Merry Christmas, Pogo Style

I'm on a children's lit listserv and someone recently posted "Deck us all with Boston Charlie/Walla Walla Wash.  and Kalamazoo..."  as a nondenominational holiday greeting to the group.  I did a Huh? doubletake because I grew up with Jim singing the lyrics throughout the month of December, but I didn't realize he was quoting Pogo.

It shouldn't have been a surprise.  This past year I've made many mental notes of things I enjoy that are virtual presents from my parents.  Even though I won't find a package under the tree from them this Christmas, these gentle reminders of Norma and Jim are gifts.  As I giggle over a Calvin and Hobbes comic I receive daily in my email, I remember Norma's laughter as she poured over the Sunday funnies each week and Jim's Monday night ritual of settling into his Lazy Boy recliner to watch "The Flintstones."

These past few weeks I've taken a route to work most mornings that goes through a neighborhood decked with lights and holiday statues on nearly each front lawn.  It's a comforting reminder of the years my parents and I toured the same streets each Christmas night, winding down the holiday with a leisurely drive to admire the decorations.    I am sitting on the edge of the back seat of the car, my small hand holding onto the back of my father's seat.   He has an impish smile as he adds extra "rumpa pum pa's!" to his favorite carol, "The Little Drummer Boy" and my heart understands the meaning of joy.

Poem for Jeffie

Growing up with my parents was sometimes like that Drew Carey improv show, "Who's Line Is It Anyway?" with songs and random poems being created on the fly. 

When I started dating Jeff, I sent him this poem.  Who says the way to man's heart is through his stomach?  God knows, my Crock Pot Lasagne didn't work.

Love Poem for Jeffrey L Harrison

Jeffie Pooh, Jeffie Pooh
All I do is think of you.
When I'm trying to eat lunch
I think of you a whole bunch.
When I'm trying to do work
My mind's a fuzzy, messy murk.
Oh, what is a poor brain to do
When it is full of Jeffie Pooh?
-- Connie Parker Harrison

Another Christmas Poem

Not long ago a woman who worked with my mother cleaned out some desks at work and found a Christmas card my mother sent after she and my father moved to Tennessee.  What great surprise. 

Santa Claus may miss our house
Because we've moved, you see,
Down to the South where
"Hush my mouf" and "y'all" comes easily
Down here they say if you watch and pray
And believe if miracles awesome,
On Christmas Day, though Santa might stray,
You'll be visited by Pogo Possum.

The Power Of Keys

When I was a little girl, my parents would hand me their set of keys to keep me occupied. It worked. I developed quite a love of keys and would sit absorbed by them for minutes (ages in kid-time). However, my parents didn't foresee that I would use keys to get my way. At the age of four, I discovered that if an adult didn't have their keys, they could not leave. My aunt Marilyn was forced to dig around my parents' house on many occasions when I decided that she really should stay a little longer. Another discovery I made was that an adult's keys were best hidden in the purse of another adult. If the adult saw the keys in the purse, unless they looked closely, they would assume the keys belonged to the purse's owner. This kept the game in motion.


One day, my father stayed home from work to take me to a doctor's appointment. I didn't want to go and no amount of begging worked. When my mother set off for her job, I slipped his car keys in her purse and waved as she walked out the door. Later that day, my mother received a call from my exasperated father. "Look in your purse."



"What?" replied my mother.


"Just look in your purse."


"What are your car keys doing here?"


The nurse rescheduled my appointment. A successful delay, but not an overall achievement of objective. A new strategy would need to be employed.


When my parents moved from their home in Dearborn, my father left this note for the new owner:


Dear Purchaser:


The keys contained herein are almost completely lost-proof. But not quite. Certain precautions should be taken by the User to insure years of non-loss service.


The first measure taken to prevent loss is to put the keys in a drawer high above the reach of children, then forget where you put them. In this way, no fear of loss will ever be experienced.


Another guaranteed way to prevent loss is to put them in your "other" coat. When you need the keys to the car or house, you can say to your husband, "Let me use your keys, mine are in my Other Coat." They are not lost; you know exactly where they are. When your husband is not around and you go to the Other Coat to get your keys and you find that they are not there, you can say, "I know where I left them, in my "other" purse." The keys are still not lost because, of course, you know right where your Other Purse was left. After a thorough search of all four Other Purses and still there are no keys, they can usually be found at a glance on the outside of the door. Or, by looking at the lock on the car's truck.


If you have taken all of these precautions and still fear a loss, you may tie a tag to the keys which says, "If Found Return To" then put your home address, your work address, your mother's address, the LBJ Ranch in Texas, and the Taj Mahal. This way, dead or alive, your keys will be returned to you almost any place in the world.


Sincerely,


The Seller

Happy Birthday to Me

For someone who complained about getting older, Jim sure loved to celebrate his birthday.


Happy Birthday to Me

Birthdays come around each year
There's no use to fight it
They add no bounce to our step
There's no use to deny it

There's one thing I don't understand
If birthdays come so slow and steady
How come they get here 90 days
Before I'm even ready?

Santa II

I found his poem in a sewing machine drawer with counted cross stitch supplies. It was typed on onionskin typing paper, the kind people used before Spell Check, when typos needed to be manually erased. The typing is pretty bad, which means it had to have been pecked out by Jim.


Santa II


I heard the clacking on the roof
The night was geting cold and darker
As Santa parked his sleigh and reindeer
Out jumped my friends, Jim and Norma Parker.

Poem For Michael

Did I mention that Norma was a horder? I have spent this morning going through boxes in one corner of the two car garage. There were eight boxes piled up and they looked fairly innocent. Jim may have been puzzled by Norma's cookbook addiction, but I would like a nickle for every greeting card she bought and didn't mail. If you need greeting cards, give The Hope Center in Waverly a couple weeks and they'll have a selection that's better than Wal-Mart's over on the By-Pass.

In the last box, as I could see the end of today's garage cleaning objective in sight, I began to get a little brazen. Rather than thumbing through each piece of paper (yes, I am Norma's daughter), I felt the urge to begin chucking handsful of paper into the trash (Jim's daughter began to take over). I stopped as I found a stenopad because, even though I had found scads of empty ones and others full of grocery lists, you just never know what to expect from Norma and Jim.

The first page contained kitchen measurements for a possible remodelling job. The second page had this poem. And a list of utility bills for the month. Like I said, you just never know with those two. The rest of the pages were blank.

Poem for Michael

Now, don't be upset, Michael,
At this card's lack of humor
'Cause when it comes to getting laughs
Some folks are just late bloomers

So if this card has no class
Don't let it bother you a bit
'Cause you have all the class it takes
To cover this card's lack of it.