Father's Day 2015

My dad was an exceedingly complicated man.

Bill Butler was, literally, a rocket scientist. He graduated from college Phi Beta Kappa, with a major in physics and a minor in math. He worked in the world of aerospace as a physicist. I remember asking him once, when I was pretty young, what he did at his job. He told me this story: 

One day, let's say some guys came up to me and said, "Bill, we want to build a little globe that has people in it. When you tap on the globe, lights flash and the people dance around." I would give them a list of the best people to help them build this globe. We'd put a plan together, and I would check on them to make sure they were using the right materials and following the directions. Every once in a while, we'd do a test to see whether the globe was working. If it didn't, we'd change our plan or find someone else to help us fix it. That's what I do.

Another time, I asked him again to tell me what he did for work, and he told me he helped design missiles that shoot down Russian satellites. After he died, we read through old documents and performance reviews from his job, which included loads of redacted paragraphs and mention of his security clearances. I'm inclined to think his second answer was spot on.

Dad was also a brilliant musician. He was deeply involved in barbershop harmony singing -- as a singer himself, and later as a director and coach to many Sweet Adelines choruses and quartets.

However, my father had a very rough childhood. And it affected him deeply. There is a lot I could write about this, and maybe someday I will. But for now, suffice it to say that in addition to being brilliant, funny, and creative, Dad spent his whole life fleeing from the things in his past that tormented him. It took a lot of time and therapy of my own to realize that he really did the very best he could have, given the hand that was dealt him by an abusive mother and a father who ignored that abuse.

Dad died very unexpectedly in 1998. In November of that year, while our chorus was literally onstage in Nashville for Sweet Adelines International Competition, Dad was having a heart attack through the whole pre-competition pattern and performance. It wasn't til we got offstage, having finished our contest shot, that he said he should probably go to a hospital. He had emergency quadruple bypass surgery there in Nashville, and two weeks later, after returning home, he passed away in his sleep.

We were dumbfounded. My mom had been fighting ovarian cancer for a couple of years, and she had been in remission for some time. My dad's death came as an unexpected blow that rocked our family to the core. It seemed so ironic, so cruel, that he should die so suddenly.

There's a verse in the Bible, Ecclesiastes 3:11 -- "He has made everything beautiful in His time." And though it took me a while to see it, I eventually got a glimpse of God's perfect timing in all this.  You see, shortly after my dad died, Mom's cancer came back with a wicked vengeance. It ravaged her entire body, and the suffering she experienced before her death was far worse than anything she had endured when my father was caring for her.

As I said, Dad had spent his adult life haunted by the shadow of his past. It made him an extremely angry man. He was very hot-tempered -- a trait that I've unfortunately carried on. We, his four kids, each had very difficult relationships with him as we were growing up. Dad didn't really "get" how to live with kids. He used to say, and God forgive me that I have repeated this so often, "Kids wreck everything." In some ways, he was right. Kids are messy. They're defiant. They're exhausting. They're difficult. And he just didn't know what to do with us. We were often a source of frustration and disappointment to him.

Don't get me wrong. I totally get that I am who I am because of Dad. Largely because of my desire to please him, I became a super high-achieving student. I graduated from USC, cum laude, with two bachelor's degrees (His response to this achievement, by the way, was a quiet, "That's really great, kid."). I was also the clown of the family. I attribute my sense of humor to figuring out, at an early age, that humor goes a long way toward smoothing out a tense situation. And again, thanks to loads of therapy, I really get that we all do the best we can with what we're given. So I don't blame him. But I can't really forget, either. It wasn't easy being Bill Butler's child.  I think I had it easier, as the baby of the family. I learned early on how to avoid a lot of trouble, and I was very involved in the barbershop life, which kept me close to both my folks throughout our lives together.

But as we reached adulthood, I think Dad really began to appreciate us kids more. He figured out how to relate to us. And in the last few years of his life, I know that each of us reached a peace with Dad that was sweet and redemptive and so very lovely. His heart softened in a way that was totally palpable. He CHANGED. Big time. In the span of a few short years, we saw him soften and learn to take life a little easier. He began to pay more attention to his health, and he just seemed more settled and content than he ever had in his life.

Which is why his heart attack, emergency surgery, and unexpected death came as such a total out-of-left-field shock. And then, within few months, Mom became so very sick again. She died just six months or so after Dad.

But here's the thing I've come to know. If Dad had seen Mom suffer and die the way she did, I know, without a shadow of doubt, that his heart would have slammed shut forever. He would have shut everyone out. More importantly, he would have shut God out of his heart and life. He would have been totally, irretrievably lost. Lost to us. Lost to the Lord.

I know, I absolutely KNOW, that God took my dad right at the perfect moment, when he finally belonged to Him. He softened his heart, wooed him, changed him. God's timing in this, as in everything, was just perfection.

So, why did God let my mom suffer so horribly? Why couldn't he just heal everyone and make it all pretty and tidy, with a happy ending? I don't know. I will probably never know. But I do believe that my mom and my dad are waiting for us. We'll all have a sweet reunion one day soon. No more harsh words. No more anger. No regrets. And until then, God will continue to make everything beautiful in His time.

Parenting And Pets

When I was a child, my siblings and I had countless beloved pets. The first one that was all mine was a guinea pig named Speedy, who came to a tragic end in the blistering San Bernardino heat, due to a blanket accidentally left on his backyard cage all day. Years later, my mother confessed that she blamed herself and spent years feeling terrible for letting it happen. I was probably only 6 or 7 at the time, so I can imagine how she felt -- but I'm getting ahead of myself...

There was the scrappy outdoor cat named Omar (whom I used to sneak into my bedroom window at night to sleep, draped across my neck). 

Later came Chelsea, the amazing stunt cat. She was an excellent actor. We'd play "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom" -- I'd make the sound of a tranquilizer gun, she'd fall to the ground, and I'd hover over her while pretending to check her vitals and tag her ear for tracking. I’d narrate the action in Marlin Perkins’ funny southernish accent: “Watch those claws -- they can be dangerous.” As her imaginary sedative wore off, she'd regain consciousness and dart away. 

My sister’s dog Rinda would play the Big Bad Wolf. On cue, she would dash across the room and savagely attack my screaming Raggedy Ann doll (okay, it was really me doing the screaming, but Rinda and I still loved it). 

I also enjoyed a true friendship with my pony, Foxy Roxy. We spent many quiet warm summer evenings together in her box stall behind our house on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, listening to the sound of horses munching hay in the connecting stalls, while the strange wailing cries of peacocks echoed through the canyon outside our barn. By day, I'd ride her for hours, either with friends or alone. I was a feral child, barefooted and helmet-less, and she was my wild little pony, often without a saddle or bridle, as we galloped up and down canyon hills and bridle paths. I still wonder what on earth my parents were thinking... We'd stop on the trails to munch wild blackberries and solve the world's problems together.

There were herds of other four-legged childhood companions in and around my childhood homes, each unique and memorable, and all who eventually and inevitably died from old age, accidents, or illnesses. Each loss would leave us kids with puffy, wet faces, and that genuine yet fleeting grief with which children are mercifully endowed.

My dear, strong and capable father used to take our deceased pets to a resting place he called "Pelican Hill." He'd wrap the limp and lifeless kitty (or other unfortunate furry casualty) in a towel and gently carry it to the car. We would stand in the driveway, weeping and waving goodbye as he drove off to a place we never saw but imagined to be a beautiful grassy knoll overlooking an ocean somewhere. I would picture the sun quietly setting as my father wiped a sweaty brow and tapped the last pieces of soil onto the top of the grave he had dug himself.

Decades later, as an adult, I was at dinner one night with my folks. The subject had come up somehow, and I said to my dad, "You know, I'll bet Pelican Hill was just a landfill somewhere -- you probably just slowed down and chucked the dead cat out the window, didn't you?" Dad never actually admitted it, but his hysterical laughter that went on for far too long confirmed my suspicions.

So now, as a mom with my own daughters, I find myself in quite a different state of mind regarding our furry family members. 

When my future stepdaughter Becky was really, really young (maybe 4?), we found a cat in the Pennysaver for Christmas. We had not been able to find any kittens locally, so we had to drive to some run-down hovel in south-central L.A., which was filled with filthy cats. The woman selling the cat apologized for her completely trashed house, claiming that they were "remodeling". Before we left with a half-grown kitten that looked less sickly than the other cats, she insisted on tying a yarn ribbon around his neck and blessing him with holy water from France. Brian and I had a good laugh on the way home about that "French Pope" who had blessed the water...

Well, at his initial vet check, Rajah ended up testing positive for kitty leukemia. Although he was not yet showing symptoms, the vet said he might live six months, six years... no one knew for sure. With heavy hearts, waited for our little time bomb to go off. He ended up living a couple of years, and months after his death we discovered that little Becky had blamed herself for making him sick. Sobbing, she confessed that she had petted an outdoor cat before touching Rajah without washing her hands, and she was sure that was why he had died. We explained that he was sick when we first got him, that she had nothing to do with it. I thanked God that Becky never asked why on earth Santa would give her a sick kitty for Christmas. 

At that point, I was only just beginning to realize that being on the "parent-end" of pet ownership was, well, just delightful...

We adopted two sister kitties from a reputable source a while later. Named Jasmine and Nala by Becky (after Disney princesses, naturally), our cats were quite dear to me; I raised them from kittens and carefully followed advice from books such as The Natural Cat, which taught me how to give “kitty kisses” to show that I loved them and that I would indeed return soon from the store. Aside from having the unpleasant responsibility of paying for vet visits and cleaning the litter box (my darling husband resolutely refused to go near it, except for during my pregnancy – doctor’s orders), I have enjoyed these kitties every bit as much as I had any childhood pet. Jasmine is, as I type, 20 years old, and she's still going pretty strong. Sure, we need to keep several litter boxes in the house -- she sometimes forgets and just squats wherever she pleases. And she's almost deaf. And she smells. But mostly, she's still pretty tolerable.

However, something strange began to happen to me once Jennifer came along. Shortly after arriving home from the hospital, my newborn baby lay peacefully in her little bassinet near the couch. Cautiously, Jasmine (the bolder of the cat sisters) peered over the edge, fascinated by the tiny chubby hand that was bobbing up and down, just high enough for her to see. Jasmine tentatively reached out a paw to touch Jennifer's little hand, and WHAM! Before I even realized what I was doing, I had grabbed that predatory beast by the scruff, plunged her into the kitchen sink, turned on the tap, and doused her with a surprise shower that kept her clear of anything baby-related for at least the next six months.

What had come over me? How could my precious companions become "those cats" in the twinkling of an eye? The answer, for me at least, was parenthood! With blinding swiftness, I developed the perspective that could never possibly be achieved by my childless neighbor, who prepared and hand-fed homemade meatloaf to her Shih Tzu, named (really) "Princess Minky of Redondo Beach". I was going through some photo albums not long after Jen was born, and I looked up at my sometimes-too-tolerant husband and asked, "Honey, why do I have all these pictures of, um, cats?" Brian threw up his hands in exasperation and cried, "This is what I've been saying!!!"

So now, as I reflect on a phone call I once had with our vet (when I actually heard myself say, "Look, I'm willing to sacrifice time off the end of this dog's life, as long as the medicine you give me keeps him from chewing his paws and bleeding all over my carpet now!"), I realize that the magical relationship I shared with my childhood pets has taken a back seat to the pressing realities of caring for a home and a human family. 

I must admit, however, that we have kept one important tradition alive. When Nala succumbed to heart disease at the age of 11 (Jennifer and I actually watched her die… isn’t parenting stressful enough without pets, for cryin’ out loud??), Brian tenderly carried her off to "Pelican Hill" while I held my daughter as she cried. I cried too. I really did.

And I even cried when the first dog I owned as an adult, Charlie (the paw-chewing one above), shuffled off his mortal coil.  In time, I even nearly forgot about the night I brought him to my friend Julia's house. I only discovered that he'd spent the entire evening gorging himself on tortoise poop after we got in the car to leave. It took weeks to rid my Accord of the smell of regurgitated tortoise poop. Okay, I lied. I never forgot it and never really forgave him.

And then along came Bingley. I most often refer to him as The Last Dog I'll Ever Own. His transgressions upon my tolerance are far too numerous to list here. I'll save that for another blog. But I'll just say that having that dog has really put the nail in the coffin of my enjoyment of pets.

And don't even get me started on the hermit crabs. That is also a story in itself.

I may get another cat (or two), eventually. And I really, really want two alpacas (that's a whole other story as well). But I'm sure I'll find reasons to regret that, too.

Thou Shalt Not.... But Come On. Not Even These?

I have a guilty confession. I think. It may not be much of a confession at all. 

Every day, I walk The Last Dog I'll Ever Own. We cover two-and-a-half miles or more, while he carries a backpack that holds sand-filled bottles (it doubles his workout). Bingley also gets a walk before dinner. He must work for his food, Cesar-Millan-Dog-Whisperer style. Presumably, this makes him less of a jerk (Cesar would say "balanced"). I shudder to think how much MORE of a jerk he would be without so much exercise. But I digress.

On Thursdays, our local free papers are delivered -- The Beach Reporter and Easy Reader. They're tossed out of a moving car onto just about every driveway on our route, often loosely nestled in a plastic sleeve.

Now, here in Southern California, we're in the middle of a drought. It hardly ever rains. The biggest threats to these papers are getting backed over by cars or soaked by sprinklers.

These bags are the perfect size to pick up dog poop. I'm not one of those people who shells out unnecessary money for my pets. Like, say, for vet visits. Okay, I'm mostly kidding about that. But not really. I usually take Bingley to pet store vaccination clinics rather than fork over $65 just to walk into a vet's office. So, naturally, I don't have one of those cute little dispensers of deodorant dog waste-disposal bags with playful little paw-prints on them, which conveniently clips onto your designer leash. I generally use empty grocery or produce bags. Heck, even to this day, I use the cheap-o leash we got from the shelter when we adopted Bingley six or seven years ago. I'm frugal.

Oh, and did I mention that The Last Dog I'll Ever Own twerks when he poops? I NEVER see a human being twerking without imagining Bingley, humping away on the sidewalk, while poop literally flies out of his butt. But again, I digress...

In this era of re-usable grocery bags, we have far fewer plastic bags saved up. And on average, Bingley poops twice a day.  So, on Thursdays, I spend a portion of my walk collecting the plastic sleeves that hold these free papers.

So here’s the question.... am I stealing? I mean, does anyone else actually use them? I always make sure to place the newly-naked papers where they are in little danger from cars or the elements. And I don't take bags from driveways that are littered with several weeks' worth of sad, uncollected papers. Surely the residents won’t miss these bags...?

Or will they? Do they come out and wonder why, oh why, they never get a wrapped paper? 

When something I do begins to prick my conscience, I usually stop doing it. Years ago, I stopped sharing or accepting home-burned music CDs – except among my immediate family. I pretty much try to live my life as though God is watching -- because He is. As a follower of Christ, I mostly listen to that little voice in the back of my head when it pipes up, rather than ignoring it or rationalizing away my behavior.

But is this actually stealing? The bags certainly don't belong to me. I haven't asked permission to take them. And here's the biggest thing -- I never take one when I see someone watching me. So... I guess I have my answer...? Or do I? Still conflicted... but if I take a bag from your driveway one morning and you run out and yell at me, I'll be mortified. Until I run out of bags.

Empty Bottles - Making Turkish Delight - 2006

From time to time, I'm going to post old blogs I wrote long before I really knew what blogging was. In keeping with my newly named "Two Beers and a Blog" title, I'm going to call these old, recycled stories "Empty Bottles". See what I did there? 

This particular story about making Turkish Delight came to mind this week, because my friend Kathy Wright, having just returned from Turkey, brought some of the real thing to chorus rehearsal for me to try.  It wasn't a whole lot better than what I describe below, but it definitely didn't merit the abuse I give it in my story. Jennifer was eight years old at the time I wrote this (now she's 17)... 

Turkish Delight

Doreen Philbin, June 2006

Well, we did it. We made Turkish Delight. The five people in the universe who've not yet read or seen "The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" will wonder what on earth I'm talking about. It's this gooey, sugary, yummy-looking candy treat that Edmund, one of the children, receives from the White Witch. In the story, this batch of Turkish Delight is of course enchanted, so that although Edmund stuffs himself with it until he’s sick, he still wants more. So Jennifer and I decided to try out hand at making such an irresistible treat.

I guess I really should say I made it. Jennifer cheered me on (until she grew bored and ditched me to pursue less lofty interests – I think “Power Rangers” was on), but this was a big job that required more patience than either of us seems to possess. I had found several recipes online and picked one that seemed to be mostly the same as a few others I’d read. The ingredients were a snap, except for the rose water – we had to hit Bristol Farms for that one. This was an adventure in itself, as Jennifer mischievously ducked underneath my shirt and led me around the store that way, completely cracking herself up in the process. She thought it was even funnier when I pressed my hand over the spot on my shirt where her mouth was to muffle her unbridled hilarity.

The actual making of the candy took about three hours, spread over two days, including a frantic phone call to a friend of mine who makes jelly, so I could ask her why the heck the sugar solution hadn't budged past 225 degrees for 20 minutes and what the "soft ball" stage would look like when it finally got there. I ate dinner literally standing over the stove stirring the concoction while it simmered for an hour so that it wouldn't stick to pan. By the way, the dinner I'd planned on making (salmon filets with garlic mashed potatoes) had become a distant memory from simpler times, and my neglected husband, Brian, had to bring home takeout. I had become a slave to our candy.

Well, this morning I finished cutting and rolling it in powdered sugar and corn starch (which is soooo much like face powder, by the way), and Jennifer and I eagerly bit into a piece to test our results.

Wow. You just have to try it to believe it. Now we fully understand why Edmund feels so sick after eating lots of it. The mystery is why he'd actually eat lots of it in the first place... It didn’t have any taste other than, uh, sweet – the rose water didn’t even flavor it enough to make it taste like roses (which would, I imagine, have been equally unpleasant).

This only reinforces that old stereotype that British people have bad teeth and bad food.

Maybe I missed something in the recipe? Anyway, we chalked it up as one of those "don't knock it until you've tried it" things. But, man, are we ever knocking it now!

We saved some for Brian to sample when he got home later (it made 81 pieces, for cryin' out loud), and we took the rest to park day to try out on the unsuspecting homeschoolers.

When I opened the airtight container in which the recipe had advised me to store it, I discovered with dismay that all the powdered sugar had somehow been absorbed into the weird red gelatinous mass, so that now it looked all slimy and even less appealing than before. Only two people at the park were brave enough to try it at all – after that, I stopped offering it because it just seemed cruel.

At home, the remaining candy (the “control group”) had suffered the same gooey fate, which at least reassured me that transporting it in a warm car hadn’t caused the problem. Brian, like us, took one bite while wisely standing over the sink, and he promptly released it to the garbage disposal. Experiment concluded. Long live Aslan.