So we have a large snow forecast, and I was thinking about the last time I went sledding.
I was dating, so it was long, long time ago. My soon-to-be husband built a big bonfire on the hill near Uncle Bill's driveway and invited all of his friends, family, and neighbors.
This was January 1982. I think up until this year, that was the coldest January on record.
Anyway, back to the party. Soon we were all gathered on the hill, roasting marshmallows and drinking beer and hot chocolate (hopefully not at the same time). People produced sleds from everywhere and they went racing down the slope. This was a hay field so there were no frozen cow pies to worry with, no ditches, and no rocks. Just a nice, fast run.
James tied a big car hood on the back of his tractor, and as people went down, they would pile on the car hood and he would roar back up, pulling them and their sleds behind.
I remember much laughter, lots of shouting, and giggles. I remember the cold air racing down the nape of my neck as I rode behind James when we took our turn on the sled run. Whoosh! He held me tight, keeping me safe, and I expect I fell more in love with him then, if that was possible.
By the next Christmas, I was married. It may not have snowed much, I can't recall. In fact, I recall some snows in the 1980s but the next big snow that stands out in my mind didn't happen until 1993. By then I was too out of shape for sledding, and our old friends were married and scattered to the winds.
Youth - so glorious when you're living it, and you're too young to appreciate it.
These days the only sleighing I would consider would be the one-horse kind, or a ride in the cab of the tractor with the husband.
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Friday, January 24, 2014
Remembering First Grade
I saw in the paper earlier this week that my first grade teacher - or at least someone with her name - had passed away.
This lady seemed quite old when she was my teacher, though of course she probably wasn't. Still, that would have been 44 years ago. The obit did not give her age so I don't know it. But she could have been in her 40s when she taught me.
The thing I remember most about first grade is that Mrs. Zirkle gave me an "F". I don't remember in what subject, but I remember the grade and how much I cried over it. I think I got the F because I had missed a lot of school - I had the mumps in the first grade and missed at least 14 days straight because of it.
The mumps hurt. You don't hear about mumps anymore; do kids still get them? Anyway, I remember waking up that morning and telling my mother I had pain, but I couldn't really describe it. She sent me on to school and later that day they called her to come and get me. Mumps are contagious so I had to stay away from class until they were all gone.
That was the only F I ever made in my entire career as a student (which has been a life-long sort of thing). I am pretty sure I got to take a make-up test for the bad grade but it left an impression on me, obviously, since I remember it.
After my one F paper, I made A's and B's. I stayed on the A or A-B honor roll, though they didn't put you on the honor rolls until 4th grade. I almost always got a B in gym and an A in everything else. It was very irritating to me that I could not get all As simply because I was not as physically adept as others.
Another thing I remember from first grade is learning that no one plays fair. I learned this because I spent all year - yes, all year! - trying to get a turn at riding on this toy truck in the classroom. The boys hogged it during recess. Finally, I was first to it and able to ride it for a minute, but one boy quickly shoved me off and that was the end of that. And having finally ridden on the damned thing, I stopped trying to get on it again.
I also learned a few songs in first grade, one of which I still remember:
In a test, for our class, that we know we cannot pass, and the goof-offs go marching along! And it's rah rah roo! We'll fake the Asian flu! Shout our symptoms loud and long! Blah yeach! And wherever we go, the teachers always know, that the goof-offs are marching along.
That's sung to some popular old ditty but I can't remember the name of it.
And this one, sung to the Battle Hymn of the Republic:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the burning of the school; we have tortured every teacher, we have broken every rule. We are marching down the hall to hang the principal, and the kids go marching on! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Teacher hit me with a ruler! So I hit her in the bean with a rotten tangerine and she ain't gonna teach me no more.
I am a product of a strange era.
It's amazing the things we do remember, isn't it?
This lady seemed quite old when she was my teacher, though of course she probably wasn't. Still, that would have been 44 years ago. The obit did not give her age so I don't know it. But she could have been in her 40s when she taught me.
The thing I remember most about first grade is that Mrs. Zirkle gave me an "F". I don't remember in what subject, but I remember the grade and how much I cried over it. I think I got the F because I had missed a lot of school - I had the mumps in the first grade and missed at least 14 days straight because of it.
The mumps hurt. You don't hear about mumps anymore; do kids still get them? Anyway, I remember waking up that morning and telling my mother I had pain, but I couldn't really describe it. She sent me on to school and later that day they called her to come and get me. Mumps are contagious so I had to stay away from class until they were all gone.
That was the only F I ever made in my entire career as a student (which has been a life-long sort of thing). I am pretty sure I got to take a make-up test for the bad grade but it left an impression on me, obviously, since I remember it.
After my one F paper, I made A's and B's. I stayed on the A or A-B honor roll, though they didn't put you on the honor rolls until 4th grade. I almost always got a B in gym and an A in everything else. It was very irritating to me that I could not get all As simply because I was not as physically adept as others.
Another thing I remember from first grade is learning that no one plays fair. I learned this because I spent all year - yes, all year! - trying to get a turn at riding on this toy truck in the classroom. The boys hogged it during recess. Finally, I was first to it and able to ride it for a minute, but one boy quickly shoved me off and that was the end of that. And having finally ridden on the damned thing, I stopped trying to get on it again.
I also learned a few songs in first grade, one of which I still remember:
In a test, for our class, that we know we cannot pass, and the goof-offs go marching along! And it's rah rah roo! We'll fake the Asian flu! Shout our symptoms loud and long! Blah yeach! And wherever we go, the teachers always know, that the goof-offs are marching along.
That's sung to some popular old ditty but I can't remember the name of it.
And this one, sung to the Battle Hymn of the Republic:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the burning of the school; we have tortured every teacher, we have broken every rule. We are marching down the hall to hang the principal, and the kids go marching on! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Teacher hit me with a ruler! So I hit her in the bean with a rotten tangerine and she ain't gonna teach me no more.
I am a product of a strange era.
It's amazing the things we do remember, isn't it?
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
In Search of Junes Gone By
Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. She would have been 69 years old, which is not so old by today's standards. However, she died when she was 56.
Recently, in early June, I turned 50. I tried to remember what happened when my mother turned 50. Did we take her to dinner? Throw her a party? I couldn't recall. That would have been 19 years ago. Maybe we let the day pass by, because my mother did not like to be reminded that she was growing older. She hated her birthday.
While I may not remember her 50th, I do remember her 55th birthday. That is when I realized that the stomachache she brought back from Paris was more than something she'd eaten. She had returned in early May complaining of a pain in her belly, and we all thought it was from traveling.
But when she was still complaining of it when I had her over for small gathering on her birthday, I knew something was up. It wasn't many days later that she went into the hospital and the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer came through.
Mom was a beautiful woman. She had an Elizabeth Taylor sort of beauty to her. She was skillful with makeup and never went out of the house without looking her best. She was not someone who went to Kroger in a jogging suit, no way. I don't think she even owned a pair of blue jeans for wearing around town; they were for gardening or working on the farm only.
My mother's birthday used to fall on the first day of summer; I don't know when they moved the day. I remember shopping for presents for her, looking for a pretty something with a quarter in my pocket. Until I could drive that was a very limited search. I think it mostly took place at Newberry's, which used to be a big five and dime department-like store in Salem. We spent summers with my grandmother, who lived in Salem, and we would walk to town.
I remember the shopping and the looking, and I can see my mother's face as she tried to look happy with whatever I purchased, but I can't for the life of me remember a single present I gave her. It must have been just so much trash, you know. A hand mirror, maybe, or a small jewelry box, or some little trinket. Life is full of little trinkets, isn't it? Easily forgotten. It is the doing I remember - trying so to find just the right thing.
My mother worked up until she was 50. She started the job when she was 15, working as a file clerk for a company in Salem that made submarine parts or something like that, secret stuff for the government. She worked at the receptionist desk and even though she had been with the company for over 35 years when she left, her title was still file clerk. I have always thought that was pretty sad, but how heroic, really, to have stayed there all of those years, working the same job.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see pieces of my mother. I have her hands. I do not look like her; I certainly do not have her beauty. I have never worried about my looks like she did, and while I seldom go out without makeup (I got that from her), I do tend to dress down more often than not. Most people do these days. I look in the mirror now and I see that I am starting to wrinkle, and I have a few skin things. My hair has been gray for a dozen years. My mother colored hers up until the last - her hair never fell out from the cancer treatments. That was how my grandmother knew they weren't working, she said.
My mother's last June was a terrible one. She was sick and in pain, and though we didn't know it, only two months from dying. We knew it was going to happen. In her last June they stopped the treatments because there was no point, and she didn't want to give up. She was angry with the doctors for not being able to treat her, to fix her, to make it all better. She fought to the last, all through June, but it was near the end of the month when we had to call the rescue squad and they took her from home for the last time. She died in August.
June has always been a month of birthdays for my family. At one time we celebrated in June the birthdays of my brother, myself, my uncle, my maternal grandmother, my paternal grandfather, and my mother. After I married a June boy we also celebrated his.
Once my mother made me a cake shaped like a butterfly. I have a photo of it somewhere; I think I was ten. A special cake for a decade of life. Again, it's the doing that I recall, that action, my mom making me that cake.
I wonder what she would have thought of me this year, my turning 50. Would she have felt old, having a daughter so ancient? She was very young when she had me, too young, really, to be mothering a child. Women do it every day but that doesn't mean they should. We had a rocky relationship, my mom and I. Would she look back now at my life and say, yes, daughter, you accomplished much? Or would it be meaningless because it wasn't her dreams for me? I don't know.
Fifty-six seemed young to me when I was 37, the age I was when my mother died, and it seems even younger to me now, with the age just six years off. Six years to live the rest of my life - I hope not. But you never know. You can't know. When my mother turned 50 she didn't know she had only six more years.
So many Junes under my belt. So many Junes my mother has not seen in these years since she passed away. Time flows by like a gentle breeze, so soft on our skin we don't even notice it. Then we look back and it's like a tornado, the memories all swirling and tossed about. Who can make sense of it after such a torrent of time? Not me. Not you. No one, really. It is what it is, another June gone by.
Recently, in early June, I turned 50. I tried to remember what happened when my mother turned 50. Did we take her to dinner? Throw her a party? I couldn't recall. That would have been 19 years ago. Maybe we let the day pass by, because my mother did not like to be reminded that she was growing older. She hated her birthday.
While I may not remember her 50th, I do remember her 55th birthday. That is when I realized that the stomachache she brought back from Paris was more than something she'd eaten. She had returned in early May complaining of a pain in her belly, and we all thought it was from traveling.
But when she was still complaining of it when I had her over for small gathering on her birthday, I knew something was up. It wasn't many days later that she went into the hospital and the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer came through.
Mom was a beautiful woman. She had an Elizabeth Taylor sort of beauty to her. She was skillful with makeup and never went out of the house without looking her best. She was not someone who went to Kroger in a jogging suit, no way. I don't think she even owned a pair of blue jeans for wearing around town; they were for gardening or working on the farm only.
My mother's birthday used to fall on the first day of summer; I don't know when they moved the day. I remember shopping for presents for her, looking for a pretty something with a quarter in my pocket. Until I could drive that was a very limited search. I think it mostly took place at Newberry's, which used to be a big five and dime department-like store in Salem. We spent summers with my grandmother, who lived in Salem, and we would walk to town.
I remember the shopping and the looking, and I can see my mother's face as she tried to look happy with whatever I purchased, but I can't for the life of me remember a single present I gave her. It must have been just so much trash, you know. A hand mirror, maybe, or a small jewelry box, or some little trinket. Life is full of little trinkets, isn't it? Easily forgotten. It is the doing I remember - trying so to find just the right thing.
My mother worked up until she was 50. She started the job when she was 15, working as a file clerk for a company in Salem that made submarine parts or something like that, secret stuff for the government. She worked at the receptionist desk and even though she had been with the company for over 35 years when she left, her title was still file clerk. I have always thought that was pretty sad, but how heroic, really, to have stayed there all of those years, working the same job.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see pieces of my mother. I have her hands. I do not look like her; I certainly do not have her beauty. I have never worried about my looks like she did, and while I seldom go out without makeup (I got that from her), I do tend to dress down more often than not. Most people do these days. I look in the mirror now and I see that I am starting to wrinkle, and I have a few skin things. My hair has been gray for a dozen years. My mother colored hers up until the last - her hair never fell out from the cancer treatments. That was how my grandmother knew they weren't working, she said.
My mother's last June was a terrible one. She was sick and in pain, and though we didn't know it, only two months from dying. We knew it was going to happen. In her last June they stopped the treatments because there was no point, and she didn't want to give up. She was angry with the doctors for not being able to treat her, to fix her, to make it all better. She fought to the last, all through June, but it was near the end of the month when we had to call the rescue squad and they took her from home for the last time. She died in August.
June has always been a month of birthdays for my family. At one time we celebrated in June the birthdays of my brother, myself, my uncle, my maternal grandmother, my paternal grandfather, and my mother. After I married a June boy we also celebrated his.
Once my mother made me a cake shaped like a butterfly. I have a photo of it somewhere; I think I was ten. A special cake for a decade of life. Again, it's the doing that I recall, that action, my mom making me that cake.
I wonder what she would have thought of me this year, my turning 50. Would she have felt old, having a daughter so ancient? She was very young when she had me, too young, really, to be mothering a child. Women do it every day but that doesn't mean they should. We had a rocky relationship, my mom and I. Would she look back now at my life and say, yes, daughter, you accomplished much? Or would it be meaningless because it wasn't her dreams for me? I don't know.
Fifty-six seemed young to me when I was 37, the age I was when my mother died, and it seems even younger to me now, with the age just six years off. Six years to live the rest of my life - I hope not. But you never know. You can't know. When my mother turned 50 she didn't know she had only six more years.
So many Junes under my belt. So many Junes my mother has not seen in these years since she passed away. Time flows by like a gentle breeze, so soft on our skin we don't even notice it. Then we look back and it's like a tornado, the memories all swirling and tossed about. Who can make sense of it after such a torrent of time? Not me. Not you. No one, really. It is what it is, another June gone by.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Happy Halloween!
Boo!
Did I scare you?
Of course I didn't.
Alas, I have no scary photos to share, no images of ghosties or goblins.
I thought instead I might share my favorite Halloween memory with you. This happened when I was six years old.
One year I dressed as a hobo. I wore a tie, a hat, patched pants, and makeup on my face. I was six years old, and my mother took me around the subdivision where my grandmother lived in Salem. She stood out in the street and watched while I marched up the sidewalk, sack in hand, and rang doorbells.
I remember it being a warm night, no need for a heavy coat, but still spooky because the trees were bare and leaves littered the sides of the roads where we trudged from house to house in the subdivision where my grandmother lived.
The owners of one home went all out for the holiday. They had a spooky sound track coming from a window, tombstones in the yard, and a ghost in the corner of the porch. I was not so sure I wanted to visit this place.
"Go on, it's okay," my mother said, giving me a little shove.
The fact that there were no other children around should have been a cue, I suppose. I headed up the sidewalk, looking back at my mother every so often to be sure she hadn't left me in this scary spot.
I rang the doorbell. Ding. Dong.
The door opened a crack. An evil eye peered out, and then the door opened.
There stood a witch.
A real Wizard of Oz looking witch, with a green face, crooked nose, and a wart. She had dark scraggly hair and a black hat on top of her head.
"Well, just who I was waiting for!" the witch cackled.
I was so scared I could not say "trick or treat" so I simply held out the bag. She put some candy in and opened the door wider. Inside stood a big black cauldron with steam coming out! It was big enough that I would fit inside.
"I just love little girls," the witch crooned. "You look like a dear. I could eat you all up. Won't you come into my house?"
I swallowed and took a step back. "No thank you," I said politely. "I'm not allowed to go into the homes of strangers."
With that, I turned tail and ran for my life. The sound of the witch calling for me to come back followed me all the way down the sidewalk.
My mother scooped me up in a hug, because by this time I was terrified and crying. She was laughing but she also applauded me for not going inside.
And that is my favorite Halloween memory, because it has every element you could want from this day of the dead. Chills and comfort, candy and a costume.
Did I scare you?
Of course I didn't.
Alas, I have no scary photos to share, no images of ghosties or goblins.
I thought instead I might share my favorite Halloween memory with you. This happened when I was six years old.
One year I dressed as a hobo. I wore a tie, a hat, patched pants, and makeup on my face. I was six years old, and my mother took me around the subdivision where my grandmother lived in Salem. She stood out in the street and watched while I marched up the sidewalk, sack in hand, and rang doorbells.
I remember it being a warm night, no need for a heavy coat, but still spooky because the trees were bare and leaves littered the sides of the roads where we trudged from house to house in the subdivision where my grandmother lived.
The owners of one home went all out for the holiday. They had a spooky sound track coming from a window, tombstones in the yard, and a ghost in the corner of the porch. I was not so sure I wanted to visit this place.
"Go on, it's okay," my mother said, giving me a little shove.
The fact that there were no other children around should have been a cue, I suppose. I headed up the sidewalk, looking back at my mother every so often to be sure she hadn't left me in this scary spot.
I rang the doorbell. Ding. Dong.
The door opened a crack. An evil eye peered out, and then the door opened.
There stood a witch.
A real Wizard of Oz looking witch, with a green face, crooked nose, and a wart. She had dark scraggly hair and a black hat on top of her head.
"Well, just who I was waiting for!" the witch cackled.
I was so scared I could not say "trick or treat" so I simply held out the bag. She put some candy in and opened the door wider. Inside stood a big black cauldron with steam coming out! It was big enough that I would fit inside.
"I just love little girls," the witch crooned. "You look like a dear. I could eat you all up. Won't you come into my house?"
I swallowed and took a step back. "No thank you," I said politely. "I'm not allowed to go into the homes of strangers."
With that, I turned tail and ran for my life. The sound of the witch calling for me to come back followed me all the way down the sidewalk.
My mother scooped me up in a hug, because by this time I was terrified and crying. She was laughing but she also applauded me for not going inside.
And that is my favorite Halloween memory, because it has every element you could want from this day of the dead. Chills and comfort, candy and a costume.
"I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog, too!"
Friday, September 21, 2012
The Date in Decades
Sometimes I look at the calendar and I try to recall what I might have been doing on specific dates.
There is no real reason for this; it's just a mental game.
But 40 years ago (damn, I am old), on Thursday, September 21 1972, I would have been 9 years old.
That means that most likely I was in school, in the fourth grade at Breckinridge Elementary. Classes would have been in session for only a few weeks, because back then we started school the day after Labor Day. Mrs. Lanning was my teacher. She had a reputation for being a hard task master but I loved her.
In this month and year, the TV show MASH started this year. It ran for 11 years (the final show would air in 1983, the night my future husband's grandfather died). The Waltons also began its 10-year run on TV. Bob Barker began doing the first showcase showdowns on The Price is Right. Richard Nixon was president, and Watergate was underway, but I was too young to pay much attention to that.
Thirty years ago, on Tuesday, September 21, 1982, I would have been out of high school. I had not yet met my husband. I would be enrolled at Virginia Western taking ... something ... and I would be employed at a machine shop, where I was the parts manager. It was a job I disliked and would leave within the next six months. I wasn't dating anyone.
Ronald Reagan was president. Apparently not much was happening, because there is little of note about this date online. The TV shows Family Ties, Cheers, and Knight Rider began.
Twenty years ago, on Monday, September 21, 1992, I was employed at a local law firm. I was also attending school at Hollins College, working on my bachelors degree.
I was married and working on year 9 of that institution. By this time we'd built the house we live in now. We were on year five of trying to have children and we were on the cusp of realizing it was something that wasn't going to happen.
We did not yet have Internet service or cell phones.
In the world, George H. W. Bush was president (and would soon lose to Bill Clinton). Gas cost about $1.05. Hurricane Andrew had come through about a month prior to this September date.
Ten years ago, on Saturday, September 21, 2002, I would have been at home. Probably cleaning my house, if routine serves as memory. My mother would have passed away in August 2000, and I would be moving on with my life after that event.
I would have been on the Internet for a number of years. I had a cell phone. For employment, I was a freelance writer with a steady contract with local newspapers. I loved the work.
In the world, George W. Bush was president. We would have had a one-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attack on the U.S. The drumbeats for war on Iraq would have been banging full force. Gas cost about $1.62.
On TV, Firefly would make its debut (it crashed and burned quickly).
I would be anxiously awaiting the December release of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, at the theater.
Which brings me to today, Friday, September 21, 2012.
Here I am, a middle-aged woman, looking for work and still trying to figure out what I'm going to do when I grow up. I had thought I would have had that sorted out by now, but I guess not.
I will spend my day today keeping a couple of appointments, shopping at Kroger, working on a project, and fixing dinner. I also plan to hit the treadmill as soon as I hit the publish button on this blog entry.
And that's my life by the decades.
There is no real reason for this; it's just a mental game.
But 40 years ago (damn, I am old), on Thursday, September 21 1972, I would have been 9 years old.
That means that most likely I was in school, in the fourth grade at Breckinridge Elementary. Classes would have been in session for only a few weeks, because back then we started school the day after Labor Day. Mrs. Lanning was my teacher. She had a reputation for being a hard task master but I loved her.
In this month and year, the TV show MASH started this year. It ran for 11 years (the final show would air in 1983, the night my future husband's grandfather died). The Waltons also began its 10-year run on TV. Bob Barker began doing the first showcase showdowns on The Price is Right. Richard Nixon was president, and Watergate was underway, but I was too young to pay much attention to that.
Thirty years ago, on Tuesday, September 21, 1982, I would have been out of high school. I had not yet met my husband. I would be enrolled at Virginia Western taking ... something ... and I would be employed at a machine shop, where I was the parts manager. It was a job I disliked and would leave within the next six months. I wasn't dating anyone.
Ronald Reagan was president. Apparently not much was happening, because there is little of note about this date online. The TV shows Family Ties, Cheers, and Knight Rider began.
Twenty years ago, on Monday, September 21, 1992, I was employed at a local law firm. I was also attending school at Hollins College, working on my bachelors degree.
I was married and working on year 9 of that institution. By this time we'd built the house we live in now. We were on year five of trying to have children and we were on the cusp of realizing it was something that wasn't going to happen.
We did not yet have Internet service or cell phones.
In the world, George H. W. Bush was president (and would soon lose to Bill Clinton). Gas cost about $1.05. Hurricane Andrew had come through about a month prior to this September date.
Ten years ago, on Saturday, September 21, 2002, I would have been at home. Probably cleaning my house, if routine serves as memory. My mother would have passed away in August 2000, and I would be moving on with my life after that event.
I would have been on the Internet for a number of years. I had a cell phone. For employment, I was a freelance writer with a steady contract with local newspapers. I loved the work.
In the world, George W. Bush was president. We would have had a one-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attack on the U.S. The drumbeats for war on Iraq would have been banging full force. Gas cost about $1.62.
On TV, Firefly would make its debut (it crashed and burned quickly).
I would be anxiously awaiting the December release of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, at the theater.
Which brings me to today, Friday, September 21, 2012.
Here I am, a middle-aged woman, looking for work and still trying to figure out what I'm going to do when I grow up. I had thought I would have had that sorted out by now, but I guess not.
I will spend my day today keeping a couple of appointments, shopping at Kroger, working on a project, and fixing dinner. I also plan to hit the treadmill as soon as I hit the publish button on this blog entry.
And that's my life by the decades.
Friday, September 14, 2012
The First Song
The first song I ever sang in public was called You Light Up My Life.
Remember that one? It was sung by Debbie Boone. People either loved it or hated it.
It hit number one in the fall of 1977. I was 14 years old and in the ninth grade. Apparently I was at the age to love the song.
I recorded You Light Up My Life off of Casey Kasem's American Top 40, using a cassette tape, of course. And then I played it back a hundred times until I learned all of the words.
Then I played it another hundred times so I could learn the guitar chords. I remember the song had an Am and D in it.
My father in the 1970s had a Top 40 band called Music Inc. The band one Friday night played a dance at Breckinridge Elementary School in Fincastle, a benefit for either the high school band or the PTA, I can't remember which. I think it was a Halloween dance, actually. I seem to remember ghosts, but maybe that was just my fear.
I had been told to bring my guitar, which I did. It was an Epiphone Les Paul imitation, black in body, that I had received as a Christmas present when I was 12. I still have it.
As I tend to do when the weather changes, I had developed laryngitis from the pollen. I recall protesting that I couldn't sing.
No matter. I was going to sing anyway.
I was so scared I could scarcely breathe. The band would be backing me up, but we only rehearsed the song one time. And that was a disaster because my guitar hadn't been tuned in standard tuning. Retuning my guitar down to standard meant I would be singing in a different key than I normally sang in.
Oh the terror! How my knees knocked and my fingers twitched. The time passed so slowly I was sure I was in a time warp and had been transferred to another universe.
Eventually, my father called my name. I made my way to the stage. I plastered a smile on my face as he introduced me. I took my guitar from its stand. I strummed the guitar and forced my scratchy voice to belt out the words.
I know there were screeches and bad notes. I was not then, nor am I now, really a vocalist. I can carry a tune decently enough but I have never been what one might call a great singer. That first time on stage was no exception.
"So many nights, I sit by window..."
Egads. I can't imagine what everyone thought. It probably wasn't as bad as I imagined - I didn't stumble too much or have to restart the song - but it couldn't have been great. I was trembling when I finished. I left the stage to polite applause.
One of my classmates immediately began to make fun of me, I remember. And her voice singing You Light Up My Life would follow me down the halls of the high school for the next several weeks.
But I had done it. Despite my fears, I had mounted the stage, picked up the guitar, and made my way through the song, for better or worse.
Remember that one? It was sung by Debbie Boone. People either loved it or hated it.
It hit number one in the fall of 1977. I was 14 years old and in the ninth grade. Apparently I was at the age to love the song.
I recorded You Light Up My Life off of Casey Kasem's American Top 40, using a cassette tape, of course. And then I played it back a hundred times until I learned all of the words.
Then I played it another hundred times so I could learn the guitar chords. I remember the song had an Am and D in it.
My father in the 1970s had a Top 40 band called Music Inc. The band one Friday night played a dance at Breckinridge Elementary School in Fincastle, a benefit for either the high school band or the PTA, I can't remember which. I think it was a Halloween dance, actually. I seem to remember ghosts, but maybe that was just my fear.
I had been told to bring my guitar, which I did. It was an Epiphone Les Paul imitation, black in body, that I had received as a Christmas present when I was 12. I still have it.
As I tend to do when the weather changes, I had developed laryngitis from the pollen. I recall protesting that I couldn't sing.
No matter. I was going to sing anyway.
I was so scared I could scarcely breathe. The band would be backing me up, but we only rehearsed the song one time. And that was a disaster because my guitar hadn't been tuned in standard tuning. Retuning my guitar down to standard meant I would be singing in a different key than I normally sang in.
Oh the terror! How my knees knocked and my fingers twitched. The time passed so slowly I was sure I was in a time warp and had been transferred to another universe.
Eventually, my father called my name. I made my way to the stage. I plastered a smile on my face as he introduced me. I took my guitar from its stand. I strummed the guitar and forced my scratchy voice to belt out the words.
I know there were screeches and bad notes. I was not then, nor am I now, really a vocalist. I can carry a tune decently enough but I have never been what one might call a great singer. That first time on stage was no exception.
"So many nights, I sit by window..."
Egads. I can't imagine what everyone thought. It probably wasn't as bad as I imagined - I didn't stumble too much or have to restart the song - but it couldn't have been great. I was trembling when I finished. I left the stage to polite applause.
One of my classmates immediately began to make fun of me, I remember. And her voice singing You Light Up My Life would follow me down the halls of the high school for the next several weeks.
But I had done it. Despite my fears, I had mounted the stage, picked up the guitar, and made my way through the song, for better or worse.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
The Day I Played For The President
Last night, Barack Obama, President of the United States, came to Roanoke.
It was the first time in 35 years that a sitting president had made a stop in Roanoke. We've had a few land at the airport to be shuttled off to other venues, but not since Jimmy Carter had a president spoken directly to Roanokers.
I was at that event in 1977. It was September 23, 1977, to be exact, and President Jimmy Carter was here to stump for Henry Howell, candidate in the Virginia governor's race.
In 1977, I was 14 years old. I can't say that, as a freshman in high school, I cared very much about politics. That would have changed by the time I was a senior, but that would be in four more years. And even then it would be 1984 before I could vote in a presidential election. By then the damage was done.
For some reason, the Lord Botetourt High School band was chosen to play at this 1977 political event.
In front of the sitting president, Jimmy Carter.
President Carter spoke at the Roanoke Civic Center, which, as I recall, was packed.
I started playing in band in sixth grade. I was a flute player, and I was always either first or second chair. First chair meant you were the best, but that could change. Our band director, Mr. Lowe, tested us every six weeks, and whoever did the best took first chair. For years I rotated in and out of that seat, vying with Angie C. for the sweet spot.
First chair meant you played the most difficult parts in the music. You also played the piccolo if the music called for it. We all loved the piccolo.
We went to the Civic Center in a bus, and I remember we had to leave our instrument cases on the bus for security reasons. We also could not take in hats or pocketbooks. The bus driver assured us he would keep our things safe.
Then it was a matter of playing when the president came in. Only I don't remember what we played for him.
The Star Spangled Banner, maybe.
Here is a picture from my freshman yearbook of the band at the event:
That dour-looking girl with the yellow circle around her is me.
Apparently I was not as thrilled as the two seniors in front of me to be seeing the president.
Looking back, I am really glad that I was able to participate in this. What a fine thing to have done, eh?
To have played my flute for a sitting president.
It was the first time in 35 years that a sitting president had made a stop in Roanoke. We've had a few land at the airport to be shuttled off to other venues, but not since Jimmy Carter had a president spoken directly to Roanokers.
I was at that event in 1977. It was September 23, 1977, to be exact, and President Jimmy Carter was here to stump for Henry Howell, candidate in the Virginia governor's race.
In 1977, I was 14 years old. I can't say that, as a freshman in high school, I cared very much about politics. That would have changed by the time I was a senior, but that would be in four more years. And even then it would be 1984 before I could vote in a presidential election. By then the damage was done.
For some reason, the Lord Botetourt High School band was chosen to play at this 1977 political event.
In front of the sitting president, Jimmy Carter.
President Carter spoke at the Roanoke Civic Center, which, as I recall, was packed.
I started playing in band in sixth grade. I was a flute player, and I was always either first or second chair. First chair meant you were the best, but that could change. Our band director, Mr. Lowe, tested us every six weeks, and whoever did the best took first chair. For years I rotated in and out of that seat, vying with Angie C. for the sweet spot.
First chair meant you played the most difficult parts in the music. You also played the piccolo if the music called for it. We all loved the piccolo.
We went to the Civic Center in a bus, and I remember we had to leave our instrument cases on the bus for security reasons. We also could not take in hats or pocketbooks. The bus driver assured us he would keep our things safe.
Then it was a matter of playing when the president came in. Only I don't remember what we played for him.
The Star Spangled Banner, maybe.
Here is a picture from my freshman yearbook of the band at the event:
That dour-looking girl with the yellow circle around her is me.
Apparently I was not as thrilled as the two seniors in front of me to be seeing the president.
Looking back, I am really glad that I was able to participate in this. What a fine thing to have done, eh?
To have played my flute for a sitting president.
Monday, April 16, 2012
A Day to Remember
Today is one of those historic days, the kind you tell young people about when you're (ahem) older.
It's not a national day, but more local. Five years ago today a gunman went on a rampage at Virginia Tech. Thirty-two people died. My best friend's son was a student on campus and one of the people killed was close to him.
I was at home, working on the computer. I was still working for the newspaper then. Something came across in my email, I think, alerting me to the possibility of a shooting. At first it seemed like a routine incident, then the numbers began to climb. One person, two people ... more. Twenty-two. I remember that number; it took my breath. I switched on the local news to watch the coverage. I was scared for my friend's son. Terrified, actually. And then I remembered that my husband's best childhood friend was a professor there. And I was terrified for him, too.
Fortunately both were not physically hurt, though they were scarred nonetheless.
I did not go to Virginia Tech, but as a citizen of the community - of the nation - I was stunned by the atrocity. As upset and saddened as everyone else.
It is such a shame that we have learned very little in the ensuing years. Instead of seeking to help people so that such things do not happen again, we've only turned inward, toward our fears, instead of reaching out. We've become a closed-off congregation of individuals, not a society that helps one another. I find it a painful turn of events.
I desperately want to see us become a country where we reach out to one another, in love and understanding. A place of acceptance, where differences, whether physical or emotional, are not problems to be ashamed of but are embraced as evidence of our humanity. A place where we resolve our differences not with guns and violence but with hugs and sympathy.
A land of love. A land of kindness. A land of joy.
It's not a national day, but more local. Five years ago today a gunman went on a rampage at Virginia Tech. Thirty-two people died. My best friend's son was a student on campus and one of the people killed was close to him.
I was at home, working on the computer. I was still working for the newspaper then. Something came across in my email, I think, alerting me to the possibility of a shooting. At first it seemed like a routine incident, then the numbers began to climb. One person, two people ... more. Twenty-two. I remember that number; it took my breath. I switched on the local news to watch the coverage. I was scared for my friend's son. Terrified, actually. And then I remembered that my husband's best childhood friend was a professor there. And I was terrified for him, too.
Fortunately both were not physically hurt, though they were scarred nonetheless.
I did not go to Virginia Tech, but as a citizen of the community - of the nation - I was stunned by the atrocity. As upset and saddened as everyone else.
It is such a shame that we have learned very little in the ensuing years. Instead of seeking to help people so that such things do not happen again, we've only turned inward, toward our fears, instead of reaching out. We've become a closed-off congregation of individuals, not a society that helps one another. I find it a painful turn of events.
I desperately want to see us become a country where we reach out to one another, in love and understanding. A place of acceptance, where differences, whether physical or emotional, are not problems to be ashamed of but are embraced as evidence of our humanity. A place where we resolve our differences not with guns and violence but with hugs and sympathy.
A land of love. A land of kindness. A land of joy.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Sleigh Ride
This morning I woke up to the song Sleigh Ride (thanks to my once-favorite radio station which has been playing Christmas music for TWO WEEKS prior to Thanksgiving), and I was suddenly cast back to my high school years.
I played flute in the high school band. I started playing in the 6th grade at Breckinridge Elementary School, and then we went on to Botetourt Intermediate (now called Central Academy), where we had two years with a man whose real name I can't remember but we called him "the toad" privately.
During the seventh grade I broke my arm and had to miss about eight weeks of playing time because I was in a cast. I had to be there anyway but it was certainly boring.
Anyway, I became a high school freshman and off I went to Lord Botetourt, where Band Director George Lowe apparently loved the song Sleigh Ride, because every October we started playing it again.
The version we practiced was supposed to sound like the one below. Only of course this is the Boston Pops playing, not a high school band. I guarantee you we sounded nothing like this.
Our little high school band had about 60 members. I think there were about eight flute players, and I was usually either second or first chair most of the time. First chair person got to play the piccolo, which had it's own little line on the score of this song. It makes those high trilling little sounds.
Each year we marched in several Christmas parades. We wore horrid red and black wool suits, huge furry hats, shiny black shoes, and white gloves with the fingers cut out of them so we could play our instruments. We marched in the Fincastle, Vinton, Salem, and Buchanan parades that I remember, and possibly others. It was always extremely cold and windy and I usually became ill after the parade season ended.
Anyway, that's what was on my mind at 6 a.m. this morning. I don't have my flute anymore, which is a pity. The pads rotted out and when a coworker's daughter expressed interest, I gave the instrument to her so she'd only have to pay to have the pads fixed and not buy a whole new flute. I don't know what happened to it after that; the friend has long since moved away and we've lost touch.
Maybe I should buy another one and see if I can remember how to play it.
I played flute in the high school band. I started playing in the 6th grade at Breckinridge Elementary School, and then we went on to Botetourt Intermediate (now called Central Academy), where we had two years with a man whose real name I can't remember but we called him "the toad" privately.
During the seventh grade I broke my arm and had to miss about eight weeks of playing time because I was in a cast. I had to be there anyway but it was certainly boring.
Anyway, I became a high school freshman and off I went to Lord Botetourt, where Band Director George Lowe apparently loved the song Sleigh Ride, because every October we started playing it again.
The version we practiced was supposed to sound like the one below. Only of course this is the Boston Pops playing, not a high school band. I guarantee you we sounded nothing like this.
Our little high school band had about 60 members. I think there were about eight flute players, and I was usually either second or first chair most of the time. First chair person got to play the piccolo, which had it's own little line on the score of this song. It makes those high trilling little sounds.
Each year we marched in several Christmas parades. We wore horrid red and black wool suits, huge furry hats, shiny black shoes, and white gloves with the fingers cut out of them so we could play our instruments. We marched in the Fincastle, Vinton, Salem, and Buchanan parades that I remember, and possibly others. It was always extremely cold and windy and I usually became ill after the parade season ended.
Anyway, that's what was on my mind at 6 a.m. this morning. I don't have my flute anymore, which is a pity. The pads rotted out and when a coworker's daughter expressed interest, I gave the instrument to her so she'd only have to pay to have the pads fixed and not buy a whole new flute. I don't know what happened to it after that; the friend has long since moved away and we've lost touch.
Maybe I should buy another one and see if I can remember how to play it.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
30 Years Ago . . . Today
So last night was my 30th class reunion. When the class graduated, there were about 230 people marching for their diplomas.
We had 44 classmates and 23 guests sign up, and a few people dropped in, for a total of around 70-75 people for our big evening.
The event was held at the Kyle House in Fincastle. This is an old structure that once was a grocery store. It is now used for weddings, reunions, and other events.
The food was catered appetizers consisting of some fish things, BBQ biscuits, cheeses, crackers, spinach dip, etc.
This will be my favorite picture from the evening, I think. Not because I am in it (I'm the one in the pink) but because all of us went to Breckinridge Elementary School together. So we have known each other since we were small children. From left: Alan, Chris, Ramona, Me, Kathy, and Ann.
This is Ann. We talked a lot about our days in the rock band, Almost Famous, and our misadventures.
Ramona. I was quite impressed with how wonderful she looked. I give her many thumbs up for making positive changes in her life.
The memory table featured the yearbooks, a copy of The Interloper, which was a school paper of sorts, somebody's report cards, photos, etc.
We went outside to take a picture. Originally they wanted us on this balcony but some of us worried that we'd end up crashing it to the ground if we all gathered on it. Not wanting to die or be injured, we insisted on moving the photo op to the courtyard below.
This was accomplished via a circular staircase at the rear. I did not get a group picture but am hoping to steal one from someone's Facebook page later.
The event was very nice. I behaved myself, except for dancing. Greg wanted to dance and no one was dancing with him, so I did. The only thing is, I can't dance. I look a bit like Elaine from Friends when I dance. This has immediately gone onto my bucket list as something I want to do - learn to dance.
It was a nice time. I was home by 10 p.m. I hope to keep in touch with a few of these old friends. Back to the present day now.
We had 44 classmates and 23 guests sign up, and a few people dropped in, for a total of around 70-75 people for our big evening.
The event was held at the Kyle House in Fincastle. This is an old structure that once was a grocery store. It is now used for weddings, reunions, and other events.
The food was catered appetizers consisting of some fish things, BBQ biscuits, cheeses, crackers, spinach dip, etc.
This will be my favorite picture from the evening, I think. Not because I am in it (I'm the one in the pink) but because all of us went to Breckinridge Elementary School together. So we have known each other since we were small children. From left: Alan, Chris, Ramona, Me, Kathy, and Ann.
This is Ann. We talked a lot about our days in the rock band, Almost Famous, and our misadventures.
Ramona. I was quite impressed with how wonderful she looked. I give her many thumbs up for making positive changes in her life.
Donna and I shared a few adventures in high school, too.
Greetings at the door.
Gale (in black) saying hello to Ramona.
The memory table featured the yearbooks, a copy of The Interloper, which was a school paper of sorts, somebody's report cards, photos, etc.
We went outside to take a picture. Originally they wanted us on this balcony but some of us worried that we'd end up crashing it to the ground if we all gathered on it. Not wanting to die or be injured, we insisted on moving the photo op to the courtyard below.
This was accomplished via a circular staircase at the rear. I did not get a group picture but am hoping to steal one from someone's Facebook page later.
Our classmates who have passed on. There are 8 that we know of.
The event was very nice. I behaved myself, except for dancing. Greg wanted to dance and no one was dancing with him, so I did. The only thing is, I can't dance. I look a bit like Elaine from Friends when I dance. This has immediately gone onto my bucket list as something I want to do - learn to dance.
It was a nice time. I was home by 10 p.m. I hope to keep in touch with a few of these old friends. Back to the present day now.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Down Memory Lane
I dug out some old photos as I did a little reminiscing, what with my class reunion tonight and all. Here are a few shots of me as a younger person.
This is me in the 8th grade with my math teacher. This photo is the way I tend to remember myself, and apparently still think of myself sometimes. Long hair, jean jacket, and blue jeans. And a lot thinner than I am today. It can be quite a shock when I look in the mirror, because this is certainly not what I see!
Here's proof of that rock band I have mentioned a few times in the past. That's me on the guitar.
Another rock band photo. This was the New Year's Eve gig at Hotel Roanoke. I'm the smiling girl with glasses on the far right. I'm not naming other names out of respect for their privacy.
Me and that guitar again. That band had a big impact on my high school years and was a big part of my life for some time.
Me and a friend during a July 4 parade. I played flute, as you can see. This would be either 9th or 10th grade, I'm guessing.
This would be me about two years after my high graduation, since that is my husband's old pick up truck in the photo. I can't believe I was once that little!
Ah, memories! They may be beautiful ... and yet ... sometimes painful to remember! Maybe I should choose to forget!
Looking forward to exorcising demons tonight at the ball.
This is me in the 8th grade with my math teacher. This photo is the way I tend to remember myself, and apparently still think of myself sometimes. Long hair, jean jacket, and blue jeans. And a lot thinner than I am today. It can be quite a shock when I look in the mirror, because this is certainly not what I see!
Here's proof of that rock band I have mentioned a few times in the past. That's me on the guitar.
Another rock band photo. This was the New Year's Eve gig at Hotel Roanoke. I'm the smiling girl with glasses on the far right. I'm not naming other names out of respect for their privacy.
Me and that guitar again. That band had a big impact on my high school years and was a big part of my life for some time.
Me and a friend during a July 4 parade. I played flute, as you can see. This would be either 9th or 10th grade, I'm guessing.
This would be me about two years after my high graduation, since that is my husband's old pick up truck in the photo. I can't believe I was once that little!
Ah, memories! They may be beautiful ... and yet ... sometimes painful to remember! Maybe I should choose to forget!
Looking forward to exorcising demons tonight at the ball.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Thursday Thirteen
My class reunion is this Saturday, and I am planning on going. I attended Lord Botetourt High School in Daleville, Virginia. I graduated in 1981.
So here are 13 things I remember from high school. Thirty years ago. Wow. I am old!
1. The food fight. The class of 1981 started a terrible food fight near the end of the school year. The principal, who was new that year, called in the police. The local paper wrote a story about it that ran all over the country, as my grandmother in California sent me a copy of the story from her paper. The fight was actually planned by the seniors. The new principal was very stern. It had been tradition for the senior class to pull a prank, and he was having none of it. He'd have been better off with the senior prank, which according to the yearbook was the theft of water cooler handles, though I don't recall that at all. In case you are wondering, I did not participate in the food fight. In fact, I was nowhere near the cafeteria when this happened. But I certainly saw the residue from it, and it wasn't pretty.
2. Band camp. I was in the high school band and we had summer camp at Ferrum College. I had trouble with my knee and it swelled up so that I couldn't walk on it. I eventually had to leave early, which I did not want to do. I played the flute, if you want to know.
3. Being in a Top 40/Rock Band. I played guitar in a band called Almost Famous. The band was comprised of me, Glynn Loope, Beth Arrington, Ann Jones, and Joel Woods. We started out with two others who did not stay with us long. The band stayed together for three years, and it gave us all spending money for those years. We even played a New Year's Eve gig at Hotel Roanoke (the swankiest place in town). Of the five of us, only Joel went on to do something with his music, though I lost track of Ann so she could have done something, too, I suppose.
4. Taking up for my brother. Trouble found me once because some boy was picking on my brother, who was a freshman the year I was a senior. I went after the boy in the hallway about the time a teacher turned a corner.
5. Detention. Even though I was a good student (I graduated 5th in the class), I tended to skip band class. Finally Mr. Lowe, the band director, told me if I skipped one more time I would be in trouble. I did, and I was. I remember most of my teachers were mortified. Straight A students just didn't get detention.
6. Telling off a boyfriend. We were standing in front of the library. I spat out a lot of big words. He finally told me he had no idea what I was saying. I stalked off, through the jeering crowd. How embarrassing.
7. First chair. In band, we competed for the glory of first chair. If you were the best, you were first chair. That meant you played the hard parts and you could play the piccolo. Angie Cundiff and I swapped the first chair seat back and forth for years.
8. High school football games. As a band member, I went to most of the games. I remember long bus rides back from some godforsaken place like Alleghany County after midnight, with stops at a Dairy Queen or something in Clifton Forge. But the high school game that counted the most was the game I attended the year after I graduated, for that was when I met my future husband.
9. My Datsun. This was my first car. It was a horrid brown and it was a hatchback. I don't remember what year it was. My father gave it to me; I don't know where he got it. I drove the crap out of the thing. Backed it into a post. Took it around where the Pagan motorcycle group was camping one time, and a big knife that was in the road jumped up and poked a hole in the gas tank. I had to lie about that one as I wasn't supposed to be in that area of the county. Oops.
10. Alegebra. My favorite teacher was Tina Flippin. Many other students did not care for her. She was a hard teacher and expected you to do your best. I loved her. I aced her classes and while I can't even figure percents today there was a time when I could do trigonometry and all of that stuff, and do it well.
11. English classes. Of course I loved my English classes. However, I remember being incredibly embarrassed once when I was reading aloud per the teacher's instructions. The sentence had the Leaning Tower of Pisa in it, which I mispronounced as pizza. The teacher laughed and asked me if I was hungry for lunch. I nodded and she pulled out a big bag of candy bars and passed them around. That was Ms. Dee Jones. What a great teacher.
12. The prom. I was a sophomore when I attended a prom at Hotel Roanoke. The thing I most remember about this was dressing up and then having my date drive me all the way to Salem so I could show my grandmother my dress. She cried.
13. Losing my retainer. I had braces and then a retainer. I threw that thing into the cafeteria trash twice, and both times I had to go outside and hunt through huge trash cans in search of it. I found it, but what a trial. It was always fine because I would wrap it up in a napkin, but the hunt sure was messy and stinky.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 204th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday
So here are 13 things I remember from high school. Thirty years ago. Wow. I am old!
1. The food fight. The class of 1981 started a terrible food fight near the end of the school year. The principal, who was new that year, called in the police. The local paper wrote a story about it that ran all over the country, as my grandmother in California sent me a copy of the story from her paper. The fight was actually planned by the seniors. The new principal was very stern. It had been tradition for the senior class to pull a prank, and he was having none of it. He'd have been better off with the senior prank, which according to the yearbook was the theft of water cooler handles, though I don't recall that at all. In case you are wondering, I did not participate in the food fight. In fact, I was nowhere near the cafeteria when this happened. But I certainly saw the residue from it, and it wasn't pretty.
2. Band camp. I was in the high school band and we had summer camp at Ferrum College. I had trouble with my knee and it swelled up so that I couldn't walk on it. I eventually had to leave early, which I did not want to do. I played the flute, if you want to know.
3. Being in a Top 40/Rock Band. I played guitar in a band called Almost Famous. The band was comprised of me, Glynn Loope, Beth Arrington, Ann Jones, and Joel Woods. We started out with two others who did not stay with us long. The band stayed together for three years, and it gave us all spending money for those years. We even played a New Year's Eve gig at Hotel Roanoke (the swankiest place in town). Of the five of us, only Joel went on to do something with his music, though I lost track of Ann so she could have done something, too, I suppose.
4. Taking up for my brother. Trouble found me once because some boy was picking on my brother, who was a freshman the year I was a senior. I went after the boy in the hallway about the time a teacher turned a corner.
5. Detention. Even though I was a good student (I graduated 5th in the class), I tended to skip band class. Finally Mr. Lowe, the band director, told me if I skipped one more time I would be in trouble. I did, and I was. I remember most of my teachers were mortified. Straight A students just didn't get detention.
6. Telling off a boyfriend. We were standing in front of the library. I spat out a lot of big words. He finally told me he had no idea what I was saying. I stalked off, through the jeering crowd. How embarrassing.
7. First chair. In band, we competed for the glory of first chair. If you were the best, you were first chair. That meant you played the hard parts and you could play the piccolo. Angie Cundiff and I swapped the first chair seat back and forth for years.
8. High school football games. As a band member, I went to most of the games. I remember long bus rides back from some godforsaken place like Alleghany County after midnight, with stops at a Dairy Queen or something in Clifton Forge. But the high school game that counted the most was the game I attended the year after I graduated, for that was when I met my future husband.
9. My Datsun. This was my first car. It was a horrid brown and it was a hatchback. I don't remember what year it was. My father gave it to me; I don't know where he got it. I drove the crap out of the thing. Backed it into a post. Took it around where the Pagan motorcycle group was camping one time, and a big knife that was in the road jumped up and poked a hole in the gas tank. I had to lie about that one as I wasn't supposed to be in that area of the county. Oops.
10. Alegebra. My favorite teacher was Tina Flippin. Many other students did not care for her. She was a hard teacher and expected you to do your best. I loved her. I aced her classes and while I can't even figure percents today there was a time when I could do trigonometry and all of that stuff, and do it well.
11. English classes. Of course I loved my English classes. However, I remember being incredibly embarrassed once when I was reading aloud per the teacher's instructions. The sentence had the Leaning Tower of Pisa in it, which I mispronounced as pizza. The teacher laughed and asked me if I was hungry for lunch. I nodded and she pulled out a big bag of candy bars and passed them around. That was Ms. Dee Jones. What a great teacher.
12. The prom. I was a sophomore when I attended a prom at Hotel Roanoke. The thing I most remember about this was dressing up and then having my date drive me all the way to Salem so I could show my grandmother my dress. She cried.
13. Losing my retainer. I had braces and then a retainer. I threw that thing into the cafeteria trash twice, and both times I had to go outside and hunt through huge trash cans in search of it. I found it, but what a trial. It was always fine because I would wrap it up in a napkin, but the hunt sure was messy and stinky.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 204th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Spittin' Seeds
When I was a child, there was nothing like watermelon.
Dad would bring home a melon from some place, and he'd carry it down to the springhouse. He'd stow it in the water trough that was built inside the spring.
Later, he'd bring the melon up to the house. He'd take a knife to the rind and split it open.
Always, there was a satisfying chunk and the sound the something yummy making an appearance.
My brother and I, plus any visiting relatives, would take our slabs of watermelon outside to the front porch. From there we could see a field, the springhouse, and a small creek. Some of us would sit on the porch swing.
We'd take great big bits of springhouse-cold watermelon. The goodness of it would make our eyes roll back in our heads.
And then we'd spit seeds at one another.
Watermelon seeds are great for spittin'. They are much more aerodynamically shaped then, say, a cherry pit or a grape seed or something.
We'd spit the seeds far and long. Some sailed out into the yard. Others sailed into someone's face. "You'll put somebody's eye out," some grown-up would inevitably say.
We never did, of course.
This summer I have eaten many watermelons. Every single one of them has come from the grocery store. Each has been cooled in my refrigerator. Not a one has tasted as good as any I can remember from childhood.
And none of them have had seeds.
I am sure many people hail the invention of the seedless watermelon as a perfection of the fruit, but I confess I miss the hardness of the seeds, the feel of them swishing around in my mouth while I try not to swallow them, and the option - the option, mind you - of spittin' the things out at something or somebody.
Surely an entire generation (or maybe two?) has grown up without the joy of spittin' a watermelon seed at a sibling or cousin. Many folks don't know that grapes once had seeds. I suppose if they could breed the cherry pit out of a Bing cherry, they'd do that too.
Some watermelons are genetically engineered, but most are hybrids - a type of selective breeding. Unfortunately, because of lack of labeling laws and regulations on genetically engineered foods, one can scarcely know which is which and what they are buying. It is entirely possible that the seedless watermelon I purchased this morning is not a hybrid but genetically modified food.
Big corporations are pushing GM foods upon the US population at a rather alarming rate. These changed-up foods are not well-tested, and people with allergies or other food issues should be wary of pretty much everything they eat these days, at least in America. The loss of seeds in watermelons and other fruits is the least of our worries, although I must point out that without a seed, reproduction is impossible.
Indeed, reproduction of many foods is nearly impossible, for big corporations claim intellectual and property rights on most seeds these days. In the name of stopping terrorism, the government last year attempted to pass legislation that would have turned all of us with home gardens into criminals. They called this the Food Modernization Act and it was listed as SB 510 and HR 875 & 2751. The initiative did not pass the House (though it passed the Senate) - this time - but expect it to come up again in some new form in upcoming legislative sessions, if it hasn't already.
It would be a good idea if we all would pay more attention to what is actually happening in the halls of government. We should also pay attention to what corporations are doing and why. Ultimately, of course, it is about the money, not about feeding the masses. And frankly, that reason there is enough to make me suspicious of every single thing that Monsanto and other food companies do. When something is only for the money - and what isn't these days, thanks to capitalism - it's all suspect.
Dad would bring home a melon from some place, and he'd carry it down to the springhouse. He'd stow it in the water trough that was built inside the spring.
Later, he'd bring the melon up to the house. He'd take a knife to the rind and split it open.
Always, there was a satisfying chunk and the sound the something yummy making an appearance.
My brother and I, plus any visiting relatives, would take our slabs of watermelon outside to the front porch. From there we could see a field, the springhouse, and a small creek. Some of us would sit on the porch swing.
We'd take great big bits of springhouse-cold watermelon. The goodness of it would make our eyes roll back in our heads.
And then we'd spit seeds at one another.
Watermelon seeds are great for spittin'. They are much more aerodynamically shaped then, say, a cherry pit or a grape seed or something.
We'd spit the seeds far and long. Some sailed out into the yard. Others sailed into someone's face. "You'll put somebody's eye out," some grown-up would inevitably say.
We never did, of course.
This summer I have eaten many watermelons. Every single one of them has come from the grocery store. Each has been cooled in my refrigerator. Not a one has tasted as good as any I can remember from childhood.
And none of them have had seeds.
I am sure many people hail the invention of the seedless watermelon as a perfection of the fruit, but I confess I miss the hardness of the seeds, the feel of them swishing around in my mouth while I try not to swallow them, and the option - the option, mind you - of spittin' the things out at something or somebody.
Surely an entire generation (or maybe two?) has grown up without the joy of spittin' a watermelon seed at a sibling or cousin. Many folks don't know that grapes once had seeds. I suppose if they could breed the cherry pit out of a Bing cherry, they'd do that too.
Some watermelons are genetically engineered, but most are hybrids - a type of selective breeding. Unfortunately, because of lack of labeling laws and regulations on genetically engineered foods, one can scarcely know which is which and what they are buying. It is entirely possible that the seedless watermelon I purchased this morning is not a hybrid but genetically modified food.
Big corporations are pushing GM foods upon the US population at a rather alarming rate. These changed-up foods are not well-tested, and people with allergies or other food issues should be wary of pretty much everything they eat these days, at least in America. The loss of seeds in watermelons and other fruits is the least of our worries, although I must point out that without a seed, reproduction is impossible.
Indeed, reproduction of many foods is nearly impossible, for big corporations claim intellectual and property rights on most seeds these days. In the name of stopping terrorism, the government last year attempted to pass legislation that would have turned all of us with home gardens into criminals. They called this the Food Modernization Act and it was listed as SB 510 and HR 875 & 2751. The initiative did not pass the House (though it passed the Senate) - this time - but expect it to come up again in some new form in upcoming legislative sessions, if it hasn't already.
It would be a good idea if we all would pay more attention to what is actually happening in the halls of government. We should also pay attention to what corporations are doing and why. Ultimately, of course, it is about the money, not about feeding the masses. And frankly, that reason there is enough to make me suspicious of every single thing that Monsanto and other food companies do. When something is only for the money - and what isn't these days, thanks to capitalism - it's all suspect.
Friday, June 24, 2011
The Bus Driver
Last night I dreamed of Mrs. Wilson. The dream wove in and out of memory. I will tell you the memory.
I was in the seventh grade, and Mrs. Wilson was the school bus driver. She was a rather large woman with black hair. She tended toward the taciturn and I don't think she had the personality for school bus driving. But she drove the bus for many years.
We were not friends.
The bus ride for me was an hour long regardless of where I attended school. In the seventh grade, that was Botetourt Intermediate (BI), which is now called Central Academy. The bus would pick us up around 7:30 every morning and drop us off about 4 p.m. My brother, who was in the fourth grade, was at Breckinridge, and I would ride a bus from BI to Breckinridge, where we would pick up the smaller kids, then ride home. It made for a long day.
One day, my brother forgot his coat. He asked Mrs. Wilson if he could go back for it, and she nodded. He raced back into the building.
And she drove off and left him.
I yelled at her to stop when I realized my brother hadn't returned to the bus. But she did not. I turned in time to see him running out the door and after the bus, his legs pumping, his face scrunched up as he realized he would be left behind. His mouth was open as he cried out, and I thought I could hear his pleas. "Wait! Wait!" In my mind's eye, I even saw the tears streaming down his face.
Being left behind was a big deal. Both of my parents worked. Neither generally came home until after 6 p.m. We stayed with a neighbor until one of them came for us. I had no idea how my brother would get home or how he would fare. This was 1974. There were no cell phones. I was on my own, and so was he.
I cried all the way home because my brother had been stranded. And when we reached the bus stop, I laid into the bus driver.
"You are a big fat liar!" I screeched. "You said you would wait, and you didn't! You better hope nothing happened to him."
And I flounced off the bus.
I do not remember how my brother got home that day. I don't know if my parents picked him up or the neighbor went after him. In any event, he was safe.
The next day, as soon as I arrived at BI, I sought out Mr. Ferrell. He was the principal. I told him I wanted to report a bus driver. I remember the look of surprise on his face, that I would do this. He took me into his office and we sat down, side by side. He said Mrs. Wilson had interrupted his dinner last night to call and complain about me.
"I am sorry she interrupted your dinner," I said politely, "but she should not have left my brother. She said she would wait."
He told me I should apologize anyway, because otherwise I would not be able to ride the bus. She wanted me off the bus, he said. Besides, she was the elder and the grown up and I was supposed to respect that. However, he did concede that she was wrong to have told my brother she would wait and then drive off and leave him. And he said it was admirable that I loved my brother so much, and that I would fight for him.
I do not know what else transpired over this incident. Surely my parents were involved. They must have called the principal, too, not just at BI but also at Breckinridge, to complain about the bus driver who left their son. Maybe she was disciplined or at least given a stern lecture. Or maybe nothing happened at all.
In any event, when the buses came at 2:45 p.m. to pick us up, Mr. Ferrell met me at the door and he walked with me to the bus. Mrs. Wilson opened the door and glared at me. I looked at Mr. Ferrell and he nodded.
"I'm sorry I said you were fat," I said.
And I climbed onto the bus and found my seat.
I was in the seventh grade, and Mrs. Wilson was the school bus driver. She was a rather large woman with black hair. She tended toward the taciturn and I don't think she had the personality for school bus driving. But she drove the bus for many years.
We were not friends.
The bus ride for me was an hour long regardless of where I attended school. In the seventh grade, that was Botetourt Intermediate (BI), which is now called Central Academy. The bus would pick us up around 7:30 every morning and drop us off about 4 p.m. My brother, who was in the fourth grade, was at Breckinridge, and I would ride a bus from BI to Breckinridge, where we would pick up the smaller kids, then ride home. It made for a long day.
One day, my brother forgot his coat. He asked Mrs. Wilson if he could go back for it, and she nodded. He raced back into the building.
And she drove off and left him.
I yelled at her to stop when I realized my brother hadn't returned to the bus. But she did not. I turned in time to see him running out the door and after the bus, his legs pumping, his face scrunched up as he realized he would be left behind. His mouth was open as he cried out, and I thought I could hear his pleas. "Wait! Wait!" In my mind's eye, I even saw the tears streaming down his face.
Being left behind was a big deal. Both of my parents worked. Neither generally came home until after 6 p.m. We stayed with a neighbor until one of them came for us. I had no idea how my brother would get home or how he would fare. This was 1974. There were no cell phones. I was on my own, and so was he.
I cried all the way home because my brother had been stranded. And when we reached the bus stop, I laid into the bus driver.
"You are a big fat liar!" I screeched. "You said you would wait, and you didn't! You better hope nothing happened to him."
And I flounced off the bus.
I do not remember how my brother got home that day. I don't know if my parents picked him up or the neighbor went after him. In any event, he was safe.
The next day, as soon as I arrived at BI, I sought out Mr. Ferrell. He was the principal. I told him I wanted to report a bus driver. I remember the look of surprise on his face, that I would do this. He took me into his office and we sat down, side by side. He said Mrs. Wilson had interrupted his dinner last night to call and complain about me.
"I am sorry she interrupted your dinner," I said politely, "but she should not have left my brother. She said she would wait."
He told me I should apologize anyway, because otherwise I would not be able to ride the bus. She wanted me off the bus, he said. Besides, she was the elder and the grown up and I was supposed to respect that. However, he did concede that she was wrong to have told my brother she would wait and then drive off and leave him. And he said it was admirable that I loved my brother so much, and that I would fight for him.
I do not know what else transpired over this incident. Surely my parents were involved. They must have called the principal, too, not just at BI but also at Breckinridge, to complain about the bus driver who left their son. Maybe she was disciplined or at least given a stern lecture. Or maybe nothing happened at all.
In any event, when the buses came at 2:45 p.m. to pick us up, Mr. Ferrell met me at the door and he walked with me to the bus. Mrs. Wilson opened the door and glared at me. I looked at Mr. Ferrell and he nodded.
"I'm sorry I said you were fat," I said.
And I climbed onto the bus and found my seat.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Shopping Remembered
A very long time ago, Roanoke sported stores called Lazarus, Heironimous, and Leggett. Leggett eventually became what is now called Belk.
Heironimous was located downtown and Lazarus at Towers, though it might have been downtown as well. Both stores might have been at Crossroads Mall at one time, too - I am sure Leggett's was there. I cannot recall if either store made the move to Valley View Mall when it opened in the mid-1980s.
Heironimous, apparently, opened in Roanoke around 1890 and the downtown store closed in 1996. The store was located at the corner of Jefferson and Church Street.
I enjoyed shopping for women's clothes at these stores because you actually were helped. Twenty-five years ago, the clerks appeared to me to be little ol' ladies who wore pearls and dressed elegantly, but I feel sure that is faulty memory. Most likely they were ladies about the age I am now.
However, these clerks actually helped you pick out clothes. When I worked downtown, I could visit Lazarus or Heironimous and all I need do was tell the clerk what I needed. "Something for work," or "something to wear to a wedding" or "something to wear to a play," and poof . . . the appropriate item appeared magically in their hands, usually in the right size, too. And if not, then I could go in a dressing room and they would fetch and carry, ooh and ahh if I stepped out of the dressing room (or tell me, "no dear, that really doesn't flatter you, let's try something else,") and I generally left with a great purchase that fit well and looked good on me.
These days, I'm lucky if I can find someone at a cash register to check me out of the store. And help in picking out clothes? Better bring a friend, because the clerk's are useless. Only once in the last ten years have I been helped out by a clerk who went beyond the call of duty and helped me with my purchases. If I remember right, I ended up spending several hundred dollars that day because she was able to find the right clothes for me. That was at Belk at Valley View, and might have been while it was still Leggett.
My point? A clerk who helps me out when I need it is a huge asset to the company. I bet, though, the company does not consider this particular selling point at all anymore. People are so expendable, you know.
I'm not sure why I'm feeling nostalgic for a decent shopping experience, except perhaps it is because I really need to go buy clothes again and I dread it. I wonder if others feel the same way.
Heironimous was located downtown and Lazarus at Towers, though it might have been downtown as well. Both stores might have been at Crossroads Mall at one time, too - I am sure Leggett's was there. I cannot recall if either store made the move to Valley View Mall when it opened in the mid-1980s.
Heironimous, apparently, opened in Roanoke around 1890 and the downtown store closed in 1996. The store was located at the corner of Jefferson and Church Street.
I enjoyed shopping for women's clothes at these stores because you actually were helped. Twenty-five years ago, the clerks appeared to me to be little ol' ladies who wore pearls and dressed elegantly, but I feel sure that is faulty memory. Most likely they were ladies about the age I am now.
However, these clerks actually helped you pick out clothes. When I worked downtown, I could visit Lazarus or Heironimous and all I need do was tell the clerk what I needed. "Something for work," or "something to wear to a wedding" or "something to wear to a play," and poof . . . the appropriate item appeared magically in their hands, usually in the right size, too. And if not, then I could go in a dressing room and they would fetch and carry, ooh and ahh if I stepped out of the dressing room (or tell me, "no dear, that really doesn't flatter you, let's try something else,") and I generally left with a great purchase that fit well and looked good on me.
These days, I'm lucky if I can find someone at a cash register to check me out of the store. And help in picking out clothes? Better bring a friend, because the clerk's are useless. Only once in the last ten years have I been helped out by a clerk who went beyond the call of duty and helped me with my purchases. If I remember right, I ended up spending several hundred dollars that day because she was able to find the right clothes for me. That was at Belk at Valley View, and might have been while it was still Leggett.
My point? A clerk who helps me out when I need it is a huge asset to the company. I bet, though, the company does not consider this particular selling point at all anymore. People are so expendable, you know.
I'm not sure why I'm feeling nostalgic for a decent shopping experience, except perhaps it is because I really need to go buy clothes again and I dread it. I wonder if others feel the same way.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Mulberry Tree
My post yesterday about the scar on my lip reminded me of several other little stories and scars from my childhood.
I have a nice scar on my left thumb. It's about 1/2" long and is located in the knuckle. I received this scar at my grandmother's house.
I am not sure how old I was - 10, maybe? My grandfather decided to cut down a big mulberry tree in the backyard. The thing was always full of berries which attracted birds, and he had placed a small building in the backyard near the tree. The result was the birds constantly pooed on his building. No one likes bird poo on a building.
I am not sure how I ended up helping him cut down this tree. Perhaps I asked or maybe I was drafted. Perhaps I was competing with my two uncles, who I am sure were helping him, too. (My uncles are four years older and one year younger, respectively.) If I were writing this up as a story, I'd have to add all of this detail, I suppose. And I'd have to make it up as I don't remember.
In any event, I had a saw. I was sawing away at small limbs. I sawed at a wrong angle and ended up sawing my thumb.
It bled, my goodness, it bled. I ran crying inside to my grandmother, who put my hand in the sink to run the thumb under water to see how bad it was. As the blood cleared and I could see the cut, I started feeling woozy.
Everything grew dark. Plop! I passed out and ended up on the floor.
My poor grandmother. I wonder what she thought, having me there bleeding all over her kitchen. I remember awakening to find her looming over me, wiping my face with a cold, wet towel. She helped me into a chair and then made me lean over and put my head down, eyes closed, while she bandaged my thumb.
I did not get stitches for that cut, though perhaps I should have. That is probably why it is such a nice thick scar now.
So how about you, dear reader? How are your scars today?
I have a nice scar on my left thumb. It's about 1/2" long and is located in the knuckle. I received this scar at my grandmother's house.
I am not sure how old I was - 10, maybe? My grandfather decided to cut down a big mulberry tree in the backyard. The thing was always full of berries which attracted birds, and he had placed a small building in the backyard near the tree. The result was the birds constantly pooed on his building. No one likes bird poo on a building.
I am not sure how I ended up helping him cut down this tree. Perhaps I asked or maybe I was drafted. Perhaps I was competing with my two uncles, who I am sure were helping him, too. (My uncles are four years older and one year younger, respectively.) If I were writing this up as a story, I'd have to add all of this detail, I suppose. And I'd have to make it up as I don't remember.
In any event, I had a saw. I was sawing away at small limbs. I sawed at a wrong angle and ended up sawing my thumb.
It bled, my goodness, it bled. I ran crying inside to my grandmother, who put my hand in the sink to run the thumb under water to see how bad it was. As the blood cleared and I could see the cut, I started feeling woozy.
Everything grew dark. Plop! I passed out and ended up on the floor.
My poor grandmother. I wonder what she thought, having me there bleeding all over her kitchen. I remember awakening to find her looming over me, wiping my face with a cold, wet towel. She helped me into a chair and then made me lean over and put my head down, eyes closed, while she bandaged my thumb.
I did not get stitches for that cut, though perhaps I should have. That is probably why it is such a nice thick scar now.
So how about you, dear reader? How are your scars today?
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Gate
We all have those little marks on our bodies that show we've been around. A cut on a finger, a skinned knee. Tell-tale scars that remind us of incidents and accidents that maybe we'd rather forget.
I have a tiny little scar on my upper lip. Most of the time I do not notice it but occasionally it suddenly pops out at me. The scar is in that place where you have that little "u"shape on your lips. It is about 1/4" long, if that.
It happened this way:
When I was 11 or so, I lived on a farm. Part of being a farm kid is riding around on tractors and opening gates.
My father had a trailer that he pulled behind the tractor. Its sides were wooden and covered with flaking paint. My brother and I would ride in the trailer, or we would walk behind or beside it while we picked up rocks and sticks.
One day, my father was heading somewhere with the tractor and trailer. I am thinking maybe we were going to our new homesite but my recollection is not sure. My parents built themselves a nice ranch in 1976, and it was way off the road and on the other end of the farm, so it is the right time frame.
An old lane that lead up that way required the opening of several gates in order to pass through.
I hopped off the trailer and trotted around the tractor and opened the gate. The gate, being made of wood, was heavy and hard to handle when you're a skinny little girl. It also tended to drag in the road. However, I had done this many times.
I pulled it open and stood behind it so my father could drive the tractor through. I would then close the gate behind him and jump back on the trailer. But either I didn't open the gate wide enough or he misjudged, for one minute I was watching the tractor go through the gate and the next I was on my back with blood all over me.
The trailer had hit the gate, and the wooden slates of the gate had splintered.
One of the slates hit me in the face, and a splinter of the wood pierced my lip. It went all the way through.
I know this because I could poke my tongue through it, or could until the doctor put a tiny little stitch in there.
I went to school with a swollen face - two black eyes and a fat lip. I remember telling everyone what had happened.
After that, I never opened a gate for a tractor again.
I have a tiny little scar on my upper lip. Most of the time I do not notice it but occasionally it suddenly pops out at me. The scar is in that place where you have that little "u"shape on your lips. It is about 1/4" long, if that.
It happened this way:
When I was 11 or so, I lived on a farm. Part of being a farm kid is riding around on tractors and opening gates.
My father had a trailer that he pulled behind the tractor. Its sides were wooden and covered with flaking paint. My brother and I would ride in the trailer, or we would walk behind or beside it while we picked up rocks and sticks.
One day, my father was heading somewhere with the tractor and trailer. I am thinking maybe we were going to our new homesite but my recollection is not sure. My parents built themselves a nice ranch in 1976, and it was way off the road and on the other end of the farm, so it is the right time frame.
An old lane that lead up that way required the opening of several gates in order to pass through.
I hopped off the trailer and trotted around the tractor and opened the gate. The gate, being made of wood, was heavy and hard to handle when you're a skinny little girl. It also tended to drag in the road. However, I had done this many times.
I pulled it open and stood behind it so my father could drive the tractor through. I would then close the gate behind him and jump back on the trailer. But either I didn't open the gate wide enough or he misjudged, for one minute I was watching the tractor go through the gate and the next I was on my back with blood all over me.
The trailer had hit the gate, and the wooden slates of the gate had splintered.
One of the slates hit me in the face, and a splinter of the wood pierced my lip. It went all the way through.
I know this because I could poke my tongue through it, or could until the doctor put a tiny little stitch in there.
I went to school with a swollen face - two black eyes and a fat lip. I remember telling everyone what had happened.
After that, I never opened a gate for a tractor again.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
On the Warpath
Saturdays were clean-the-house days when I was growing up.
My mother worked a 40-hour job and her evenings were filled with fixing dinner, helping my brother and me with homework, and doing laundry or other activities. So the weekend meant time to clean.
Mom liked a clean house but she did not care much for cleaning (a sentiment I inherited, I fear). My brother and I had chores - cleaning our room, dusting, etc., which increased as we aged. But some weeks things seemed to get out of hand - maybe we had too much homework to help out, or we were just especially sloppy for some reason.
You know, those moments when it seems the dirt has taken over even though you know you just cleaned up a week ago.
On those days, my father would find me in my room or in front of the TV. "Your mother is on the warpath," he would warn. "I'm going out." And he would vanish to cut wood or ride the tractor - anything but stay around the house.
Because Mom could get a little crazy. She'd start yelling at us to clean our rooms, or clear the table, or whatever. Sometimes she threw things. I think she woke in a mood and it just spilled out. "You're nothing but pigs! Living in slop!" she'd yell. "I work all week and you're the most ungrateful bunch! I have to clean up after you all the time!"
This was unfair and not true - I did my share, for sure - but when Mom was on the warpath there was nothing to do but hunker down and find something to do that involved cleaning. You surely did not want to talk to back.
Fortunately this did not happen every Saturday. Generally we all rose and performed our chores. But sometimes, that warpath came along. Then everybody had better watch out! I was well into adulthood before I realized she wasn't angry at me; she was just having a really bad day because she was tired and didn't want to be cleaning. It is tough to be grown up and have to deal with all of those responsibilities sometimes.
Last night I told my husband I wanted to sleep late. I did not set the alarm.
At 6:30 a.m. this morning he woke me to kiss me goodbye as he headed for the cattle lot. "Go back to sleep," he said.
Um. Yeah. Of course, I could not go back to sleep and when I sat up, my head throbbed. I had a day of housework ahead of me, and I needed to study, too. I did not need a headache. But I had a doozy.
Then the toilet stopped up. With my husband safely out of earshot, he could not hear my curses while I hunted up the plunger and proceeded to unstop the commode. Nothing kills my morning like dealing with poo, I must say.
Then the handle fell off the closet door. I put that back on. Grumble. Grumble.
He had left the coffee on the kitchen counter and when I went to put it in the cabinet, it slipped from my hand. The lid wasn't secure and coffee went everywhere.
"Nothing but a pig," I said aloud. "Living in slop!"
I opened the refrigerator to find an empty mayonnaise jar. "Can't he at least put this in the trash?" I huffed. I hurled the jar into the trash can with a satisfying thump. "I have to clean up after him all the time!"
And then I was on the warpath.
The next thing I knew, I had tossed practically everything in the refrigerator in the trash. Old apples and grapes, leftovers from earlier in the week - it all went. Thump. Whap. Clank.
My ire not yet sated, I proceeded to clean the oven. Then I opened the cabinet where the coffee was stowed and threw everything in there in the garbage - packs of Jello gelatin, spices, pudding, fudge brownie mix, soup mixes - it all hit the trash can. Thump. Whap. Thump. Thump.
When I finished, I wiped my brow. The aspirin was kicking in; my headache was lessening. That cabinet had needed cleaning out for sometime and it felt good to have that little chore off my back. There was more to do, but now I could do it with a little less force.
Still, when my husband came in, I scowled at him for dirtying up dishes for lunch. I informed him the toilet had troubled me yet again. I didn't stop to eat with him but proceeded to run the vacuum. My warpaint had faded but I still needed to scrub some of it off, I think.
He said little, but went back out to the barn. And then around 4:15 p.m., he called to tell me he was in Daleville. He'd stopped at the grocery and bought a pre-cooked chicken and some potato salad so I wouldn't have to cook.
Warpath gone.
I try very hard not to channel my mother, but I think every woman must have days when she feels like she is the only one who cares if the house is clean and she is tired of cleaning the bathtub. Housework is never ending. No wonder it drove my mother crazy.
I guess if I'd had kids, they would have those times when they would say, "Mom is on the warpath." I'll have to ask my brother if that happens at his house.
My mother worked a 40-hour job and her evenings were filled with fixing dinner, helping my brother and me with homework, and doing laundry or other activities. So the weekend meant time to clean.
Mom liked a clean house but she did not care much for cleaning (a sentiment I inherited, I fear). My brother and I had chores - cleaning our room, dusting, etc., which increased as we aged. But some weeks things seemed to get out of hand - maybe we had too much homework to help out, or we were just especially sloppy for some reason.
You know, those moments when it seems the dirt has taken over even though you know you just cleaned up a week ago.
On those days, my father would find me in my room or in front of the TV. "Your mother is on the warpath," he would warn. "I'm going out." And he would vanish to cut wood or ride the tractor - anything but stay around the house.
Because Mom could get a little crazy. She'd start yelling at us to clean our rooms, or clear the table, or whatever. Sometimes she threw things. I think she woke in a mood and it just spilled out. "You're nothing but pigs! Living in slop!" she'd yell. "I work all week and you're the most ungrateful bunch! I have to clean up after you all the time!"
This was unfair and not true - I did my share, for sure - but when Mom was on the warpath there was nothing to do but hunker down and find something to do that involved cleaning. You surely did not want to talk to back.
Fortunately this did not happen every Saturday. Generally we all rose and performed our chores. But sometimes, that warpath came along. Then everybody had better watch out! I was well into adulthood before I realized she wasn't angry at me; she was just having a really bad day because she was tired and didn't want to be cleaning. It is tough to be grown up and have to deal with all of those responsibilities sometimes.
Last night I told my husband I wanted to sleep late. I did not set the alarm.
At 6:30 a.m. this morning he woke me to kiss me goodbye as he headed for the cattle lot. "Go back to sleep," he said.
Um. Yeah. Of course, I could not go back to sleep and when I sat up, my head throbbed. I had a day of housework ahead of me, and I needed to study, too. I did not need a headache. But I had a doozy.
Then the toilet stopped up. With my husband safely out of earshot, he could not hear my curses while I hunted up the plunger and proceeded to unstop the commode. Nothing kills my morning like dealing with poo, I must say.
Then the handle fell off the closet door. I put that back on. Grumble. Grumble.
He had left the coffee on the kitchen counter and when I went to put it in the cabinet, it slipped from my hand. The lid wasn't secure and coffee went everywhere.
"Nothing but a pig," I said aloud. "Living in slop!"
I opened the refrigerator to find an empty mayonnaise jar. "Can't he at least put this in the trash?" I huffed. I hurled the jar into the trash can with a satisfying thump. "I have to clean up after him all the time!"
And then I was on the warpath.
The next thing I knew, I had tossed practically everything in the refrigerator in the trash. Old apples and grapes, leftovers from earlier in the week - it all went. Thump. Whap. Clank.
My ire not yet sated, I proceeded to clean the oven. Then I opened the cabinet where the coffee was stowed and threw everything in there in the garbage - packs of Jello gelatin, spices, pudding, fudge brownie mix, soup mixes - it all hit the trash can. Thump. Whap. Thump. Thump.
When I finished, I wiped my brow. The aspirin was kicking in; my headache was lessening. That cabinet had needed cleaning out for sometime and it felt good to have that little chore off my back. There was more to do, but now I could do it with a little less force.
Still, when my husband came in, I scowled at him for dirtying up dishes for lunch. I informed him the toilet had troubled me yet again. I didn't stop to eat with him but proceeded to run the vacuum. My warpaint had faded but I still needed to scrub some of it off, I think.
He said little, but went back out to the barn. And then around 4:15 p.m., he called to tell me he was in Daleville. He'd stopped at the grocery and bought a pre-cooked chicken and some potato salad so I wouldn't have to cook.
Warpath gone.
I try very hard not to channel my mother, but I think every woman must have days when she feels like she is the only one who cares if the house is clean and she is tired of cleaning the bathtub. Housework is never ending. No wonder it drove my mother crazy.
I guess if I'd had kids, they would have those times when they would say, "Mom is on the warpath." I'll have to ask my brother if that happens at his house.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Blue Toboggan
When I was about 10 years old, Santa brought my brother and I identical blue toboggan sleds for Christmas.
They were constructed of a hard, durable plastic and made in such a way as to be hollow in the middle. A yellow rope allowed you to tow the sled up and down the hills and also gave you the option of sitting up and hanging on and hopefully steering, though there was nothing to steer.
These sleds moved like lightning, zipping down the hills so fast that the ride was over before the next breath. They were so easy to carry and handle that they made a Flexible Flyer obsolete, to my mind.
The farm where I grew up, being in these southwestern Virginia hilly and mountainous lands, contained many slopes. Some of the rises ended at the creek; others were cut by fences or paraded upon by cattle. Finding the best sled run was a never-ending quest and one by one we tried them all.
Those adventures frequently ended with us careening without direction into trees, barbed wire, stopped automobiles, mailboxes, buildings, and whatever else lay in the general direction we pointed the toboggans. All it took was a run and a belly-flop onto the plastic and whoosh! we were off.
One of our favorite runs was on the property down the road (though I daresay it was the neighbor's kids as much as the slope that was the draw). Unfortunately, cattle roamed that particular hill and it was filled with bramble bushes, stick weed, and thistle. Circumnavigating this course took a special feat of skill and in general was not accomplished without injury.
So it was that we had a huge snow and we trudged up to the neighbors for our slipping and sliding in the wet stuff. The climb up the long hill took forever, and at the bottom of the run was a creek. The thrill of rolling off at the bottom or getting very wet added to the general excitement, fear, and exhilaration of the event.
It would be a race to the finish, with the last kid standing the winner.
I belly-flopped onto the plastic and zoom! I was off, trailing in the wake of one of the neighbors. He crashed into a brier bush and I flew by, headed down, down, faster and faster, with the knowledge that I was moving quickly toward the creek.
Blam!
The toboggan came to a dead stop and I flew off, landing in the snow, the creek still a distance away. I gasped for air as my chest crushed against me, for the wind had been knocked from my lungs. Finally, I sat up and wiped snow from my face with my mittened hand, then went in search of the sled.
It had scooted beyond me and was dangerously close to the icy water. I fetched it and then went in search of the obstacle.
I had been done in by a frozen cow pile.
And I did not win the race.
They were constructed of a hard, durable plastic and made in such a way as to be hollow in the middle. A yellow rope allowed you to tow the sled up and down the hills and also gave you the option of sitting up and hanging on and hopefully steering, though there was nothing to steer.
These sleds moved like lightning, zipping down the hills so fast that the ride was over before the next breath. They were so easy to carry and handle that they made a Flexible Flyer obsolete, to my mind.
The farm where I grew up, being in these southwestern Virginia hilly and mountainous lands, contained many slopes. Some of the rises ended at the creek; others were cut by fences or paraded upon by cattle. Finding the best sled run was a never-ending quest and one by one we tried them all.
Those adventures frequently ended with us careening without direction into trees, barbed wire, stopped automobiles, mailboxes, buildings, and whatever else lay in the general direction we pointed the toboggans. All it took was a run and a belly-flop onto the plastic and whoosh! we were off.
One of our favorite runs was on the property down the road (though I daresay it was the neighbor's kids as much as the slope that was the draw). Unfortunately, cattle roamed that particular hill and it was filled with bramble bushes, stick weed, and thistle. Circumnavigating this course took a special feat of skill and in general was not accomplished without injury.
So it was that we had a huge snow and we trudged up to the neighbors for our slipping and sliding in the wet stuff. The climb up the long hill took forever, and at the bottom of the run was a creek. The thrill of rolling off at the bottom or getting very wet added to the general excitement, fear, and exhilaration of the event.
It would be a race to the finish, with the last kid standing the winner.
I belly-flopped onto the plastic and zoom! I was off, trailing in the wake of one of the neighbors. He crashed into a brier bush and I flew by, headed down, down, faster and faster, with the knowledge that I was moving quickly toward the creek.
Blam!
The toboggan came to a dead stop and I flew off, landing in the snow, the creek still a distance away. I gasped for air as my chest crushed against me, for the wind had been knocked from my lungs. Finally, I sat up and wiped snow from my face with my mittened hand, then went in search of the sled.
It had scooted beyond me and was dangerously close to the icy water. I fetched it and then went in search of the obstacle.
I had been done in by a frozen cow pile.
And I did not win the race.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Thursday Thirteen #170
Today, I offer up 13 Christmas memories . . .
1. The first Christmas I spent with my husband, in 1982. We'd just met in October, but I knew right away that he was the one I would marry. I gave him a leather sweater jacket and he gave me cowboy boots (they were all the rage back then).
2. Rock-em Sock-em robots. I am not sure of the year but I remember being fascinated by these things; using an avatar to punch and beat up my brother was way better than the real thing (and hurt less, too!).
3. A black Epiphone guitar. I was 14 when my parents gave me this lovely beauty, an electric guitar that looked and played much like a Les Paul. It was a pretty little thing, shiny and small. I still have it.
4. A golden diamond heart on a whisper-thin chain, given to me two years ago by my wonderful husband, along with loving words and intense kisses.
5. The year my aunt made fudge just for me, maybe when I was 10?
6. My mother literally jumping up in the air when she saw the grandmother clock my father had bought for her.
7. The look on my husband's face the year I bought him a .270 rifle for deer hunting. He calls it his good luck gun and it is still the one he hunts with.
8. A cowboy ventriloquist doll that I simply had to have in 1975. It was the one thing on my wish list because I was sure I would grow up to be a ventriloquist. I did not.
9. Blue snow toboggans, one for my brother and one for me. These solid plastic sleds were lightning fast and we spent hours trudging up the hills only to zip back down in nanoseconds. They also made good floats in the summer when we played in the creek.
10. A set of luggage. This gift from my parents was a sure sign I was growing up. It went with me to Europe and on numerous trips to the beach before I finally stopped using it.
11. A children's Bible from my aunt. I read the book from cover to cover and it is how I learned most of the Bible stories. Unfortunately, the dog chewed it up a few years later or I would still have it.
12. A myriad of Christmases trudging to Grandmas house in Salem. Opening the door to see her waiting, with the house smelling of delectable foods for dinner, and my young uncles running around excitedly trying to show us all of their presents at once, and the tree glistening in welcome.
13. The comfortable routines my husband and I have established for the holiday; my family and our friends over on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day spent with his family, our own quiet Christmas early on Christmas Day morning when we exchange presents with one another. Time spent with loved ones is the best present of all.
May the day be blessed for each of you, dear reader, and I hope that your heart is full of love and your bounty good and gracious. Peace to you all.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 170th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.
1. The first Christmas I spent with my husband, in 1982. We'd just met in October, but I knew right away that he was the one I would marry. I gave him a leather sweater jacket and he gave me cowboy boots (they were all the rage back then).
2. Rock-em Sock-em robots. I am not sure of the year but I remember being fascinated by these things; using an avatar to punch and beat up my brother was way better than the real thing (and hurt less, too!).
3. A black Epiphone guitar. I was 14 when my parents gave me this lovely beauty, an electric guitar that looked and played much like a Les Paul. It was a pretty little thing, shiny and small. I still have it.
4. A golden diamond heart on a whisper-thin chain, given to me two years ago by my wonderful husband, along with loving words and intense kisses.
5. The year my aunt made fudge just for me, maybe when I was 10?
6. My mother literally jumping up in the air when she saw the grandmother clock my father had bought for her.
7. The look on my husband's face the year I bought him a .270 rifle for deer hunting. He calls it his good luck gun and it is still the one he hunts with.
8. A cowboy ventriloquist doll that I simply had to have in 1975. It was the one thing on my wish list because I was sure I would grow up to be a ventriloquist. I did not.
9. Blue snow toboggans, one for my brother and one for me. These solid plastic sleds were lightning fast and we spent hours trudging up the hills only to zip back down in nanoseconds. They also made good floats in the summer when we played in the creek.
10. A set of luggage. This gift from my parents was a sure sign I was growing up. It went with me to Europe and on numerous trips to the beach before I finally stopped using it.
11. A children's Bible from my aunt. I read the book from cover to cover and it is how I learned most of the Bible stories. Unfortunately, the dog chewed it up a few years later or I would still have it.
12. A myriad of Christmases trudging to Grandmas house in Salem. Opening the door to see her waiting, with the house smelling of delectable foods for dinner, and my young uncles running around excitedly trying to show us all of their presents at once, and the tree glistening in welcome.
13. The comfortable routines my husband and I have established for the holiday; my family and our friends over on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day spent with his family, our own quiet Christmas early on Christmas Day morning when we exchange presents with one another. Time spent with loved ones is the best present of all.
May the day be blessed for each of you, dear reader, and I hope that your heart is full of love and your bounty good and gracious. Peace to you all.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 170th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.
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