Stories About Me or My Family
For My Father
Cycles
A Ghost Story?
More Ghosties...
Ah, Youth
Two Pools (part one)
Two Pools (part two)
Tomatoes
Rock 'N Roll Dishwashing
The Beach Pet
The Banshee and the Peacock
Guardian Angel
I Did It!
Artist's Limits
The Tracks
Wedding Attire
I Gotta Be Me
Salty Business
FYI
Bear Butt
A Visit To The ER
Women's Sufferage
For My Father
Memorial Day. What does it mean to you? A day out of school. A day off of work, a three day weekend, at least for those lucky enough to not be working in retail. A white sale at the local J.C. Penny's. Bargains at the mall. Getting together with family. A barbeque, a picnic, a day at the lake, a day at the beach. Parties, getting drunk. Flying the flag. Huh? Flying the what? What on earth for? Yes, the flag. I look down the streets of my neighborhood to see only 2 flags waving in the gentle wind. Both happen to be attached to poles which are attached in some manner to my own house. No flags anywhere. Has America forgotten itself entirely? Have we no memories, no past? Has the "youth culture" taken over so completely that our fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers, no longer have meaning in our lives? If this is so, then we are truly a doomed culture. For though we all wish only for peace, we cannot forget that our peace was purchased with the blood of our fathers. At every turn, when our country was threatened, whether the threat was real or imagined, our men marched out to meet that threat. Some with bravery, some out of a sense of duty, some in fear, and some simply because they had no choice, but whatever their reasons, they did march. You may not personally believe in the reasons or the methods, but you must not forget that the very life you lead is a direct result of our fathers' willingness to fight for what they believed was right. That is what Memorial Day means to me. It is a day for me to stand up and say: "I am the proud daughter of a brave man who risked his life for the safety and freedom of this, our country, the United States of America! And I remember his sacrifices, and the sacrifices of the men with him, and all those who fought before him, and after him! To *them* this day is dedicated, and to forget that, is to forget who we are. Daddy, I do remember, and today my flags fly for you. I love you!Cycles
(written May 3, 1995)
The cycle of life continues to turn. My Grandmother died an hour and a half ago. I sit here, unable to even think what to do. I won't miss her - she's been sickly for years, and we knew she would die soon. I cry - not for her, she's got to be happier now than she has been for a couple of decades. I cry for my Grandfather, who adored her, even when she was sickly and hateful. I cry for my Mother, who still remembers her Mother as a vibrant, caring, loving Mom. I cry for my Aunt and Uncle who have lost a part of their lives.I cry for me, because a part of me which I did not recognise, until just now, is sad. That part of me that does remember Gramma. A Gramma who brought me tea on the porch after a day of walking the fences with my Grampa. A Gramma who could beat the socks off of anybody in Chinese Checkers. A Gramma who always bought white tennis shoes for walking in the fields, and always complained when they turned green. A Gramma smiling at me after a good shot during the evening Croquet game. A Gramma who would face down an angry bull she thought was threatening me. A Gramma who made the best sweet potato casserole in the world. A Gramma with a soft spot in her heart for those stupid, nasty, Japanese spitz dogs. A Gramma in her dark sunglasses and floppy straw hat, carrying a large tobacco stake to ward off the cattle. A Gramma who took me fishing in the cattle pond, and put the worms on the hook when I was too squeamish. A Gramma who always welcomed the silly girl who rode her bike 7 miles to visit the farm. A Gramma who could pull ticks as easily as pick blackberries. A Gramma who could carry on a conversation and break beans at the same time - bushels of them. A Gramma who loved those salty corn snacks called Bugles. I did love my Grandmother, and I will miss her! And now I remember why. Maybe we will all remember the good in her, and not the sickness which permeated her life during her last years.
Thank you for letting me cry on your shoulders...
A Ghost Story?
Gramma was very sick the last few years of her life due to the manifestations of her adult onset diabetes. The worst for her was the fact that she had to give up all of her favorite foods, sweet stuff and salty stuff. Because of her love of sweets, my Mom and Aunt concocted a wonderful sugar free frozen fruit pie, which they would prepare for Gramma special on her birthday. They always used the same pie dish, one of those stoneware dishes with the pictures of fruit, and a recipe on the bottom. You've probably seen them at the flea markets. That is the only thing they ever put in that dish, at least for the last ten years. In between birthdays, it just sat on the shelf with the other unused pie and cake pans. This year, Gramma's birthday was less than three weeks after her death, and the pie dish sat empty for the first time in many long years. There it sat, lonely and undisturbed, on the top shelf of a cabinet where it had sat for the whole year before. On my Gramma's birthday, my Mom, Dad, Aunt, Uncle, Grandfather, and Uncle were all sitting in the den, playing cards as they do every afternoon. At just the time when, if Gramma had been alive, they would be serving her special pie for her birthday party, that pie dish fell. It knocked the cabinet door open, hit the counter, and smashed into a myriad of pieces on the floor. Nothing else in the cabinet was disturbed. No one was in the kitchen, or even near it. No one was walking across the floor with heavy footfalls. There were no earthquakes, thunder, or jet wash. It simply jumped out of the cabinet and broke. My Aunt has determined that Gramma had decided that if she couldn't have her birthday pie in that dish, then no one would have anything out of it! I wasn't there. I can't verify the events which took place, but the folks who were there all tell the same story, and I trust these people. I leave it to you to decide whether it was coincidence or ... ghosts?More Ghosties
When my parents, sister, and I moved into the home where my parents still are, the house was brand new. No possibility for ghosts or other hauntings. Kind of a disappointment for a seven year old who's just started reading the mild ghost story books available in the school libraries.The house is a two story affair with a landing at the front door, and a half flight of steps going up to the right, and a half flight of steps going down on the left. You cannot see all the way down the stairs to the basement from the upstairs because of this landing.
A few years after we moved in, my sister fell in love with a classmate at college, and he started hanging out at our house 'til all hours of the night. One night, very late, he was sitting at the top of the steps putting on his shoes getting ready to go. The house was quiet and dark, and he was doing his best to leave without disturbing anyone. As he sat there, he heard the door to the garage open and close. This door is at the end of the hallway in the basement, to the left of the bottom of the stairs. Impossible to see without actually going downstairs. Having been in the military long enough to develop a soldier's necessary paranoia, he carefully sneaked down the first level of steps, to the landing. As he peeked around the corner down the second level of steps, he saw the circular pattern of a flashlight moving around the basement, and up on the walls of the steps. He ducked back up the stairs and woke my Dad, who got his pistol, and loaded it. They moved carefully (Dad is a combat veteran too) back down to the basement, and moved out into the hallway. Nothing. No light, no sound. The door was still locked and closed, and a thorough investigation revealed no intruder, and no evidence of there having been one. Now this one episode in and of itself would not be remarkable. In fact, I had no knowledge of it until much later in my life when I told my Dad this story:
One night as I was just coming of an age to be left alone in the house for an evening, Mom and Dad went to the theatre. I was uninterested in whatever performance it was to be, and stayed home to listen to my albums at high volume. It was a school night, and getting late, so I turned off the stereo, had my shower, and was getting in the bed when I heard the door to the garage open and close. My first thought was that Mom and Dad had gotten home a little early. Then it occurred to me that the dog had not barked. He always barked at family to say hello and welcome us home. He also barked at anyone else to let us know someone was there. That meant that whoever was coming in had not been where the dog could see them. The only way someone could get in the garage without Sporty seeing them was if they had come in through the windows in the front of the house. Paranoia set in. I tied a belt around my loose gown, and crept into Dad's room and got the pistol, a single shot long barreled .22 taken from a dead Nazi. I put a shell in the chamber, and tippy-toed down the hallway. From the top of the stairs, I could hear someone rummaging around in the basement. I was torn between the urge to run hide under the covers, and the urge to punish whoever it was that had had the gall to invade my home. I sneaked carefully down the steps to the landing, and then down the steps to the basement hall. I peeked around the corner, and then stepped out into the hall, holding the pistol as I had been shown. The basement was quiet. No lights. Then I heard a slight rustling in the bedroom, behind the closed door. I moved over to the door, and the sound stopped. Foolishly, I shoved the door open, and jumped into the room, like they did on Starsky and Hutch. Fortunately for me, there was no one there. Anywhere. I looked all around the basement, in the garage, and even went out to be sure the dog was ok. Nothing. I unloaded the gun, leaving the chamber open, and replaced it in my Dad's room. Then I sat awake until they got home, and told them the story. That's when Dad told me about that first time it happened with my sister's boyfriend.
This seems to occur with some regularity. The garage door opens and closes, and someone roots around in the basement. But there is never anyone there. There are no mice, rats, or other critters. It has happened while my 2 dogs were in the basement, and they never made a sound. It only happens when there is no one downstairs, and only late at night. What do you think?
Ah, Youth
As I sit and watch my youngest (he'll be three next month) try to put the Pepperidge Farm Brand Goldfish crackers in the aquarium, I remember a particular incident which occurred in my own youth. Even as a wee babe, I loved all other living critters - even bugs. I don't remember my first visit to a zoo, but my mother tells me that I cried because the animals were all behind bars, and why couldn't I let them out? From as early as I can remember, I have made pets out of anything that would let me. Butterflies, fireflies, stray kittens, calves, even a rat once. Mom likes animals too, but she has always thought that the place for a pet is on the farm, preferably in the barn. That being the case, I was a very lucky girl to talk her into letting me have my very own fish. I suppose she figured a common goldfish wouldn't leave surprises on the rug. I was thrilled with this little fishie. For days I spent every spare moment watching this fish. Mom (or maybe Dad) was careful to explain that fish don't need much to eat, if you feed them too much it'll kill them, and that the water had to be changed every few days or the fish couldn't breathe. I understood all that. Then one night, as I sat gazing into the bowl, I put my finger in the water, and Boy! was it cold! Poor fishie, freezing cold in all that cold, cold water! I pondered this for a while, then I decided that I would do what I could to get the poor fishie warm. I took him from his bowl (if you've ever tried to catch a fish with your hands you will appreciate how much trouble this was, even in a little bowl, especially for a little girl not hardly 7), and put him in the warmest place I could think of. Now, to understand this, you must know that in my bedroom, the decor was all white french provencial (hated it!), and my bedside lamp was a white, long haired, persian cat. Not real of course, a stuffed animal. The lamp part came out the top of his head, and had a bend in it so that the light bulb/shade was centered over his back. That cat lamp was always warm. Yup, that's right - I put the poor cold fishie on the cat's back. In all that long fake fur. Then I turned out the light, and went to bed. Next morning, when I woke, I found the stiff, dessicated corpse stuck in the fur. I carefully picked him out of the fur, and tossed him in the trash. Then I dumped the water out of the bowl and put it on the top shelf of my closet. I'm not sure if Mom ever did figure out what happened to that fish. Or what that funny discoloured spot on the back of my lamp was.Two Pools (part one)
The summer of my 13th year, my family made a cross country journey. The purpose of the journey was to eventually end up at my aunt's house in San Diego, CA for a week's visit. We made the trip from Bowling Green, KY to San Diego in just over 3 weeks. My mother is a compulsive side-road-taker. Being 13, I don't remember a whole lot of the trip. I remember a few of the stops - Painted Rocks, Zion Canyon, The Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon. And two particular motel pools. The first was on the way *to* California. We were driving through Arizona, and it was hot, hot, hot! 114 degrees (F) was the official temp for the day in Gila Bend. Which is where we were when the radiator hose burst in the old champagne green American Motors Ambassador. The tow truck took the car to the shop to wait for the part, and took us to the closest motel - The Martian Inn. Each room was a separate geodesic dome, all clustered there in the middle of nowhere. All painted shades of horrid green, with interior decor to match. I loved it! The pool was nearly body temperature, and very unpleasant in the middle of the day. After dark, however, when the temperature had fallen to an almost clammy 75 F, the pool was wonderful. There were several other kids there, probably also highway refugees. We had become very involved in a game of water tag, with one of the rules being that whoever was "it" had to swim around under the water until they couldn't hold their breath anymore, and then burst out of the water and shout "Marco Polo!" and grab for whoever was closest. If you got them, then they were "it". I have no idea what the point of yelling "Marco Polo" was, but it was a heck of a lot of fun! I was doing well in the game. I was/am a singer, and I have been swimming since I was almost old enough to walk. My lung capacity is quite large as a result. I could stay under water much longer than most of the other kids, and my surprise attacks caught someone on the first try everytime. It was my turn to be "it". I had stayed under water almost to my limit, and all the other kids were starting to stand around looking for me. I chose my victim, and moved in for the attack. As I got just to his feet, I put my legs under me, and shoved as hard as I could, in order to burst out of the water like a breaching whale, thereby scaring the living shit out of him! It almost worked. I had neglected to take into account the water slide. It was directly above me. When I burst out of the water, I was facing up in order to grab a breath as soon as my face cleared the water. I had no sooner gotten that breath when my face, and the rest of me as a result, was suddenly and violently stopped by the edge of the water slide. It stunned me for a moment, and I fell back into the water and flailed around trying to find my feet. I did, and stood up. My face was kind of numb, and there was a lot of water running down my face. I wiped at the water and looked at my hand. The water was red. Huh? I felt of my face and eye, and was horrified to feel a large gash running across my cheekbone up to my lower eyelid. The gash was at least 3/4 of an inch (2cm) long, and very deep. I looked around at the other kids, all standing there silently, in shock, and I leapt out of the pool and ran for our room. Mom didn't make a big deal about it, she just cleaned it out and put a bandaid across it for the night. It was after 11:00pm, and there was no way we were going to be able to find a doctor. And it wasn't really bad enough for the ER. After Mom thought I had fallen asleep, I heard her comment to my Dad that she was afraid it might scar badly, and that perhaps we should try to find a doctor in the morning. By morning, I had almost forgotten about it, even though it ached a bit, and I guess Mom figured that if it didn't bother me we'd best leave well enough alone. We got to San Diego just a day or two later, and immediately I wanted to go to the beach, so they made a special trip just so I could get in the Pacific Ocean. (That sounds very generous, but they knew that if we didn't do it first thing, that's all they'd hear about for the whole trip! I'm a bit obsessive about the water.) Mom made it clear that I was not to get my face wet (yeah, right) or the cut on my face might get infected, and if I couldn't do that, then I couldn't get in the water. I did get in, and played for a few hours, diving under the waves, getting not only my face wet, but as much of me as was physically possible, wishing the whole time that I was a dolphin. Now, the really weird part is, the next morning when I got up, the gash on my face was gone. Yup - gone. Completely healed, no scar, no evidence that there was ever an injury.That was the first pool.
Two Pools (Part two)
The other pool I remember from my family's cross country trip was a standard Holiday Inn type pool. Nothing spectacular, just a big square pool, with large round lights which made the water glow a lovely pale blue in the darkness. I don't even remember where it was, but I do remember it was on our way *back* from California, not *to*. It had been another day on the road - hot, dry, and boring. We stopped at the hotel just a couple of hours before dark, just enough daylight to get the stuff in and find a decent place to eat. As soon as we were back at the hotel, I went for the swimsuit. As I said, I have this 'thing' about the water - if there is enough water to get my body into, I'm there. It could be (and has been!) ditches, mud puddles, pools, or whatever, doesn't matter. So, on went the suit, and out I went in the dark for a little refreshing dip. As usual, there were a bunch of folks out. Mostly adults and older kids, since it was after 9:00pm local time. (I was thirteen, remember.) There was one particular boy that drew my attention. He looked to be older and sophisticated - he had to have been at least sixteen! He was tall, well built, had sandy blond hair, and a face to grace a young girl's dreams. Being only thirteen, I knew that looking would be the only thing going on with him, since everybody knew that older boys don't like little girls. What I had failed to take into account was that over the course of the previous few months, I had ceased to be a little girl, and was bursting out all over in young woman. I set about amusing myself in the deep end of the pool, taking my turn on the diving board when I could, and playing dolphin otherwise. I was very surprised when this incredibly cute boy made a great show of cannonballing off of the "high" dive (might have been a whole meter high) nearly on top of me! When he resurfaced, he made a big deal of being sure I was ok (of course I was, I was a better swimmer than he!), and helping me out of the pool. Then he bought me a soda from the machine. This fella was serious! He was very nice and not at all pushy, so when he suggested a quick walk around the parking lot to finish our sodas, I was more than ready to agree. Since the hotel was shaped like three sides of a box, with the pool inside it, I figured I would be perfectly safe. We went around the inside walk of the hotel, starting at one tip and following the U shape around to the other tip, always in sight of the pool (and my room). There he sat up on the hood of a car and invited me to sit with him. The hood of the car was still very warm from the summer sun, and I could feel the heat warming my backside through my still-wet suit. It gave me a very funny feeling down deep in my abdomen. As we sat talking on the hood of that car, I realized that what I was feeling must be that funny thing "desire" that all the books were on about. I know now that it was pure and simple lust, but hey, when you're thirteen, everything is a romance novel. We talked about where we were going, and when. He was going north west, I was going south east. (sigh) And never the twain shall meet. Ah, well (I was thinking), he will give me a nice face to dream about. Just then the door in front of us opened, and a nice looking woman stuck her head out and called his name. Time to go in. I started to get down off of the car. He said my name. I turned to him with a questioning look. He took me my the shoulders. And kissed me. Sweetly, gently, tenderly. And then he was gone.That was the second pool.
Tomatoes
My grandfather has done lots of things in his life to be able to feed his family. One of the things he has done every year of his life is grow a garden. Now these gardens were really something to see. Corn as tall as the house. Beans as thick as your finger and tender enough to melt in your mouth. Pumpkins, peppers, potatoes, strawberries, watermelons, peas, beets, and *lots* more. Including, yes that's right, tomatoes. Lots and lots of tomatoes. So many in fact that during the peak of harvest he and my Grandmother would take bushel baskets to church on Sundays for folks to take home. My family always benefited from this bounty of course. I love a thick slab of tomato on bread with mayonaise (not that nasty "salad dressing" stuff) and three strips of bacon! Yum!Well, Grampa like to mess around a bit with Mendel's theories, and occasionally came up with something good. A few years back, he came up with a two-toned tomato. Really! They are predominately yellow, with stripes of pink or red running from the stem end to the blossom end. Really beautiful sliced on a plate and served at the table. And they are very tasty, too. Mild like a red tomato with just a hint of the bite of a yellow. Wonderful.
Five years ago, I was living in a rented house and not able to grow a garden, very ripe myself and ready to pop with my first child. In fact, that child was one week overdue. My mom had brought us some of those striped tomatoes from my Grampa a couple of weeks earlier, and I was cutting the last one to serve with dinner. I always cut from the stem end first. I don't know why, it's just a habit. So I cut off the 'cap', and began slicing this huge, juicy tomato onto the plate. As I got closer to the bottom, I noticed the stripes were getting closer together, and that they were forming some sort of a pattern. I cut one last thick slice, and much to my surprise, the last piece of the tomato which I held in my hand had a perfect pink heart right in the center. A single, perfect pink heart surrounded by creamy yellow. As I looked at it, I thought, "That's what my child must feel like." Yes, pregnancy does mess with your mind. I took a picture of that tomato with the perfect heart, and we ate it for dinner that evening. (The tomato, I mean, not the picture!) Later that evening, I went into labor, and my child was born the next day.
Weird, huh? :-)
Rock 'N Roll Dishwashing
In 1987, my husband and I were invited to come and spend a week at the beach with my entire immediate family. At the time there were only 12 of us (I think!). My parents offered to pay for our part of the cost of housing. How could we refuse? So on the appropriate day we headed out for the beach. We were going to be staying at Nags Head, North Carolina, in a duplex called "Queen's Grant". <I stand corrected. Queen's Grant is on Topsail Island. That was a different trip. I don't remember the name of the place we stayed in on Nag's Head.> It was a marvelous three story house, with a deck and boardwalk right out over the dunes onto the beach. If we had been any closer we'd have had to swim to bed at high tide. Wonderful! We could hear the surf from our bedroom, and taste the salt in the air.We all were scheduled to arrive at the "cottage" on a Saturday. We couldn't check in until 1:00pm, and some arrived even later. We all managed to be there for the ritual First Night of Gathering dinner. Much food was consumed, much alcohol made the rounds. Everyone was very, um, happy! We sat around the table and talked, as we always do, until our butts began to get sore from the hard chairs. Then someone glanced over at the kitchen and moaned.
We each got up and carried our dirty dishes and glasses (which we had abandoned for the simpler method of drinking straight from the bottles) into the kitchen and piled them on the center island. Nothing specific was said, but each of us just picked up on a chore and started working. Scrape the dishes, rinse the dishes, put them in the dishwasher. Wipe the table, wipe the chairs, wipe the floor (we had 4 little kids with us). We had a regular bucket brigade going in perfect rhythm.
My brother started chanting "Louie, Louie", and gradually the rest of us joined in. Soon the house was rocking to many voices belting out the lyrics to that and any other floor thumping music we could think of. Eventually the dishes started running out, but we weren't quite ready to give up the magic, so my brother sat at the table and magically transformed into Stevie Wonder on the air piano. I got behind him and joined in on the air guitar - with all three of the chords I knew! My other brother joined us on the air bass, and someone, I'm not sure who, my husband maybe, gave us a back beat on the air drums and table top. My sister and two sisters-in-law grabbed spoon mics and did some superb back up vocals beneath the lead taken by my brother the air pianist, and myself. It was a beautiferous jam session. Someone caught a good deal of it on video, but I've only seen it once, and I'm not sure who has it. Even now, 9 years later, all someone has to do at a Gathering is mention "rock 'n' roll dishwashing" and everyone in the room smiles.
June 14, 1996
The Beach Pet
The beach is my favorite place in the world. I'd live there if I could. My earliest beach memory is from the summer after I turned 3. We were living at the beach during the summer because my Dad had just retired from the military, and we were looking for a house in our new city. We had the time, so my parents thought it would be fun to stay at the beach. Little did they know they would create a beach monster! I'm sure I'd be a "surfer girl" if I were in California.The first thing I remember about that summer was the time I got up before anyone else, got my swimsuit on, got my plastic inflatable ring, and went out to the beach - alone. The sun was just coming up over the ocean, and the water was glowing with its golden light. I could see the things suspended in the crashing surf as the sun came up behind the breakers. It was facinating. The beach was nearly deserted. The only other folks out were the old folks (probably at least 30 - ancient!) out picking over the latest shells left behind by the nights high tide. I remember standing at the surf's edge, letting the foam wash over my feet. It tickled. The sand was brownish, not dirty but brown because the rocks themselves were brown. You could dig down just a few inches and find small shells still whole. I still have some of those shells.
Then I remember a member of my family - a brother maybe? - running down to the surf to get me, and boy was I in trouble! I think I got a spanking, but I don't remember for sure. I do know that I had to spend the rest of the morning in bed as punishment for going down to the water alone. It seemed to me that I had to spend the whole day in my room, but my Mom has told me that it was only an hour or so.
The next thing I remember was the visitor we had on our porch. The house we were in was one which was built early in the beach development. Maybe in the 50's or so. A concrete block structure built right on top of the sand. No stilts or pylons. And the little porch, more of a stoop really, was right on the beach, down in the sand. It had to be swept frequently to keep the sand from drifting into the house.
One morning my brothers had been down on the beach shelling and body surfing, and they found something wonderful. Keep in mind here that my brothers were 15 and 16 at the time. They brought it home to show the rest of us. On the small porch there was a small depression which tended to hold water after a rain. They filled this depression with sea water from a sand bucket, and put their treasure in it. Then they brought me and my sister out to look at it. It was indeed beautiful. Purple around the edges with an iridescent soap bubble body. Long purple and white streamers. And it appeared to be still alive. We were looking at it in admiration when my Dad? (maybe Mom?) came out to see what we were doing. We were told in no uncertain terms to get away from it. Yes, it is very pretty, but it is a live animal, and can hurt you! Hurt us? How? It's just a soap bubble with pretty streamers. No, we were told, its a jellyfish called a Portugese Man 'O War, and the pretty streamers were full of stingers! They were rare that far north, but occasionally one will get caught in the current and blow up on the beach. We had never seen one before, but I will always remember what they look like, and that they are dangerous.
I think Mom swept the poor dying thing off the porch with a broom, into the sea oats on the dune. We avoided that spot for the rest of the time we were there.
The next time I saw a Man 'O War, I was 26. I was in West Palm Beach to get my Open Water certificate for scuba. There was a terrible storm off the coast, and things had been washing up on the beach all week. There was trash, sea weed, huge balls of tar, and thousands of the jellyfish. We had to wear shoes on the beach because of all the junk. You couldn't take a step without having to step over a jellyfish. I've never seen anything like it.
July 10, 1996
The Banshee and the Peacock
Have you ever heard a peacock? You city-slickers out there have no idea what you're missing living without country animal noises. I discovered the peacock noise at a friend's farm when I was about 14.I had been to this girl's house at least a million times. I called her mom "Mom", and she called my mom "Mom", and we were best friends. I had seen the peacocks and gathered their feathers, but I didn't know they made noise.
One weekend we convinced our moms to let me stay over at her house (again!) for the whole weekend. We decided to sleep out in the treehouse by the pond. It was a warm summer night, and we were young enough that the bugs didn't bother us. We stayed up late chattering, as teenaged girls will do, and when we finally did bed down it was because the moon had set, and it was pitch dark. I was sleeping the sleep of the teen, when suddenly out of nowhere, this horrible scream cut loose. A woman somewhere had just been run through with a hot poker, or somesuch. Having told each other ghost stories for half the night, and the fact that it was still dark may have had something to do with that interpretation of the sound.
I rolled out of my sleeping bag - right out of the tree and into the mud at the edge of the pond - and started running hell bent for leather towards the house. 'Bout half way there I thought about Donna. She was still in the treehouse. I was really torn between going back to see if she was ok, and running to the house to get her dad to go do it. Since the house was still a good quarter of a mile away, I decided to go back. I got to the treehouse in time to see her wiping the tears from her eyes. She was laughing at me so hard that she was crying! I asked her what the heck she thought was so funny, and she just pointed to me and then to the big tree limb over the platform. Two peacocks sat smirking at me. I didn't believe her at first, but I was mad enough at getting dumped into the mud and laughed at that I threw a rock at the birds to get them out of the tree. I figured that if I wasn't getting any sleep, neither would they. Then they screamed at me again for throwing the rock. I had no choice but to believe her!
July 12, 1996
Guardian Angel
I'm lucky enough (!) to have been in the middle of some of the terrible storms that are at this moment terrorizing the midsection of the US. They have mostly moved north of us now, but this afternoon just after lunchtime, they were HERE.I had to go to the main branch of the post office which is on the north end of town. (Of course it turns out I didn't have everything I needed to do my business, so I still have to go back.) On my way home, I was in traffic on the beltline which circles the town. Cars in front of me, cars behind me, cars to my right.
We were doing about 55 -60 miles an hour in a heavy, but not blinding, rain, and I noticed the spray coming up from the cars in front of me as they blasted through a large area of standing water on the road. I gently put on my brakes to keep from hitting it too fast. Then...
suddenly...
the car took over control. The back went out to the right and the front end slid around toward the left. I corrected the spin. Something caught or slipped again, and the rear went out to the left, pushing the front end of the car into the lane beside me. I was moving, driver's side (that's the left here in 'Merca ya know) of the car in front, lengthwise across both lanes. I corrected again. The car responded sluggishly, slowly turning itself around to a more normal position in the road, in the other lane. As the nose finally came round, something happened once again and the car began weaving side to side rapidly - imagine the way a snake's head moves to the charmer's music. I screamed, "What the hell is happening?!?" as once again the rear of the car continued to turn outward to the right, placing me 180 degrees from where I had been a moment ago. Now I'm ploughing down the highway passenger side of the car first, watching the median fly by sidewise out the windshield.
I'm not sure exactly what happened next. My best guess after looking at the skid marks and the tracks in the mud is that the front wheel tapped the edge of the median catching just enough to propel the rear of the car out in front, and up onto the median itself. So now I'm going ass first down the middle of the median, slowly sliding toward the oncoming traffic on the other side. I guess the mud and brakes (finally) took enough of a hold to stop the damn car, and I ended up facing the other direction from where I started, with two wheels in the road full of traffic.
I did a quick damage assessment, and determined that I was not injured. The car was still running, and wasn't smoking or flaming, so I figured it was probably ok too. I gently pressed the accelerator to see if I could get off the median, but no, the mud had a grip on the pushing wheel. I was well and truly stuck. I shut the car down and got out, looking to see where I could go to call AAA for a tow truck. Keep in mind that it was still pouring rain. As I glanced down the road to check traffic, I saw a police car just three cars away! (And people say you can never find a cop when you need one!) He pulled over, turning on his lights and protecting my vulnerable backside from unwary drivers, and got out. He even took my AAA card and made the call for me from his cruiser. He waited until the truck came and pulled me off the median, and even followed behind to block traffic so we could pull across both lanes of traffic to get off the road and do the paperwork.
The truck driver thought I'd been pulled over and gotten stuck in the mud while getting a ticket. I suppose that would have been a bitch, huh? :) As it is, I have a muddy car, a sore ankle (which I didn't discover until after I got home - adrenaline is an amazing thing), and a greater respect for water over the road.
The entire thing took less than twenty minutes. The actual weaving about drunkenly was only a few seconds, not more than 10. My question is, what happened to all the cars that were around me? I was all over that road, and when it started, there were cars to my front, rear, and right. Not a single car got hit, not a single car was off the road. (other than mine). Why not? I swear I think I have a guardian angel who keeps me from getting killed. This is not the first time a policeman has looked at skid marks and the position of my vehicle and said, "Damn, you are a lucky woman!"
Oh, and I did find one thing that got broken during the incident. Apparently, while I was waving my elbows around trying to get the car to obey, I whacked my drink straw. Broke it right in half.
Fri, 18 Feb 2000
I Did It!
Finally, after years and years of being wishy-washy, I did it. I got a tattoo. It's kinda small, just about a half inch wide, but it goes all the way across the top of my wrist, from bone to bone. It looks like a clip on bracelet, only prettier! It's a celtic knot design, with four different colours - purple, kelly green, yellow, and orange. I think it is really going to be gorgeous. It's hard to tell when there's that bit of blood seeping out and the smeared ink all over it, but when he cleaned up my wrist after he finished, it sure looked nice to me!I wanted something colourful where I could see it, but where it could be covered up if necessary. I put it right where my watchband will cover it completely.
It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Everyone always says it's like an extended bee sting. Well, the only sting I ever had hurt like hell, and burned for a LONG time. This was more like... well... like having road rash on your arm with a t-shirt rubbing across it. Best I can do for a tactile description.
This was no impulsive purchase. I have wanted a tattoo since the first time I saw one that wasn't all blood and guts and naked ladies. I think it was an armband of flowers, and it was beautiful. I have always admired the tribal tattoos of the "primitive" peoples, but just couldn't really see myself in full body suit of those bold black patterns. I thought the celtic design was a good compromise. Lots of colours, but in a meaningless pattern. No religious signifigance, no gang related meaning, no nothing. Pure body art for the sake of beauty. Some may not think tattoos are beautiful, but I sure do. I can't wait to see it all healed up!
Tue, 23 May, 2000
Two years later: It is just as beautiful all healed up. I get compliments all the time on it, and kids are always asking, "Is it real?" :o) You can see a picture here.
An Artist's Limits
Whilst sitting patiently waiting for my new tattoo to be finished, flinching only occasionally, I heard this exchange:(woman finished getting tattoo says to husband who's about to chicken out) "We made a deal - I get one, you get one. Well, I've got mine, and if you don't get yours, you will regret it the rest of your life!!!"
(woman leaves shop to go to car, and man leans over to whisper to artist. artist replies:)
"No, I will NOT put a tattoo on yer dick!"
I hadda bite my tounge to keep from guffawing!
Thu, 25 May, 2000
The Tracks
Just yesterday I crossed a railroad track I cross several times a week. For some reason though, I stopped and peered down the track, following it's length all the way to the horizon. My mind was flooded with memories of walking the tracks as a girl, walking for miles in one direction or the other, wishing I could keep walking and never come back. I wasn't trying to leave a bad life, or cruel family members. On the contrary - I have a wonderful family with whom I love to spend as much time a possible! But the tracks lure me, with their seemingly endless straight lines, stretching out forever before you.I used to walk to the back of our property, through the garden gate, past the barn, through the heifer field, past the bull pen, past the neighbor's pig waller, and through the blackberry brambles. There I'd be, standing 10 feet below the tracks. A mountain of baseball sized crushed stone, limestone and quartz, there before me. I'd scrabble up the mini mountain to stand, goddess-like, on my own personal deserted island. I could see all across the country, it seemed. I'd start walking in which ever direction I felt like - usually which ever way the sun wasn't in my eyes. Sometimes I'd leave a penny on the track, just to see if THIS time the train would actually squish it. Usually it got jostled off before the train got to it.
Treasure could be found on the tracks then. Maybe now too, but I haven't had the chance to find out. I used to find giant diamonds, black gold, and beautiful swirled jewels. Now I know they were just quartz crystals, coal, and impure limestone, but then they were pure treasure. Sometimes I'd find old spikes that had been tossed to the side. Great swords for a would be Queen Of The World. Occasionally, there would be dozens of railroad ties, apparently tossed by a giant into great jumbled piles. You had to watch for snakes and spiders, but those were perfect mazes holding monsters to be destroyed with the magic sword.
Sometimes I long for those days when I could just take off with no responsibility other than to not be late for dinner. To walk down the tracks with the hot sun toasting my back, and have great adventures - that would be wonderful!
Fri, 30 Jun, 2000
Wedding Attire
When I said:> My brother showed up at my wedding in a skin tight Speedo bathing suit
> and a necktie. Oh, and a pair of sunglasses. Best story of the day!
> :)A friend bravely asked:
> Why did he do this?
Well, it was kinda my own fault. When I called the family to tell them that we had decided to get married, Paul asked the very reasonable question, "What should I wear?". See, I'm not really known for my dressing up behaviour. A t-shirt without holes, a clean pair of jeans, and sandals that don't have dog shit on them is high style, for me. And it helps to know that at the time, Paul was in heavy training for the triathalon circuit, lots of running, biking, and swimming. So, smart-arse that I am, I replied, "Paul, I don't care if you show up in just a Speedo and a tie, as long as you're there!". Well. Guess you can't blame a guy for doin' what he's told, can you? And he did add the sunglasses, which I thought was a classy touch.
To tell the truth, he really didn't show up at the wedding dressed like that. He came in all spiffed up in a suit and ever'thin. However, as soon as the actual ceremony was over (we got married at my mom's house) he disappeared for a few minutes. He reappeared as we were going downstairs to do the present thing, and he was dressed in the aforementioned outfit. Very classy! I loved it. You will see in the picture that I am laughing so hard I can barely see.
His wife was ready to crawl in a hole and die. Why, I don't know. My family loved it, and Larry's family smiled and made nice noises without actually running from the house screaming. ;)
Sun, 23 July, 2000
I Gotta Be Me
I have different tastes than what appears to be the "norm". I don't drink. I don't eat anything that comes from the sea if I can avoid it. I don't smoke. I don't like to go places that are loud. I don't like to be touched unexpectedly, not even by my family, and not at all by strangers. But, why should I have to apologize for that?I don't drink because I don't like the taste, and more than a sip triggers migranes - something I would do almost anything to avoid. Which is not to say that the occasional sweet "girlie" drink like a lovely strawberry daquiri hasn't made it's way down my throat. I don't care if others drink, but I will excuse myself when they get to the asshole stage of drinking.
I don't eat seafood because something about the taste and smell doesn't appeal to me. Please, eat all the shrimp you want - just don't try to kiss me afterwards!
I don't smoke because I don't like the sensation. When I was in high school, I tried it. I lived in the country, and everybody smokes. It nauseated me, hurt my throat, made my voice hoarse (not a good thing for a singer!), and made my sinuses swell shut so I couldn't breathe for the rest of the day. Why on earth would I want to do that to myself on purpose? I don't care if others smoke. I would rather they not do it around me so I can avoid that sinus thing, but if they need a smoke that badly, I don't mind leaving.
I don't care for loud places. Hurts my ears. Simple as that. I don't like shouting to be heard. If I want to hear loud music, I'll go home and put on the stereo. If I want to visit with friends, I want to go someplace where we can hold a conversation at normal levels.
Ah, the touching thing. Shaking hands makes me crazy. Strangers who want to pat you on the arm or back frighten me. I don't even like holding hands with my husband for more than a minute or two. Ok. Of all the little quirks I have, this one is the least rational. But I do have my reasons.
Yet, even with all my rational (to me) reasons, I still have to defend myself for the things I don't do. "Oh," they say, "you don't drink." and roll their eyes. "Ah - a NON smoker." and there go the eyes. "You don't want to go bar-hopping with me? What are you, a prude?" And again with the eyes.
I've given up apologizing. I just won't. I don't even say "please excuse me" when the smokers light up in the dining room, I just leave. I don't say "designated driver" anymore. I just say no. If everyone gets stupid, I leave. If all that's served is caviar and scallops, I have the salad. No explanations necessary, it's just the way I am. You'll just have to accept me for what I am, and not what you want me to be. My tastes are different, but that's what makes me a unique individual - it's what makes me, ME. I shouldn't have to apologize for that.
Fri, 15 Dec 2000
Salty Business
I had to go to work today. See, I'm the only one who can do the year-end close out on the 'puter. Not really, but they all think so and I don't do anything to dissuade them. The problem with that is it's been snowing here since yesterday evening, piling up on top of the snow we already had from the last storm, which was on top of the ice from the storm before that because the temperature hasn't gotten above 27 degrees Fahrenheit for three weeks!Before the very first storm, I intended to get some road salt - you know, the stuff you put down to melt the ice. But I kept forgetting to pick it up on the way into the store, and every time I passed it on the way out I'd think, "well, I'll get it next time". Right. When I finally did make that special trip just to get salt, they were all out. Duh. I had to have salt. Our driveway is not passable if there is any snow or ice on it at all. So, I used table salt. A whole box of table salt! It worked just great. You could see the snow and ice melting away before your very eyes. I guess the tiny crystals dissolve faster or some such. When I finally got the drive all shovelled and salted, I discovered that I was completely out of table salt. So I went to the grocery and bought 7 boxes. They must have thought I was crazy, but at 35 cents a box, and one box of salt per storm, I figure I've come out pretty good on the deal.
The problem this morning was, I had to be at work before 8:00am, which meant getting up at 6:30am to shovel the drive and salt it down. The activity itself does not bother me, I don't mind getting sweaty. I DO hate getting up before the sun does. There I was, all bundled up, shovelling snow in the pitch dark. Blech. Then spreading salt on the whole driveway. And spreading more on the parts where the boys decided to sled last night, and had packed it all down into ice. I got back into the house at a few minutes after 7:00, and decided that I should probably go on to work, not knowing how long the 20 minute trip would take with the roads as bad as they appeared to be. It only took 30 minutes, not too bad really.
I'm not getting any sympathy from Larry, who gets up at 5:00am everyday, unless it's snowy and he has to get up at 4:30 to shovel the drive. I thought maybe ya'll would feel badly for me, and give me a little cheese for my whine...
Sat, 30 Dec 2000
FYI
Did you know:1. One half of a 5.7 ounce (161g) box of dry couscous will cover half of a 15' X 25' vinyl floor? I would guess that a whole box would cover the entire floor.
2. Walking barefooted on couscous is NOT recommended. It only LOOKS like sand.
3. Dogs do not particularly like dry couscous.
4. Couscous does not like vacuum cleaners. It tends to run away from them, thereby scattering itself even further across the floor.
<sigh>
Mon, 30 Apr 2001
Bear Butt
On our way to Washington D.C. this time, we decided to take a long cut along the Skyline drive (?) across the ridge of mountains, instead of going through the gap and missing all the scenery. It was pretty neat. I love the mountains anyway, and it was cool and fairly clear, so you could see literally for miles at some of the overlooks.There was also wildlife. We were admiring the trees and flowers as we came around a curve and face to face with a doe. She was patiently watching the road, and waiting for her chance to cross the street. I didn't think to get the camera out until after we passed her.
Shortly after that, the truck in front of us weaved oddly, and a strange thing appeared from beneath it. As we passed over it, my husband said, "I'll be damned - that was a rattlesnake!". The boys wanted to go back and take a closer look. I vetoed that idea purty quick. That snake was coiled and ready to strike. He was plenty pissed off at that truck, I didn't think he'd be too pleased to see a couple of not quite ten year old boys comin' at him!
At the next overlook, I got the camera from it's case in the trunk. Yes, I know, what idiot drives through the mountains with the camera in the trunk? Me. Hey - I didn't lose it, did I? :o)
I read through the brochure from the visitors station as we drove, and started saying, "I want to see a bear - come on, guys, let's wish for a bear!" As we came around each curve, I'd say, "Look for a bear, fellas!" That game got tiresome after just a few minutes, and my oldest started a game of 'who can spot the old stone mile markers first' with his brother. I was turned around watching them when I heard Larry say, "Bear." "Bear!" "BEAR!!" By the time I realized what he was saying and actually turned around, the large black bear standing in the middle of the road had already started a quick amble towards the woods. I then remembered the camera I had in my hand, and managed to snap one shot before he disappeared completely. I figured I had gotten nothing but bear butt.
Much to my surprise, when we got the pictures developed, I actually have a decent, if small, shot of a wild black bear strolling casually into the woods.
That was kewl.
Mon, 6 Aug 2001
A Visit To The ER
Well, yesterday I was planning to go to Wal-Mart and pick up a flag for the front of the house.Instead, I went to the ER.
I took Matt to his 5:15 TaeKwonDo class, with plans to head over to WM as soon as he was done, then home to wrap presents and get the cake ready for Rob's birthday. As I was standing out on the sidewalk (the lobby of the do-jang was PACKED), my left chest started to hurt from my sternum all the way around to my spine. The left side of my neck and left arm were hurting, too. This has happened before, and the pain always subsides after just a minute or two. So, I started breathing shallowly, since deep breaths hurt, and waited for the pain to go away.
It didn't. Larry got there with Matt (they have different classes, and we take turns bringing them so one of us isn't stuck there for hours on end!), and my chest was still hurting. He looked at me really funny, and asked if I didn't want to go to the doctor. Not really, I said. It will go away, it's happened before. He continued to encourage me to go to the urgent care place, and finally I agreed that if the pain had not subsided by the time he got home with Robert (about an hour), I would go see a doctor. We went to WM, and since walking around seemed to make the pain worse, got only what we needed for that night (no flag!), and went home. A few minutes later, Larry and Rob arrived. My chest and neck were still hurting. Larry told me I really needed to go see a doctor, and I agreed. We piled in the car, and saw our next door neighbor, who is a nurse, out playing with her 2 year old. We told her what was going on, and she advised us to go straight to the ER, not to bother with the urgent care place. So we did.
After a whole lot of hurry up and wait, I ended up with three EKG's, two Cardiac Enzyme labs, and two chest rads. All completely normal (thank God!!!). It turns out that I have damaged (strained, probably) the muscles in my chest wall, and that is causing muscle spasms in my chest, neck, and arm.
Treatment: Stay outta them places. No lifting anything more than 5 pounds, no TKD, and no pushups for several days. Aw, no pushups? Darn. NOT!
Prognosis: Excellent - I probably will not die from it. ;o)
Thu, 13 Sep 2001
Women's Sufferage
A friend says she is:> surrounded by jokes, witticisms, chatter, non-sequiters and the
> general hubbub of boys.I hear you, sister.
I live in a nearly exclusively male household. One gerbil, one dog, and I are the only females in the entire house. (Counting pets there are 16 entities officially living in my home.) This is what I heard at the store on Thursday:
Me: "Hey, look! The Halloween candy is all on sale!"
Boys: "No, Mom - you don't need to buy any candy."
Me: "What? Why not? I mean... It's ON SALE!"
Boys:(dragging me by my arms past carts of beckoning chocolate on sale) "No, we don't want our Mommy getting round."
<pause>
"Well, not any round-er, anyway!"
Long suffering women, we.
Mon, 5 Nov 2001
