My Thing

We pull up to my parents house early Saturday afternoon. My dad has already begun building the coop, to which he has no connection. No connection, that is, other than his connection to me by way of being my father. He won't eat the eggs they will lay (I think him and my mom are secretly part of the pasturization safety committee), he could care less about Ginger, our current neglected chicken, and he is certainly busy making other things, coops being at the bottom of that list. Regardless, he has already been to the hardware store and back, and he's begun building the frame for this marvelous chicken chalet. He has an enthusiastic way about him, in spite of the fact that he's committed an entire Saturday for this.

Before Terry strapped on his tool belt (a welcome sight for these lumberjack-loving eyes), my dad shows us his latest creation, a stunning oak and mahogany communion table for his church.

A brief history about my parents: they make stuff all. the. time. Like, quilts by the week, new lovely wardrobes for my children every year, mandolins, violins, and pieces of Shaker-style furniture far more often than you'd think those things could be manufactured by 2 people who complain about their sciatica and poor arch support. (I still swear that they're hiding a sweatshop on some secret floor of their home.) Paintings, drawings, and other types of 2 dimensional art as often as I make shopping lists. It's inspiring and maddening all at once. Every time I visit them, I notice new "mades" all around their already lovely home... things that my mother has clearly already forgotten she's made (a new set of pin striped curtains say, or a new table runner on the salvaged wood dining room table my dad made), having moved on to other forms of creativity that my brain has barely even had time to think about, let alone do.

Last year: "So, mom? I started my garden last week... wanna hear what I'm planting?", I glance out the living room window to see a veritable rain forest of lush zucchini vines, their fruits waiting to be picked. My parents don't even eat zucchini! My mom, "Oh honey, that's wonderful!"

Everything they create is practically perfect, and always at the highest level of craftsmanship. I keep telling myself that it's due mostly to the luxury of being newly retired, stuffing those memories of my homemade childhood Christmases when I unwrapped gift after homemade gift that have now made their way into the arms of my children. Just thinking about how much they do makes me want to unbutton my pants and eat a log of Pillsbury cookie dough on the couch.

This apparently does not go unnoticed by even the young:

Fiona: faint nail gun and table saw noises coming from my dad's workshop downstairs, "Mom? Why does Papi make stuff so much?"

Me: "Because it's his 'thing'. Everyone's got a thing, you know?"

Fiona: "Yeah. Mina Ro's (my mom's) thing is sewing me dresses."

Me: "Yes."

Fiona: "And Mina Lani's (Terry's mom) thing is doctor." Just to clarify, my mother-in-law is a nurse. Her 'thing' is not doctors, although not a bad hobby if you're single I suppose, but the practice itself.

Me: "Yup."

Fiona: "Daddy's thing is drawing, because he makes cartoons." Sort of. He does the ecards and design on the website for the network you'll never be allowed to watch, and the one your grandparents think is porn.

Me: "Mmm hmm."

Fiona: "And your thing is 'making-up'."

Me: "Making-up? What's that?", visions of me picking fights with people and quickly saying I'm sorry. Just for fun.

Fiona: "You know? Making-up beds."

I've got to go now. I'm going to unmake my bed, and then remake it again. {Chills}