All superheroes wear a signature costume and color uniquely theirs and instantly recognizable to the citizens they are charged with protecting.  Superman wears red and blue, Batman wears black and yellow, and The Green Lantern wears, well, green obviously.  But my favorite superhero wears soft pink velour.

During my second year in law-school, my roommate and I lived in a two-story townhouse in the back of the complex. Our complex was quiet and private and located only one mile from my parents’ house.  Our back concrete patio extended into a small yard bordered by a forest, and tall brick walls separated our patio from the neighbors on each side.

When you entered from the front door, you stood in our den and could walk straight ahead into our dining room, and then immediately turn left into our kitchen.  Our dining room had double sliding glass doors that opened onto the patio, covered by a curtain that opened and closed by a pulley on a drapery rod, with a broken off broom-stick wedged in the bottom of the doorsill.  But, the curtain only partially covered the sliding glass doors because the pulley hung up so that a quarter-inch gap of glass peeked out past the edge of the curtain.

Our kitchen also opened onto the back patio by a Dutch split door with a full window in the upper half of the door decorated with diamond patterned lattice strips.  We never hung a curtain over that window.   The resulting effect was that at night, we could not see outside, but we were illuminated inside to anyone who might be outside looking into the kitchen.  And, although the kitchen had a phone jack, we never bought a phone for the downstairs.  Or at least not until while studying in early December for our fall semester finals when my roommate spontaneously declared she was going to Wal-Mart to buy a phone.  She did and that same night we installed the portable phone in the kitchen.  Which turned out to be a fortunate impetuous decision.

The next night I stayed home to study while my roommate went to the library.  Shortly before 7 p.m., and with the winter night’s inky darkness blanketing the world, I ambled downstairs and into the kitchen to make supper.  As I stood at the microwave mindlessly watching the Lean Cuisine rotating around and around, I heard a loud and unmistakable rattling of the sliding glass doors.  It wasn’t wind.  It wasn’t an earthquake.  And, it grew louder and more intense.  Instantly fearful for who was outside and working on being inside with me, I yanked the portable phone off its base.   I stood rigid in the only spot where I couldn’t be seen between the kitchen and dining room…leaning against the broadside of the refrigerator just inside the doorway between the two rooms.

The menacing jiggling continued.  Instinctively I called….Dad.  Dad has guns.  Except that I miscalculated Dad’s availability.  Mom, who was in bed recovering from cervical discectomy surgery with strict instructions to lie flat and still, answered.  Dad was at the university taking his weekly Spanish course.  I blurted out that someone was attempting to break into my townhouse and Mom yelled, “Call 911!” Right. I should have thought of that.

I called 911.  Whoever was outside that door was single-mindedly determined.  As the dispatcher collected the necessary information, I noticed my two Persian cats’ reaction to the impending threat, both of whom were in the dining room facing the glass doors.  Fergie, my mentally disabled orange cat, bowed up in a picture-perfect pose of a Halloween cat….every hair standing on end, with her gums drawn back showing every fang.  Emma, the grouchy fat silver cat, cowered with fear and urinated on herself and the carpet.  As if I didn’t have enough to think about, I found myself oddly diverted mentally cursing the mess I would have to clean up, all while answering the 911 operator’s questions.  The intruder’s efforts continued without ceasing.

In the distance I heard a faintly strange noise.   waaaaannnhhhhh.  It grew louder, longer, and closer.  wwwaannnhhhhhhh.  And, then it was right outside my townhouse! WAAAAAANNNNNHHHHHHHH.  My mother’s car horn!  My mother was speeding through the complex flat-out laying on her horn.  BAM! BAM! BAM!  The iron knocker on my front door slammed into the door three times, and I joyfully told the 911 dispatcher my mother had arrived.  The shaking glass doors stopped precisely and simultaneously with my mother’s horn blaring in the parking lot.  The 911 operator warned me not to open the front door, but I KNEW, KNEW in my heart who it was.

I flung open the front door and my red-headed mother burst in wild-eyed and wild-haired wearing her full-length bubblegum pink velour zip-up house-robe.  My mother, who never even walks to the mailbox without coiffed hair and perfectly applied lipstick, paced around makeup-less in my den, her meadow-green eyes darting around, gesturing excitedly, and threatening all sorts of  unspeakable harm to the unknown criminal.  I no longer feared for my safety, but I feared for the intruder’s safety if Mom got her hands on him.

The police arrived several minutes later, and investigated.  The sliding glass doors were found popped upward and outward from the track, a condition which rendered the broken broomstick ineffective as a safety mechanism.  My mother’s quick thinking prevented the intruder from actually entering the townhouse, and from perpetrating harm upon me.  My mother rescued me.

The police left.  I hugged and kissed Mom, and I began the process of calming Mom, and cleaning up the cat and the carpet.  I think I’ll buy Mom a pink velour robe this Christmas.  Wonder if I can find one with a large “M” embroidered on the front?

As mothers all around the country prepare the traditional Thanksgiving turkey, side dishes, and desserts, we here in the Cook household are more concerned with the pursuit of an untraditional and different delicacy altogether.  All because of a teensy little white lie.

Our son, Noah, is a finicky eater.  We don’t really know why, but even as an itty bitty infant, we had to tickle the palms of his feet and blow on his face to accomplish a complete bottle feeding.  Nine years later, meal times still frustrate us.  Not him, but definitely us.  Joel, who has never met a meal he didn’t like, has threatened to have him DNA tested to be sure he really is a Cook.

Additionally, Noah fancies himself as an outdoorsman.  He has a bow and arrow with a practice target, a Red Ryder BB gun (yes, I have warned him he’ll put his eye out), a Wii big game hunter game, a pellet gun, and camouflage clothing galore.  He actually shot a bird at some distance off our back deck this summer.  And, although I hoped that he would be saddened by the bird plummeting from the tree to the grass, it only encouraged him.  Even Granddaddy telling him about shooting a bird in his youth with his BB gun and his father mournfully telling him, “Now we’ll never hear that bird sing again” did not deter Noah from dreaming of future hunting glory and bigger game conquests.

One night earlier this summer Joel heard Noah and a friend playing the Wii game and heard them whooping and hollering that they shot a wild boar.  When Joel fixed breakfast the next morning of eggs and bacon, Noah piddled around until Joel suddenly, and believing himself to be oh so clever, said that this wasn’t just any bacon, no, it was wild boar bacon.   Plain bacon?  Not interested.  Wild Boar Bacon?  Ravaged within minutes.

Only one small problem with that first stretching of the truth:  does such a dish even exist?  Now multiple breakfasts have gone by and the wild boar bacon fudging continues.  Noah eats it with gusto.  Joel hedges and says that he isn’t sure if the grocery store will have it in stock.  Noah asks expectantly and hopefully every morning, “Dad, is this the wild boar bacon?”  And, Joel, for whom truth is paramount–see the The Ninth Commandment — finds himself stuck in a trap, a steel claw trap around the ankle of his integrity from which he can not escape.

Until tonight.  One of Joel’s friends posted on Facebook that her husband has returned from a deer hunt.  The husband did not shoot any deer, but is returning triumphantly with a wild boar.  Joel posted right away to her hoping to secure bacon, and acknowledging the problem he has created, which I have typed below exactly as the posts appear on Facebook:

“Mary:  And so Leo is on his way home with ‘no big buck’ but he did get a wild boar! Ugh!!! What to do???  He thinks this should excite me as much as it did him….Not!

Joel:  I need wild boar bacon.  No joke.  Noah was playing a hunting game several months ago in which he shota wild boar.  In an effort to encourage him to eat I told him the bacon I was cooking was wild boar bacon.  Now he thinks he is one of the few people who have ever had wild boar.  I’ve got to get him some actual wild boar now.  What a tangled web we weave.”

Yes, darling.  What a tangled web.  Good luck with that. That trap looks a little rusty.

Sarah Grace has taken ballet since she was three, and we waited until she was three only because that was the youngest age the ballet school would accept students.  When she was two she began saying, “I want to be a bow-a-weena” after seeing her first ballet.  She is now seven.

As part of the ballet school, she participates in the annual production of The Nutcracker.  (Plug here:  It is a wonderfully produced show, and is quite professional in its presentation while utilizing mostly local talent.)  This year however, the show needed a few extra men to portray guests and parents in the party scene, and now Joel is signed up to wear a tuxedo and play along.

All of which has Sarah Grace genuinely upset.  “But, he’ll embarrass me!”  Upon hearing that Daddy would be in The Nutcracker, she burst into quiet tears, and begged him not to do it.  I have reassured her that Daddy won’t actually dance, and he will just be the equivalent of human scenery.  But, her fears were not assuaged.  “But, he doesn’t even know what a plie is!  And, he can’t act!”

Unfortunately, Joel tried tonight to prove to her that he could act.  She told him that he would have to act scared of the godfather.  So, Joel genuinely tried to make a scared face.  Instead, he unintentionally reaffirmed her doubts.  “Dad, that’s why I’m going to be embarrassed!” And, she lamented that he hasn’t been to even a single practice yet and there are only a certain number of practices left before the early December shows.  Never mind that he only needs to know when to walk on and walk off for a total of one scene, Sarah Grace is mortified that he will destroy her turn at ballet stardom.

Fortunately, she does not know about Joel’s brief, but memorable attempt at modern dancing.  Several years ago, married friends of ours relayed a story that involved a different friend of theirs also named Joel.  The wife, who was friends with the other Joel, told her husband that the other Joel–who is different in temperament and orientation than our Joel—had taken up modern dance and was quite excited about it.  The husband, thinking she meant our Joel, was puzzled and just couldn’t envision Joel adopting such a hobby.  Even though his wife reassured him that Joel was enthused about it, the husband finally said, “Joel COOK?” At that point, they each realized that she meant the other Joel while he thought she meant our Joel.

Our friends told us this story just before coming to visit us.  And, Joel’s mind began to whirl.  He dragged out his old waist to heel spandex work-out tights and tried them on. But, they aren’t just a solid color.  Nope.  They are black with green, turquoise, and purple geometric shapes with a occasional red stripe thrown in for visual effect.  Oh, and what an effect it is.  Joel has kindly modeled them in the picture below:

Joel is almost 6’4″, and his frame is best described as broad shouldered wtih large biceps, balanced on top of long, skinny legs.  The tights starkly accentuate the contrast between his upper half and the lower half.  When our friends rang the doorbell, Joel came out wearing only the tights….no t-shirt, no shoes….and leapt non-artistically across the foyer in his worst imitation of a jete with his arms flailing above his head.  Feigning surprise he said, “Oh, sorry!  You caught me practicing my modern dance!“  Our friends were shocked, of course.  They had never seen this side, nor this much of Joel.  And, clearly he couldn’t dance, modern or otherwise.

Yes, Sarah Grace.  Come to think of it, you are right to be worried.  Now I’m a little embarrassed too.

Growing up, our father, a doctor, made house calls on patients and worried at night about them including late night phone calls to their homes just to assure himself that they were recovering.  But, at home with us, barely anything ever qualified as being sick, let alone sick enough, to merit serious consideration.  Dad’s philosophy and famous sayings to us were (and still are):

1.) “Suck it up, you aren’t sick.”

2.) “Bleeding always stops.”

3.) “You’ll live.”

“You’ll live” was his go-to phrase, and applied beyond physical ailments.  Minor life disappointments also fell under the you’ll live umbrella.  (Dad also said, “you go where the driver goes”, “if frogs had wings”, and “we’ll see.”  All of which could be the subject of a separate post.)

As for our complaints of maladies, the general pattern was more along the lines of:  Fever?  Don’t even bring it up until you are sweating as if you are in the Sahara desert.  Coughing?  Go to a different room where he couldn’t hear you and just deal with it.  Headache?  It will pass.  Sore throat?  He occasionally used his tongue depressor and the flashlight to look in our throats, then palpate our neck glands, before declaring, “Suck it up, you aren‘t sick.”  These phrases also conveyed with them the unspoken credo of not missing school or other obligations due to inconsequential complaints.  Go forth, work hard, and be productive.

This is not to say that Dad didn’t express love and concern for us, because he did.  But, Dad rarely saw a looming disaster, and minor ailments were just that – so minor that they were trivial and not to be worried over.  He applied these principles to himself as well, and I can recall only two times in his now seventy years where he was ill:  once when his eye was seriously injured by a tennis ball and once when his white cell count mysteriously dropped to near fatal levels.  So, because of Dad’s outlook, if he ever declared you to be ill, then, by golly, you were in bad shape.

On the other hand, if Dad was a minimalist, then Mom was a fatalist.  Mom, a nurse, subscribed heavily to the certainty of imminent death.  Mom was years ahead of the reality t.v. show “A Thousand Ways to Die” in envisioning how the end will happen.  But, mostly, Mom extrapolated from the most minor of events straight to the worst possible outcome.  A cold was merely the first step to pneumonia.  An abrasion was the opening for a nasty staph infection.  A fever was the gateway to seizures.  A stomach ache was undiagnosed appendicitis.  And, so on.

My father, sister, and I who were just a tad dismissive and cynical of her doomsday outlook developed a habit of sardonically saying, both to her and laughingly behind her back, “That could kill you.”  Which, Mom laughed at but ignored.  She knew she was right, even if we mocked her.  As Mom saw it, the Grim Reaper’s feet were propped up on our coffee table, his hooded cloak hung in the coat closet, and his scythe rested in the umbrella stand by the front door in the foyer.  Mom was the sort of parent that if she was cold, then we had to put on a coat.  If we were driving on the interstate, at full speed, our doors had to be locked just in case a super-human reprobate tried to run up beside us, hi-jack our car, and kidnap us.  (We called this inconceivable hypothetical criminal Fifty-Five Mile Per Hour Man, and much like Big Foot we never saw him, but our mother‘s belief in him was unnaturally strong.)

One weekend we took our toddler sons and infant daughter, my sister, and Mom and Dad to the lake for a family picnic.  As the boys teetered out of the mini-van, one of the boys turned and stuck his hand in the doorway just as the automatic sliding passenger door began closing.  The door mechanism contained a safety feature to prevent smashing little ones’ hands.  But what did Mom say?  No, not a gentle warning.  Mom screamed, “STOP! YOU‘LL CUT YOUR ARM OFF!”

And, well…that could kill you.  Or, as Dad would see it, since you would still have one good arm, suck it up, you aren’t sick and you’ll live.  Who needs two arms anyway?  And, eventually all bleeding stops.

“WE’RE GOING TO CHURCH, DAMN-IT!”*  My father, although generally mild-tempered and slow to be provoked, and not prone to cursing, occasionally said these words circa the early to mid-1980’s during our Sunday morning drives to church.  We only lived twenty minutes from church, so it was always surprising that in just ten to fifteen minutes of family togetherness in the Cutlass Oldsmobile on the Lord’s day that none of us were in the proper frame of mind for worshipping.  Or, come to think of it, perhaps we were precisely in the right frame of mind after all since we all needed to pray and repent for our sins, including those of just that morning.  Pretty much by the time we reached the stoplight at one particular intersection, we all sat in silence as my sister and I ceased bickering once Dad erupted.

Last night a neighbor told me that her four-year old son knew The Lord’s Prayer (which they call the “Our Father“) and could say it all by himself.   Her son was very proud and excited to say it in their service this weekend, and she was beaming with joy for him.  I shared in her joy.  But, I began to wonder if my three children knew it.

We changed churches and denominations mid-summer 2012.  In our prior denomination, we said The Lord’s Prayer occasionally.  In our new church, we say it and the Doxology every Sunday, which I enjoy.  Most Sundays Joel drives separately and earlier, so the kids and I are in the car together for a thirty minute drive.  So, on the drive to church this morning, I saw an opportunity to review the prayer with the children and to explain the meaning of the components of the prayer.

Cheerfully and optimistically, I asked, “Who knows The Lord’s Prayer and can say it by themselves?”  Noah said, “I can!”  Sarah Grace said, “I think I can!”  And, Samuel, sitting in the far back row of the SUV remained mute.  I thought back to one afternoon when the boys were about four years old that Noah volunteered, “Daddy, I love Jesus.”   To which Samuel replied dryly, “Well, I don’t like him.”  And, Joel rolled with laughter as he impressed upon Samuel that yes, indeed, he did love Jesus.  So, I was not surprised that Noah knew the prayer and Samuel didn’t.

We proceeded to say the prayer together, and then to take turns saying it.  Noah knew it perfectly.  Sarah Grace said “Our Father, hell-ed be your name….”  No, Hell is not a topic in this prayer.  We straightened out hallowed versus hell-ed.  But, primarily within minutes our discussion became a round-robin cacophony of bickering and accusations among the children, particularly as they ganged up on Samuel.  “That isn’t what it says!  Duh!”  “Leave me alone!”  “You don’t know it!”  “I do too!”  “Nuh-uh, so if you know it then say it!”  “I know what a trespass is and you are trespassing against me!”

Suddenly very angry and in my decaffeinated state, I raised my voice, “STOP IT!  JUST QUIT IT NOW!  WE WILL JUST SAY IT WHEN WE ARE IN CHURCH!” They sat in silence and stared out the windows for the rest of the drive.  I silently prayed:

Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.  Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread.  And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.  And, lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil:  For Thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory, forever.

Oh, and we’re going to church, damn-it.  Amen.

*Footnote:  My father thinks that if he ever said that, then it was in a sarcastic, dark-humored way meant to impress upon us the need to behave.  But, he isn’t exactly denying that he said it.  🙂

Since it is Halloween, I will tell a true-life horror story.

During college I lived on-campus, but I came home regularly to wash clothes, eat home-cooked meals, study, and just hang out with Mom and Dad. Although Mom and Dad built a custom home just before I started college, and this house wasn’t my childhood home, they did build a small bedroom for me and they gave me a key to come and go freely. That worked pretty well until one horrifying afternoon when my eyeballs were seared with an image that I can’t forget, even now.

I have written before about my mother’s “assets”. My father makes no secret of his love and admiration of his wife (46 years now and counting), and her physical proportions. And, growing up, Mom and Dad kissed and hugged each other routinely in our presence, often causing my sister and me to groan and roll our eyes. Really, when you are a teenager, who wants to consider their parents doing “it”? Especially when “it” is generally still a mystery other than perhaps a basic health class or two. Even the frankly clinical birds and bees discussion with the aid of the World Book Encyclopedia plastic multi-page overlay colored illustrations delivered one afternoon in the family room by my mother, without me even asking for such knowledge, did not clear up the mystery. And applying such information to our parents, well, blecchh.

One spring afternoon I came home to do laundry and hang out. Mom and I whiled away the afternoon. My laundry was finished and folded just about the time Oprah came on, about 4 p.m. Dad wouldn’t be home from his office until about 5:30 p.m., and I had other things to do on campus. So, I left. I drove away, and just down the street I remembered I had left something or another at the house. I turned around and pulled into the half-circle driveway, bounded up the front steps, and used my key to open the front door and step into the foyer. I had only been gone five minutes, and certainly not as many as ten minutes.

My mother, hearing the door open, stepped into the foyer. Except that Mom wasn‘t expecting me. She was expecting someone else. She emerged from the hallway and upon seeing me she was not happy, not happy at all, to greet me in the foyer. “SUZY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” My mother was now wearing a floor length black negligee with an extremely plunging neckline. Extremely. This was not Oprah watching attire. I left her in house clothes and came back mere minutes later to find Elvira, Mistress of the Dark right there in suburbia. Stunned, I could only stammer, “Um, um….what are you doing? I mean, I was just here.” Mom vaguely stuttered something about she expected Dad home early and I had to leave immediately.  She was slightly frantic when she said “immediately”.

I left even quicker than immediately. I do not know whether their afternoon was delightful or not, but my afternoon was quite disturbing.