Gulp.

Well who am I to turn down the need of a friend, albeit a most unique need.  Why the heck not?  The title “Hearse” could definitely be added to our excursion’s long esteemed list of dutiful descriptions.  I told her I’d be right there and then hung up the phone.

Then I looked across the table at Connor and smiled wide.  “Connor…how bad do you want to get out of school?”

  

“Pretty bad Mom.  I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yup.  Clean the house, whatever.”

I smile even wider.  “How ‘bout move a dead body?”

He looked at me quizzically.

  

“Yes, move a body.  You wouldn’t mind would you?”   

I gave him a little explanation and without hesitating he said it sounded much better than going back to school and agreed to come.  But I’m not sure he knew what he had just bargained for. 

When we reached my acquaintance’s house they had me back into the driveway near the garage door.  Connor and I stepped out in the rain and waited patiently by the garage.  And although we’ve never had much experience as hearse drivers we knew this sort of job required patience.  So we waited.  Ever so reverently I might add.  And if we had to talk at all we used our library voices.

After a while there was stirring in the garage and soon the garage door began to lift open.  Our first assumption as newly appointed hearse drivers was that of course we would find a coffin inside the garage, which I can assure you we did.  What we had not expected was that the coffin was still open.  Connor was in for a bit of a shock there.   

Once the door was opened, I stepped farther in the garage as Connor took several GIANT steps back from of the garage.  My friend motioned to him that is was alright for him to come in and take a peek but he politely declined with an “Uh, I’m actually okay right here, but thank you.”

At least the kid was polite.

I ventured in and my friend and I both peered inside.  Her mom looked fantastic.  I commented on her hair and her make-up and even the fact that her nails were polished to perfection. 

Soon the lid was placed on the coffin and a few men loaded her coffin gently into the back of my car.  It was official—the Con-Man and I were now hearse drivers.  Connor and I ever so carefully and respectfully climbed into the excursion and headed to the mortuary. 

Connor was quiet for a few minutes and then he finally spoke.  In a slight whisper so that perhaps our passenger might not overhear or conversation, he said, “Mom, I can’t believe women are still worried about their hair and make-up after they die.”

I smiled knowing he had heard me comment to my friend on how nice her mother looked.  “Yep, I’m afraid so son.  It’s a girl thing, and it seems we don’t stop after we’re dead.  You’ll make sure my hair and make-up look nice when I go won’t you?” I asked.

“Yeah I guess so,” he weakly offered.  Then he cheerfully added, “I’ll even make sure you’ve got your Uugs on if you want.”

“Good idea.” I said.  Although if I happen to go while it's summer time someone please tell the kid to just put me in my favorite flip-flops.

Our jaunt into the world of hearse driving took us about a half hour and during that time we were presented with some heretofore unknown transportation quandaries:

It was a chilly day out and Connor and I were both cold from standing outside in the rain so I turned the heat on.  As I did so, Connor quickly turned it back off and then quizzed me on whether or not that was such a good idea.  He thought we’d better be careful not to overheat the inside of the car.   But it was pretty chilly and I was afraid that driving all that way in the January chill would result in not just one--but all three passengers suffering from rigor-mortis by the time we arrived.   Then Connor, who was taking our job very seriously, remembered that our excursion came equipped with duel heat zones!  Connor suggested it was best to set ours on warm--not hot--and set the back on cool.   A good compromise we could all live with...so to speak.

With our thermostat quandaries solved, Connor then remarked how unusually bumpy the road was.  He felt the corners seemed especially sharp, the train tracks especially jarring, and the huge potholes excessively rutted.  For him it proved to be a nerve racking drive as he was sweetly concerned about our fellow passenger and wanted her to arrive in the best possible condition.  He worried that contents might shift as we threaded our way through town and kept a vigilant eye on the road ahead alerting me to any disruptive hazards.   I've seen him less careful holding a jello mold on his way to a church potluck.  

At last we arrived at the funeral home and successfully finished our most serious task.   On the way home I asked him if he would have rather gone back to school instead of driving shotgun on our little hearse adventure.  He thought about it for a moment and said,  

"I'm sorry that lady died but I'm glad she got me out of math class."

By the time we were done with our errand school was out and Connor indeed got his wish.  

But for me, the next day was the fun part.  That's because I've become a little infamous down at the school for my unique writing skills.  It seems I have a real flair for penning an excuse note.  These notes to school, in my opinion, are an untapped source of joy that parents have sorely overlooked.  My kids hate taking excuse notes to school that I've written for them.  My theory is that no one ever really reads them so I always try and include bizarre reasons, sometimes so strange that my kids would rather take their chances and not bring any excuse to school at all. 

So the next morning I was extra excited about writing his note.  It was sure to be the mother-of-all-excuse notes in the history of my authorship.  I simply wrote: 

‘Please excuse Connor from school yesterday.  He had to help me move a dead body.” 

I’m fairly sure Connor probably left it in the bottom of his backpack with all the other excuses I've written that he was too embarrassed to turn in.  Instead I bet he chose to be unexcused and note-less and miss out on his lunch recess for having an unexcused absence.

But if he did he'd probably tell you it was a fair trade.  At this point the kid has certainly proved he'll do anything to get out of math class.

Christmas in January?

The rapid decline of my aging brain--a worsening condition which only serves to remind me that the inevitable descent into one of those 55 and older communities may be looming in my not too distant decrepit future. 

Today I bought a secret little gift for an upcoming holiday.  I thought about where the perfect place to hide it might be and scanned the house for that gem of a spot.  I zeroed in on what a thought would make the perfect hiding stash and went to put my surprise something there...

Lo and behold I found not one but THREE Christmas presents I had previously hidden months before!  Apparently this wasn't the first time I'd decided that this covert spot was the perfect hideaway!  Several months before Christmas I had bought a few things for the kids and hid them there.  And yes indeed it was a safe spot--even safe from me apparently.  By the time the holidays rolled around I didn't even remember I'd bought these silly Christmas treasures.

Luckily there was a little gift stashed away for each one of my kids still left at home--no kid had been left out of this little scandal.  I brought the gifts downstairs and handed them each a crumpled shopping bag and simply said: 

"Merry Christmas, your mother's an idiot."

They didn't even ask for an explanation as they opened their bags.  This wasn't the first time this sort of unfortunate thing has happened and they know better than to upset an aging parent with questions that will only result in embarrassing confessions of senility.  And perhaps this was not a bad snafu after all since they would have thought these gifts were stupid had they opened them with all their more resplendent stuff on Christmas. 

Connor got a new U of O hat:

Chloe a fortune cookie key chain she'd been wanting for her back pack:

And Mitchell an orange leatherman's tool:

While they were happy with their unexpected surprises I was definitely not happy with my unexpected lapse in memory!

But what can you do?  Except for maybe ask someone out there to call me sometime before Valentine's Day and remind me that I've stashed away some secret somethings in my oft-forgotten hideaway!

Yes, that might help, that is unless I've forgotten where I've put the cordless phone...unfortunately that happens a lot lately too. 

Eight Dryers Drying

How to tackle Mt. Everest?

Things got a little hectic over the holidays and the laundry got seriously avoided.  More avoided than usual.  And now that the holidays were over, the ornaments put away, and the lights taken off the house, there was one gargantuan task left... 
a monumental mound of laundry.  One that reached so high it should be named and given a proper elevation.

It can't be underestimated--my complete loathing for laundry.  I've been doing laundry for well over 22 years and I've yet to finish it.  I'd rather scrub a thousand toilets because at least for a moment, that kindly porcelain is courteous enough to stay clean and polished for a while.  But laundry, that great evader, it never seems to get that way.  The moment you discover the bottom of a hamper there is yet another hamper somewhere in the house belching at you with a full belly.  When it comes to laundry, there is never a gold star, a check mark, or crossing off the list.  Nope, there's always some dirty sock hidden somewhere under a child's bed perniciously wafting its stench as if to say, 'You're not finished, you've got another load left to do...'.

The never-ending-ness of it all slays me.  Which is why I'd never be very good at that job where you collect shopping carts in a parking lot.  There's a job that's never finished either.  That sort of thing would drive me to insanity.  I need gold stars and check marks.

So how do you tackle Mt. Everest?  The scale and breadth of my laundry piles spread its dense blue jean and prickly sock forest out the laundry room itself and upward into a high mountain that reached the thin white altitudes of my ceiling. 

Yet, despite my loathsome attitude on the subject of laundry, I usually keep the "L"word well under control and rarely reach the limits of excess overflow.  Rarely.  But on occasion, once or twice a year, it becomes the neglected hedge that grows far too wild to prune back without the use of heavy machinery.  And when that happens, when things get out of hand, we've built in a panic button of sorts, for when the laundry just gets way way too overwhelming.

It was Mark--who had probably ran out of socks and underwear, that raised the white flag of surrender and ventured to push the panic button first.  I was still in a state of denial about the situation, and being competitive, as if you can compete with laundry, I was yet unwilling to surrender defeat to a pile of dirty clothes.  But for Mark--It was time to push the PANIC button on our laundry issues. 

When it gets that bad we've learned that we can solve all our problems in under 90 minutes.  It's called the laundry mat.   

Mark rallied the troops and in no time he had one kid sorting, one kid bagging, another loading it in the car, and a couple more scrounging up every single quarter from every change jar, junk drawer, and couch cushion in the entire house.

Armed with detergent and fabric softener, our family descended upon the local laundry mat like we were seizing a beach at war-time.   
An epic battle between the Skillmans and their laundry. 

Ten wash loads and eight dryer loads later, we had won--though a few of our troops suffered though the combat with a frown or two.  In the end, everything was folded, matched, and clean and we were headed home in less than 90 minutes!

The battle was won!  I got home and took a victory lap in my laundry-free laundry room and felt the sweet rush of victory!   

A gold star!  

A giant check-mark!

That was until something at the bottom of one of the laundry bins caught my eye...

yes, of course.

11 Lessons Learned in 2011

1.  Perhaps a green zone should be established when Nerf Wars break out inside the house. 

2.  Buying a label maker is asking for trouble. 
Once all the people who live in a house with a label maker get their hands on this revolutionary thingamajig...an insatiable label-affixing crime spree will ensue and it just can’t be stopped.

Over the holidays I was doing some cooking and happened catch a little white something under my stove's hood...

 

Upon closer inspection this is what it said:

(definitely the nefarious workings of a teenager.)

Then while mopping the floors I flipped the chairs onto the counter top and discovered this little beauty:

 

The whole label maker idea sounded like a great idea at first...

 


3.  Turning into a grandparent isn’t so bad.  
 Especially if your grandchild is one of the cuter 2011 models that comes with hair long enough to comb into a plethora of weird hairdos.  I’ve never been more amused by a slobbery little thing in all my life.

 That said, it’s the idea of being married to a grandpa that’s the hard part—especially if said grandpa thinks it’s okay to start referring to his wife as "Grandma".  Definitely not okay.

4.  Men suffer from cramps too.  
 Just ask Mark.  Twenty miles into his first marathon his legs cramped up and he had to limp into an aid station.  Once he got there he said that his cramps hurt so bad that he “didn’t even mind that two dudes were rubbing his legs down with Icy Hot.”  I should have sent him to his race with a couple of Midol--that would have done the trick, as I know a thing or two about cramps.
(TMI yes, I know.)


But, just to cover my bases after my grandpa remark in lesson #3,
for an old guy "Ojii" (that's grandpa in Japanese) runs pretty darn fast.

  
5.  Everyone should have an extra hand. 

Seriously two are not enough.  But the third hand has to be  
a fake foam one that looks real enough to creep people out.  You’ll be amused for months on end freaking people out with it.  I’m not sure how I ever lived without one.  Life is so much more enjoyable now.


6.  You can use a piece of seaweed as 
a tow rope.   
Yeah, that one surprised me too.  But when Deanne's quad wouldn't start and we all forgot to bring a tow rope, you gotta get creative.  In our case the creative one was "McGuyver Mont" who seems to always come up with ridiculously insane ways to turn problems into genius solutions.

I must admit I was laughing at him when I saw him grab a long seaweed kelp-ish thingy and drag it over to the quad!  But Mont, of course, had the last laugh.  It totally worked!  Way to go Mont!  Lesson Learned!

You can barely see the slimy tow rope but it' there, and it got us out of our little sandy pickle!

7.  Connor may have been Spider Man in another life.  
Over the past year I keep catching him hanging out on rooftops. 
Is that a sign of some serious malady that I should have him checked out?  You just can't keep the kid off the roof...of anything.

Here he is in the red shirt enjoying a sunny day at the dunes. 

  How do you get your chair up there??

Over the summer I repeatedly heard loud banging on my rooftop and discovered it was Connor playing catch with his trusty football  
on top of the house.  

 I’m not sure why but the kid seems to like the roof.  Go figure.


8.  Your sink can sink.  

I came downstairs one morning to find mine had settled into the abyss of the cupboard below.  Who knew that could happen??  Certainly not me.  It went down like the Titanic--full of china and silverware and less than a third of its contents made it through safely.  Unfortunately both were thought to be unsinkable.


9.  Never pave an extra-wide walkway to your front door. 
Your teenage driver will use it as a road.

 I think every kid has a full time job, which is, to scale all chores down to the least amount of exertion for every required task.  They are masters at this.  In Mitchell’s case the twenty extra steps from the driveway all the way up the front walkway was way way too far to carry some stuff into the house—so he just popped his car in reverse and backed it right up to the front door.  Yep, this year I learned that a WALKway is not just for pedestrians. 


10.  If it has an engine in it,  
the Skillmans will race it. 

11.  People should never move away.
You just miss them too darn much.

And yes after all these years we still even miss these people...

The things you learn. 

Italy Scores

Our nephew-in-law Andrea decided that we all needed to get together over the holidays and play a little football.

This kind of football:

Andrea is Italian and the man needs his football--the Italian in him also makes him affectionate enough to love us all by referring to it as "soccer" as he is always kind to the uncultured Americans that we are.  He talked us all into an indoor game of soccer and then set out on a mission to find a ball at a nearby store--since none of us had one.  (oh the shame.)

Poor Andrea, at our local store what he found was something more like this:

A kid's toy, not a real athletic ball.  It was some sort of cheap ball that barely held its air for the duration of our game.  But Andrea is good humored and the shabby ball didn't phase him.  He was just happy to play.

We divided ourselves into two teams:

The Old Team

vs.

The Young Team

Uh, yeah, and don't ask me how I got assigned to the young team.

But I'll tell you what;  when you get assigned to the "young" team at my age you don't ask questions, you just roll with it.  

As you can tell by my lovely Uug footwear, I wasn't planning on playing.  I came to watch.  But once teams started forming both Wendy and I couldn't resist a little competitive challenge.  My footwear wasn't really good for running to I played goalie.

Here's what I learned:  When Americans come running toward you ready to shoot the ball at your face, don't be afraid.  Most of the time they don't know what they're doing.  The ball could go anywhere.  HOWEVER, when an Italian comes at you with the ball...trouble is coming with him! 

In the end we had one flattened soccer ball, six winded old people, one hilarious time, and a serious defeat of the younger team who were whipped by the old people.  Yes, sadly, my young team lost.  Apparently the older team has got a lot more energy and
a better goalie than we have, not to mention an Italian who loves his football!

I hope our Christmas Soccer will be a new tradition.  In the meantime I've got some serious goalie practice to do.  Perhaps I should start with proper footwear...

Thir-TEEN

Today Connor officially became a teenager and literally celebrated it with a bang.  First it was celebrated with the ultimate gift Connor could ever receive...

For Connor, there's no better way to turn thirteen than to celebrate it with your very own private stash of thirteen boxes of your very own cereal. 


Then, with the help of our friends the Sharps, he was inducted into his teens in a swirl of gunfire and gas.

First on the birthday agenda was some serious go-kart racing.

Earlier that day, Mont set up a challenging race course at their family's tarp shop and turned their massive warehouse floor into
a giant slick kart track.

The boys division was a serious event...

 

Between the Sharps and Skillmans go-karts, there was always one that was pulling into the pits for repairs.  It seems they weren't really designed for the aggressive rough-housing we put them through over the years.

 

Among the aggressive racers, Connor and Rob are all-stars.  Here they are after they crashed while trying to squeeze each other out in a tight turn.  They knocked the conveyer belt down and one of them ran over Rob's sleeve...

 Which somehow managed to rip off his shirt sleeve but leave his arm unscathed!

 Rob then decided his sleeve made a nice racing headband.

And the girls races were even more competitive...

Let's just say that you do not want to underestimate the moms.  

Deanne and I were willing to run over more sleeves 

if necessary to cross the finish line FIRST.

After a serious battle of go-carts it was time for Nerf Wars!

Here's Team Skillman:

...and Team Sharp:

oh, and thanks guys...

nice touch shooting me right after I took this photo.

But I suppose that's what happens when you're embedded

in a war zone, there's a large possibility you'll get shot 

by UNfriendly fire.

Chloe and Mark were locked and loaded...

Kayleigh uses the shop supplies as a barricade:

Brock Sharp hides in the industrial shelving:

While Nick prefers an all out assult:

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Chloe:

 

Mitchell prefers a high point from which to snipe:

(he was pretty good at picking off people 

with his homemade blow dart contraption.)

Connor chose a unique way to 

both conseal himself from the enemy

and shield himself from darts:

No surprise here,

The Skillmans win the battle!

 Round two, three, four, and five got more serious:

 More sniping was involved:

This time by Brandon on the scissor lift.

And really really long range missile launching

by Mont was involved too:

 

This method was FAST and FURIOUS.

But once again, the Skillmans prevailed.

Our little Nerf-Capture-the-Flag ended in Skillman victory!

  

Not a bad way to turn 13.

Happy Birthday Con-Man!

The victory feast was pizza and an awesome ice cream and oreo cake made by Deanne.  Once again, the Sharps know how to throw an awesome party!