February 18, 1982

There are times when the short people we live with are difficult to please.  The rest of the time they are impossible to please.

Last week we purchased a new car--it's not really new and some might question whether it is really a car.  While a 1967 Austin Healy Sprite is by no means a family car, unless your family believes adamantly in birth control, for short trips hither and yon it is ideal.

We envisioned the little folks being overwhelmed with the excitement of dashing about in the convertible on a balmy spring day, wind racing through their hair.  We visualized glee as they rode around town in the passenger seat of a flashy sportscar.  We thought exhilaration.

We received snickers.

There was no comment when I offered to drive two of the short people to school in the Sprite one particularly cold day last week.  They simply glanced at each other and nodded, figuring the alternative to driving in that four wheeled toy was plodding through the snow on foot.

Waiting at the curb, the engine idling roughly, I watched their faces as they emerged from the house.  They were giggling, but it was not a giggle of delight.  It was a dad-is-really-weird giggle.

As the eldest short person opened the door she scrutinized the interior of the car before entering.  She looked long at the carpetless floor, the ragged seat, the weathered window.

"Cute, dad," she said, sarcasm oozing from her lips like ketchup from a bottle.

I tried to be positive, telling her she would enjoy the ride.  She carefully laid down a piece of writing paper on the seat before sitting down.

"I think you need to clean it up a little," she said, glorying in her understatement.

I told her she would enjoy the ride.

"What's that noise?"  When I told her it was the heater she said, "All that noise and cold air too, huh?  Cute, dad."

As we pulled out she suggested the radio be switched on to drown out the noise of the heater.  When I told her the radio was in the back and not connected, she rolled her eyes in response.  I told her with a fancy sportscar there was no need for a radio, the hum of the engine was like music.  Her eyes continued rolling.

By the time we reached the corner, the front window was fogged.

"The defroster doesn't work, right?" she asked and answered.  I considered asking her to walk the rest of the way, but instead I just smiled and told her how much she was enjoying the ride.

"I think you need to paint it," she said.  I reminded her that yellow was her favorite color.  She just smirked.

We had reached the school and by now I was sorry I had volunteered my services.  I told them both how much they had enjoyed the ride and was met with another burst of giggles.  They stumbled out, slammed the door and headed for class.  But the the eldest turned as if she had forgotten something and walked back to where I still sat idling.

As she stuck her head in the door, I knew what she was going to say--she was going to thank me for driving them to school and she was going to tell me that she really did like the car and that she couldn't wait until spring when we could drive around with the top down and she was going to tell me how much she had enjoyed the ride.

"I must tell you," (Here it comes, I thought.)  "I'm not too impressed."  And she turned and disappeared into the school.

I limped home, the fancy sportscar looking more like a hunk of junk with every passing block....  ~T.Stucky

February 6, 2004

My Father died Friday evening.  He leaned back in the easy chair which has lately become the extent of his domain, gurgled, convulsed, then went limp.  His heart, according to the defibrillator installed in one of his numerous heart surgeries, recorded the "incident," later printing a straight line of more than an inch on a medical graph.

My dad was defined by his heart.  A heart condition forced him from his Kansas dairy farm to the supposedly therapeutic desert clime of Phoenix, Arizona.  His heart changed the course of his life, and the lives of his family.  More than once in the five decades since he sold his Jerseys and headed west, he was told he had but a short time left to live.  More than a few times he had been loaded into an ambulance and sped to the hospital.  More than a few times his family had said good-bye.  And more than a few times he rallied, defying medical experts to return home.

He read "Seabiscuit" last year and then went to see the movie.  Red Pollard, the jockey who overcame one calamity after another to ride The Biscuit in his final, victorious race, was my dad's favorite character.  "He sure went through a lot, didn't he," he said after watching the film.  "And he just kept coming back."

The same could be said of my father.  Despite a heart that failed him, he never failed his family. When I was young he was there to catch the baseball on the side of the house, pretending my fast ball stung his hand through the catcher's mitt.  He was there to take us camping, to drive us to church, to read us bedtime stories, to show us how to live a life.  There was nothing fancy about him, no pretense.  He was comfortable being himself.

For one with a heart so weak, my dad had more heart than anyone I know.  Honestly kind, caring, considerate, he was absolutely the nicest man I ever met.  As I think about it, I can only recall him being mad twice-once because a lawnmower wouldn't start on a blistering summer day, and once because I failed to put oil in my car.  Mad as he was, "Jupiter!" was as profane as I ever heard him.

With youthful arrogance I listened cynically to his holiday prayers.  In his simple way, he would express appreciation for family at Thanksgiving, give thanks for the gift of love ones at Christmas, offer praise for being together around the Easter table, bless "this food for the nourishment of our bodies" every Sunday.  As time past the cynicism faded.  As time past, I came to recognize the depth of his character.  As time past, I came to realize not all fathers were always there.

His devotion to family carried to the next generation.  If he wasn't on the way to or from the hospital, he was on the way to or from a basketball game, or football game or soccer match or track meet.  Regardless of the contest's outcome, regardless whether his grandchildren played well or not, he always hugged them when it was over and said, "Good game."

Friday evening my dad died.  But the monitor attached to his heart detected the lack of a beat and sent a shock to the still muscle.  Emergency medical technicians administered aid.  He who had been dead, was revived.  A few hours later he was once again thanking nurses for being so kind to him, apologizing for being such a nuisance, encouraging his adult children to go home from the hospital because they needed to get up and work the next morning.

Driving to the emergency room, uncertain what awaited us, I considered the world without him.  It wasn't the first time, but this "incident" had a finality to it, pressing thoughts to go places they try to avoid.  When I squeezed his hand in the emergency room, he said "Your hands are warm."

"Cold heart, " I thought, "Not like yours."  ~T. Stucky

February 23, 1978

Candid Camera would have a field day watching pedestrians attempting to navigate the ice-covered street of Pretty Prairie. The street-crossing techniques are as varied as the citizenry, but they fall into four main categories.
First, and most prevalent, is the "Arms Out, Eyes Down, Jaw Tightly Set, This Street Won't Get Me Shuffle".  These people seldom fall while taking their small, choppy steps, but they do often bump into passing vehicles.
The second category is the "I'm Indestructible March".  These folks, usually male, completely ignore the hazards of the street as they maintain the same pace they use when walking across the living room. We can only hope they don't fall in their living rooms as often as they fall on Main Street.
The "Oh, Please Help Me God Crawl" is the third version. The people who use this technique seldom venture from the safety of home, but when they do, they are prepared for the worst. They wear extra padded clothing, carry a list of next-of-kin, and constantly repeat out loud prayers for safety they have memorized in their idle hours at home. People in this group are easy to spot--their mouths continue to move even as they sit in the middle of the street.
The final group does the "Ice-Skater's Waltz". Usually whistling, they slide across the street, fall a time or two, laugh each time, and upon reaching the other side, turn and skate across again. This group has a tendency to decrease in numbers as winter wears on... ~T. Stucky

"Love is a feeling,
an ideal,
universally accepted as the essence of life."
~ T. Stucky

February 5, 1981

Like everyone else, on Sunday we pulled the month of January from the calendar and there, like four weeks of bad road, was February. Of all the months of the year February is the most maligned, the most despised, the most dreaded. Only August comes close to matching February's disfavor.
It's not that February by itself is so bad -- January and March are not really much different. It has just been the victim of poor timing. February comes during the depths of winter. It is the veritable pit of the season. It is north winds and sub-zero chill factors. It is snow flurries which are no longer charming and snow drifts which are not longer white.
February is a time when your nose runs, your toes ache, and your eyes tear. It is a month of scraping ice from your windshield. February is to the year what migraines are to the forehead.
January has its New Year, its resolutions, its optimism. March has its inkling of spring, milder temperatures, and sometimes Easter. February has Groundhog Day -- not much to celebrate really. The groundhog sticks his head from the burrow, sees its shadow, and we all get rewarded with February.
Two of our most famous Presidents had the misfortune to be born in February. If ever there was proof that people born under the meanest of circumstance could grow up to be somebody, this is it.
We respond to the month's harsh bitterness by handing it the ultimate insult -- we mispronounce its name. Instead of Feb-ru-ary, we call it Feb-uary. It's not that we don't know any better. It's just our way of getting back at it for what it does to us.
In spite of our animosity and our name calling, it remains the second month of the year. Twenty-eight days waiting to be plodded through.
At least the calendar makers had the good sense to make it the shortest month of the year. Can you imagine thirty-one days of February.... ~T. Stucky

Friday, February 9, 2001

We don't laugh as much as we once did. Four short people, spouting the wild tales of the day, no longer cluster around our dinner table, filling the evening with hilarity. And the natural passage of time tends to erode the edges of a punchline, turning surprising twists into just another familiar phrase.
Laughter, as it turns out, may be overrated anyway. It is not, Reader's Digest to the contrary, the "best medicine." In a recent article, Robert Provine noted, "Laughter did not evolve to make us feel good or improve our health. Certainly, laughter unites people, and social support has been shown in studies to improve mental and physical health. Indeed, the presumed health benefits of laughter may be coincidental consequences of its primary goal: bringing people together.
"Most people think of laughter as a simple response to comedy, or a cathartic mood-lifter. Instead, after 10 years of research on this little-studied topic, I concluded that laughter is primarily a social vocalization that binds people together. It is a hidden language that we all speak. It is not a learned group reaction but an instinctive behavior programmed by our genes. Laughter bonds us through humor and play."
Laughter may not be what we thought it was, and it may not cure the common cold, but it does provide nonverbal confirmation that folks are sharing an experience. And in deep February, that offers hope.
So, in the interest of providing a unifying chuckle, we dip into the internet humor pool.
-- I live in a semi-rural area. We recently had a new neighbor call the local township administrative office to request the removal of the Deer Crossing sign on our road. The reason: too many deer were being hit by cars and he didn't want them to cross there anymore.
-- My daughter went to a local Taco Bell and ordered a taco. She asked the person behind the counter for "minimal lettuce." He said he was sorry, but they only had iceberg.
-- I was at the airport, checking in at the gate when an airport employee asked, "Has anyone put anything in your baggage without your knowledge?" To which I replied, "If it was without my knowledge, how would I know?" He smiled knowingly and nodded, "That's why we ask."
-- The stoplight on the corner buzzes when it's safe to cross the street. I was crossing with an intellectually-challenged coworker of mine when she asked if I knew what the buzzer was for. I explained that it signals blind people when the light is red. Appalled, she responded, "What on earth are blind people doing driving?"
-- When my husband and I arrived at an automobile dealership to pick up our car, we were told the keys had been locked in it. We went to the service department and found a mechanic working feverishly to unlock the driver's side door. As I watched from the passenger side, I instinctively tried the door handle and discovered that it was unlocked. "Hey," I announced to the technician, "it's open!" To which he replied, "I know, I already got that side."
-- A woman was taking a shower when her 2 year-old son came into the bathroom and wrapped himself in toilet paper. Although he made a mess, he looked adorable, so she ran for her camera and took a few shots. The photographs came out so well that she had copies made and included one with each of her Christmas cards. Days later a relative called about the picture, laughing hysterically and suggesting the woman take a closer look. Puzzled, she stared at the photo and was shocked to discover that in addition to her son she had captured her reflection in the bathroom mirror--wearing nothing but a camera!
-- A teacher noticed that a little boy in the back of the class was squirming around, scratching his crotch and not paying attention. She went back to find out what was going on. He was quite embarrassed and whispered that he had just recently been circumcised and he was quite itchy. The teacher told him to go to the principal's office and phone his mother and as her what he should do about it. H did as told and then returned to class. Suddenly, there was a commotion at the back of the room. The teacher went to investigate only to find the boy at his desk with his pants down. "I thought I told you to call your mom," she said. "I did," the boy replied. "And she told me that if I could stick it out till noon, she'd come and pick me up from school." ~ T. Stucky

"We were not created by God in the form of Adam and Eve to play out some divine scenario. We created God, gave him our form, gave him the attributes we would most like to have, gave him also the darker side of psyche—the vengeance, the loneliness, the disappointment, the longing. Our meaning comes not from afar, but from within. We, individually, decide the meaning of the rose, the meaning of the universe, the meaning of our roles in it. At our center is the urge to live, in peace, another day. As we expand from our center, realizing that this life on earth is everything we will ever have, that we can make it a heaven or we can make it a hell, we recognize from our myths that there is a right and a wrong, a life-giving and a life-taking, that some things provide peace and other do not, some things which are more real than others." ~ T. Stucky

My Dad, with the unwavering support of my Mom was the owner & editor of 2 small town newspapers: the Ninnescah Valley News and the Mount Hope Clarion. Dad's editorial column of nearly 30 years was called "and in this corner... t&n" - it was beloved by all who read it. My Dad passed away on the 23rd of January, after battling lymphoma for 9 months and I have since had numerous requests to publish his "corners" as they have become known. While he did create the newspapers on his laptop for the past 8-10 years, he never once saved it on a disc or jump drive, so the only copies we have of those editorial columns are in the actual printed newspapers...piles of which can be found in literary towers in my folk's basement. So publishing them becomes a process of riffling through 30 years of weekly newspapers, typing them into my laptop and posting them here; in this corner of the world wide web.