All posts in Diversions

UPDATE: This is a post I wrote back in September 2007. I’ve updated it to reflect the current year, 2012.

Orlin Neville Horn. How’s that for a name?

Today is my grandpa’s 90th birthday.  I’ll be heading up to Oregon soon to celebrate this milestone birthday with him.

I am very lucky to be 44 and still have a grandpa.  He was 46 when I was born, which is kind of young to be a grandpa.  But here’s the kicker–my grandma was 39 when I was born!  I can’t imagine being a grandmother at the age I am now, considering I can’t even imagine being a mother.  But I suppose it would feel very nice to know that I’d finished the hard work of raising my children and could now enjoy my grandchildren.  Here is a photo of my grandparents holding me (left) and my brother (right):

Here is a picture of my grandpa when he was a boy (he’s the taller one on the left.  The one on the right is his brother Hollis, who passed away a few of years ago):

Remember the old cliche “When I was a kid I had to walk five miles, barefoot, in the snow to school?”  Well my grandpa really did!

My grandpa grew up in Arkansas during the depression.  He was the oldest of eight children–four boys and four girls.  All four girls are still living, but my grandpa is the only remaining boy.  They were very poor.  My great-grandfather worked as a field hand and so did his boys.  During the depression, they were employed through the WPA.

My grandpa was a tractor mechanic for much of his life but basically did all sorts of ranch work during his entire career.  He is missing his right index finger up to the knuckle–the result of a work accident years ago.

This is my favorite picture of my grandpa:

He stopped playing the guitar when he lost his finger. I have his guitar displayed in my house (it’s not the same guitar as in the picture though. Wonder what ever happened to that one?).

Here’s a bit of trivia for you:  My grandparents used to bowl with Johnny Cash’s ex-wife, Vivian.  They didn’t like the movie “Walk the Line” because they didn’t like the way it portrayed her.

Another bit of trivia: my grandpa used to haul cattle on Slauson Boulevard from a ranch very near the property now occupied by LAX.

There are very, very few people in the world who I love more than my grandpa. He is an old man now, despite the fact that I still see and think of him the way I did when I was a little girl.  He taught me all I need to know to live to be 90:

1)  Smoke at least a pack a day for 40 years
2)  Drink at least one beer a day
3)  Drink a Carnation Instant Breakfast every morning
4)  Eat pinto beans at dinner every night
5) Watch a lot of Bonanza
6)  Never give up your love of the casinos
7)  Be married to the same woman for 65+ years
8)  Love your family more than anything, especially your first born granddaughter

My grandpa probably won’t ever see this, but I’ll say it anyway:

Happy Birthday, Grandpa!

P.S. Here’s another funny Grandpa story.

On Tuesday we celebrate the one year anniversary of living in our house. To celebrate, I thought I'd post pictures of my office space.

John Hornor Jacobs started this "trend" of writers showing their office a couple of months ago. It took me that long to clean up and rearrange my office, but over the weekend I finally got it in some kind of working order.

Here is the wide shot:

The room is pretty big, but since it's got to function as both my office, my gym, and our guest room, space must be used wisely.

Well, maybe not so wisely, because my desk is huge, and I love it. I got it from a Craigslist ad about four months ago.

There are actually no bookcases in the room since I've got a big one in the hallway right outside the door. But these are the books I use on a regular basis or that inspire me so I keep them close.

I know three monitors seems excessive but really, they are very useful.

The picture below is my treadmill desk. It's really not very high tech–Mick just built me a little wooden platform I can rest my laptop on. I try to go 10,000 steps a day, and most days, that means I have to spend a little quality time on the treadmill.

I was going for a Mad Men vibe with my furnishings. Didn't quite acheive it, but I'm very happy with it just the same. I got this chandelier for less than $100 on Overstock.com.

Another Craigslist find. This dresser is actually one of my favorite pieces of furniture in the house.

So I mentioned my office is also the guest room. This is actually a trundle bed that pulls out to make a king-size bed. Buying this was one of the best decisions we ever made because it saves so much space but allows our guests to be comfy.

Finally, this chair (another Craigslist item) doesn't serve much of a purpose other than to be awesome (it's partner is in the living room).

I still need to paint since the mint green doesn't quite do it for me, but that might not happen for awhile.

So this is where I work most days. If I'm writing a first draft I use a yellow legal pad and write all over the house. Sometimes I sit at the dining room table too because for some reason I find it hard to sit in the same spot all the time.

Wanna see more writers' offices?

John Hornor Jacobs
Daniel B. O'Shea (He inspired the treadmill desk)
Keith Rawson

I know I've said this before, but there are very few people in the world I love more than my grandfather. He's 88, and he's old. I ought to know: he never stops reminding me, and everyone else, of it. Born in Blaine, Arkansas in 1922, he's the oldest of eight children and they were a poor family. Like barefoot-in-and-living-in-a-one-room-cabin poor. He recently told me they ate a lot of meat growing up, then proceeded to regale me with tales (again) about hunting possums and squirrels, even a hedgehog once (he admitted they might not have eaten that).

Above all, though, my grandpa is a man of simple tastes. I only point these things out because they provide important context for the story I'm about to tell.

On Sunday, we went to the local casino to play bingo. It's one of my grandpa's favorite pastimes, and I try to take him whenever I'm able to. It was a fun group: me, my uncle, my aunt, my grandma, and my grandpa. With daubers in hand, we sat down with a mind to make that bingo parlor our bitch.

(And indeed, we did. I bingoed twice, back-to-back, winning a total of $600, and my grandma bingoed a couple of games later and won $500).

As family tradition dictates, the winner must buy the losers dinner. Since I had pocketed the most, I said I'd pay. We sat down and my grandpa, who is not a great eater on his best days, looked at the menu and said "I think I'll have Belgian waffle." Breakfast for dinner? Awesome.

It came time to order and my grandpa said what he wanted. The waiter said "I'm sorry sir, we don't have waffles." Apparently, the casino restaurant stops serving breakfast at 11am. Disappointed, my grandpa quickly looked at the menu again while the rest of us ordered. When it came his turn, he ordered the salmon. My grandma raised an eyebrow.

"Soup or salad, sir?" the waiter asked.

"Salad," said my grandpa.

"What kind of dressing?"

"What kind do you have?"

The waiter listed the options and my grandpa chose bleu cheese. My grandma raised another eyebrow.

While we waited for our dinner to come, I played keno and mention was made of how surprising grandpa's choice of entree was. I figured he just had a hankering for some fish. What did I know? My grandma, now with both eyebrows pointing toward the heavens, just sat and shook her head (they've been married 65 years; she might know a thing or two about him).

The salad came and my grandpa began eating it. At some point he asked "Why'd they call it blue?" and my uncle replied "It has little blue specks in it sometimes." This seemed to satisfy my grandpa and he finished the salad without incident.

When our entrees came, the waiter placed my grandpa's salmon in front of him. My grandpa said "Why'd he bring this?"

That's when the trouble began.

Grandma: "That's what you ordered, honey."

Grandpa: Silent

Grandma (to me): "Ew. I can smell that fish from over here." (she's notorious for her dislike of seafood).

Grandpa: Silently cuts up his salmon

As more conversation about the salmon followed, my grandpa reached for the salt shaker and began sprinkling it all over his fish.

"Dad!" my uncle said. "You're not allowed to have any salt."

"Salt is good for you," grandpa replied.

"That's one thing the doctor said, you can't have any salt."

My grandpa returned to silence as the rest of us began eating our own meals. A few moments later, he placed his fork over his fish and pushed the plate away from him.

"Father," grandma said. "Aren't you going to eat that?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Well you ordered it, you have to eat it."

"It's okay," I said. "He doesn't have to eat it if he doesn't want to."

Meanwhile, my grandpa began tearing the lids off of the thimble-sized containers of half & half and drinking them.

"Grandpa," I said, "Do you want me to buy you a glass of milk?"

"No, these are good," he said.

Now I have to stop here and mention that normally, this sort of wanton display would have mortified me. And yet, as the waiter approached us, watching with horror as my grandpa sucked down the mini-containers of cream, I felt totally okay with the situation. This, I think, is what parents must feel when their children act out or do otherwise embarrassing things. You love them, and you just deal with it.

I addressed the table. "I kind of feel like somehow, this train has run off the tracks."

The waiter looked at me, then at the salmon, apologetically. "You want me to take this?" he motioned. I nodded. Before he left the table, my aunt spoke to my grandpa.

"Daddy, do you want some apple pie with ice cream?"

"Sure," grandpa said.

"Will you eat it?"

"Yeah, I'll eat as much as I want of it."

This could have meant one bite or the entire plate. I decided to take the chance.

Me (to the waiter): "Do you have apple pie?"

Waiter: "We sure do."

Me: "Bring him some apple pie and ice cream, please."

Waiter (taking the salmon away): "I'll take this off the check for you."

Me: "Oh, and can I have another glass of wine?"

My grandpa did, in fact, eat every bite of his apple pie and ice cream. At one point he did begin eating it with his fingers and my aunt said "Daddy, use your fork." Having had enough I said "Really, who cares how he eats it?" And my grandpa piped up and said "Fingers were the first utensils!"

My grandpa with my cousin Maddie

I just realized I haven't posted once in the month of August. This is my half-assed attempt to remedy that.

Lately, I've had a lot of trouble shutting my brain up. It's always a problem, but for the last few days, it's impossible. My mind is going a mile a minute, jumping from one thing to the next, and I'm unable to concentrate on the task at hand, which of course, is the book.

Of course, Restless Mind Syndrome is not new to me. In my early twenties, I wrote a poem that included this line:

"Even in the center of the bustling crowd, the screams in my head remain ever loud."

Right now those screams are pretty much blocking out everything else.

I used to go for a run when things got this bad. The fatigue seemed to have a calming effect. But at the moment I'm unable to do any sort of exercise that demands that much physically. A glass of wine helps, but frankly, I have to drink more than a glass to get the desired effect.

So I turn to you, gentle reader, for advice on how to turn off those voices. What do you do when you're having trouble concentrating? A hot bath? A shot of whiskey? A run on the treadmill? Tell me what works for you.

Yesterday I went to one of my favorite places. It's a huge thrift store, located on Main Street. The variety of merchandise, including new and vintage clothing and accessories, home decor items, yarn, books, and more, is not to be believed. Strolling through it's rooms (did I mention it's huge?) takes hours because the hunt for great finds is part of the fun, and sometimes they're hidden. It's a truly wonderful place.

Except it doesn't actually exist, at least not that I'm aware of. Visiting this thrift store is a recurring dream I have. I'm not sure exactly where it's located, but it's reminiscent of the Main Street of the town I grew up in, Placerville, California.*

I don't know what triggers this dream. I've been fixated on updating my home's interior lately, which might be part of the reason. I love thrift stores, garage sales, and flea markets, and I don't get to visit them often enough–is the dream the result of my unfulfilled need to bargain shop?

Whatever the reason, I've been dreaming about this magical thrift shop for years now, and it's so vivid that I wake up not knowing if it's actually real or not. I always feel a little sad when I realize it's a figment of my imagination.

Let's open the floor to commenters: Do you have a recurring dream(s)? Or better yet, do you have any thrift shop/garage sale finds you're particularly proud of?

*The sign above is from the Hangman's Tree, a local bar in Placerville, which unfortunately is closed down (or soon to be). Too bad. Placerville is an old Gold Rush Town and this particular bar sported an effigy hanging from it's roof. I love that sort of thing. Someday I want to write a novel set there during the Gold Rush period.