Update on Allan, Part II

I just got off the phone with Carolyn (my mother-in-law; my mother is also named Carolyn; the poor kids are going to think "Carolyn" and "Grandma" are interchangeable) for an update on Allan. He got home from the hospital on Monday, and is on a slow, steady program to get his strength back. The stent he has in is apparently coated in a medicine that helps dissolve the plaque directly at the site. Nurses are visiting about twice a week to check in on him and work on his rehabilitation, and treadmill tests are scheduled about two weeks out.

Hurrah, he's home!

Update on Allan

Since I last wrote here, Allan:

• is off all medicines but one
• no longer has the balloon pump, as his heart can beat on its own
• is out of the ICU (Intensive Care Unit)
• is pacing up and down the halls (for some reason, reading that made me think, "Yup, that's him." I can imagine a certain amount of muttering as he goes.)

The latest word is that should be going home tomorrow!

More late-night phone calls

Deborah, Paul and I were sitting around, looking at stuff on the computer, when May called, sounding very flat and small. Allan (my father-in-law; Deborah's, Paul's, and May's father) was in the hospital with chest pains and apparent heart trouble. A little while later, another call came in: he'd had a heart attack, right there in the hospital — they had to revive him twice with the paddles — and was now having emergency surgery. Around midnight, the call went out that he was now out of surgery; they did a balloon angioplasty, put in a stent, and he has some sort of balloon pump to help his much-weakened heart.

And this from a guy who, all the years I've known him, ran everywhere he went, and whose lone vice was peanut butter ("peanut butter goes with anything.")

Please pray for him.

95 Years is a Good Long Time

Great Grammy: Alice Renaud, with Fiona and Aiden in December 2007.

My grandmother-in-law is in the hospital, and the relatives are starting to gather at my in-law's house in New Hampshire. It doesn't look like she's going to be repeating her role in the town parade in June as the town's oldest living citizen.

It's strange to be standing around, talking with Deborah about plans for when she's gone. Who would go, who would stay, who would drive, or fly, and with whom.

There's a lot going through my head right now. Little of it lends itself to words.

No-Spit Candy

My first year of college, I got adopted by a family in my church. It wasn't something any of us intended — I just needed a ride, as it would be nearly another year until I had my driver's license, and mountain biking in the snow while keeping warm was a stretch in my still-adapting wardrobe. So I rode with them. Problem is, they liked to stay and chat after church for a long time, until well after the cafeteria at Grace had closed. So they took me home for lunch. Those Sunday afternoons at their house were something I treasured then, and now. The kids — the oldest was, 10, I think — thought I was fun and cool (as much as I could tell) and the parents were wonderful to talk to and learn from. They became one of my first resources on figuring out how life on my own worked.

Now, I tell you that story, to tell you this one.

A few years later, when Deborah and I were "going out" — as much as one can "go out" when normally separated by a thousand miles — Deborah came down to visit me for Spring Break. Now, I didn't really have anyplace to go — my nearest relatives were well over a hundred miles away — and I certainly didn't have anyplace to put Deborah, so I asked if I could stay with them for the week. And, oh, can my girlfriend come, too?

Turns out we could.

The second or third day she was there, Deborah bounded out in her spritely way, and announced that she'd like to make candy. Resistance was slim, so she set to making up a big batch of coconut balls. This involved a large amount of powdered sugar, and Deborah, concerned that the kids would be... well, kids, dramatically emphasized that there was to be no added moisture to the mixture, lest the candies be reduced to balls of goo. If you sprayed when you spoke, you were banned during the first part — this was NO SPIT CANDY. She actually had me stand guard at the doors to the kitchen, which, in addition to making it more fun, made the candy nearly irresistible. It didn't hurt that they tasted really, really good, too.

Years later, when we were married, they invited us to join them for Thanksgiving. When we asked what we should bring, the answer was immediate and unanimous: NO SPIT CANDY! I think they were all gone before the meal was even served...

And now, year later than that, I see a renewed, plaintive plea in the comments on this blog, asking for the recipe for No-Spit Candy. So, here it is, guys. Enjoy.

Mix:

2 lbs. powdered sugar
1 can condensed milk
1 ½ cups shredded coconut
1–2 cups chopped walnuts
½ stick (¼ cup) butter or margarine
1 teaspoon vanilla

Coating:

1 bag chocolate chips
½ block of paraffin (wax)

Mix the ingredients together and form into 1" balls. Place in the freezer until ready for dipping. Melt the paraffin (you can get this wherever they sell canning supplies) and the chocolate together in a double-boiler (or, as we did, in two nested pans with water in the bottom of one.) Dip the balls with toothpicks, and cover the hole with drizzle from a spoon. Enjoy!

Paul and Deborah demonstrate the dipping technique.

One Christmas Down, One to Go

Our family seems to have gotten in the habit of having Christmases on multiple days, or on days other than the 25th of December. I've lost track of ho many times I've been flying on Christmas (no lines!) and exchanged presents the next day, instead.

Christmas 1 (Dec. 25th) went over wonderfully this year. The kids were just about bouncing out of their skin to put up their stockings, and calling out, "Is it time to get up yet?" scarcely half an hour after we put them to bed. Once it was time to get up, Fiona bounded up the ladder to our bed and so sweetly invited, "come have Christmas with us!" before crawling over to give me a backrub (both Fiona and I are totally backrub people). It was wonderful way to wake up.

Christmas 2 (Dec. 27th) starts in a few hours, with Deborah's parents and May having just arrived from an all-day drive from New Hampshire. I'm glad they made it: Our street is a wet sheet of ice, and a thick fog is covering most of Indiana and Ohio. They told us about following "Rudolph" — an 18-wheeler with glowing red taillights — nearly all the way across Ohio. All they could see were those red hazy dots amidst the gray. I've done nearly the same thing — I followed a truck at a crawl nearly all the way across Ohio in a blizzard after visiting Deborah up at Houghton in upstate New York one weekend.

Now, off to bed with me. As I told the kids, the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner it will be Christmas again!

Those Magnificent Men and their Flying Machines

"If they built a plane, would you fly in it?"

I've heard that phrase for years now, mostly in reference to a particular brand of motorcycle. The phrase took on new meaning for me when we all drove down to the annual Popular Rotorcraft Association Fly-In in Mentone, IN. In this case, "Popular" means "for the people" and if regular folk are owning and operating rotorcraft, that generally means that they're building those helicopters and gyrocopters themselves.

I know one such person. In fact, I'm related to him — and he's the reason I wanted to go, to take him to see the gyros fly around. See, my father-in-law built his own gyrocopter when he was 18. He ordered it as a kit, and spent countless hours building it. Shortly after completing it, he was drafted.

He's never flown it.

He'd never even seen one fly. Until now.

We didn't know exactly where the Mentone airport was. We knew it was roughly south and west of Mentone, so we drove down in that general direction, and watched the skies. Sure enough, little spindly craft started appearing, arcing lazily through the sky like dragonflies on a hot summer day, and it wasn't hard to figure out where they were all coming from.

Happily, there wasn't much to separate us common folk from the men and their machines, and we spent a good number of hours walking between the aircraft, talking to owners, builders, manufacturers, and sellers. ($7500 buys you a gently-used gyrocopter. I thought about it.)

The cool thing, of course, was watching them fly.

You mean to tell me that this thing flies?

Oh. I guess it does!

Regular rules about distances in flying don't seem to apply... but then, they were doing an exhibition, so maybe things are different for those.

Navigating around Mentone by air apparently involves being able to discern the difference between corn and soybeans at an altitude of 100 feet.

How often do you get to watch aircraft this close? When was the last time you got to actually watch airplanes take off and land at an airport?

A big part of the fun, for me, was to hear the reports of what my father-in-law was doing and saying as he ran around, talking to people and looking at aircraft. At first, I didn't think he wanted to go — he kept saying things like, "Oh, I can't go rebuilding my gyrocopter, I'm living on savings, and I have to be responsible..." but only later did I realize he was saying that to contain his excitement!

This, right here, is the real reason we came: so my father-in-law (right, in red) could meet people, see gyros, and rekindle an old dream.

This 1966 Benson is virtually identical to the one my father-in-law has tucked away in a trailer. It had pride of place in the gyrocopter museum.

This one in particular captured my FIL's imagination. This is a new, clean build, and features things like a seat that doubles as a gas tank. I suppose I'd object to the safety of such an arrangement, but then, I regularly go riding with a gas tank between my legs, so who am I to say? There's a certain irony in a motorcyclist complaining about the safety of... well, anything.

One of the editors I was working with a year or so ago, Micah Ross, told me that most people that fly airplanes also ride motorcycles. You would have been hard-pressed to disprove that at this show; I saw as many two-wheelers on the ground as I did gyros in the air. The same spirit of cheap innovation was applied to the bikes I saw, too.

Yes, those are mailboxes attached to each end of a Honda Ruckus.

The Wright Brothers were originally bicycle mechanics. This apple didn't fall far from the tree.

And after the day was done, and we were driving back home with the kids, I had to wonder... If I built a plane, would I fly in it?

Things that Don't Stay Small for Long

In todays' post, we'll take a look at four things in my life that aren't staying small.

The first comes with the sad preamble that, after more than five years, Yertle stopped swimming around the tank in the living room, and took a permanent nap. I walked him across the street and dropped him gently off the end of a dock with a sad little *bloop.* Poor turtle. Fiona still occasionally asks where he is.

Now that we don't have a hungry, carniverous reptile that eats any non-armored fish (my clown loaches, my beautiful clown loaches...!) we can have fish again... so we got a hungry, carnivorous Oscar that eats any and all non-armored fish. So, here we have "Snaps" Provolone, just a day or so after we got him.

OK, so autofocus cameras and fishtanks don't get along. I'm holding a quarter for size reference.

Next we visit the garden we've been working on over at Paul's house, where our efforts are about to be rewarded a hundredfold. I picked three red little cherry tomatoes off the vines last night. They were wonderful. Rich, savory, juicy, with a dark saltiness. Mmmmmm.

The tomato plants, with Aiden as a size reference. Yes, they're a good deal taller than he is. Keeping the plants off the ground has been a challenge in impromptu engineering.

Our squash and giant pumpkins are coming along nicely, too. I can see quite a number of crookneck squash budding and filling out under the massive leaves. (I'd better learn to like these, quick. It looks like I'll be having quite a few for supper come fall!) The pumpkin vines have stretched out more than 10 feet now, with their own impressive leaves and wine-glass sized flowers, although I haven't seen any fruit start to form there yet.

I had no idea that the plants would be this big. Aiden, again, serves as a size reference.

The fourth thing that isn't staying small here is... Aiden. He's getting big! I love that smile!

23 Links to Go

Partly to keep the kids from asking every day when the babies are going to come, and partly to remind ourselves to get ready, we hung up a paper chain in the living room, and Deborah and the kids remove one link each Saturday.

23 links to go. Are we ready...? Nope. Extra car seats? Check. Minivan? Nope. Names picked out? Nope. Know where we're going top put them? Nope. Maybe we're so used to this (?!) that we think we can wing it...

The Cart Chronicles, Continued

Deborah's father came to fix the cart. As he predicted, he found the main cause of the cart's troubles within minutes, and then spent the next few days remedying other, more minor flaws.

When we went over the big bump, the reverse relay had closed at the same time the forward relay was operating... which shorted out the batteries in a hurry. The relay was unwelded with a tap of a hammer. When I asked what we could do to prevent this from happening again, he said, "Slow down when you're going over bumps." Oh. I had been hoping for something more along the lines of suspension...

The steering as getting loose, too, so we jacked up the front end and tightened the bolts that carried the front wheels. This probably has something to do with my belief that four-wheeled vehicles really don't need to slow down to take a turn.

Cart and creator, ready to roll again!

Fun at the Fair

A Wonderful Warm Weekend

You couldn't beat the weather this weekend. The temperature was all the way up in the 50s and 60s. The vast wastelands of slush and mud were receding, and there was no reason to stay inside whatsoever.

Saturday morning, I volunteered to take Deborah's sewing machine to be repaired — in Marion, a good 65 miles away. On the motorcycle. (Of course!) She'd been pining to have it repaired for some time, but the local repairman evidently either didn't know how much of a gem a Singer Featherweight is, or was trying to cheat us out of it by offering us $40 on it as a trade-in — and neither interpretation inspired much confidence. So with the case ratcheted down to the passenger seat, and a big grin on my face, off to Marion I went, to a shop where we've had it worked on before. I tried to make out like I was doing Deborah a great service, but she wasn't buying it. She knew I just wanted to go for a long ride.

Along the way, stopped at a light in Wabash, I saw this building, which I'll let speak for itself.

How do you get a chicken drunk, anyway? They drink like birds!

Sunday afternoon was even warmer and sunnier.

Paul found a Frisbee that the kids hadn't stepped on, and several of us retreated to the back yard. Deborah said she'd be out once Fiona woke up from her nap.

Deborah catches one

May grabs gracefully

Paul plays with a handicap

Even Fiona got into it!

Deborah brought a Koosh ball to add to the mix. So after a while of simultaneous 3-way frisbee and 3-way catch, the game turned into something akin to shooting skeet. (Or Calivinball; I miss Calvin and Hobbes...) One person would throw the Frisbee, and the other person would try to knock it down with the Koosh ball. We teased Paul about not being able to hit the Frisbee, saying it wasn't his fault, because the reticle hadn't turned red yet — a lighthearted jab at his video game playing.

Deborah, knocking the Frisbee out of the air.

It was many hours before hunger drove us back inside.

A Night Out

My mother-in-law gave all of us Barnes & Noble gift cards for Christmas. Thing is, there isn't a Barnes & Noble store within 50 miles of Winona Lake. So we had to make it a night out on the town. Such a sacrifice. :-)

Our first stop was next door, at the FlatTop Grill. This was a new experience for me; the idea is that it's a build-your-own stir-fry restaurant.

You'd be forgiven for thinking the long counters were a salad bar. In actuality, they're the main attraction. You get a bowl, and start going down the line, adding ingredients and sauces, and at the end you can add a small bowl of meat, and hand it over to the cooks.

There were also some colored swizzle sticks you could add to the bowl, indicating that the chefs should do something additional, like turn it into a soup, or a wrap, and add tofu, shrimp, etc.

I hadn't had more than a noodle soup and a banana all day, and I was starving. Aiden was evidently even hungrier than I was, and once he saw the food, it was quite a job keeping him from crying, at least until I realized that I could put together a bowl of food that didn't have to be cooked, and take it back to the table right away. Problem solved. Restaurant owners, take note... parents who can feed their kids while the adult food is cooking can be very good, grateful tippers... the ability to choose exactly what was in the bowl was a huge bonus. Most "kids' menu" items are hot dogs or mac 'n' cheese. Brown rice with black bean sauce went over far better!

By the time Aiden was satisfied, the food started arriving. My first attempt at making my own stir-fry was... subtle. White noodles with eggs, tofu, tomatoes, mushrooms, and chicken are good, but none of those ingredients exactly burst with wild flavor. My second attempt more than made up for the subtlety of the first: Yellow noodles with tomatoes, cilantro, tangerines, a load of hot peppers, mushrooms, red and green onions, and beef, drenched an an Asian peanut sauce. Oh, that was good. The Kerrs split a mango sorbet for dessert.

Once we settled up the bill (kids four and under eat free; that helped balance out the right-side-of-the-menu sticker shock for adults) we walked next door to Barnes & Noble.

Deborah found a large, squashy armchair and a small table, and sat down with the kids and a few books to read to them, while I was sent to gather more. We took turns reading to the kids and exploring the store. I found a Calvin and Hobbes collection that had somehow eluded my attention all these years; there went my portion of the gift card. We found a neat book called Not a Box for the kids, and got a copy for a friend of ours, as well. Deborah got something by Mercedes Lackey, and I have no idea what Paul and May got. (The person who gave us the gift cards is reading this, which is why I mention all this.)

We stayed way past the kids' bedtime — the store closed at 11:00! — and paid dearly for that oversight when we got home, but it was, on the whole, a very fun night out.