You never know when you might create an important connection with someone that could change your life or theirs. And sometimes, you might be making a connection and not even realize it.
My parents were named Norbert and Agnes, but everyone called them Nubs and Aggie. Not exactly the nicknames a kid would pick out for his parents, but they were the best parents a kid could ever be lucky enough to have.
Nubs was born in St. Cloud, Minnesota, and his grandparents were from Germany. Aggie was born in Minnesota, too, and her parents were both Irish. Now, that’s quite a mix: German structure blended with the carefree heart of the Irish. Good stuff, you betcha.
Dad worked at the St. Cloud post office where he sorted mail for a living. He was a good guy—just not the most flexible person you’d ever meet. He was a classic old-school dad:
“We eat at 5:30 p.m. sharp. If you are not at the table, you won’t be eating with us tonight.”
“We buy Ford. What the heck were you thinking when you bought that Fiat?”
“We eat fish on Friday. I don’t care if the Pope says it’s now okay to eat meat on Friday. I am not going to go to hell because that guy changed the rules.”
“That’s my chair. If I am not in the house, you can go ahead and give it a test drive, but if I walk in the back door, you get the heck out of my chair.”
One thing was for sure—you knew where my dad stood on all issues.
My mom? Well, she’s a saint, and if there’s a hard way to do something, she’ll find it. At eighty-seven years of age, she still does the laundry in the basement with a Maytag wringer washer. You can only find them in antique stores today. She then takes the laundry, hauls it in a basket up the basement steps and outside to hang on the clotheslines. Mom does this every Monday, every month of the year, including January. Continue reading
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