Penmanship at 74 years of age

Every few years I pull out the letter from great-great grandfather Sasse and find a source of inspiration and amazement. Today I am just in awe of his penmanship at age seventy-four. He was writing on lined paper.  He must have used a fountain pen in 1911, not quill and ink! His letter must have been a "final copy", as there are no indications of editing or corrections.

With a comfortable pen I can write for a few hours, but my penmanship is inconsistent in style and legibility.  I blame this on my tremor, which is inherited from the other side of my family.

Now that I've finished the transcription, I'm excited to post the rest of it!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

"Who are these people?"

For a long time Dad resembled Henry Fonda playing Norman Thayer in "On Golden Pond".  They wore the same hats.  I never did look much like Jane Fonda playing his daughter even back in 1981, especially not in a bikini. 

For thirty years now, "Who are these people?," has been a joke line in our family.  We didn't have a cottage or loons, but we had plenty of old photos sitting around. 

Now Dad's loony questions have become his obsession.  For a week he's been struggling to sort out the names of two grandchildren and their dog.  He canoes all around the issue, but can't quite express his question.  He worries about this every waking moment.  These moments are fewer and farther between, but are as likely to be at midnight as noon.  Today he asked me about "Nadine and Hogan" wondering what were "their short first names?" 

Don't know why I didn't try this days ago.  Wrote cue cards in very big letters and tacked them on Dad's bulletin board.  Scoped it out to be sure he could see them when he is sitting up in bed.  It won't help when he's flat on his back in the middle of the night, though.

There's no Hogan, but there is Logan The Dog.

Dad and I both have ET, essential tremor.  It's a very common progressive non-fatal inherited neurological disorder.  Mine is mainly in my right arm, and is aggravated by stress, fatigue, and overuse.  Good vibrations from car wash spray wands, power tools, mowers, and weed-whackers are the worst. 

Katharine Hepburn had ET, too.  Ethel Thayer should have tacked up some cue cards for Norman.  Katharine and I send this advice for Dad while I'm "out of pocket"*:

"Don't be an old poop."

*"Out of pocket" is not limited to medical expenses unreimbursed by insurance.  "Out of pocket" is Texan for unreachable by any communication device.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Cross stitch and gingham

Last time in Lincoln I slept on the pillowcase I made in the mid-Sixties. It's a bit threadbare, but the embroidery is stonger than the gingham. I remember it being a difficult project, so I must not have been very old. Later I made cross stitch pillowcases as gifts, stitching my friends' names on their cases.

Cross stitch requires perserverance and patience for the student and the teacher. I'm beginning to understand those Quaker samplers! Embroidery is also a very calming, focusing practice for students. Our kids need projects that counter balance all the point/shoot/instant/gratification/flashing/images of our current technology and culture.

With my ET tremor it takes perserverance to thread needles for the kids. Fortunately, they are doing most of their current embroidery project with their classroom teacher. The boys are every bit as into it as the girls, and they need the fine motor skill development. They are making lovely pictures, not simple cross stitch. If your child doesn't want to sit in a treehouse and embroider this summer, maybe they need their own special shady corner of the garage to paint scale models.

Learning to separate two strands from the six-strand embroidery floss was a personal goal as satisfying as learning to shuffle cards, roast the perfect marshmallow, use a key to open a lock, cut paper snowflakes and hearts, play jacks, ride a bike, tell time, tie a square knot, address an envelope, or scoop ice cream. I was on top of the world when I learned to make Jello Instant Pudding in a double boiler, and to open a can of tuna. Making french toast and grilled cheese sandwiches for my family gave me enormous satisfaction. I was proud to learn to whistle, light a match, identify butterflies, prune a rosebush, and jiggle the handle on the toilet so the water would stop running! Reeling in a fish was the best of all.

My sons loved learning to make smoothies, boil spaghetti, and make hot garlic bread. Their fingers learned to string beads and twist rubber bands to tie-dye t-shirts. They enjoyed taking photos with disposable cameras. They worked together to make Wally, our family papier mache alligator.

Our kids need to know personal satisfaction deeper than levels of video games and plastic soccer trophies. None of these accomplishments require sign-up fees. They don't take much electricity or transportation. They don't involve costumes or uniforms. Some of those childhood accomplishments nurture life-long interests.

It's hailing like crazy here in Plano. I'm so grateful I learned to sit and watch a storm by the front door with my dad. What a gift that my family applauded my first unburnt french toast! How funny to sleep on my forty-year-old cross stitch!

Sweet dreams!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Aggressively tacky

Steven is recovering the interior walls of the 300ZX with new vinyl. He is doing it one section at a time, of course, and is still on section numero uno. The interior will be white instead of maroon. Right now he is translating the directions on the can of spray adhesive from instructionese to real English. We are debating the meaning of "agressively tacky", as in "the product is agressively tacky for 10 sec.-15 min." I've known dinette sets that were aggressively tacky for fifteen years...

After all the driving last week, and sewing the thirty-two giant carrots together, my essential tremor has kicked in. Any time I use my right arm to the point of fatigue, my arm shakes enough to hurt. Using a weed-whacker, handheld mixer, or the sprayer at the coin-op carwash escalates the tremor from amusing nuisance to real annoyance. My handwriting will be pretty illegible for a couple days.

Living in a condo has some downsides. Sometimes I really miss having a yard. Today I am remembering how sore my arm would be after mowing, and feel grateful not to do yard work anymore.

Dueling cameras

I tiptoed through the tulips with my sixteen-something son at the Dallas Arboretum's big "Dallas Blooms" spring event for several hours today. It was a near miracle that he chose this outing with his old mom on his only day off from work at the bank during spring break. For many years a trip to the Arboretum was a powerful threat in the Mommy arsenal. "If you boys don't quit that, I'm taking you all to the Arboretum!" "No, Mom, no, PLEASE! We'll be good!"

I marvel that one of my little ninja turtles could grow up to be a nature photographer, and a mighty darn good one at that. For twenty-one years now I've been the mother of boys, immersed in mud, sand, bugs, Tonka trucks, Hot Wheels, toy farm implements, toilet-training, volcanoes, dinosaurs, Legos, falling into duck ponds, fishing ponds, and zoo exhibits, buzz cuts, fishing tackle, karate punches, tool sets, sword fights, camouflage, canteens, Ghostbusters, model train layouts, G.I. Joe amputees, baseball trivia, computer dogfights, science fiction, Civil War reenactments, trumpet practice, cigarette lighters, sweat-petrified soccer socks, smelly casts, chess strategy, crutches, melting green army men with magnifying glasses, creek-soaked Keds, falling off roofs, slide-tackling, muddy cleats, used car classifieds, oil leaks on driveways, guitar lessons, and mustaches.

My 35 mm slr camera weighs ten times as much as his digital camera. I forget to take my zoom lens into the Arboretum. My arm shakes with my "ET" essential tremor. He contorts his body around trees and pillars to get stunning shots he can instantly save or discard. We take photos of the same subjects. We marvel at the glorious afternoon, and get slightly sunburned. He listens to my tales of the many times he and his brothers fell into ponds, escaped from grocery carts, or refused to be buckled into their car safety seats. I remember him in fuzzy fleece one-piece pajamas, pulling himself up to stand in the crib. This little Raffi duck song addict who knew what street we were driving on when he was too little to even see out the car window! The same one who listened to the "Little Mermaid" soundtrack every naptime, and Texas Rangers baseball broadcasts to fall asleep many nights. Who sobbed inconsolably at the fleeting nature of rainbows, hot air balloon flights, and goldfish lives. The funny little kid who stayed sane through his parents' divorce by swinging on a rope over a shallow creek... and who continues to amaze his old mom. I hope he will remember this day as I will!