What We Don't Heat

I think every family has some short-hand phrase that passes down a few generations and makes absolutely no sense to an outsider. Often the phrase makes little sense to the younger family generation but they all know what it means. Our family phrase has to do with Kroftas. I have six siblings scattered across the country. All have children. Some have grandchildren. Each generation is familiar with the words,

“Shut the door. I’m not heating Kroftas.”

The phrase is said in an overly loud voice during winter and is directed at whatever child has just come in and left a door open. Kroftas is a good word to say in an overly loud voice. It starts at the back of the throat and has a good positioning of hard and soft consonants and vowels that it explodes forward toward the hapless child. Doors are quickly shut at the word ‘Kroftas.’

When they were younger my kids asked, “What’s a Kroftas?” and I’ve explained it this way:

“Kroftas are a gnome-like people that are harmless when they’re kept cold but if you let them warm up they become a mean. They’ll try to steal your shoes so they can nibble at your toes – Kroftas like toes – and they try to lick between your toes with long snaky tongues. After they’ve had their fill they become rude and poke at you and become really bad.” I usually shudder at this point and finish by saying, “It’s not good to heat a Kroftas.” Doors usually shut faster after this story. At least for a while.

Actually, the Kroftas were a family that lived about a quarter mile from our farm house and they were nice enough people. My Dad started using the phrase to emphasize how much heat we were letting out from our wood burning stove when he was the one who had to haul the wood and stoke the fire. The phrase just caught on. My brothers and I used it on each other when it was our turn to haul and stoke and we’ve passed the phrase down. So did my sisters, though they never hauled wood or stoked.

I have a grandchild on the way and he or she will likely hear the phrase more than once. When the time comes to explain about Kroftas I’m not going to talk about farm houses and wood burning stoves. I’m going to tell about the gnomes. Just to have the doors shut a little faster in winter. At least for a while.

Not So Secret, Victoria

I don’t know how I got on this mailing list but Victoria’s Secret keeps sending me brochures introducing new products, telling me about sales and offering free stuff. The one that came today had a card I could turn in at one of their stores for free panties I think are missing material in some of the crucial spots. That won’t fly here. Pat doesn’t allow holes in clothing. She’s thrown away my clothes as soon as I get a scratch hole worked in where I want it. Something that comes pre-done doesn’t stand a chance.

I also got a coupon for $10 off a Dream Angels bra. I’m not sure exactly what that is but I suspect it’s a bra with feathers or wings or maybe both. I’m fairly sure I don’t need it. The last time I had cleavage was when I had to wear a suit with a vest. I hadn’t worn the suit in a while and my shape had changed to the point that the vest pushed some parts of me up where they didn’t belong. Cleavage. And the under wire was pokey. I got a new suit and everything’s back where it belongs. Dream Angels would only confuse things. The feathers could be kind of fun, though, at least once in a while. Maybe I’ll stop by and see how many I could get with a $10 coupon.

A Grammar Question

It was a social gathering but just about everyone there was involved in Education in some way. Most were elementary teachers, a few worked in class rooms or in low level administration and they were talking shop. I’m not in education. The closest I get is once every few years when they want me to vote on a school referendum, so at this gathering I just sat back and listened as the topic changed from student behavior to curriculum and teaching challenges. One of the teachers started up about the difficulty she was having showing students how to diagram sentences.

“They don’t get it,” she said, “and honestly who even remembers it.” I was sitting back quietly and taking it in when she turned and pointed at me. “Do you know what a dangling participle is?”

“Yeah,” I said, “ever since puberty.”

Conversation stopped for a moment, then the group went on to talk about history. I know a bit about history but no one asked me another question. I’m not sure why.

It's A Science Thing

I like talking about science with my kids. They’re further along than I am. I missed most of the science classes when I was in school. I’m more of a liberal arts guy but over time I’ve come to like science. Watching our snow banks go down even though it’s been below freezing, Chris and I started talking about the process of sublimation – that’s when a solid like snow goes directly to a gas (water vapor) without stopping at a liquid state. You can’t really see the process except that the snow bank gets smaller.

Taking it to another level, Chris asked what it’s called when a liquid turns to gas.

Without really thinking I said, “Beer farts.”

I probably shouldn’t have missed so many classes.

Gentlemen, Check Your Engines

My vehicle, like most on the road these days, has an array of lights and symbols that tell me something’s wrong or about to go wrong. The old lights that tell me the oil pressure’s too low or that the engine is heating up to the melting point are still there but I also have lights that tell me I didn’t close a door or the hatch all the way. The vehicle assumes that I, and apparently anyone else, can’t decipher the intricacies of the gas gauge so it tells me when I’m low on fuel. It also tells me when the anti-lock brakes aren’t working, when the turn signals are fritzed and when I’m low on window washer bug juice. There are a couple of lights that are trying to tell me something’s wrong but I don’t know what they mean and it really hasn’t seemed to matter. All of these lights come on with an electronic ‘ding’ sound to ensure I take my eyes off the road, ignore traffic and get blood pressure up. Good things to do in 60 mph rush hour.

The most annoying light is the one that says ‘Check Engine.’ The first time this one came on I pulled over, popped the hood and looked. The engine was still there, still running, still sounding normal. It turns out I wasn’t the one who was supposed to check the engine. When the light comes on I’m supposed to take the van to a garage and pay the mechanic about a hundred dollars to hook my vehicle’s computer up to his computer and tell me every thing’s fine, the sensor just has to be reset. For $100 I could have reset the sensor myself with a hefty wrench.

The vehicle has a computer. It doesn’t seem that it would take much to put a scrolling display in (my telephone and fax machine have that) to tell me specifically what’s wrong with the engine. The vehicle already knows. It could say things like ‘Your Fuel Injector is about ready to crap out’ or 'Piston #3 is slapping around like a Rumba Band’ or ‘The last curb you drove over ripped off your oil pan and you’ve got about a hundred yards to go before the engine seizes up.’ For the cost of a vehicle these days, it doesn’t seem too much to ask. Until then I’m keeping a hefty wrench handy. I may have to re-set a sensor.

A Little Debbie Rescue

Chris was over a while ago, stayed for supper and conversation and we talked for a while. Quite a while, actually. It was getting close to midnight and he was getting ready to leave when he remembered he had a picnic-type thing at one of his jobs the next day. He was supposed to bring a desert. He groaned when he thought the only solution was to stop at one of the all night grocery stores, pick up a box of brownies and spend the next couple of hours making it. I told him there was an easier way.

“Stop at the store,” I told him, “and pick up a couple of boxes of Little Debbie brownies. When you get home take them out of their cellophane packages, cut them apart and put them on a paper plate then wrap the plate and brownies with plastic wrap. They’ll look home made.”

Chris prides himself on his cooking ability and I got such a look as he shook his head and left for the store. When I saw him the next day I asked him how the picnic went. He said it was okay. I asked how late he was up making brownies and he shuddered a little bit.

“You know,” he said, “I was so tired by the time I got to the store I just went ahead with your idea.”

“How did that go?” I asked.

He shuddered again and said, “Three people asked me for the recipe.”

Hot Buns

A friend of mine came by the other day with his new car. It was a used car but new to him and he was excited about it and insisted I go for a ride. As a new car it was a luxury model but even used it still had all the bells and whistles. I got the tour of all the knobs, levers and lights as we drove down the street. We got to the end of the tour and he pointed at the last lever. It had an on/off switch above it and a lever that slid back and forth with lights that went on as he pushed it to the right. “This is my favorite one,” he said. “Do you feel it? Heated seats!”

I felt a warmth coming from below. It felt good. A little unusual but good and I squirmed to take advantage of it. During winter in Minnesota we’ll take warmth wherever we find it.

“You know,’ my friend said, “I’ve always liked a warm seat but the only way I could get it before now was to pass gas.”

I am so thankful some automotive engineer some where had the idea to run high resistant coated electrical wires through this car’s seat cushions. It was -7 degrees that day and I had the feeling my friend would have tried his alternative method. At -7 there was no way I wanted to be hanging my head out the window like a dog. I would have. I just wouldn’t have wanted to.