Tag Archives: dad

Dad 100 WCGU #59

This week we received a picture prompt. It reminded me immediately of my Dad (though he would never sit at the edge of a precipice like that). He loved the mountains and spent numerous summers living in lookout towers. He love to hike and instilled that love in his family. This post is dedicated to him.

To read other pieces or to participate, click on the logo. 🙂


The wind runs it’s tendril fingers through my hair

and presses it’s chilled lips upon my cheeks.

I close my eyes and pretend it’s him,

squeezing me tight and whispering

it’s going to be all right,

that I can make it through another day.

A single tear traces a

cool track down my face

and lands with a soft splotch.

The mountains are synonymous with him.

There was never one without the other.

I stand, dusting grainy dirt from

my jeans.

“Give her a hug for me,” I whisper

and know the words are carried to heaven

on the breeze.


Filed under Child loss, Memory, Miscellaneous, Nature, Poetry, Writing

Something Grand

I decided to add my grand announcement and join the ranks of a few of my fellow blogging friends….


So, there you have it.

April 1, 1980 (or there abouts)

“Dad! Dad! The sheep got out of pasture, come quick!” I was panting from charging up the hill and into the house.  Dad looked up in surprise and went running out the back door, as I sat silently inside holding my sides and chuckling.

April 1, 1981

“Dad! Dad! The sheep got out of pasture, come quick!” I was panting from charging up the hill and into the house. Dad looked up in surprise and went running out the back door, as I sat silently inside holding my sides and chuckling.

April 1, 1982

“Dad! Dad! The sheep got out of pasture, come quick!” I was panting from charging up the hill and into the house. Dad looked up in surprise and went running out the back door, as I sat silently inside holding my sides and chuckling.

April 1, 1983

“Dad! Dad! The sheep got out of pasture, come quick!” I was panting from charging up the hill and into the house. Dad looked up in surprise and went running out the back door, as I sat silently inside holding my sides and chuckling.

April 1, 1984

“Dad! Dad! The sheep got out of pasture, come quick!” I was panting from charging up the hill and into the house. Dad looked up in surprise and went running out the back door, as I sat silently inside holding my sides and chuckling.

April 1, 1985

“Dad! Dad! The sheep got out of pasture, come quick!” I was panting from charging up the hill and into the house. Dad looked up in surprise and went running out the back door, as I sat silently inside holding my sides and chuckling.

I think after my tenth year I finally laid off of the joke. But, every year without fail my dad would go charging out the door – I think I knew that he knew I was joking, but it made me feel like a million bucks every time he went running out there to look. What an awesome Dad I have! 🙂

Oh, and about earlier comments:

APRIL FOOLS!!!! Well, I suppose I really am expecting, I’m just not sure what -and I definitely am not expecting what you thought I was expecting. 🙂 But now, after this post I am most definitely expecting your comments.

 Oh, and I guess you know what to expect next year! 🙂


Filed under Farm Stories, Humor, Memory, Parenting

When Daddy Stops to Play

(dedicated to my HHH)

Giggles infused with joy ricochet
Off the walls, like rainbows off a prism
And I know Daddy is here.

Mopes and frowns transformed,
I see shining eyes framed by curls
When Daddy stops to play.


“Fee Fie Foe Fum!” squeals
Scatter through the air, escaping Daddy
Giant and the tickles waiting there

But now I hear a different sound,
Of Daddy yelping madly, I fear his battle
With the knights is going rather badly.

“Gi’yup! Gi’yup!” little one calls,
I see she’s bronco busting, bouncing wildly
In the air, her face is always trusting.

An Indian war cry fills the house
It’s piercing to my ear, they’re whooping all
Around me, I cower down in fear.

“Arrr! I be pirate!” he brandishes his
Cutlass high, along the plank he
Marches them, a patch upon his eye.

But now where are they? He spins
Around to see, 40 impish little
Fingers tickle him with glee.

“Help!” comes a holler, the crocodile
Is about, he’s gobbling quite madly
At their tummies sticking out.

Zooming like a rocket they speed
Through outer space, nothing can
Compare with the grin upon each face.

Now they joined the circus, Daddy
Dons a purple wig, I see them dancing
Wildly, a funny sort of jig.

They make a formal entrance to a
Fancy a ball, Daddy Charming
Waltzes them down the stately hall.


Comforters tucked beneath chins,
Reluctant fists clutch Daddy’s
Fingers as drowsy eyes drift in slumber.

A butterfly kisses their cheeks,
Bringing dreams of the magic
When Daddy stops to play.

-J.H. Schmidt


Filed under Children, Parenting, Poetry, Writing

I Challenge you . . . to a Duel!

Whack! The glove stung the side of his cheek. The challenge was issued, the time was decided, and the two opponants stood face to face, glaring each other in the eye. Slowly they circled one another, swords raised.

The clash of swords rang out, fatigue was beginning to show upon their faces. The ladies of the court gasped in awe at their skill and bravery.

Jacob was quickly gaining his second wind, the Evil Baron was fading rapidly. He drew back his arm for the final blow . . .

Triumphant! He had won the duel, conquered the Evil Baron, and won the fair lady’s hand.

(Ok Dad, we’re done now. You can be alive. Dad? Dad!??! ) The hero realizes that though he has conquered the Evil Baron, the Baron is in fact his father. He lifts his head in sorrow and issues a wail of grief. (He really did start crying when Paul didn’t move, it was rather funny)

(If I hug you, will you be okay?)

He pulls the sword from his father’s side and as he lays his head upon his chest, sorrowing, the mighty giant of a baron moves. He’s alive! He has not been slain, but merely wounded.
Alas, the evil duke is too far corrupted, and in a final act of insanity and fury he attacks the young hero, laughing wickedly, “Mua ha ha ha!”

(hee hee Dad, that tickles!)


Filed under Children, Family, Jacob, Parenting

Crocodile Hunters

By J.H. Schmidt

We are crocodile hunters
My sisters and I
We’ll hunt those crocs
Till the day we die

We try to find them
Big and green
And sometimes when we find em
They’re real mean

Em is the smallest and
Easy to disguise
But she can be distinguished
By the gleam in her eyes

But don’t be fooled
By her sweet appearance
She can catch that croc
With no interference

Up she sneaks
With a laugh and a giggle
She’ll catch him right
Around The middle

He’s no match for her
Shear delight
And before you know it he’s
Given up the fight.

Dot is next
She’s sittin’ in the middle
But she’ll have that croc
Frying on the griddle

She’s not too short
And she’s not too tall
She’ll catch that croc comin
Down the hall

She’ll stare him down with her
Dark brown eyes
There is no need for the
Element of surprise

Before you know it
And faster than you think
She’ll snag that croc
As quick as a wink

She’ll flip him around
With a great big tickle
And gobble him down
Like a huge green pickle.

I’m the oldest and the
Bravest of the team
And to catch a big croc
Is my fondest dream

I won’t sneak
Or stare with a frown
I’ll give a yell
And wrestle him down

With a tickle and a poke
A screech and bellow
That green croc
Will turn a pale yellow

I’ll find that tummy
And give it a gobble
And away that old
Croc will slowly hobble

We’ll sound our war cry
And shout hooray!
We’ll return home
The victors of the day

But don’t you worry
The game is not done
I’m sure will come a day
When the croc will have won.
-J.H. Schmidt

I wrote this last year as a tribute to my dad. Crocodile was a favorite game of ours to play with him and I play it with my kids and I am sure they will play it with theirs. Paul also plays it frequently with the children. The rules of the game are as follows:

1. Only the ‘adult’ or on some cases the teenager (I’d play it with the kids I babysat in highschool) can be the crododile.
2. The crocodile has to remain on his stomach at all times, he can not stand or crawl, he can turn in circles though.
3. The croc tries to capture the kids and gobble up their tummies, if he succeeds the child is out until the next round begins.
4. It’s about team work, if one child gets caught the rest should try to free him.
5. The object of the game for the kids is to flip the croc far enough onto his back that they can gobble up his tummy (usually only achieved through team effort…and a little help from the croc,heh).

Give it a try, and have some fun, be prepared for lots of squeals and giggles in this little mild wrestling game. 🙂


Filed under Children, Dot, Em, Family, Lizy, Memory, Poetry, Writing

Horse Pasture Mountain

My father loves the outdoors and is a hiker. He hikes hundreds of miles a year. Before he married my mother he worked on lookout towers in the Oregon mountains. He and my mom even worked on one the summer after they were married. They instilled in us a love for nature and hiking. I was seven years old when I went on my first 10 mile hike. It was up Horse Pasture Mt. to an old lookout site where my dad had been stationed. The lookout was no longer there, but we could see the foundation and dad showed us where the outhouse had been looking over the side of the mountain.

Ten years later he took me on the same hike, just longer. It is still my favorite hike and I remember it so clearly. We began the hike walking through the woods and a few meadows to the tower site. The trail was dotted with wildflowers, butterflies and bees. Birds were darting around from place to place, filling the air with nature’s sweet innocent music. As we neared the summit of the mountain we could see where the old tower had been; the foundation and rocks scattered across what used to be the living quarters. The only real sign that a building had once existed was a metal plaque embedded in the ground. My father guided me to his favorite place to sit and look out over the country side. I climbed upon the rock and settled my self down. He pointed to each mountain in the distance and told me its name. Most were great monstrous formations, with little caps of snow on the top of them, making you think that the mountains had stocking caps on to keep their heads warm. My father pointed out the Three Sisters, The Husband, Three Finger Jack, Mt. Bachelor, and Mt. Jefferson. All of these were relatively close, and stood out against the stark, clear, blue sky. Mt. Jefferson had clouds circling its peak like children in a game of “Ring Around the Rosies.” After we had eaten our lunch we head down the hill toward the potholes.

We went off the main trail onto a small deer path down to the meadow know as the potholes. As we neared it the trees gradually thinned and we could see spots of green beaming forth with brilliant colors splattered across it. Suddenly we stepped out of the forest and were greeted by a shout of green smothered with a myriad of color. Every wildflower imaginable painted the meadow. As I looked around I saw why it had been named the potholes. There were great puddles of water and mud scattered through the meadow, and if one were not careful where he stepped, he could end up knee deep in water and mud. I carefully skirted about the meadow picking flowers and sticking them into my father’s hat and behind his ears. This was a rather common occurrence on our hikes; and the only time we could tease dad about being a “blooming idiot.” (hee hee) After I had successfully turned him into a wild flower bouquet we continued on cross country into the forest and along the ridge of the mountain.

We walked through the dense forest; streaks of sunlight dancing their way through the thick foliage playing tag with the shadows. Every once in a while the trees would clear enough so we could get a glimpse out across the country side where you could see the mountains off in the distance and massive expanses of forest that went for miles over mountain and hill. We followed a decline in our makeshift path and soon realized we were walking along a massive rock wall that seemed to reach to the sun.

There was moss and lichen on every stone and in every corner of the rock wall. The sunlight coming through the trees glinted off the moss making it appear as if it was glowing. Soon we were walking up again, and then, almost right in front of us, appeared colossal stone towers. They came out of nowhere, scattered along the end of the ridge. Some were in groups; some standing alone. I stood still, holding my breath, taking in the tremendous sight. I didn’t want to make a single sound in fear that I might somehow disturb this awesome wonder before me and break that magic moment. Finally, my father and I moved and started to explore them. There was one group that had formed four pillars together with a small space in he middle of them, which I climbed into and looked up to the sky. They towered well above my head. I felt as though I was standing in the remains of an old castle that had withstood thousands of years of wars. I felt as though I had traveled to the land of Narnia, described in the beginning of the book, “Prince Caspian” by C. S. Lewis, where the children discovered the old remains of the castle that they had once ruled in.

As we explored more we realized that we were standing on the rock wall that we had been admiring. As we wandered around the immense rock formations, we soon came to the end of the ridge, It bottomed out into a vast emptiness, where far below you could catch glimpses of another valley and forests scattered across rolling hills and mountains. As we looked up we peered out into the clear blue sky, and realized that from here we could see forever. I asked my father why we hadn’t ever come out here before, and he grinned and said that this was the farthest out he had ever explored; even when he used to live back at the look out tower. He put his arm around my shoulders and we stood there enjoying the beautiful view that stretched out before us.

After quite some time, we headed back to the car. I was sad to have to leave that magnificent, magical, mystical place. The hike had been my favorite since I had hiked it at seven, but now it was even more incredible.


Filed under Family, Memory, Personal History, Writing, Youth