The Shining

You know, there are some people in life that just have a way of doing things that are...so...memorable.  My Dad has always been one of those people.  Is it just his Polish heritage that causes this continual one-upping effect?  Anything most people can do, he can do weirder (or clumsier).

Most of the time, we just stand back and watch whatever phenomenon he's creating with a combination of wonder and amusement.  We have always previously just kind of exempted his health exploits from this exceptionalism, however we were apparently wrong to do so.

Fairly recently, my Dad had to go in for another PET scan.  It was of concern considering how many recent bouts with various cancers he's had.  We were all a little nervous to get the results.  Come to find out, his cancer doctor was nervous to give him the results--although not for the usual reasons.

There was a shining glow shown in the scan, but it was not in the stomach as was expected.  That was great news for us, but how is an immigrant cancer doctor supposed to explain where the glowing WAS coming from?

He evidently managed to pull it off rather calmly.  His face didn't crack as he informed my father that the only glowing was coming from one of his buttocks.  Not both, just one.

How can this happen?  Do people really get cancer of the you-know-what?  If they do, is there an amputation option available?  Do they make prosthetics for that kind of thing or do you just have to resort to stuffing your back pocket with an oversized wallet?

I wonder if the cancer doctor went home and told his wife about breaking this particular news.  It must be memorable, I mean, how many people do you know that returned from their PET scan results appointment not crying, not thanking God in relief, but giggling.

Apparently it's just inflammation of the one side from who knows what.  We're awfully glad my Dad's going to be fine...and how nice of him to provide us such amusement.  He is now, officially, the butt of all our jokes.

Thanks, Pa, for always being the one in our family to light the way.  Your shining example is an inspiration...also kind of a freak of nature.

Now for the real pro...

I've previously posted at least one of my Polack exploits.  Although I exercise my clumsiness and irrationality on a regular basis, my skills are nothing when you compare them to my Dad's.  He's 100% Polack, and boy does it show!  Now, just so you know, clumsiness is not the only symptom, er, skill we Polacks have.  There's also this strange sort of jimmy-rigging, make it work, survival mentality, too, and this is what gives us a clever edge...until we trip and fall flat on our faces, that is.

Anyway, I'll mention this exploit of my Dad's, because I'm secretly very proud of it.

For those of you who don't know, my Dad had lung cancer and had most of one lung removed.  The rest of it's full of asbestos damage, courtesy of an active working/military life.  He is on regular nebulizer treatments to keep himself breathing, which can be really inconvenient when you have to come see your daughter in Ohio ten hours away.  Here's what he did...he somehow rigged up an electrical outlet which connected to his lighter.  That way, he could run his nebulizer machine in the car while he was driving.  Can't you just picture him, trucking down the highway with his nebulizer pipe in his mouth, condensation clouding up the cab?  That just kills me!  Why settle for what a normal person would do...stopping and plugging in for a few minutes at a time?  If you're going to waste your time keeping yourself breathing, you might as well do it as you drive down the road.

I drove his truck the day after he showed up...something I love to do because it has a clutch.  (I miss my clutch car!)  It was awfully handy to have an outlet while I was out, just in case I needed to curl my hair at a stop light or something.

THE Blackberry Syrup

Have I ever told you of my days as an amateur wine maker?  Yeah, well, it was just one of those things that have gone down in our family's Polack book of legendary bloopers.  Here's what happened...

When I was a teenager in high school, every July/August was the time I would wander around outside picking wild blackberries on our farm.  Some years, I got quite a bit of plunder and would look for creative ways to make use of them.  My Polish Grandma told me a story of what they would do in the old country.  Just make blackberry syrup!  I thought it was a great idea.  I got a large Mason jar and layered berries and sugar just the way Grandma instructed me.  She had told me to put a cheesecloth on top, but when my Dad saw me doing that, he said, "Awww...they only did that because they were too poor for a lid.  Just use a regular lid, it'll work just the same."

Hmmm...well, it sounded like a plausible reason, so I did what my Dad suggested and used a canning lid instead of the cloth.  Grandma said to put it in the window sill for two or three days.  The days got away from me...I left it for nearly two weeks.  The fateful day arrived when I opened the jar and loaded our vanilla ice cream with the 'syrup'.

Syrup it was not...wine it was.  My Dad manfully downed part of the ice cream, declaring it to be pretty good, but I noticed that he didn't go for the rest of the jar.  We kids were forbidden...we weren't of age to try the syrup!

A Nod to my Heritage...

Here's a shocking admission for you...I'm Polish.  Yes, yes, I know...you probably have some joke or other to tell me...which  I'll reuse as a blond joke.  Ha! Ha!

In all seriousness, it's a very handy thing to be a Polack.  (Yes, this is the correct spelling...apparently those who spell it 'polok' or 'polock' are just plain ignorant!  I had to look it up...)  So anyway...   All the clumsy, irrational, silly, and thoughtless things you do can be proudly displayed under the flag of your heritage.  I try to have a Polack moment on a regular basis...just for the fun factor of it.  By the way...it's not hard for me to contrive...it really does come naturally.

Here's what happened to me yesterday morning (I'm writing this on a Monday, so of course to add to the interestingness, we were all trying to get ready for church).  My daughter was dressing up for church, and I noticed that one of her flower clips was losing the flower, so I decided to quickly fix it before we left.  I whipped out the handy super glue container and started pasting.  Some of the glue was stuck, so like any normal Polish person, I squeezed harder.  The quick drying glue squirted all over my left hand, gluing my three middle fingers and my wedding ring together before dripping onto the laminate floor.  Of course, concerned for the flooring, I immediately wiped up what I could before it dried, later realizing that my fingers were glued together.  I managed to painfully pry my fingers apart, but it was really difficult to bend each finger, and my ring wasn't moving AT ALL.

I quickly called my clever father-in-law, a chemist and glue expert, as well as amateur pie maker, to try to get out of my predicament.  I can't remember the name of the chemical necessary to break the bond, but since I didn't have any GooGone or paint thinner, his cheery solution was, "It'll be gone by Tuesday or Wednesday!".

So, there I was with my glued-up, partially functioning hand, scar-like white lines of glue declaring my Polishness to the world.  Here's the great part.  Some of you know this already, but for my readers who don't know me personally, I'm the church piano player!  Do you know what it's like to play an offertory with a non-bending left hand?  I do...now.  Sigh...at least I can always blame any mistakes on my heritage...this time!