Shane Halbach, handy man about town

I was visiting my Grandma. Actually, that’s not true, she wasn’t even there. We were just staying at her house on the way up to the family reunion. We got the kids into bed first thing, so we didn’t get around to unloading the car until dusk. We were standing outside unloading the trunk, when a lady wandered up to us.

“Are you handy?” she asked me.
“Uh…I guess so. I mean, it depends on what you mean by handy,” I replied. “I can fix things around the house I guess, but not like, repair my car.”

This answer was apparently sufficient, because the lady proceeded to tell me her entire life story. She was fighting with her son-in-law, blah blah blah, running the air conditioning all day with the window open, blah blah blah, ungrateful, can you believe it? it’s her house, blah blah blah, kids these days, what with this economy?

Long story short, she decided to punish her (adult) son-in-law by removing the window air conditioners, but she needed help replacing the windows.

::Whew!::

So of course I said I’d help her. I mean, when someone you don’t know traps you for 10 minutes with a drawn out story and then asks you for help, what else would you say? “How is it always you? It’s like they can sense you somehow,” Sara said later. It’s true; I give off some kind of “sucker” pheromones or something. They always know. I guess a sane person would have just said no, but I don’t know. If someone needs help, I feel like I should help them. Unfortunately, being a human being apparently makes me vulnerable to opportunists.

Still, I could see the indicated window from where we were standing. How long could it take to pop over and check it out?

As we were walking over to her house, she continued her prattle. “Now, I apologize for the state of the house. We had the carpet torn up, but I don’t have the money to replace it just yet…”

Wait a minute, why was she talking about the inside of the house? I thought I was just going to help with the window? The one I can see from my Grandma’s driveway.

So, of course, we go inside, and I have to walk through the middle of not one, not two, but three adults in the house. Obviously they could have helped her with whatever it was she needed done, but they couldn’t because they were feuding with her. And now here I was, in the middle of it all, aligning against them with this lady who was quickly turning out to be crazy. “Uh, hi,” I said, but I got no response.

I should have known there was trouble just by the fact that she was asking me, a total stranger (in fact an out of towner!) to come into her house. How did she know I wasn’t a serial killer or a robber or something? The only way is because she knew that, odds are, she was crazier than I was. Nothing to fear.

“Sara knows where I am,” I thought. “If anything happens to me, Sara knows where I am.”

We walked through this junk heap of a house to the bedroom, where she showed me the window. At this point my only thought was to take a look at the window and get out of there as fast as possible. Sure enough, it was thoroughly screwed up, but I managed to fix it after maybe 10 minutes or so. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was able to just sort of look at the mechanism and figure it out, the way any adult should be able to (much less the 4 adults resident in the house). Night had fallen outside. At this point I was ready to make a run for it. Sayonara. It’s been weird, but at least now it’s over.

“Thank you sooo much!” she said.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll just be going now, then…” I edged my way toward the door.
“You know, as long as you’re here, there’s just one more thing, if you wouldn’t mind looking at it…”

Alarm bells were clanging in my head. I just kept picturing that guy from Misery, chained to the bed while Kathy Bates breaks his legs with a sledgehammer.

What I wanted to say was, “Lady, are you kidding me? I’ve really gone above and beyond here. You have 3 adults in this house staring daggers at my back for helping you, and now you’re going to ask me about something else? I don’t even know you!” Instead I said, “Okay.”

Back we trooped through the gaggle of goth 20-somethings hanging out in the kitchen and NOT helping this lady they lived with, until we reached another window in the dining room. I stood around while she removed a second window air conditioner. “Okay, can you help me get this window back in?” I cannot express how much I did not want to help her get the window back in, and maybe she finally sensed that she had pushed me too far. “Actually, you know what? I think I can figure this one out. I think you can probably go.”

Oh thank god. I could practically feel the fresh air on my face. I had to struggle not to run. Finally I reached the front door, and I grasped the doorknob in my hands, freedom in sight, where it promptly fell off the door, trapping me inside.

As I stood there, stupidly looking at the doorknob in my hand, I made my final peace with the world and mentally sent a “goodbye, I loved you” to my sleeping children. This was obviously it. The End.

“Oh, do you need help with that? The door is a little tricky sometimes,” said the unhelpful son-in-law, with whom I was currently feuding.
“Yes,” I said. I left the “please don’t murder me” unsaid.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t die.

He reattached the doorknob and showed me the trick of opening the door. And he didn’t even conk me with a brick when I walked past him and out into sweet, sweet freedom. In no time flat I was back in the quiet safety of my Grandma’s house.

One thing’s for certain: I will think long and hard before answering next time someone asks me if I’m handy.

Quote Monday should NOT eat the blueberries

::Looking at the giraffes::
Sara: “Look at all the carrots on the ground.”
Ollie: “Look at all the blueberries on the ground!”

Ollie: “I was three and nothing, and now I’m three and a half!”

Me: “What kind of sandwich are you?”
Ollie, speaking as Floob the Monster: “I’m a chocolate-customer sandwich.”
Me: “Do you mean chocolate custard?”
Ollie: “No, chocolate customer.”

I guess that makes more sense for a monster.

::Ollie, sneezing pancake pieces all over the table::
Ollie: “Well, I guess I’m sick of breakfast.”

Ollie, pointing to my back: “What’s this letter right here?”
Me: “I don’t know, buddy, I can’t see back there.”
Ollie: “You’re going to have to break your head off.”

Applesauce, 2013

Once again, we continued our yearly tradition of apple picking and applesauce making.

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We only picked half a bushel or so, and then bought the rest (3 3/4 bushels total).

It used to be that if you picked the apples yourself, they were cheaper (which makes sense because you’re providing the labor). Now it’s totally flipped, and picking the apples is actually more expensive than buying the pre-picked ones. Now you’re paying extra for the “experience” of apple picking, not to mention the hayrides, live bands, pumpkin patches, the whole nine.

Well, we just want the apples.

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We literally opened last year’s last jar of applesauce days before we made this year’s batch, which has never happened before. So we know about how much applesauce we go through in a year. The answer is a LOT. Also, we usually do this in combination with my mom, but this year we were flying solo.

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It took Sara and I long into the night, but we managed to can 43 quarts and 13 pints of applesauce.  That’s a whole lot of applesauce y’all. Our pantry is once again fully stocked to apocalypse levels.

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See you next year applesauce maker!

 

Evie’s Race

If you recall, last year at this time Evie was preparing for her first race. As you also may recall, Evie was intensely disappointed with her first race. She had taken the race preparation very seriously, and the race organizers very obviously had not, and Evie is not one to miss something like that.

Well, Evie obviously wasn’t the only one who felt that way, because this year they introduced a “real” race for kids, and Evie was much obliged.

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It was a one mile race and it was for real. There was a course laid out, and a biker in front to clear the path. The kids had timing chips in their numbers, and entire legions of fans cheering at the finish line. In other words, it was everything Evie hoped for. After all, these are kids of runners, and they know what a real race should look like.

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(Look at that runner’s stride…she’s a natural!)

Unfortunately, Evie wiped out on the final turn, skinning her knees and hands. I hadn’t seen her fall. Right at the finish line she was all grins and I was hugging her and telling her how proud of her I was. “I fell down, but I got right back up and finished the race!” she proclaimed. I gave her another big hug, but slowly her face crumpled and she started crying. “It huuurts!” she said. She was just feeling all the feelings – pride, pain, happiness, adrenaline – and it was just too much for her little 6 year old body to contain.

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(She made me take this picture)

This was the race I was hoping for last year. I have to admit, I got a little teary eyed seeing her recognize that this was the real deal, and seeing how proud she was. She finished her mile in 11:08 (about the same as the average 12 year old according to some chart Sara found online). She looked so grown up drinking her after-race water with her medal around her neck and her number pinned to her shirt (you know, despite the Monarch butterfly on her face).

She did so great, and it was a great moment in her life. I’m glad I could share it with her.

2013_10_06_9999_45(Yeah, Sara ran a race too or something)

 

Children covered in bees

The other day I received an email from Ollie’s school. It turns out that the class had taken a walk in the park, and had unfortunately stumbled full-force into a nest of yellow jackets. What had started as a fun little nature walk ended in 21 screaming 3 year olds, covered in bees.

Can you imagine the carnage of an entire preschool class being swarmed by bees? Kids running, kids screaming, kids crying, dogs and cats, living together…mass hysteria. I doubt bedlam is too strong a word.

In the email, one of the children was quoted as saying “They can’t talk so they tell us with their stings!” “WHY DO THEY HAVE TO TELL US SO MANY TIMES?” I assume she continued. All in all, 9 kids were stung. Needless to say, the school nurse was a little busy that day.

Oliver was one of the children who was stung. Apparently a bee or two had crawled up the leg of his shorts and gotten him a few times on the inner thigh. (!!) Of course, it took the nurse awhile to realize he’d been stung, since he was just sitting there smiling and generally in a good mood; she thought he’d been sent down with the other kids by mistake. That boy and his ridiculous pain tolerance (remember how he forgot to mention even once his chronic ear infections?) By the time Sara picked him up from school he had already forgotten which leg had been stung, and he insists that the red welts are “mosquito bites”.

By the time I got home from work, the whole event was a distant memory.

“Did anything happen at school today?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Did you go for a walk to the park?”
“Yeah, we did.”
“…and did anything happen while you were at the park?” (You know, such as you and 20 of your classmates being swarmed and stung repeatedly, while everybody ran around and screamed like some kind of a cartoon?)
“Yeah!” said Ollie excitedly, “I found a stick!”

Oh well. Better than being traumatized I guess. Despite living through the Titanic-level disaster scenario of 21 children covered in yellow jackets, his outlook on bees hasn’t changed a bit.