My Friend Bill

My father has recurring dreams where he and Bill Clinton spend hours in conversation.  I can understand how that might really be possible.  He and dad would have a great time together.  My father has never been shy about offering his ideas or advice and a lot of my world was shaped by those ideas and those of my mother, for which I am truly thankful.

As my father tells it...

So in the dream my 20-something father is sitting on a fence that rambles along beside a dusty, country dirt road in Kansas.

Envision weeds growing down the center of the road with wagon and tractor tracks to either side.  We aren't talking about cars or truck here for the most part, although my grandfather had a black Ford truck stick shift that had a hole through the middle of the floorboard where those weeds came right up through!  But that was later and another story!

It is summer, the trees, in full leaf, are moving languidly in the soft breeze.  The air is sweet with the smell of honeysuckle and sweet clover.  When slowly Dad realizes that there is music in the air -- something familiar in both the melody and the singer that brings him off the fence to look for the source.

He walks down the dirt road toward the music.  He recognizes the voice now.  It is Merle Haggard singing -- singing a song my father wrote.  (Yes, my father has also written a number of songs, some with lyrics -- in his head.  He can sing many of them on request, if anyone is asking!)

So he continues toward the music and notices lots of people headed toward a tree covered picnic area to the right where Merle is singing.  There are lots of people there who are laughing, talking and waiting for the picnic lunch.  It is at this point dad spots Bill Clinton in the group.  They make eye contact and it is just like they have always known each other.

"Hey, Jack," Bill says approaching dad and shaking his hand, "good to see you!  Haven't seen you in a long time.  What have you been doin' with yourself?"

Dad is so happy to see Bill.  He truly has a special place in dad's heart and he loves to talk with him.  I think that it is because Bill is such a great listener.  Anyway, dad and Bill decide to sit at one of the tables.  This was going to be a long conversation -- we all know this, right?

So they sit down and talk and talk with multiple conversations, laughter, the smell of barbeque and the sound of Merle Haggard in the background.   Dad says he doesn't remember that much about what he and Bill talked about, but that they were both really content in each others company and solving the problems of the world.

Then a couple of women who were getting the tables set up with table cloths came over to their table and interrupted their great conversation saying impatiently, "Okay, you guys have to move.  We need to get this table set up."

Dad looked up at them, and then back to Bill who smiled a big smile and said to everyone within earshot, "Hey, Jack, I guess they don't know who you are!"

This is the point where Dad usually smiles his big smile and says, "Imagine that, Bill Clinton looks at me and says, 'Guess they don't know who you are, Jack!'"

And then he laughs very pleased with himself and with his friend Bill.

Doin' a Fritzy

The last time I was home my brother-in-law, Jeff, made ice cream.  This is a special family event and everyone gets involved in turning the crank.  Jeff likes to do things like we did back in the "old days" -- and we love him for it!

My Mother has a list of words that trigger certain stories of my father.  She says that "ice cream" triggers the story of Fritzy, and of course, this time was no exception.

The family, and anyone else within earshot, hears this story almost every time we have ice cream, whether it is hand cranked or not.  In fact, telling this story is such a tradition in the family that Jeff's kids, Nick (4) and Rudy (6), often prompt their grandfather to tell them about Fritzy before he has an opportunity to say...."You know, when I was living down home..."

"Down home" was a farm in Wathena, Kansas where my father grew up as a child.  The farm land was located on rolling hillsides where apple and peach orchards grew and in "bottom land" where the Boeh family planted, nurtured and picked acres upon acres of strawberries, corn, soybeans.  "Down home" is the setting for countless stories, and the story of Fritzy was no exception.

I can imagine that Sunday in mid-summer, when the air was hot, very still and heavy and the only sound was the sound of the cicadas in trees that surrounded the farmhouse.  Sunday was a day during which only necessary tasks were performed.  The remainder of the day was reserved for family.

My Dad had two sisters, Virginia (Butch) and Bernadette (Penny) and one brother, Ray.  Although there was always a slew of aunts, uncles, cousins and relatives at the house, especially on Sunday, which was "visiting" day.

Probably for relief from the heat as well as for a treat, the family decided to make ice cream.  So the kids were sent off to get ice from the ice house, eggs from the chickens, milk and cream from the cows (really!) and the remaining store bought ingredients, while their mother located the ice maker.

After all the ingredients had been assembled and mixed together, everyone took turns cranking the cream until no one could turn it any more which meant that it was ready.

Dad and Ray, probably in their pre-teen years, were been sitting on the porch enjoying the cold, sweet cream, when they noticed Fritzy, one of the many stray dogs that found their way to the farm, excitedly jumping around them anxious for a taste of what she knew was something good to eat.

"So there was Fritzy running and jumping up trying to get some of our ice cream," Dad recounted to the family at large, "and that was when Ray looked at me and said, 'Let's give her some ice cream and see if she likes it.'"

"Yeah, Ray," Dad said, "go ahead, give her some of yours."

So Ray put his entire bowl down on the ground so Fritzy could have a "taste."

"Well, that dog had never had ice cream before and she went after it like it was biscuits covered in steak gravy," said Dad.  "She took one large bite, and then stood absolutely still for a few seconds.  Then began turning her head from one side to another and running around in circles!  Then she put her head on the ground and moaned.  Ray and I were laughing so hard, we nearly wet our pants!"

"Jack?  Ray?" came the voice of their mother, "What are you boys doing to that dog?"

"Nothing," they said.  "She just wanted Ray's ice cream," Dad said, "so he gave her some."

I am sure that this episode was followed by a mini-lecture about squandering "resources" on a dog, but Dad has never said what happened next.  He is always laughing so hard at the memory that he can't talk.

We do know that the dog eventually recovered and grew to love ice cream, but from that day forward whenever anyone bit into some ice cream and made a face, everyone commented that they were "doin' a Fritzy."

Old Age

My father gets up at 5 almost every morning and my mother gets up with him to make certain he has the St. Joseph News-Press, a cup of tea or coffee and a couple of cinnamon graham crackers to start the day.

They both sit companionably at the small breakfast table in the kitchen for a couple of hours, read the paper completely through - funny pages, obituaries and ads - while commenting periodically, on something they see and their thoughts about it.

Mother finishes reading long before Dad and devotes herself to completing crossword puzzles and adding to her shopping list any "specials" she finds.  The conversation is limited and sporadic.  I suppose that after 65 years, you can kind of surmise what the person sitting across the table from you will say.

One particular morning around 7:30, I made my way to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down hoping the caffeine would help me feel less drowsy.

Dad looked at me, his finger marking where he had left off in his paper, while my Mother solved her crossword puzzle, and said, "So did I tell you my definition of old age?"

I looked at Mother who gave me the briefest of glances with just a trace of a smile before returning to her crossword puzzle.

"No, Dad, you didn't."

"Ills, pills, bills and wills," he says with a smile.

Life is Like a...

My 87-year-old father, Jack (Robert) Boeh, has lived a long, fruitful and wonderful life.  Outwardly, to the people he has worked with and for, he has been a brewer, and later, carpenter by trade.  But to those who really know him, he is also a philosopher, storyteller and dreamer. 

He probably has never thought of himself as a philosopher, although I believe he would be flattered, and downright pleased, if he heard others refer to him as one.

My father is in hospice care now and my mother, Patricia, his wife of 65 years, is with him in their home.  He has had a couple of heart “episodes” and been diagnosed with congestive heart failure.  Some days are better than others.

On one of his better days, we were sitting at the kitchen table one morning during one of my most recent visits, when he shared one of his current “philosophies” with me.

“Jennifer,” he said,  “they call me the ‘string man’ at the doctor’s office.”  These kinds of statements were always followed by a long pause to probe the depth of my interest and introduce the story.

“Hum?  They do?  Why is that?” I asked, putting down my coffee and giving him my full attention.  These moments were important to him, but were sometimes difficult for family, since we had frequently heard the stories that followed numerous times.

“Well, because I have this philosophy about life.  Life,” he smiled, “is like a ball of string.”  Again, there was a long pause.  “No matter how long it is, you always run out.” 

I thought about it for a few seconds and digested it.  This was one I hadn’t heard before. “That’s a good one, Dad.  I like it.”  He smiled, very pleased with himself.

“But, why,” I asked, “do they call you the ‘string man’ at the doctor’s office?”

“Because a couple weeks after my last hospital stay, I went to see my doctor, Dr. Grant, at his office.  He said to me, ‘Jack, what can I do for you today?’

"I told Dr. Grant about how life was like a ball of string, and then I said, ‘So, doc, I'm here to get a little more string.  Seems like you never have enough.’"

Then he said that Dr. Grant stopped for a moment, laughed and said, “You know what, Jack, you’re absolutely right!  Let’s see if we can find you some more string!”

When Dad had finished his story, he looked at me and added, “You know, I think I should get this idea copyrighted.  I bet the hospital would be interested in using it for a slogan, ‘You know, 'See us if you need more string.'  Or 'Got string?’"

“Yeah, Dad, I bet they would be interested in your idea.”

So, Dad, now that your "philosophy" is part of this “literary creation,” it is considered copyrighted!

Thank you, Dr. Grant, Jason, Katie, Judy, Terri and Sister Susan for finding my Dad a little more string – enough so that we could have a wonderful and full week of stories, philosophies and dreams.