Something old

Why is old stuff always so pretty?

Ok, I guess there are exceptions to this rule, like old man asses, and whatever it is I found while cleaning out the fridge the other day. That was not so much pretty as it was disgusting.

Last weekend for work, I covered an event that took people through the city's local history. One of the stations was a 1930's replica of a miner's house, set up to look like there was a family living there. If I wasn't such a moral, law-abiding citizen I would have been tempted to swipe some of the beautiful, timeless, classic pieces in the house.  

 Instead, I borrowed them in photographs. 

If this is what they call timeless beauty, I don't mind getting old.

Over-qualified

After dinner, I'm doing the dishes and Pop's in his room. I can hear him fidgeting with something and swearing under his breath.

I glance into his room out of the corner of my eye and realize he's trying to re-set his alarm clock. The electric one always gives him trouble.

He keeps fumbling for a few minutes, then drops the plastic alarm clock on his foot. He swears.

A few more seconds of trying on his own, and he yells "KATE! What the hell am I doing wrong here!?"

I dry my hands and walk over, pick up the alarm, set the time. Dad walks into the kitchen and yells "IT'S 9:18!"

"Done!" I say, returning to the kitchen. Dad seems baffled.

"You're done? Already? Whoa! You're good! Wow! Good job!"

You should see how crazy he gets when I change the message on the answering machine.

Do you see why I still live here? Great to feel appreciated.

Chatterbox

My dad's a putterer.  

It's not often you'll catch him watching t.v. or sitting around. Even more so now with his new digs - he's always doing something around the house.  
Along with his new place on the lake, he also owns land about five minutes away, which he calls 'The Farm.' The Farm's the place he goes when he needs peace and quiet, and he spends days there gardening and building things. 
I'm not home a lot, but often I'll come home from work and find a few flower bed or piece of deck has been added to the yard. At The Farm, Dad built bridges, dug ponds, constructed cabins from the ground up. 

One night last week, I found myself home from work earlier than usual. After dinner, Pop said he was going to The Farm to cover his onions. 
"I'm gonna come too," I said, pulling on my rubber boots. Was it just my imagination, or did he wince slightly when I suggested I tag along?  
I brought my camera in case we saw a bear. Dad's seen tons this year on his property, and a couple of summers ago even had to chase one out of the back of his truck. 

Instead of taking pictures of bears, I ended up taking video of us chatting. Well, me chatting. It was only when I played it back afterward that I realized how irritating I was. 

How he didn't backhand me, toss my camera out the window, and tape my mouth shut is beyond me. I guess it's this thing called 'patience' that has developed after listening to me talk non-stop for 27 years. 


Here's a little excerpt from our evening trip to cover the onions. I had to add subtitles, because Pop mumbles. Also, don't be alarmed by the gagging noises - just a bad case of the hiccups. 


Try to resist the urge to reach into your computer and strangle me. 
I, for one, had a ball. 


Evening bear watch from Kate McLaren on Vimeo.