A Few Good Men

So the good day? What made it so good was simple really. It was the men. Good men.

I've learned that knowing them. Being around them. Well, it's a good thing. It almost makes a girl believe she can have one of her very own. I've decided to make it a habit. It puts me in a very good mood.

The first good man I ever knew was my grandfather. He was a farmer his whole life. Married to my grandmother his whole life. And he loved my mother and loved my sister and me, every moment of his life. His name? Loyal. He took his name to heart apparently. From him, I learned to pull weeds, hoe potatoes, pick raspberries, strawberries, blackberries, carrots, peas, radishes, apples. Shell corn. Take care of a garden. Water plants. Feed pigs and cows and I even got to water sheep and read the rain gauge (I wish I still had his rain gauge). On his farm, I got to ride a John Deere lawnmower around like I was all that. He built my sister and me a treehouse. He also built that barn in the picture. We used to watch him make hay. And all the local farmers would come over to help. He used to take my sister and me to the Whiteside County Fair. And to Peterson's Drugstore for ice cream sodas. We'd sit at the counter and he'd talk to everybody. Eating at the Icebox was a big deal. And the Yellow Brick House. We'd all dress up for that. He liked to take my sister and me to play at Waterworks Park. Afterwards, we'd put flowers on all the Hammer graves and pull the weeds so you could read the headstones. Sometimes, we'd go out to the lake where we'd feed ducks and ride around in these pedal boats.

He had terrible arthritis, but he never complained. His hands were stuck basically in a clawlike way. His fingernails, always dirty. My grandmother would scrub them with lemon to get the dirt out. He hated it. You could tell, although he never said a word. He went to church every Sunday. He said hello to every person he saw on the street. When he came to California I had to stop him. And tell him he had to lock the car doors. He was just that trusting. He was from a different time. He'd fix things in our apartment when he came to visit. He'd drink margaritas, if he drank. He liked to mix his food up on the plate into one goulash looking thing all colored by beets. He hated to match his clothes. And he never did. No matter how hard my grandmother tried. He drove my grandmother to the hairdresser and read the paper in the car while she got her hair permed and set. He always fell asleep reading the paper in his chair at night, in front of the TV, glasses falling half off of his nose. He liked Hollywood Squares. And the news. He never got to go to college, because he was expected to help run his parent's farm, but he was incredibly smart. And self taught.

My grandfather had the patience of a saint. He let my grandmother be a backseat driver. And all he ever said everytime she warned him about an oncoming train was, "I see it Hallie." He always wore hats. And looked good in them. He would stay up to see me every time I visited, no matter what the hour. He would always perk up the minute I arrived. And make me feel special. He drove my sister and me to the airport in Moline every visit and would stand in the window until our plane took off. And when our childhood pet, Reb, died-- our dog who had to be sent to his farm when my parents got divorced (see, it does happen!), he cried. My grandfather was every bit a man. And a good man. He had muscles up until the day that he died. He was 97. Still, he was taken too soon.

Yesterday, my good day reminded me of him. It reminded me of good men. It started when I had a wonderful lunch with my old boss. Other than our one meeting after he read my script 4 years ago (yes, the David Spade-like one about wanting a perfect family), we hadn't spoken since 1993 or 1994. Something like that. Still, he didn't hesitate to pick up the phone when I called. He didn't say "no" to lunch. He was so willing to just go with it. And take me on face value. And that's really all it was. Lunch. Catching up over lunch. And it was nice. He was the one who taught me to write. Really. Because he's a really talented writer. He's smart. But doesn't flaunt it. He gave me credit for everything I ever did for him. He never had me do personal shit. He never gave me shit. He was a happy man with no drama. Maybe that's because he has integrity, a company, a career, a wife and four boys. Or maybe it's because of him that he has those things. In any event, they all feed off of each other. Now he's teaching at USC film school and coaching soccer. And writing and producing. And taking lunch with the likes of me. When he listened to my story, he didn't judge. He just said my life made him sound so straight. I told him it made his life sound "good" and that's just different.

Kelly's dad? Well, he drove up yesterday and built a shelf in our laundry room. Created some Directv contraption since she misses her tivo (and I've never had it-- yay!). He also figured out how to make our second damn garage door opener finally work-- an effort that totally escaped both me and Kelly and my landlord's handyman. It took him 2 hours. He did even more stuff for Kelly. He's a good dad. I think he deserves a thank you note or two or three. A serial thanker, ah-- there's a new category for me.

When I was working on the sitcom, I remember buying a TV and having it stuck in my car for two weeks because I worked during delivery hours and I had no one to help me get it out and set it up. (The only male friend I had with muscles came over, cried back problems and hit on me... sigh). Finally, my garbage disposal broke and the plumbers took pity on me and carried it upstairs. I'll never forget that. I even wrote a short story about it. Magick Lady tells me I need to learn how to receive. That it's one of my problems. And to recieve, oftentimes, you need to ask. The thing is, I never really had men around in the past that I could ask. (If I asked my dad to help out with a school project he wouldn't -- he asked if I had money to buy the materials, because otherwise, the cost was included in the child support. Again... sigh). So I got used to just doing things myself. So did Romy. She has a whole tool set. (I'm working on mine. I'm short a drill... anyone?) Here's the thing. I like being self-sufficient. I'm not going to lie. But help? It's nice. It makes things easier. Men who come through for you? They make you feel better. And if I have to ask to get it and get turned down a few times in the bargain, that's okay. Because I realized that sometimes it's as nice to receive as it is to give.