Just Some Christmas Musings....

                Epiphany:  An appearance of sudden and striking realization.

                Yep, I had one of those just  the other morning, while I was tidying up the barn  (it is not particularly shocking that a number of my epiphanies occur in the barn, given that I spend a fair amount of time there.  I suppose one could argue that  if my hobby were cleaning bathrooms, I might have striking realizations while scrubbing out the toilet bowl.  However,  knowing me as you probably do, you will not be at all surprised to learn that  for me and many of my ilk, the barn is definitely our  spiritual place). 

                Anyway,   I had  finished breakfast and my daily  surf in the addictive sea of baloney  that is social media,   then headed out on this sparklingly cold, sunny morning  to clear my head and  care for the ponies.   As usual Facebook had been full of blood pressure-raising  inaccurate factoids,  political half-truths  and incorrectly punctuated memes that naturally  lodged themselves  in my head  and continued to annoy me like stupid songs that, once heard, become  earworms rattling   through your cerebrum  in an endless loop  for about eleventy-seven days (in this category, in case you're interested, I include Disney's  Zippity-Do-Dah,  comic Heywood Banks'  The Cat Got Dead,  The Night Chicago Died by Paper Lace and -  especially appropriate for this season -   I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas,  and a weirdly mesmerizing  version of Jingle Bells rendered in Mongolian throat singing).  (And if that generates an earworm for you as well, you're welcome....). 

                One particular Facebook post that  I couldn't let go dealt with the traditional Christian Nativity story, which of course had been given a political slant a propos Today's World Situation (I hate it when they do that....).   It was all about the poor Holy Family,  "refugees"  who had been forced to take shelter in a stable.  In a stable.  As if that were a bad thing.  Luke's Gospel says only that the Holy Family sought shelter in a stable because "there was no room at the inn."  Apocryphal books and legends flesh out the story a little more.  Somewhere along the line, we get the impression that   the "inkeeper's wife" tossed out the idea of bedding the couple  down in the barn, as if this nameless  woman was  a stingy, heartless miser  out to use every inch of available space to squeeze the shekels out of the masses forced to swarm to the thriving metropolis of Bethlehem because "in those days there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed", and everyone was supposed to report to their familial stomping grounds for some semblance of an accurate counting (the Romans in those days were sticklers for detail.  When you're financing an empire roughly the size of the known world, you have to be).       There I was, mulling all this over as I watched dust motes swirl around in the sunbeams bursting  through  the barn door,   and pushing  errant strands of hay in front of my broom.   And suddenly I  had a feeling that I knew how it really played out.  

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                Her father was good with horses.  And so, as it turned out, was she.  The old women in the community  felt that Levi spoiled Rachel, his only child, by allowing her to help with his training prospects  when she should have been learning to cook and sew and weave cloth, but in truth she had a gift that he believed must have been  given to her by Yaweh Himself.  She could soothe  a nervous mare about to have her first foal,  coax a frightened colt past a strange obstacle,  calm an  unruly gelding objecting to a creaking  pack saddle fastened to its back.    Even the Romans sought out Levi and his daughter to train their mounts.  

                The time came for her to be married to a cousin in distant Bethlehem,  and Levi felt his heart sink as the cart carried Rachel  and her possessions over the hills outside the town.   He would miss her straightforward outlook on  life and her dry sense of humor as much as his  horses would miss her skilled touch,  but the Law was the Law, and she had to be married.  Ezra was a good man, an innkeeper with a solid business, and Levi  would see them on  Holy Days.    He raised a hand again and stood watching the dust settle  from their passing long after they had disappeared. 

              

  Years passed.   Ever pragmatic, Rachel adapted easily to the life of innkeeping.  She found people interesting and entertaining,  and if at times the crowds became too noisy she would retreat to the little stable built into a cave at the back of their property and find solace with the animals they kept.  Ezra sensed there were occasions when she needed the peace she found there, and if he had to do a little extra work in her absence, he knew when she returned she would be the better for it, and let her be. 

                One frosty week during the winter months, people in droves surged into the little city.  Homes were  filled to bursting by family members obeying the latest edict from Caesar, a directive that sent everyone to their hometowns to register for a census.  Accommodations at the inn were in high demand and short supply.  Travelers were  even willing to pay  extra to bed down on the floor  in the common room at night.      "No good will come of it," announced a Galilean trader, sloshing wine out of his clay  cup in  an emphatic  gesture.  " Mark my words, I guarantee the Romans will   find a way to get more  money out of us somehow.    Caesar probably wants to build another temple to himself.  Census," he snorted again , "that's rich."  Several other patrons in the common room nodded.  "It's so they can tax us accurately, that's what," another man added,  and a low rumble of dissatisfaction spread throughout  the crowded little room.  

                Just then the door banged open, slammed against the wall by a gust of wind.   A bearded young man grabbed the sill, looking sheepish.  "I'm sorry," he said, "but we're seeking lodgings and we need help.  My wife is in labor."

                Ezra shook his head. "Man, we're completely full.  Even the floor space will be occupied in an hour or so, and your wife won't want to be in here with this crew.   I wish I could help, but  I don't know what to tell you." 

                The young man's  expression turned  desperate  His tanned face was prematurely lined with worry.  "Listen, we've been travelling all this week.  Eighty miles.  My pregnant  wife has had to ride eighty miles on a donkey, and now she's in labor.  She's been the soul of tolerance, but to tell you the truth she's just about at the end of her rope, and I'm afraid to go out there and tell her you don't have any room.  This is the last stop on the edge of town for us.    She's going to kill me and the donkey if I don't find a decent place for her to have this baby  tonight."  

                The men looked at each other, helpless, but from the back of the room Rachel came  through the door and pushed her husband aside.  "I've got a place for you."  She tugged Ezra's sleeve and spoke softly into his ear as he leaned toward her, "they can stay in the stable." 

                Ezra was scandalized.  "The stable?  That's no place for a woman in labor," he hissed back, but Rachel put her hands on her hips and stared up at him.  "So you have a better idea?"  She turned to the young man still standing hopefully in the doorway.  

                "Look," she said, "I just stripped all  the stalls this afternoon, so there's clean bedding knee-deep in every stall.     I can move the centurion's stallion in with our mule  - they're good friends anyway -  and turn the donkeys out back.  They've got coats like yaks this time of year, so they 'll be all right.  I can tie a gate across one corner with twine from the sheaves of hay and put the goats behind that so they won't be in your face.     There's  fresh  hay in the mangers and if I know Laila - that's the cat - she 'll be curled in one of them warming up a cozy nest.   And - " she opened one hand like a conjurer, revealing four brown eggs - "the chickens have managed despite the cold   to produce your dinner."

                "But Rachel," Ezra persisted weakly , "a stable is no place for a woman in labor."

                "I don't know why not," she said.  "It's clean and dry and out of the wind; the animals will share their warmth.   It's quiet, and it doesn't smell like that Canaanite cart maker's sweaty armpits, which odor persists in our best room despite all my efforts to scrub it away.  Besides, if I were going to go through all the indignities that having a child entails, I would absolutely NOT want to do it in front of, well, God and everybody here in the common room."

                Ezra cast a pained look toward the rafters as if he were seeking divine inspiration for another  solution,   but the stranger interrupted.  "We'll take it," he said.  

                "Around to the back and follow the path," said Rachel, gesturing with the hand that held the eggs.  "I'll fix you a meal.  Ezra," she fixed her gaze on her husband, "fetch the midwife."

                When the denizens of the common room crowd finally settled into slumber several hours later and afforded her a moment of peace,  Rachel brushed the hair off her brow and peered out the back door of the inn.  Moonlight bathed the frosty  yard but  the stars glittered brightly too, as if refusing on this particular night  to be outshone by the huge but  solitary moon.   She saw that a group of  local shepherds had  settled their sheep and dogs  near the stable  under the shelter of the hill, and were singing quietly around a small fire.  She had not known they had such lovely voices.  

                She pulled her  old cloak off the peg nearby and, settling it across her shoulders,  picked  her way across the yard and peered in through the stable door.  The centurion's horse nickered softly at her approach and the ox raised its head and flicked its ears in her direction.  The young man was dozing with his back against the neatly tied sheaves of hay , and the little mother - hardly more than a child herself  - was asleep,  nestled under a cloak  in the manger.   She stirred, seeming to feel Rachel's gaze upon her, and opening her eyes, pulled back the brown woven cloth to reveal the child curled warmly against her, his curly head tucked under her chin.  Her eyes met Rachel's and her  glowing face split into a huge grin of delight and heartbreaking  sweetness.  Rachel nodded at her.  No words were needed to assure her that all was well.  She had given  the little family shelter  in  the place where she had always found peace herself. 

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                So this is a Christmas greeting  especially  for all my horsewomen friends and country dwelling sisters and fellow  children of the Earth - those who make extra room in our barns and stables and sheds and homes  and hearts    for rescues and strays and foster creatures;   those who never quite get the dirt out from under our  fingernails during  the growing season;  those whose favorite clothes - even the good ones - are never without a little hay in the pockets, and whose favorite brand  footwear is Mucks,  not Manolos .   The next time someone snaps  something  derogatory at you like, "shut the door, do you live  in a barn?" be proud to respond, "So what's wrong with that?"  Because somewhere, on a long ago night, maybe it was  really someone like one of us who shared her favorite  place of peace and safety with someone in need .   And you know the rest of that story.

                Besides...a little stable set up next to your tree or on your mantle sure makes a nicer Christmas decoration than the Hebrew equivalent of a Motel  6, doesn't it?

                Merry Christmas, to all of us!

Maid Redundant

The Bard and a couple of his pals...

                "It all turned to goop when I tried to fold in the lemon zest, " Keith sighed when I asked what happened to dessert . 

                 If the  axe-slinging teenager who grew  up to be my husband had known he would  one day be held responsible for the welfare of such mundane items as  yellow pudding cake, he'd have strangled himself with his own guitar strings and called it a mercy killing. 

                Keith  was among the walking wounded who lost their jobs  during  last October's economic  shenanigans.  Americans  say "layed off" but  I prefer the delightfully caustic  British term "made redundant," which calls a  spade a spade  and informs you that you have essentially  become  useless.   When  my associate veterinarian departed  in  December,  I found myself working longer  hours  while Keith  was  working precisely  none,  so  cooking , housekeeping and other  maid-of- all- work  chores fell to him by default.  He also  became  the stay-at-home Dad  for our furry foster children:  the blind Jack Russells,  amputee tabbies,   belligerent  dachshunds  and other assorted detritus  of the pet world that inevitably  accumulates  on a veterinarian's doorstep.    

                Laundry sorting and litter box scooping can  present  some  serious challenges to  an individual who is still hoping  his dirty socks  will leap  into the washing machine under their own power.   The man can bust  a  riff that  might  make Hendrix sit up in his grave,   and can  wrestle  stubborn  computer  problems  into submission without breaking a sweat , but can't remember the following order of operations:   "dump sink strainer gunk  before taking out  trash."

                To his credit,  he has  demonstrated an  endless supply of patience in putting up with a wife who comes home tired, hungry and  smelling like a pack of  sweaty foxhounds,   and  who sends  texts that read  "Cancel dinner plans.  Cat can't urinate."

                Turns out  he's kind of heroic too.  He gutted the smoldering  vacuum cleaner after it sucked up  a  live coal from the woodstove  that  ignited  the sweeper  bag full of  pet hair.  By the time I got home the only hint of disaster was the aroma of scorched canine  lingering in the vicinity of the garbage  can.  ("Who's burning?" I asked).    When he   tripped over the blind terrier , he  unselfishly   sacrificed his kneecaps to the kitchen step in order to avoid squashing the diabetic mutt  in his arms.   Exhibiting reflexes I didn't know he possessed,  he threw himself over a  shattered  pudding bowl,   preventing  the dogs from wolfing down chocolate mousse-coated  glass shards  and ending up as the subjects of a Readers' Digest article entitled  "Chilling Veterinary Medical Drama."

                Entertaining?  Quite often, even without the guitar.  Redundant?  Not in the least.  

To Myself on My Graduation from Vet School....25 Years Later

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Dear New Dr. Steph, Ever the geeky fan of science fiction and fantasy, I am writing this in the hopes that some day time travel will become a reality, and a courier from the future will deliver this letter to you, the new vet, from the me you will become in 25 years. On a steamy June day in 1988, you and your classmates crowded into Ohio Stadium in Columbus, received your Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degrees and were turned loose on the unsuspecting animal world, armed with a good education, a lot of optimism, and a package or two of shoulder-length plastic palpation sleeves that had been rattling around in your locker since your large animal rotation. Life as you knew it would never be quite the same again. Your first emergency case was a bulldog who lost an argument with a car. You will never forget that panicky feeling: where to begin? But you'll also remember the patience of your first employer, Dr. Larry Smith of Salt Run Vet Clinic in Maineville, who calmed you down and taught you that it wasn't rocket science, exactly: relieve the pain, treat the symptoms. There will be good calls and moments of inspiration and, interspersed with routine countless vaccinations and dewormings, the occasional chance to literally yank someone's beloved companion out of the jaws of death. That's a very cool feeling. You'll love it. There will be cases that don't end so well. You will soon learn that you can't please everyone, you can't save every patient, and not everyone will even like you, no matter how hard you try. You won't always be right. You will see a pointer puppy with a severe heart murmur, and you will predict that her cardiac defect will kill her before she reaches adulthood. But you'll be wrong, because she'll live to be a lovely old dog before her heart finally gives out (thus you will learn that sometimes it's good to be wrong). You will also learn more practical matters: A rottweiler is capable of passing an entire king-sized bedsheet. A "broken bone sticking out" of a cat's leg may actually be a crouton stuck to its elbow (so mind you do a thorough physical exam before reaching any conclusions about your patients). Out of consideration for those who coexist with you, you will learn to to tightly close and label any samples of yellow liquid stored in your home refrigerator. The same goes for solids. You will count yourself lucky to have found a husband who doesn't complain about tubes of horse blood stashed between the taco sauce and the pickle relish. You will suddenly become the popular person at parties. Once partygoers discover you are a veterinarian, you will be besieged with people wanting to talk - about why dogs eat grass and throw up, the problems of great-aunt Beulah's cat Mr. Dribbles, and by the way, would you please take three unwanted kittens? (You will learn to say no...sometimes.) One day you will realize that the fifteen-year-old dog you are euthanizing is one you first saw as a puppy. You'll discover you've owned the practice longer than either of the two legendary DVM's who worked there before you, Merlin Oswalt and "Old Doc Peck." Someone will refer to you as "Ol' Doc Steph" and you'll realize you're one of the senior vets in the neighborhood. When the heck did that happen? You'll be shocked, but eventually you'll feel pretty good about it. Someone will give you a shady sales pitch and you will be able to peer over your reading glasses, say "do I look like I was born yesterday?" and mean it. Then, just when you're sitting back on your laurels - or some other spreading part of your anatomy - the next patient through the door will be a grumpy diabetic cat you can't regulate - let alone handle- a kitten failing to thrive, or some other puzzling case you absolutely have no idea how to sort out. And for a few moments - until you remember that article you read or that new book you just bought - you'll feel as confused and frustrated as you did the first day you went to work. But it will be ok. You'll be doing surgery with a laser and communicating with computers and sending photos to colleagues to ask for a second opinion with a gadget you carry in your back pocket. Xray images will be digital and bloodwork from a sick patient will be in your hands in a matter of minutes rather than days away. The phone, however, will still drive you crazy. You will adopt more pets than you need and mourn the loss of every one as its life ends. You always said if performing euthanasias got easy it would be time to quit. It never has. Most importantly, you will never cease to be amazed by the ability of an animal to heal, given half a chance; by the bond of love that can be shared between a pet and its owner, and by the grace and gracious attitude of folks who, even when grief stricken at the loss of a pet, find it in their hearts to comfort and thank you for your part in that creature's life. I hope you will never forget to be grateful for those things. One final thought: If by some chance this letter is mistakenly delivered 25 years into the future instead of to the past, and my 80 year old self is reading this, I have one message for you: for crying out loud, retire already!

The donkey lay suffering in silence, his leg broken. A brown cow stood nearby, one horn dangling, one ear askew. A lamb curled on the straw, missing an eye. One witness in the background had lost his head. From a veterinarian’s point of view, the situation was a real mess. The donkey was the most critical patient; I stabilized his injured leg with a small piece of wood, although I thought an amputation was imminent. The cow’s horn hung by a thread, with no evident bleeding, so I simply snipped off the useless piece. I could probably reattach the ear at its base. The lamb’s missing eye could be replaced by a glass prosthetic . The plight of the headless bystander was obviously a job for a good surgical adhesive – once I located the head. It had probably become the puck in a game of cat hockey. I finally found it in the kitchen. I assembled my instruments and fired up the glue gun. Time was of the essence; there were gifts to wrap and cookies in the oven. The end of a toothpick replaced the horn of the ox, and a dollop of hot glue returned its drooping ear to an anatomically correct position. I carefully amputated the donkey’s leg and carved a replacement from a tongue depressor. Having owned one-eyed cats and blind dogs, I knew the lamb would get along fine with his single eye. And although Balthazar will sport forever a collar of dried adhesive, his head settled nicely back on his shoulders. Traditional holiday decoration here includes setting up the nativity scene on the dining room piano, marauding cats notwithstanding. Fresh hay is strewn across the wooden floor of the little stable. The figurines are placed in their time-honored positions: the Holy Family in the stable with the donkey and ox; the shepherd and his sheep just outside, and the richly clad Three Kings approaching with their gifts. I’m not sure how old the crèche is , but Burk Family lore holds that the set predates my parents. I was taught about the Adoration of the Magi as a child, but enamored as I was even then of anything equine, what I really adored the idea of being born in a stable. I spent hours arranging the characters, which probably accounts for some of their current scars. I imagine all that my little figures have witnessed as they looked out from their manger over the years: The sad Christmas Eve in 1942 when Dad’s civilian clothing returned from boot camp in a battered package, and one shoe fell out at Mom’s feet. The happy Christmas of 1945 with the card from Okinawa saying “I am coming home.” The Christmas when a month-old baby girl stared in fascination at the lights of the tree, and the one when she unwrapped a big package that held a saddle (of course I still have it!) . The holidays after the deaths of family members. Those when we knew someone’s passing was imminent. The awesome Christmas the astronauts sent a message from the moon. The subdued Christmas after 9-11 – and this year, another one overshadowed by sadness. Some years it seems almost wrong to celebrate the holidays with mirth . It’s difficult to conjure up joy when incidents like the recent tragedy in Connecticut threaten to choke out merriment and warmth.

I replace my little figures in the stable and wonder what Mary knew as she held her newborn child. Was her joy tinged with sadness, knowing what lay ahead for her son? Yet the artist sculpted on her delicate face the soft smile of pure love. The ancients anticipated the midwinter solstice with joy – celebrating even in the darkest of days the return of the light. Saint Francis of Assisi prayed “where there is hatred, let me sow love…where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.” In the 1500’s another Italian , Fra Giovanni, wrote “the gloom of the world is but a shadow; yet within our reach is joy.” A wise Native Americans said “to have joy, one must share it.” Maybe that’s our most human defense against the darkness –and maybe it’s the best.

What Did You Do In The War, Dad?

“What did you do in the War, Dad?” Many kids have asked this question. World War II had been over for less than twenty years when I started elementary school; plenty of parents, uncles, aunts and even older siblings who had served in the military were still living at the time. My Dad’s answer was merely, “I was a supply sergeant. ” When he admitted he had not participated in active combat, I must have decided that his war experiences were of little interest, and went on burying my nose in books about Paul Revere’s Ride and King Tut and the Wars of the Roses. You know, “real” history. What a self-centered knucklehead I was . My Dad and and my uncles Bob and Ed Cape (who’d been “hurt in the War” and wore a leg brace to support his paralyzed right side) were right there but I completely missed the fact that I had walking, talking history lessons within reach. And now, sadly, they’re all gone. But I’ve been given a second chance; among my mother’s possessions I found Dad’s letters from a tour of duty that began in December 1942 in Fort Moultrie, South Carolina, and ended three years later in Okinawa, Japan. Reading his words makes me feel as though I’m peeking through a window to a chapter in my parents’ lives that played out long before I was born. There are several hundred letters. I’m putting them in chronologic order and sampling a few at a time. It’s like reading the best of novels: there is love and longing, mystery, pathos, humor and of course wartime drama. Dad describes seeing dead soldiers, both Japanese and American “stacked up like old tires on the side of the road.” A soldier next to him was shot in the head by a sniper. I discovered what he meant by “supply sergeant” - he was responsible for provisioning over 5500 American soldiers rescued from Japanese POW camps. “Some of them look pretty good, “ he wrote succinctly, “others do not.” Some things, could not be said in letters, since wartime correspondence was subject to the shears of military censors. I’ve been consulting the Internet and as many other sources as possible – including the rapidly decreasing number of living WWII veterans – to flesh out exactly what Dad was up to in those bygone days. Which leads me to this statement: If you’re interested in military history, the coolest museum you’ve probably never visited is right under your nose in Germantown, Ohio. The Veterans’ Memorial Museum began in the 1990’s as a private collection assembled by curator David Shortt, CWO, U.S. Army Ret. It now fills, spills and overflows out of an old tobacco warehouse at 123 S. Main Street. You never saw so much military stuff in all your life. Uniforms on mannequins standing at attention, display cases filled with letters, medals, and memorabilia. Tattered, faded flags waving gently in the breeze from the open door; the big red one with the swastika still has the power to send a chill down the spine. The place vibrates with stories told and untold. While the majority of items in the museum’s collection date from the WWII era, a sizeable number of displays address more recent conflicts. There are also treasures from WWI, the Civil War and even the American Revolution. Minutes slip easily into hours in the quiet aisles as you look, read, think. Several generations of veterans drift in to drink coffee and reminisce. In the area housing artifacts from the Pacific Theater, I experienced a jolt of recognition. Familiar uniforms and postmarks, trinkets and mementos like items Dad sent to Mom: a pressed flower, a Japanese cigarette, “scrip” currency with the ink still as bright as if it had been printed yesterday. If I’m lucky, during some future visit I’ll come across information on the 282 Coastal Artillery Batallion, shipped north from New Caledonia to participate in the invasion of Japan. So look out Dad, I’m tracking you down, and remembering you one picture, one letter, and now, thanks to the Veterans’ Memorial Museum, one exhibit at a time. Happy Veterans’ Day, Dad. And thanks.

Remembering Dad....Finally

One summer day around 1930, a blue dog ambled across a Middletown street. On returning home, the dog’s owner (referred to in family lore as “Old Man Wilson The Undertaker” ), was so shocked at the sight of his turquoise terrier trotting down Broad Street that he drove his Duesenberg into a tree. He knew – as did the rest of the neighborhood – that the Burk boys were at it again. Frederick E. Burk was the youngest of five children, all of whom grew up in the home and family grocery store on the corner of Broad St. and Girard Ave. in the early 1900’s. Spoiled by two sisters and corrupted by two brothers, it’s no wonder he grew up blessed with an ample helping of “ornery. “ The influence of a volatile Sicilian immigrant father made him emotional and demonstrative as well, but rarely in a bad way. When I remember Dad, it is always with a smile and often outright laughter. I give him both the credit and the blame for my own goofy sense of humor. Not for me the subtleties of a Woody Allen movie; give me a good “Funniest Home Video” pratfall any day. I recently uploaded an iPhone app that deals with, well, flatulence. In honor of Dad. This should give you an idea of the silliness I had to contend with as I grew up. Of course some of it rubbed off. I’m convinced that when I wrote an essay in the style of Jane Austin recently, it was all Dad’s fault that it was about the results of “Taking the Activia Challenge.” Dad had a great zest for fun. When a gang of us Midway Street kids took to our bikes, it was often my father who could be seen leading the pack – pedaling away while sitting on the handlebars, facing backwards. He also introduced us to what might be referred to today as “Extreme Jump Rope,” producing an inch-thick specimen that must have been a mooring line for a battleship in a previous life. I can still hear that thing flying past my ears with a businesslike “wooofffff.” We quickly became adept at jumping because we were afraid a mistake would result in decapitation. A genteel swearer, Dad’s language was liberally peppered with “hells,” “damns” and other low-level profanity . He believed anything with a motor would work eventually provided you strung together the right cusswords . He once swore fluently at a chainsaw for a good thirty minutes before realizing he’d left the starter switch in the off position. I teased him about it for weeks. Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 1985, but he lived long enough to see me graduate from vet school , and enjoyed hearing about my classes and cases –the messier the better. Of course he was particularly entertained any time I had to pull on one of those long plastic gloves and introduce myself to the rear end of a cow or horse. Our class at Ohio State chose to wave to the crowd at the stadium during graduation ceremonies with inflated versions of those same gloves, and Dad couldn’t have been happier. When Mom and I went to the funeral home after Dad’s death –the current incarnation of the business started all those years ago by “Old Man Wilson, incidentally –we were amazed by how handsome he looked despite the ravages of 5 years of illness. His beautiful silver hair was neatly combed, the bloated side effects of his chemotherapy had disappeared, one corner of his mouth quirked upward – in short, he looked like he was ready to sit up and make a typical smart remark. Mom burst into tears – one of the few times I ever saw my strong, stoic mother weep - – and I tried to comfort her by saying “now, he wouldn’t want us to cry.” Her eyes flashed at me behind her glasses as she snapped, “Oh yes he would! ” I was silent for a minute, and then said “you know, you’re right” and we both cracked up in spite of our tears. Even through our grief, Fred Burk was still making us laugh.

Finally Remembering Dad

One summer day around 1930, a blue dog ambled across a Middletown street. On returning home, the dog’s owner (referred to in family lore as “Old Man Wilson The Undertaker” ), was so shocked at the sight of his turquoise terrier trotting down Broad Street that he drove his Duesenberg into a tree. He knew – as did the rest of the neighborhood – that the Burk boys were at it again.
Frederick E. Burk was the youngest of five children, all of whom grew up in the home and family grocery store on the corner of Broad St. and Girard Ave. in the early 1900’s. Spoiled by two sisters and corrupted by two brothers, it’s no wonder he grew up blessed with an ample helping of “ornery. “ The influence of a volatile Sicilian immigrant father made him emotional and demonstrative as well, but rarely in a bad way.
When I remember Dad, it is always with a smile and often outright laughter. I give him both the credit and the blame for my own goofy sense of humor. Not for me the subtleties of a Woody Allen movie; give me a good “Funniest Home Video” pratfall any day. I recently uploaded an iPhone app that deals with, well, flatulence. In honor of Dad. This should give you an idea of the silliness I had to contend with as I grew up. Of course some of it rubbed off. I’m convinced that when I wrote an essay in the style of Jane Austin recently, it was all Dad’s fault that it was about the results of “Taking the Activia Challenge.”
Dad had a great zest for fun. When a gang of us Midway Street kids took to our bikes, it was often my father who could be seen leading the pack – pedaling away while sitting on the handlebars, facing backwards. He also introduced us to what might be referred to today as “Extreme Jump Rope,” producing an inch-thick specimen that must have been a mooring line for a battleship in a previous life. I can still hear that thing flying past my ears with a businesslike “wooofffff.” We quickly became adept at jumping because we were afraid a mistake would result in decapitation.
A genteel swearer, Dad’s language was liberally peppered with “hells,” “damns” and other low-level profanity . He believed anything with a motor would work eventually provided you strung together the right cusswords . He once swore fluently at a chainsaw for a good thirty minutes before realizing he’d left the starter switch in the off position. I teased him about it for weeks.
Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 1985, but he lived long enough to see me graduate from vet school , and enjoyed hearing about my classes and cases –the messier the better. Of course he was particularly entertained any time I had to pull on one of those long plastic gloves and introduce myself to the rear end of a cow or horse. Our class at Ohio State chose to wave to the crowd at the stadium during graduation ceremonies with inflated versions of those same gloves, and Dad couldn’t have been happier.
When Mom and I went to the funeral home after Dad’s death –the current incarnation of the business started all those years ago by “Old Man Wilson, incidentally –we were amazed by how handsome he looked despite the ravages of 5 years of illness. His beautiful silver hair was neatly combed, the bloated side effects of his chemotherapy had disappeared, one corner of his mouth quirked upward – in short, he looked like he was ready to sit up and make a typical smart remark. Mom burst into tears – one of the few times I ever saw my strong, stoic mother weep - – and I tried to comfort her by saying “now, he wouldn’t want us to cry.” Her eyes flashed at me behind her glasses as she snapped, “Oh yes he would! ” I was silent for a minute, and then said “you know, you’re right” and we both cracked up in spite of our tears. Even through our grief, Fred Burk was still making us laugh.