They Rallied Round My Flag

Sports commentators advanced all the usual theories as to why my moribund Green Bay Packers rose up last night to put a pretty good thumping on the previously unbeaten Houston Texans.  The writers and announcers cited better blocking, play calling, pass patterns, and quarterback decisions as reasons for the Packers’ victory.

Proudly it does wave, at least for now.

Nonsense. None of those things had much to do with the win. It was all about my flag.

For the past 10 years, I’ve hoisted a Packers flag after every win. It’s one of several juvenile things I do just because they’re fun. Usually,  the flag stays up until Thursday and then is taken in as we await results of the next contest. Last year, the Pack won so many games in a row I just got tired of the routine and left it up for a month or so.

Late this summer, as part of our never-ending home-improvement project, a painter removed the flag holder beside our garage door so he could refurbish the door frame. He forgot to put it back until just now.

Of course, the absence of my banner struck a serious blow to team morale.  The Packers started the season with only one decent performance before last night.

Now the flag flies again, at least until Thursday. Don’t count our guys out just yet. Incidentally, that big G stands for god—he’s our quarterback.

He Said, She Said

Describing a not-so-proud moment in the history of a football star (Feb. 2 post, “Look Out, Here Comes Tony!”) reminded me of a similar exploit of my very own. It was not among my finest achievements, but at least I got a mild compliment when it was all over.

Years ago, son Lee and I made an evening trip to the hardware store to gather supplies for a home lighting improvement project.  Among other things, we bought a six-foot length of conduit, and Lee hung onto it through the open passenger side window of our Honda during the short trip to our house.

When we arrived in our garage, and Lee was getting out, somehow my feet got tangled up and I hit the accelerator instead of the brake.  I drove right through the back of the garage.  When the little car came to rest, it sported a flat tire and was hung up teetering back and forth on the concrete wall base. 

Sandy raced out to ask, "Did something explode?"  The next question was,  "How in the world did you do that?"

A wrecker was needed to extricate the car from the battered wall.  When the tow truck operator arrived, he chuckled a bit after inspecting the damage and asked who had been driving.  I confessed.

"Well, at least you're honest, " the towing man said, "The last six guys who did this told me their wives were driving."

Tender, Loving Wear

Last night was St. Patrick’s Day eve. By chance, I was introduced to Pat Davis at a meeting of the Plainwell Arts Council. She was well-acquainted with all the members of the O’Leary family, the clan from whom we bought our home. If O’Leary isn’t Irish, what is?

We like what Mrs. Davis called "the O’Leary house.” Everyone around here refers to it that way. For us, it’s the right space in the right place. Sandy has a special area where she can stamp and craft things to her heart’s content, and I have my very own private place to create new tales that are electronically dispatched almost instantly to bore large segments of the populace. We can look through a multi-aged miniature oak forest onto a handsome golf course fairway and green, and have a deck big enough to share the view with a hundred or so guests should we choose to throw a really big summer shindig.

The only problem is that the house has been occupied by various O’Learys and several different renters for brief periods of time over the past five years. It has not had the quality of care that can be provided only by a single set of dedicated owner-occupants. The list of things large and small to be shaped up is lengthy.

When we first moved in, it seemed as though a new intriguing problem lurked in every corner. The large number of phone jacks and television connections was impressive, but about half connected to nothing. The second day, a high-powered garage door opener opened nothing. In some places less-than-wonderful amateur wiring posed potential hazards, and a small opening allowed raindrops to fall unimpeded into the attic. And, etc., etc., etc.

The most important things were fixed fairly quickly. Our handy son, Lee, did yeoman work, even sacrificing his vacation days to perform repair tasks ranging from plastering to rewiring. His fiancee, Karen, solved electronic mysteries that baffled everyone else. They worked so hard we are thinking of increasing their “Klade pay” from “free sheets on Sunday” to the old Army standard, “three hots and a cot.”

When temperatures soared the other day, we thought it was time to haul screens up from the basement. Five cover two windows and three double doors opening to the deck. The screens were in a downstairs storage area where lighting is adequate, but fairly dim.

We checked the screens out and decided finally we had found elements of the house that could be put into service without any repairs or adjustments. Surprise! When we hauled the screens to daylight, it was plain to see that the mesh in three of the five was not going to keep out mosquitoes or other pesty wonders of nature. The next stop for the screens will be the repair shop behind the local hardware store.

When we met Mary O’Leary Knecht at our sale closing, she said, “There’s a lot of love in that house.” She described how her brother had taken time out from his construction business in Texas to custom-build it for their parents. She talked about many good times in the home and neighborhood. She was gracious and helpful.

The sellers were honorable in every respect. We knew an 18-year-old house was not going to be perfect in every detail. We made a fair deal with the O’Learys. All will be well, but it will take a bit of time to get it there.

Now, if we can just figure out how to replace that bronze leprechaun holding a shamrock on the front door with a guy wearing lederhosen and an alpine hat . . . .