column

Almost There

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Back in my newspaper days, “Almost There” was the name of my weekly column. To me, the title called to mind the joys and challenges of both parenthood and life: the constant wondering and plaintive vocalization (not only from children) of every journey’s most persistent question — are we there yet? — and the fluttergut, giddy anticipation of being always on the verge of something new, terrifying, wonderful…

Tonight we are less than a week from full-term, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our fifth child, and the anticipation is agonizing. Jodi’s discomfort, and her growing anxiety about the discomforts to come, is a burden I would carry for her if it were permitted. I, on the other hand, find myself choking back tears at odd moments, caught up in memories of my love’s labors past, her courage now, and her life-giving beauty.

We’re quite a pair, we two.

Our home is a pre-Christmas jumble. Our kids are wound to their full holiday potential, and occasionally fly off into the wall or ceiling in a buzz of released tension. The baby magnifies all, and the air in the house is thick with suppressed emotion. When this child comes, you’ll know.

On Monday, Jodi said she felt as though something had dropped. We went to the clinic on Tuesday and were told that was not the case; our little one was still high above the birth canal and content to stay there. On Wednesday, returning from Christmas shopping alone, my bride had her first real contraction. “It hurt so bad I thought I was going to die,” she told me when she got home. “I thought, ‘I should pull over,” then thought, ‘I’d rather die at home.'”

We laughed. We’ve done a lot of that. Just one contraction. A doozy, but none since. We wait.

The week before, our doctor, an older man with a wizard’s eyebrows and the experience to wear them without pretense, felt Jodi’s belly — “Feet, rump, head,” he declared as his hands moved and pressed lightly — and told us he felt a great deal of fluid and a not-unusually-large infant. He is not concerned at this point, given our history of large babies and no troubles.

His proclamation, coupled with Jodi’s finicky stomach and appetite and other tiny cues, have led to my official prediction for our baby: we are having our tomboy, an active girl of about 10 pounds (plus or minus two ounces; 9-15 like her daddy would be just fine), 21 inches long or so. She’s gonna sleep alright, but when she starts moving about, she’ll be our first climber. We shall have our hands full. She will have a Thorp head, of course, and Jodi’s hazel eyes that look green in the right light.

You heard it here first…but who knows, really?

If we welcome a boy, our intention is to call him Samuel Firmin Thorp — Sam — middle-named for Jodi’s maternal grandfather (it means “strong”), unless God calls him something else when we see him. If she is a girl, as I predict, she will likely be Lily — Lillian Clara Thorp, middle-named for Jodi’s paternal grandmother.

And so you know: we intend to bring our four older children to the hospital to see the baby and guess the gender before the big “reveal,” so to speak. This means we will tell you much, but not all, when it happens. I will let you know that we’re in labor, and let you know when we have a child, the health and well-being of all involved — but you’ll have to be patient on the specifics. Modern technology is poor at keeping secrets, even from middle- and grade-school kids.

A few weeks back, just before friends held a baby shower for Jodi, someone asked Jodi what we needed for the new arrival.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Nothing really.”

Another friend asked one of the shower organizers the same question.

“Everything, I think!”

Our family, friends, and parish have provided abundantly for us at little cost. I was flipping through old columns and ran across one from 1997, before Brendan arrived, with the headline, “Preparing for baby boggles the mind.” What we worried about then is funny now. So much we didn’t know, and yet we have four children about whom we could not be prouder.

Are we pushing our luck?

No matter. We have what we need, and what we lack will be provided, come what may. We are ready. Little one, are we there yet?

Pass the Beer Nuts

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Blogger’s Note: I had another beer-related post in mind for tonight, but ran out of creative juices. This piece originally appear under the headline above as a column in the February 24, 1998, edition of The Pioneer daily newspaper in Big Rapids, Michigan. It explains the origins and peculiarities of my love of beer. So gosh-darn cute and innocent, too. Oh, yes … and this awesome poster image above? Not mine, but it can be purchased from the creative minds at Pop Chart Labs. Check it out!

“Bread is the staff of life,
but beer is life itself.”
— old English proverb

The world is home to beer drinkers and beer lovers, and most often the two are not the same.

The majority of beer drinkers care little about the alchemy at work in converting bread and water into those heady concoctions known collectively as beer. Most beer drinkers buy their beverages in packs of twelve or more and are content believing that born-on dates and pure mountain water are the two most important elements in  choosing a beer.

Ever wonder why the less expensive domestic beers tend to tout their water? As beer judge and connoisseur Bob Klein said about one American brew, “…take away that crisp, clean, fresh liquid, and it’d hard to tell what you have left.” Commercial breweries — those with “vats the size of Rhode Island” — speak highly of their water to avoid the Crispix debate: Which tastes better, the corn or the rice?

Barley, my friends — barley, hops yeast and water [Blogger’s Addendum: And occasionally a little wheat…] give us ales and lagers; porters, stouts, lambics, pilsners, bocks and barley-wines.

The world is home to a great many beers, and I am a beer lover.

I began drinking regularly at the “proper” time in my life — my twenty-first birthday — which has given me interesting perspectives on beer and drinking. (At least I think they’re interesting — they seem more so over a room-temperature Guinness.) I drank my first beer when I was three, sitting on my daddy’s knee one summer day at a family barbecue. I was holding his beer for him, and asked if I could have a sip. Dad said sure, assuming, I’m certain, that I wouldn’t like it.

I took a sip, and sat quietly for awhile, the took another.

A short while later, Dad took the can from me and was surprised to find it all but empty.

Did I like it? Did I get sick? I don’t remember. [Blogger’s Note: I do, however, remember the brand. Because I loved the jingle.]

I did not taste beer again until my twenty-first birthday — seriously. I did it then for two reasons: first, because I was of age — a sort of rite of passage — and second, because my future in-laws were drinkers of beer, and although they never pressured me to do so, I felt I’d like to be able to share the experience with them, and more importantly, be able to offer Jodi’s father and brothers a beer when they came to visit us.

A couple of college buddies took me out to dinner that day and ordered me a respectable brew: Sam Adams Boston Lager. It was bitter, nasty, and I drank only half of it. My friends — good friends that they are — said the beer was on them, and to enjoy it or not at my discretion.

Still, I was determined to find a beer that liked. The following week, another friend, Steve, introduced me to a raspberry wheat beer (“If you can drink any beer, it’s this one — it doesn’t even taste like beer!” he said) and Woodchuck hard cider (not beer at all). Both were easy to drink, fruity and flavorful. Neither could be offered to Jodi’s brothers with any sort of self-respect.

Steve took it upon himself to introduce me to a couple of new beers every week — the following week it was the English classic, Bass Pale Ale, and I was hooked. It was over that first Bass that I first gasped the mystical nature of beer. It occurred to me that, on first swallow, I thought Bass tasted pretty good; the second sip was better, and the more I drank, the more my taste buds relaxed, no longer bracing themselves against the bitterness of the hops or the sting of carbonation. I began to note intricacies of flavor I’d never noticed before, and I felt a certain oneness with the beer, until I was no longer certain who loved whom. I smiled at the revelation that I was no longer sure whether Bass tasted good or felt good, and smiled again at the notion that both were likely true, and it was impossible to extricate one from other.

As the weeks went on, Steve introduced me to a world of other beers — some black, some red, some brown, some yellow, and most very friendly. I discovered that when I discussed these beers with others, not everyone felt the same as I. Some beer drinkers liked only light beers, for example, and some beer drinkers, irrational as it seems, didn’t like beer at all.

Which is why I say I began consuming beer, and it me, at the proper time. I drink beer because I enjoy the taste (some of which, I’ll admit, is acquired — I do like Boston Lager now, especially on a hot day). I also began drinking beers A) not readily available in groups bigger than six, and B) too expensive to drink in mass quantities.

I remember a German exchange student in high school who could not understand her American friends’ fascination with sneaking off with a case of beer to get drunk. In Germany, she drank beer with meals as just another beverage, and she didn’t look at beer (especially American brews) as any sort of thrill or high.

I understand that now, but not everyone does.

Jodi and I had gone to a bar one evening with some friends of hers from work. I ordered a tall black and tan (a truly beautiful drink — the magic of physics causes Guinness Extra Stout to float atop Bass Pale Ale, and the layers remain separate: Irish and English, dark and light, yin and yang…). A short while later, I tried a Polish brew, in honor of my mother’s heritage.

When my glass was again dry, I ordered a Samuel Adams Honey Porter. I do not drink to excess — after two beers, I was very relaxed and drank the third with scarcely a second’s thought.

As I drained the glass, I realized that I had no idea what Sam Adams Honey Porter tasted like. When I voiced my disappointment, everyone except Jodi looked as me as though I were nuts: “You don’t have an impression of your last beer? That’s a new one.” “Yeah — who’d want to remember?”

Call me a beer nut — I would.

Thanksgiving Reflections

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Above: Trevor’s turkey art project…or, “the cursed Indian,” as he calls it.

Stuff For Which I Am Thankful*: my beautiful bride; my astonishing children; two sets of happily married and loving parents (Busia and Dziadzi; Grandma and Grandpa Venjohn); a newly married sister and a new brother-in-law and nephew; my sister’s kids who double as godchildren for us…

* * * * *

A year ago on Thanksgiving, my sister was driving Jodi to the ER while my Mom and I finished dinner and greeted our other guests. I pulled each aside, and explained in a choked voice that we had intended to deliver the good news that we were expecting our fifth child, but that something wasn’t right, and Jodi was headed into the clinic to see a doctor. Was is ordinarily a favorite holiday for feasting and frivolity took a sudden turn: life became very real and close that afternoon, and our blessings, though numerous, seemed worth counting one by one.

It may seem odd to speak of the blessings that flowed from the loss of our little Jude, but there were many, and they began that very day, when the emotional tension reached a point that I called together everyone who was at our home — both sides of the family, adults and children alike — and asked them to pray for Jodi and our baby. We say Grace before every Thanksgiving feast, but this was something different, a deep and heartfelt prayer of petition, and I was moved by our loved ones and touched by God in that moment of profound peace.

In the year since, much has changed. For one, we were forced to take a serious look at our family and discern whether we were called to have another child. With Jude, we had been open to life, but since we had told the kids and had seen the joy in their faces at the prospect of another sibling, we needed to decide if a fifth child were something we would actively pursue — and talk with our doctors about the likelihood that we could lose another. The doctors’ answers were all positive; it didn’t take long to decide, and even less time to again learn we were expecting. On or about Dec. 14 we will welcome a fifth Thorplet — Samuel Firman or Lillian Clara, depending — and our house, our family, and our friends will rejoice. Join us, won’t you?

* * * * *
… all our other nieces, nephews, and godchildren; countless aunts, uncles, and cousins (including in-laws and outlaws; Polish and otherwise); our friends and family in Michigan, Minnesota, South Dakota, Colorado, on both coasts, and everywhere in between…

* * * * *

Today is also Brendan’s 14th birthday, and in his opinion, it doesn’t get better than turkey and ham, mashed potatoes and stuffing, a chocolate cake from his mom, and his own personal apple pie from his godmother, Aunt Brenda. I can’t talk about pregnancy, Thanksgiving, and Bren’s birthday without recalling this day 14 years ago. The following account originally appeared in The Pioneer daily newspaper on Tuesday, Dec. 2:
At long last, we have a son

Few mornings compare to Sundays in October, except perhaps the last Monday in November.
On November 24, 1997, at 9:59 a.m., Jodi and I gave birth [Blogger’s Note: In retrospect, my role was more coaching and cutting the cord] to our son, Brendan James. First he was a tiny patch of hair, dark and slick (“I can see the head,” I cried, and Jodi pushed) — then an immense, misshapen head, and then a baby, wriggling and purple, with blood in his hair. He was tiny and yet strangely huge above Jodi’s shrunken tummy, struggling to make verbal the light, the cold and that infernal bulb syringe moving quickly about his head, from cavity to cavity, removing excess fluids.
Though he did not find the words, he made his case, and gave the face a voice; he cried, and from his cheeks slowly out to each extremity, turned scarlet.
“You have a baby boy,” the doctor said when we forgot to check or ask.
Brendan James Thorp.
We learned a short while late that weighed nine pounds, nine ounces, and measured 21-and-a-half inches long. These measurements seem important, especially to women and more so to those who have given birth to babies nearly as big or bigger. The weight was a source of some pride for me — I weighed in at nine pounds, 15 ounces, so of course he talks after his old man.
As for length…well, it has conjured up old fishing analogies — “He’s a keeper,” I say, and a friend tells me he’d be legal even for a pike.
His head measured 38 centimeters — again, a source of pride, but when I heard this, I wondered who would ask about head circumference.
It was question number four from Jodi’s mom, just behind weight and length. [Blogger’s Note: And the unstated but essential, “Are mom and baby doing well?”]

We never counted fingers and toes — wouldn’t his hands and feet look odd if he had extra or too few? And wouldn’t we still love him with six toes?
I still have counted, and now that twinge of doubt and anxiety that is becoming all too familiar has me wondering if I should…
His feet look like miniature versions of adult feet, which is nothing profound, I know, except that they are not chubby little baby feet at all. They are long, with distinct arches and heels and large big toes. He has wide hands with long, thin fingers like his father (my dad says I was born with a man’s hands). My mother — his Busia (Polish for “grandmother,” and my mom is Polish) calls them Thorp
He is the first male child born to my generation of the Thorp clam that will carry the family name, and my father and I are proud.
The specs — length, weight, etc. — are important, of course, if for no other reason than we are conditioned to ask and to tell. The other things — his hands, his feet, his name — are important because these things have stayed the same.
Our son is changing before our eyes. He has been with us one week now, and each day he is new again. His head has assumed a more regular shape; his color has gone from pale purple to jaundiced yellow to a healthy reddish hue (when not crying — he still turns scarlet when he screams). He is more awake and alert each day, and each day he eats more, sleeps longer, and cries less.
It feels as though the bus will stop at 880 Maple tomorrow, and Christmas Eve I’ll be wrapping Grandpa Thorp’s old Winchester Model 94. After months, weeks, and days of watching, waiting and timing, we’re wishing time would stand still for a moment and let us enjoy our infant son.
Like my white-haired Dziadzi (Polish for “grandfather,” and my mother’s father, like all Galubenskis, is Polish) and my father, I find myself sitting still with Brendan warm on my lap, staring down at him — watching him yawn, cry, sleep and stare back at me. Will he be a wrestler? A scholar? A fireman? He grabs my fingers and squeezes, and I tell him he is strong. I hover over him like other me do, and I’m careful — he is the heaviest nine pounds I’ve ever carried, and no doctor will convince me he’s not delicate and doesn’t need my constant watchfulness and protection. And he shall have it.
If I ramble, it’s because I don’t know what to say — we’ve only just met, and already I’m in love.
We have a son.
* * * * *
…also, a snug house and steady job; our Schnauzer, Puck; our Catholic faith and Life in the Bubble…
* * * * *
I never planned to be a father of five (or four, or six), but I am grateful for the call and the opportunity. And today, on this feast, I am grateful to live in a country where Jodi and I are free to make this choice. To be sure, there are many who think we should’ve stopped at two, or one (or even before we started); I have no doubt that I work with several, although thus far they’ve kept their opinion to themselves. I’m grateful for the surprise of gender, knowing that we can welcome whichever wee one emerges with no pressure from society or the State.
I was browsing an online exchange featuring a young soldier speaking out against the Occupy Wall Street protesters and a liberal columnist responding to him. The columnist, as I recall, claimed that liberals dream bigger than conservatives — that they dream of employment and fair wages and health care for everyone, regardless of background or ability. It’s noble sentiment — Christian, even, on some level — but I don’t believe it’s true that this liberal has bigger dreams than me. We have the same dreams, but very different methods of pursuing them. For example, if I could opt in or opt out of the various programs and initiatives designed to save and protect us, fine — I’m free to choose. 
“But,” someone will object, “if people can opt out of these programs , not enough people will participate, and the programs will fail!”
Exactly. If people don’t want help, get out of the way.

I’ve blogged about the pursuit of happiness before. I don’t want anyone to presume to know what’s best for me and my family. I don’t want to be forced into participating in programs or activities that don’t correspond to my values or my faith. And I don’t want to outsource my good life or my responsibilities to love my God, my neighbor, and my enemy. I want to learn to do these things myself. And today I’m thankful to live in a country where this is still possible, and a community full of great examples: people who live each day as both a blessing and a prayer.

The end is the same. But we get there through conversion, not coercion, so that people don’t resent doing right.

* * * * *

…home-brewed beer; books and music; laughter, tears, and prayers…shall I continue?

* * * * *

Finally — although Thanksgiving isn’t really about football — I am grateful that the Lions are a legitimate team playing a meaningful game this afternoon. I am concerned, however: if you watched the pregame for the Monday night showdown between the Vikings and the Packers, you know that if you took the very best attributes of every great quarterback in football history (including Bradshaw’s, not Brady’s, hair) and constructed a Super-Quarterback, you might begin to approach the greatness of Aaron Rogers. With Rogers and the Packers already predestined for the Superbowl, and Ndamukong Suh designated as the “dirtiest player in the league,” I think we’re going to see the NFL enforcing it’s new rule implemented just a couple of weeks ago. Brendan and his friends first noticed this during the Monday night game:

//www.youtube.com/get_player

Happy birthday, kid, and happy Thanksgiving, all!

* * * * *

*A partial list in no specific order…

Who Knows What Tomorrow Holds?

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Blogger’s Note: This is a more accurate account of the day the neighbor’s wolf-dog came to visit Boomer and me — much fresher than this one. It originally ran as a column in The Pioneer daily newspaper on Dec. 30, 1997.

It’s been one of those days.

It hasn’t really — “one of those days” implies I’ve had a day like this before, and with enough regularity to refer to it as commonplace, with a cliche.

This day has been like no other in my life.

I rolled in from work at about 1 a.m. Monday morning, a full hour later than one should if Monday’s paper goes together without a hitch. I can’t say just what the problem was Sunday night — computers crash; no one can say just why.

I stumbled through the house without turning on the lights, so as not to disturb our sleeping guests; went to the fridge and pulled out my lunch, which I had forgotten to bring to work, and sat down on the bed beside Jodi to eat.

The clock read 1:30 or so when two shepherd-looking puppies one house to the west began yipping like a pack of coyotes. I hollered once out the back door, and they stopped — briefly. About quarter to two, just after I’d finished eating and gotten comfortable, they started in again; I found myself standing in the snow in shorts and a t-shirt yelling into the black: “Shaddap!”

They did so.

Brendan woke up screaming sometime around three; he was wet through and hungry. The blanket was soaked, his bed was soaked — Jodi asked me to bring him in wet so she could feed him immediately, again to avoid disturbing our guests’ slumber.

Brendan would have none of it — he’s quite particular, our son — so we changed him, head to toe. Jodi fed him, then, and I stripped the bed, tripped down to the basement to gather clean bedding from the dryer, and remade the crib.

Brendan fell asleep beside his mother.

He woke again with the sun, hungry, and Jodi fed him. Her mother — bless her heart — got up and took him from Jodi so we could both get some sleep. I came to around 9:45, remembering my folks were expecting us all for lunch and that I had a dog to feed and a column to write before I could begin paginating Tuesday’s news. I got up.

I turned Boomer loose when I went out to feed him, and as I bent to scoop ice from his water dish, I heard snarling behind me. I turned to find Boomer standing between me and a wolf-dog (more wolf than dog) from two trailers to the east. I was scared, as one might be when one finds a wolf behind him, snarling at his dog. I stepped out of the kennel (Fool!) and told Boomer to kennel up; the wolf loped off toward his trailer, watching me over his shoulder.

I went inside to call my neighbor, the wolf’s master, to let him know his dog was loose and thus attempt to stay on good terms. No listing, and no answer at his mom’s house. Jodi’s dad told me the wolf had come at a run while I was bent over, not looking — I reluctantly called animal control to talk with the owner and possibly catch the wolf.

Jodi and her family left for my parents’ house, and I waited for animal control. I finally left for my parents’, only to get stuck a short way from my house.

I arrived at Mom and Dad’s just in time to eat and head to work for the evening. Jodi’s sister leaves tomorrow morning; it’ll be months before we see her again.

Ah, well — tomorrow is another day, and time to try again.

Tomorrow is another day, and Thursday is another year — both tailor-made for fresh starts and new beginnings. Who knows what either holds? Who knew what Monday would bring, or the day before or this waning year?

I have only to look at yesterday and this past year to witness new beginnings — a new state, new jobs, a new house, a new baby.

The job that keeps me away at night allows me to write this column and pay for our house — who knew yesterday that I’d have a column and we’d have a house? The house that keeps me busy with neighbors, shepherd puppies and wolf-dogs keeps our family and guests warm and secure, and the son that keeps us awake at night has brought more joy than the sweetest dreams. Would I trade him and the house away to rid myself of sleepless nights and fear of wolves? Not on your life.

Tomorrow is another day — who knows what may come?

Who knew a wolf might interrupt dinner?

Yes, Suzette, There Is a Santa Claus

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: This originally ran as a column, with my clean-cut and -shaven mug alongside, in the Pioneer daily newspaper, Big Rapids, Michigan, circa December 1997 (maybe the Dec. 16 edition?) under the headline “If you believe, Santa will visit you, too.” I didn’t write the headline. As requested, Suz — Merry Christmas!

I cracked a joke the other day, about deer hunting and reindeer, and found myself on the receiving end of a lengthy tongue-lashing from a colleague of mine.

“How can you say that?” she said. “How could you even think of shooting a reindeer?”

“I’ve heard they’re good eating,” I said. “How could you think of hunting whitetails?”

“That’s different,” she replied. “I could never eat Santa’s reindeer.”

“Nor could I — I wouldn’t dream of shooting Santa’s reindeer.”

“How would you tell them apart?”

“Santa’s reindeer fly.”

She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Reindeer do not fly,” she said.

Don’t they? With an attitude like that, I suspect not — at least not around her.

Long before St. Nicholas of Myra began his charitable work in anonymity — long before reindeer flew — gifts and homage were given by the rich and the poor, the wise and the simple, to a child in Bethlehem. That child, named Jesus Christ, is regarded by many to be the Savior — the Son of God come down for mankind’s salvation.

Believe what you will, but as a man Jesus told us if we but had true faith the size of a mustard seed, we could tell the mountain to move and it would.

That’s nearly as far-fetched as flying reindeer.

We are skeptics, one and all — I suspect not one of us would step up to the foot of the mountain and ask it to move, even if no one was watching. And our doubtfulness gets worse the older we get: some of us learn Christmas comes when we laugh and jot From Santa on a gift tag and think how quaint the notion is.

We disbelieve to the point of tradition — we tell our children that Santa does not leave presents for grown-ups.

Rubbish. I am the beneficiary of a midnight visit by that plump and fur-clad Christmas sprite each year. He no longer delivers toys and candy; his brand of cheer is more subtle now — a greater, more spiritual gift. He is a Robin Hood for the soul, the merriest of merry men, stealing smiles from folks with smiles to spare and giving them to those who lack.

St. Nicholas was a believer with enough faith to be canonized. Rest assured, he believed in miracles — in fact, he was required to [have performed] miracles to receive sainthood. If faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains, certainly Santa has the faith required to make reindeer fly, to circle the globe in a night and to find his way into each and every home regardless of the size, type or presence of a chimney. He believes he can, and he does.

“What of those people less fortunate?” you may ask. “Where is Santa Claus for them, when Christmas Eve rolls around?”

We fortunate souls who have what we need this season and find ourselves wanting what we don’t — we who are blessed with plenty — are visited but once a year by old St. Nick, but don’t believe for a minute that he sits by the fire for the rest of the year. The Bishop of Myra continues his charity work every day, making certain the needs of those who depend on him are met.

We are graced my his presents annually, and are quick to forget what he brings. The needy he helps on a day-to-day basis — again, his greatest works are the most subtle.

Father Christmas is as real as the holiday is holy, and he believes in you, regardless. Does he know — can he know — if you are sleeping or awake? Bad or good?

You’d better believe it.