2013 Layne Family Christmas Letter

The leaves are gone, the skies are cold and gray, and the Sunday paper is eighteen inches thick.  Must mean it’s time for the pagan celebration of Sol Invictus once again.  Oh – and Christmas.

Except for Hawks winning the Cup, the Bears hiring a new head coach then firing their defense, and the Illini proving themselves worthy of a berth in the high school badminton playoffs, 2013 will go down as the most uninspiring and uninteresting year in recent history.

This will be our first Christmas without Don.  Not one to fall prey to maudlin sentimentality, Don was never a willing participant in the holidays, but more a victim of the season’s unreasonable expectations of joy, peace on earth, and goodwill toward men.  In an ironic Dickensian twist, the La-Z-Boy in front of the fireplace will be without its usual occupant this year – his one eye trained on a football game, the other feigning interest in the children opening gifts, and the other asleep – as a roaring fire fills the house with smoke.  Never again will he regale us with his very special version of Here Comes Fatty with His Sack of [Excrement], nor remind us that the true meaning of Christmas is humbug.  And who to tell and retell the same off-color jokes, over-mix the drinks, or snore through dessert?  In spite of himself, he will be missed. (For more on Don, visit thelaynebrain.blogspot.com.)

In an example of life imitating 1970’s network television, Amanda and Allyson have evolved into the Odd Couple.  Amanda (aka Felix) is convinced she contracted the flu, typhoid fever, and polio, along with one as yet undiscovered disease this year, the symptoms of which include itchy scalp, a foul temper, and pronounced narcissism.  Conversely, Allyson (aka Oscar) is altogether unconcerned with both domestic and personal hygiene, leaving in her wake a trail of grime and chocolate that keeps Karen following close behind with a sponge and 55 gallon drum of Pine-Sol. 

 

Now a fully armed and operational teenager, Amanda continues to both impress and irritate in equal measure.  What she lacks in good sense she makes up for in volume and hysteria, preferring to communicate only via text and shouting.  She has been working hard at her three dance classes – which she practices nonstop while doing homework, during meals, and while sleeping – but also at spending all of her parents money on boots she refuses to wear, opting to walk barefoot between indoor venues lest they become soiled.  Her straight A’s almost make up for the fact she’s late for everything, and we are all looking forward to high school next year where she’ll have new people to yell at.

 

According to her coaches, Ally is to fastpitch what “chopped” is to “liver.”  Having now transitioned to travel ball, Allyson intends to be the first pitcher ever to play Division I softball without first attending middle school.  Likewise, nephew Jayson is again the talk of his Pee Wee football team, no doubt because he is larger than all of the varsity players on the local Hoover HS team and many of the Auburn University offensive linemen. 

 

The clan crammed into the car and traveled south this summer visiting the Carolinas and Savannah, GA.  Moved by lessons of the Civil War, Amanda and Allyson spent most of the trip fighting over issues on which they both agree.  Inspired by their visit to the Biltmore Estate, the girls formed new opinions of how a modern middle class suburban family should live, leaving Karen to contemplate which of the seven rooms in her home she might convert into a library, solarium, and stables.

 

The family devoted one full day in Charleston to touring the USS Yorktown.  Initially disappointed to discover Yorktown wasn’t a shopping mall, Amanda and Ally wound up enjoying themselves, marking the first time they willingly spent an entire day inside a place of any historical significance that didn’t feature a shoe store or food court.  And yes, Paula Deen does fry everything she serves at her restaurant in butter, including muffins, pizza, and coleslaw.

 

Upon turning 50, Karen intensified clearing the clutter from her life to the point the family is convinced she’s accepting bribes from the local waste hauler.  It’s degenerated to where if you can’t find something important, look in the trash.  Thank goodness for the Apple Find My Phone app.  No one has seen Mark in weeks.

 

Taffy continues to challenge the neighborhood skunk population to regular duels.  Skunks 4; Taffy 0.

 

To say Mark has enjoyed his new career choice would be an insult to joy.  Of course the insurance has proved beneficial to pay for his broken finger, rebuilt shoulder, and breast implants.

 

If nothing else, Christmas provides a much anticipated interruption in the humdrum drudgery of daily existence.  As Johann Wolfgang von Goethe noted, “A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days.”

 

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, and Taffy

 

 

Ode to My Dad

Donald J. Layne, 1929-2013
 

I lost my father recently.  He was a hard man to lose.  Not merely because of his size (he struggled with weight for most of his adult life), but more so because of who he was to the world.

My dad was a man of the people, for the people, from the people.  He knew everyone.  I guess that happens when you hang around for almost 84 years.  

In his classic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, Frank Capra showed us how one life can impact many. 

My dad didn’t build houses or kiss babies or cross swords with an evil slumlord, but he did teach kids.  Lots of them.  Nearly three generations during his forty-odd year career as a classroom teacher, coach, and principal.  And then for twenty more years post-retirement as a member of the school board and the dozens of community organizations, councils, and commissions for which he volunteered.

It also explains why his memorial service was moved from the local funeral home to city hall.  Even then the visitation line wound Disney-esque fashion through the rotunda, out the door, and around the building.  All that was missing was a theme-based gift shop at the end.  And a bowl of soup.

I’m certain my dad was watching, irritated nobody had thought to charge admission.

One stooped, gray-haired, gentleman towing a wheeled oxygen bottle claimed he was only twenty three when he got in line.  My dad would have liked him; probably asked him out for a drink after. 

My mother, sister, and I met them all.  Hundreds upon hundreds.  For four hours we stood shaking hands and listening to their stories.  Most everyone had a story.  Many involved careers my dad helped launch, rescue, or both. 

There was one about a kid whose front teeth Dad knocked out during football practice while demonstrating a defensive technique designed to knock out the teeth of opposing players.  The mishap resulted in a Watergate-like cover-up wherein the complicit victim kept mum until his graduation.  From college.  (That kid went on to become athletic director of a major state university; he and my father remained great friends until the end.)  Or the time a police liaison officer’s blank-loaded firearm was discharged in my dad’s office in an effective yet misguided scared-straight tactic. 

Many of the tales recalled my father’s highly evolved sense of mischief, such as when he convinced the school maintenance man to slump over the wheel of his tractor near a girl’s archery class, a fake arrow protruding from both sides of his head.  Or certain questionable Letterman’s Club initiation rites involving bricks and strings and male body parts.  

My dad also taught Driver’s education.  I think it was mostly to take advantage of the free, taxpayer provided transportation.  During those years he was never without a new car.  He would select a different one from the motor pool each night, and drive it to work the next day, sometimes on family vacations.  The neighbors were impressed.

It seems my dad taught at least half the folks who showed up that day to drive.  Most are no longer incarcerated.  Some still have licenses.  All could find their way to every donut and coffee shop in town blindfolded.  One told us how my dad had him drive to the local Tastee-Freeze where my dad purchased a root beer float which he placed on the dashboard, telling the student if it spilled, he failed.  Or the time a nervous young lady’s premature left turn left the driver’s education car suspended on railroad tracks.  Fortunately, the morning express had already passed.

It was also no surprise the mourners included a number of bartenders and waitresses whose children no doubt owed their college educations to my father’s generosity (and unquenchable thirst for vodka).  Even a few folks who harbored age-old resentments came to pay their respects, including several former faculty my dad tried to run down while crossing the picket line during a teacher’s strike.  In spite of their differences, they considered my dad a great man.

My dad loved being an educator.  He loved kids.  Because my dad belonged to the world, his own kids (and wife) were mere bystanders to his greatness. 

The only thing my dad loved more than teaching kids was coaching them.  The home I grew up in was selected because it backed to the high school football fields.  My dad said it was so he could walk to work.  Of course he never did what with the free car and all.      

Of all the sports Dad coached, football was his passion.  On the second Monday of August, he would leave the house at six AM for the start of double sessions and return well after 7:30 PM in mid-November.  During those months, he prodded, threatened, teased, and abused his players, imparting unto them his high ideals of discipline, respect, sacrifice, and what it meant to be a member of a team. 

By the conclusion of each season, he had managed to transform a gang of awkward, undisciplined, pimply-faced boys into a team of proud, confident, pimply-faced young men.  A lot of those young men, now gray around the temples, came to pay their respects to the man many considered the single greatest influence in their lives. 

I was truly astounded by the sheer number of people my dad touched during his life.  I was not, however, surprised by the impact he had.  My dad was expert at getting the best out of people – students and teachers alike.  He had an uncanny ability of making them realize what they were capable of… that their only limitations were self-imposed.  Fear has a way of doing that.

Without question, my dad was a dinosaur.  He hailed from a time before lawyers ruled the world – before this hypersensitive age in which people have lost the courage to voice their opinions.  My dad was never afraid to speak his mind.  He always had a reasoned point which he made without regard for tact or political correctitude.  I’m told there were occasions when he raised his hand during a meeting without making people cringe.  I suspect those occasions were rare. 

Make no mistake – my father wasn’t perfect.  He drank too much, exercised too little, and ate like a teenage boy with a tapeworm.  A self-proclaimed bigot, racist, and chauvinist who proudly espoused his oft inappropriate world view to anyone within earshot, he was prone to leave considerable wreckage in his wake. 

I guess greatness is a relative thing.

Not one for introspection, my dad never had much interest in evolving as a parent, husband, or grandfather.  My sister’s marriage to a black man put us all through some changes.  We took turns shoving socks into Dad’s pie hole.  True to form, my dad held his ground.  It was what he knew.  It worked for him.  He was what he was without apology.

My unfortunate mother bore the brunt of my father’s caustic wit and antiquated ideals.  It was all he could do to keep her in what he considered a woman’s proper place.  It didn’t work.  My mom is too clever for that.  Even so, on each of their wedding anniversaries past fifty, he would proudly announce they were celebrating 25 years of marital bliss.  It always made me laugh.  Once at a school event, I had an allergic reaction to some pineapple which rendered me temporarily unable to speak.  He immediately offered the fruit tray to my mother.

In his later years, Dad and I shared office space.  It afforded me the opportunity to see him almost daily.  At least once a week, I would pry him from the important business of playing solitaire on his ancient computer, and we’d go out to lunch.  It was nice.  My dad liked lunch.  It helped absorb the alcohol. 

Toward the end, as our conversations became tired, I sensed he had begun to realize he was a man out of his time.  He had gotten off the train at a familiar stop and remained in the station, watching as the world passed him by. 

At the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, George’s guardian angel, Clarence, bequeaths to George his copy of Tom Sawyer.  Inside the front cover was inscribed a note which read: "Dear George: Remember no man is a failure who has friends.”

By any measure, my dad was no failure.  Just ask his friends.  Just ask anyone. 

 

Nightime Nomad

It wasn’t until my mid-forties that I began sleeping around.
 
My wife and I were having difficulties in the bedroom.  I was restless; tired of our routine.
 
It all began innocently enough with a couple one night stands.  They were awkward and uncomfortable at first.  Before long, the unfamiliar became familiar, and I had adopted it as a way of life, waking two or three times per week in a strange bed.

Ironically, my liaisons rarely took me outside the comfort of my own home.  Each different location that I explored held its own special allure and charm.

My first experiences were in our finished basement.  The couch there converted into a queen size hide-a-bed which provided plenty of room to spread out.  Unfortunately, the thin mattress provided insufficient protection against the metal framework digging into my back and ribcage.  Plus the work of removing the cushions, pulling out the bed, and adding sheets and a blanket destroyed any hope for spontaneity.  Still it was dark, and private, and quiet.

Eventually I became bolder and moved upstairs.  The living room couch was extra wide with sturdy foam cushions which made it ultra-comfortable.  The problem there was the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the front yard.  Not that anyone was likely to be peering in during the wee hours, but privacy was certainly an issue.

Although the upstairs family room was outfitted with dark window shades, the standard length of the couch there prevented me from fully extending the whole of my six foot frame.  At 52 years, the prospect of keeping my knees bent for an extended period was problematic, not to mention awkward.  Plus the couch’s standard depth made it difficult to roll over and switch positions without falling off.

I’m ashamed to say that from time-to-time, I would even wait until my youngest daughter was sound asleep, and steal into her top bunk. I was never able to fully relax there either, ever fearful that my nocturnal gyrations might wake her. 

But of all the myriad scenarios I explored, the one I longed for more than any other was when my wife would take the kids to her parents for a sleepover, and I’d get the whole house to myself.  Spending time in my own bed was a wicked pleasure unrivaled by any other venue I dared explore.

I realize how awful this must sound.  And make no mistake – my wife and I still love each other.  We just make incompatible bedfellows.

Needless to say, I found myself becoming a sneak.  Not so much because I was afraid of being discovered, but more because of the pain such a discovery would cause her.

In the first place, my wife is a Virgo.  As such, she keeps our home ready to receive an HGTV camera crew at a moment’s notice.  For that reason, each morning I would rise early and cover my tracks like a Navy Seals assassin.  After tidying up the couch, I’d re-fluff the pillows and cushions, then make sure any blankets I used were folded just so.

But even with all of my surreptitious maneuvers, I knew I couldn’t keep deceiving her for long.  She was too clever… too observant.

Sure enough, one night when she couldn’t sleep, she wandered into the living me and caught me red handed.  It was the moment I had long anticipated yet feared most.  I was ashamed, but at the same time relieved the charade was finally over.

I could see the pain on her face; tears held back by pride alone.

“How could you?” she said in barely a whisper.

No words would come.  I was dumbstruck.

“I… I…  I love you.”  I stammered.

“And this is how you show it?” she said, the shock of what she had just witnessed shaking her to the core.

I felt two inches tall.  I knew that no matter how painful it might be, I owed her the truth.  So I mustered all my courage and said what I should have told her long ago.

“Honey – I love you.  But you left me no choice.  Your snoring makes it impossible for me to sleep.”

As a testament to her strength of character, she didn’t get angry.  In fact, she was so genuinely concerned for my well-being that she insisted I sleep elsewhere from that point on, going so far as to let our sound sleeping nine year old assume my position in our marital bed.

She’s special, that wife of mine.  I’m lucky to have her.  And even though my daughter’s stuffed-animal- strewn bunk bed isn’t nearly as comfortable as my own, sleepover night at grandma’s is never far away.