Mellifluous and Meretricious

     One of my more colorful college classmates was a guy I nicknamed Mr. Perfect. We were both biology majors and shared many classes. Sometimes we hung out in the library together – I would rewrite class notes and study and hope that the intelligence in the library would somehow osmosis itself into me.

      Mr. Perfect would read the dictionary. His goal was to go to dental school and he wanted to score high enough on the boards to get a scholarship – so he read the dictionary in his spare time to prepare himself for the verbal section of the dental boards.

     And he knew a lot of words.

     He also liked musk perfume. Just a random recollection there – I bought some musk and started to wear it to see how quickly he would recognise it. Turns out he knew the first time I had it on, just didn't acknowledge it. For years.

     One day Mr. Perfect said that my voice was both mellifluous and meretricious. I, of course, did not know what those words meant. Either they were words of compliment or words of derision. I did not realize that they might be a one/two punch of compliment and derision. And for the longest time, I did not look the words up in the dictionary myself – but I always remembered them, I guess due to the alliteration – mellifluous and meretricious.

     Finally, years later, I looked up the word mellifluous – it means a flow of honey, sweet – I took Latin, I should have figured out mellifluous on my own! Well, I did not want the compliment to go to my head, so I did not look up the definition of meretricious – it was probably also something nice and sweet.

     And so it was a few more years before I finally turned to the meretricious page of the dictionary. It means prostituted! – from the Latin for prostitute, which I would not have known from Latin class. Prostituted – I guess my voice could be described that way – what with the sarcasm and barbs that flowed forth back then.

     Mr. Perfect did make it to dental school – I guess his words helped him to get there, just like his words helped to keep me in my place. Thanks, John.

90 20150331 mellifluous and meretricious

A Favorite Birthday Cake

      In the blog post about Mother Des Soye's Delicious Variation of Grandma Brown's Baked Beans, I mentioned that some of Mom's recipes were easy to duplicate – like the baked beans, and some were next to impossible to copy – like her potato salad, which I will have to try again soon and let you know what I have made of it.

      One day last year I was about to leave the lab for the day when I remembered there was a birthday the next day and I would need to get groceries for a cake – in fact, I needed to figure out what kind of cake to make! I walked to the office of the guy who was going to have the birthday, and asked if he had any special requests? 

     He thought for a moment and turned the question on me - he asked what kind of birthday cake did I like the best? I opened my mouth to answer because that is an easy one – the cake I always asked for for my birthday when I was a kid at home was devils food cake with homemade marshmallow frosting and a melted unsweet chocolate square drizzled over the top.

      But, if truth be told, I have made that cake myself for other people's birthdays, and it just isn't the same.

     Why not? Because of course, there is something missing when I make my favorite birthday cake – Mom.

     Mom putting it all together just for my birthday is the missing ingredient; she was the specialness of it all. And really, it would not have to be devils food, marshmallow frosting and drizzled melted unsweet chocolate square – it would just have to be Mom for it to be my favorite.

     I told my co-worker that my favorite birthday cake is anything put together just for me by Mom, and since Mom's gone, he can't have my favorite cake.

     But he said that by those standards, anything I make for him would be just as special!            We had white cake with fresh strawberries and yeah, I'll admit it, Cool Whip. And guess what? It was good!

89 20150330 Favorite Birthday Cake

Pleasant Valley Mailbox

Pleasant Valley Mailbox

     Every time I mow the lawn, the song Pleasant Valley Sunday goes through my brain - especially the line here in status symbol land. Who knew the Monkees would have songs in our head decades after they themselves were a flash in the pan? Mike can recite the poem from one of the Monkees' albums that has to do with Peter Percival's Pet Pig Porky, except, that is, when you ask him for the poem at Stories on the Square on the night when the theme is pie – (the Pet Pig Porky liked pie) then he has complete brain blockage – Poor Thing!

     And I have Just Another Pleasant Valley Sunday. The song has to do with conforming to what everyone else is doing. When I mow the lawn, my itty bitty front yard, in a subdivision built in 1992 with houses really close to one another – I am bitter that the yard really can't look too much different from all the other yards. It has to conform – or neighbors might get irritated and realtors would steer potential buyers away from our street if things got too wacky. The grass is trimmed, with well trimmed weeds scattered throughout. The Bradford pear tree has seen better days, but it provides a sense of privacy as it gives less exposure to the front of the house. There are hedges on either side of the centered stairs to the front door. I would say the yard conforms boringly well with the rest of the neighborhood.

      But over the years, some individuality has come to the front yard. Like the ivy. I asked people at work 20 years ago if they had any plants they would like to share, and Derrill gave me some ivy. I put it by the side of the driveway that has the railroad ties. The ivy took off! Then I put some with the hedges – the ivy started growing up the front of the house! And then there was the mailbox. The ivy grew over the mailbox such that the only thing visible was the door – kind of like Frodo's door, only not round.

      The ivy became a landmark. If the girls were expecting friends, they would tell the friends that once they turned onto the street, our house is down the road a little bit – it is the one on the right with the ivy covered mailbox. I don't think I have a picture of it after all these years – guess it is one of those things I took for granted and thought would always be there.

I especially liked that the mailbox was covered with foliage and yet there were no bees about to bother the mailman. Yeah, we had the coolest mailbox in the neighborhood. We were proud.

      Then Mike came along.

      First he said that all the ivy in the whole yard should go! Then he said the mailbox was just not cool – it was drooping and looked a little low class!

      Well, it was drooping a little – but it was still cool. And besides, the ivy was probably holding the whole thing together – and what a pain it would be to have to replace the pole and the mailbox should the ivy be mowed down. So the ivy-covered landmark remained.

      For 10 more years.

      But now major things need doing inside and outside the house. The Bradford pear had some big-time trimming done last summer, and right now it is in bloom – we'll see how the leaves come out this season, and if the tree continues to look sad, it will be replaced. More trees, in the backyard, came all the way down last year.

      And I gave in about the ivy.

Mike at site of old mailbox; and the Bradford pear in bloom

      Yesterday, Mike took a chainsaw to the greenery about the mailbox. And as predicted, the pole and box came down with it. He asked me what kind of new box I would like from Home Depot. I said “nothing too Pleasant Valley Sunday” - He gave me a look that said “that's all Home Depot has.”

      The ivy went in the back of the truck along with a small snake that Mike found by the mailbox – (and I was happy the mailman did not have to deal with bees?) I swept the sidewalk and moved a giant earthworm that kept wanting to inch into the road. Later we saw a robin making a feast of that earthworm in the yard. Sigh.

      A black metal post was inserted into the old hole. Some dirt, and some cement filled in the hole. A new box was put on top. And Gasp! The street address numbers were added to the box. Double Sigh. Now we are officially ready for old age – an ambulance will be able to find us should the need arise. 

      But how will friends and family find the house without the ivy on the mailbox? They don't know the street number! All is lost!

      I told Mike that I might dangle a peace symbol from the horizontal part of the pole and he said that would only encourage vandals who would otherwise not even notice the new mailbox. Well, I have enough peace symbols to wear down the most vigilant vandal.

      And the tug of war for individuality continues.

      There is more to Pleasant Valley Sunday – and there will be more posts, once I calm down, about the backyard.....

88 20150329 Pleasant Valley Mailbox

The Witch and other Things

     A few years ago we had a co-worker whose name I will say is Holly. Holly was born in a country in Africa, and I don't know when she moved to the US – either in her youth or after her education, but when Mike and I knew her, Holly was in her early 30's with a husband and two children, and she spoke with a Cambridge English accent.

     Well Christmas was approaching and we were all talking about holiday plans. We asked Holly what she would be doing for Christmas? She said that there was a woman in the area who was from the same village in Africa that she was from! – Holly was just a girl when she knew her then. This woman knew everyone else in the metro-Atlanta area who was from their country and all had been invited to this woman's house on Christmas Day – she was going to cook! Wow – that sounded like it was going to be something very special.

     So with much excitement we asked Holly after the holidays how her Christmas had been? Holly said that the woman had devoted two rooms in her house to tables that were just laden down with all kinds of food – the woman had prepared for days and everything looked beautiful.

      What kind of food was there? How was it? Holly looked a little embarrassed and then confessed, “I did not eat the food.”

     “Why not?” we asked.

     “In my village back home, there were those who called this woman a witch!”

     We could not believe our ears, “But Holly, you know better.”

     “Yes, but I could not eat the food.”

     “Why did you accept her invitation if you were not going to eat?”

     “It would have been impolite to turn down the invitation, and I thought I could make myself eat the food. But I could not.”

     “Did you think she was going to poison you, or cast a spell on you?”

     “I did not think any of that would happen, but I could not bring myself to eat the food.”

     Holly said at one point her daughter, who was getting hungrier by the minute, put a forkful of food to her mouth, and Holly batted it away – bringing attention to her whole family and the fact that none of them were eating.

     “I could not help it. In my village they had called her a witch.”

     Every time I tell that story, my mind then moves to the superstitions we have here in our own culture. The things that we know are silly to believe in, and yet we tend to avoid them just the same – it is easier to not mess with them.

     Like the number 13. Aren't there buildings with no 13^th floor in them – they go directly from the 12^th floor to the 14^th? As if to suggest that the evil forces out there are pondering one day, “I think I'll go wreak havoc on that guy on the 13^th floor over there – oh wait a second, the sign says it is the 14^th floor – my mistake – I'll have to go mess with someone else's life instead!” No, I don't think so. And yet people on the 13^th floor might feel that bad luck is upon them, and the quality of life is better if they believe they are on the 14^th floor instead. Folks know better – but why mess with it?

     And then my mind goes to the day that my first daughter was born - in Millard Fillmore Suburban Hospital in Williamsville, New York – a suburb of Buffalo. Sarah was born at 5:15 in the afternoon, but I was in recovery for a long time. I was not wheeled into my room until around 11:30 that evening.

     I was drifting in and out of sleep when at midnight, my eyes popped open! The moonlight was coming into the room through the slats of the venetian blinds, and I could see someone standing there looking at me.

     It was a nurse – she looked about thirty years old. She introduced herself and said that her shift had just begun -she would be taking care of me for the next few hours. The nurse asked me about the baby. I told her all about the day we had just been through, and I told her the baby's name, and her weight. The nurse continued some small talk and questions. And then she asked where my husband worked.

     “Roswell,” I answered. She knew what Roswell meant, but for those of you outside of the Buffalo metro area, Roswell Park Memorial Institute is a cancer research facility and cancer hospital located in downtown Buffalo. Sarah's father and I had both worked in immunology research there.

     A cloud went across the nurse's face, and she said, “I know Roswell. My daughter died there.”

     Oh my gosh!

     For this woman to have had a daughter who died, the daughter must have been a small child. With cancer! How awful! My heart broke in two, and I felt terrible that I had just been blubbering about my own newborn baby.

     “I'm so sorry,” I said.

     “Have you ever wondered......about the address for Roswell?”

      I was familiar with Roswell's address, I had given it out often enough to colleagues and researchers on the phone. But my brain was foggy from the late hour and events of the day: Roswell Park Memorial Institute, something Elm Street, Buffalo, New York. My mind was blocking the street number. I knew what it was – I forced the brain to come up with it - as a sense of foreboding came over me.

     “666 Elm Street?” I asked the nurse.

     “What a horrible address for a cancer hospital,” she said so sadly.

      Six six six is from the Bible's final book – Revelation – where the earth's last days are described with all kinds of atrocities including war, famine, and the devil in all its manifestations. Six six six is mentioned as the mark of the devil. And for a lot of people, and me in particular, – six six six brings on a visceral reaction. I know it means nothing, but, why mess with it? My brain was reluctant to bring it up on the night my daughter was born. I was afraid to say it to the nurse for fear that she would turn into the devil standing there in the dark in front of me. I hesitate to tell this story to an audience lest the devil appear in the corner, licking his lips, squinting and grinning.

      And for the poor nurse with the daughter who died at 666 Elm Street – how could the connotation of that address be anything other than death?

      The nurse then left the room, and I never saw her again.

      Today, thirty years later, Roswell has not moved its location – the research labs and hospital are where they have always been. But Roswell Park Memorial Institute's address is now officially “Elm and Carlton Streets, Buffalo, New York,” an address that better conjures up images of healing, and perhaps someday, a cure.

      And when we realize that a superstitious number in our culture can change an entire cancer facility – it is easier to cut Holly a little slack when she opts to not eat the food prepared by a woman who some have called a witch.

87 20150328 the witch and 666

A Lump Just Sitting There

     One day, I think it was back in the 80's, Mom and I were talking, and Oprah came up in the conversation. Oprah is not only quite wealthy and famous in today's world, but even when her talk show started, Oprah was a big name and well respected by much of the world .    And she was wealthy in the 80's also. And in the midst of our conversation, when Oprah's name was mentioned, I said to Mom, “Did you know that Oprah and I are the same age?” (Actually, after googling Oprah, I have discovered that she was born in January of '54 and is thus a few months younger).

     Mom gave me a look – her well-known judgmental glare, and said something she had often said to me before, “And look at you. Lump. Just sitting there!”

     Not too long ago I was telling that anecdote in front of Mike's cousin – someone who knew Mom personally since we all spent a few Christmases and Thanksgivings and 4^th of Julys together in recent years. Mike's cousin has also heard some of the stories I've told about Mom since she passed away. But when I said, “And look at you. Lump. Just sitting there!” Mike's cousin started to laugh and commented, “Now that's the kind of Mary story you should be telling!” That is the Mary he recalls!

      Perhaps that's the kind of Mary the world will remember her by? Well, of all the Mom quotes I'll be sharing in my posts - “And look at you. Lump. Just sitting there” certainly reflects her stab-you-in -the-heart-with-a-twisting-verbal-knife humor!

86 20150327 Lump just Sitting There

Sears Parking Lot Exorcism

     It seems kind of weird to have two Sears parking lot stories, and yet I do! The first one I posted in February about my parents leaving us kids in the car in the Sears parking lot while they shopped. The other Sears parking lot story is about another Sears location a decade later. In my college years, 1971 to '75, Sears was a bustling department store on the block right next to the main campus of Canisius, on Main Street in Buffalo. The block on the other side of Sears had two properties that the college had recently acquired. On one corner was built a brand new athletic center, and on the other corner, an old building was refurbished into science classrooms, offices, and labs. Chemistry and physics remained in their own building on the main campus, but biology classes were all at the new facility. So, walking through the Sears parking lot to get to and from classes was something that became a part of life for a biology major like me and lots of my classmates.

      I only remember shopping inside the Sears a handful of times – no extra money to spend on extras, but the parking lot, ah the parking lot with its two- story ramp, became the stuff of lore. Was it safe to walk through after dark? Was it safe in the daytime?

      Freshman year, the tales began. There was the couple who had been dating for a short time when one night they had a spat in the biology building. The guy made the girl walk through the Sears parking lot in the dark so she could get back to her own car at the main campus. He followed, in his vehicle, at a distance to make sure she was okay – but still, he made her walk!

      After the first winter storm freshman year, the sidewalks around the lot were icy. I was walking by myself when I recognized a classmate and waved recklessly. I slipped and fell right on my butt. I got up quickly and tried to hide behind a post inside the ramp, but the classmate, laughing heartily, was not fooled by my evasive maneuvers, caught up to me, and asked sincerely if I was all right.

     I can recall walking with friends through the parking lot, and I can remember being cold or tired or not wanting to walk that far. I can remember approaching the lot and emerging from it, but I can't remember the inside of the parking ramp except in some dreams I have from time to time.

     And speaking of dreams brings to mind symbolism and a particular Sears parking lot story featuring one of the two teachers I had at Canisius College who were what I would call devoted followers of Freud. This particular teacher led the class called Psychology of Psychoanalysis, an elective philosophy course. The curriculum was mostly about Freud – we had to read Have You Ever Made a Mistake and Interpretation of Dreams among many others - I learned the phrase Freudian slip and realized that contrary to Groucho Marx, this course believed that a cigar is never a cigar. The teacher, who I will call Father R, S.J. was probably in his fifties when I was at Canisius. He was excitable about his material, and he had a lot of nervous movements. We had several imitations of him, most of which are too difficult to put into words – but one was to lick a finger, stick it in your ear and then respond as if an electric shock had just gone off in the ear – that was Father R.

      But Father R was also, I guess, priestly. He believed in exorcism, and he carried out exorcisms when the need arose! Now that is the kind of person you don't meet every day! And to think I just took him for granted at the time!

      My class with Father R was fall semester senior year in the mornings. One of my good friends, Trix, took the class the same semester, but in the evenings. One night Trix dared Father R to exorcise the demon in her, and he called her bluff – proceeding with the exorcism! Then she called his bluff by acting as if an agitated demon really were inside – Father R started to sweat and prayed harder and harder!

      Well, as you might have guessed by now, Father R, late one evening, encountered a distressed woman in the Sears parking lot. She was not from Canisius but a complete stranger – perhaps mentally unstable. Father R helped her with an on-the-spot exorcism! And then he told us all about it in class.

      We were stunned – the Sears parking lot was scary enough without knowing Father R sometimes walked through. Offering exorcisms.

      The Sears store has been closed now for many years. And eventually Canisius bought the property. The building is going to be refurbished into....a new science center with classrooms, offices, and labs. The parking lot with ramp will be, yeah, used for much needed parking. Most of the students at Canisius are commuters.

      The new parking ramp will have ice from time to time, and there will be students coming and going and waving. The lot will be well lit and have a security detail.

      And that is kind of sad. Father R sweating and chanting over a stranger, in the Sears parking lot, exorcising the demons, is something the world will never witness again.

85 20150326 Sears Parking Lot Exorcism

Recreation 2

     It might have been the locked-in-the-bathroom incident, or perhaps it was something else or a combination of things, but when the summer between fourth and fifth grade was over, Mom said that the next year we could only go to the Recreation which was at our Boston Valley school and not the one that was further away in Boston – the one where Clark got locked in the boys's room. Perhaps this was because our school was closer and Mom could get to it easily if there was an emergency – that would make the most sense, now that I think about it. But at the time, I was very upset with this edict.

     My best friend, Diane, went to Recreation also. And she only went to the second Boston school. She thought it was more fun there, or it might have been the one that her mother wanted her to go to. I was upset because I knew that the next summer, Diane would be going to one place for Recreation, and I would have to go to the other.

Before fifth grade began, I decided that I wanted fifth grade to go on forever – so that the summer would never arrive! So I would not be alone at one Recreation while my best friend went to the other Recreation. It was the first time in my life I ever wanted time to go slowly – usually I was eager for the Holidays, or eager to be growing up, or anxious for a particular school year to be over. I knew I could not stop time – that my wish for fifth grade to never end would not come true. And I thought that would be a harsh enough reality to have to face.

     But Fate stepped in and dealt the little-girl-me a most wicked blow. Shortly after fifth grade began, Diane got on the school bus one morning and sat down next to me. It was readily apparent that she had been crying! I asked what was wrong, and Diane told me the family was moving! They moved to Hamburg not long after that, and a few years later the family moved all the way to Scranton, Pennsylvania! I did not understand how life could be so cruel – there I was wondering how I could survive the summer without Diane at Recreation with me, and the Powers that Be plucked Diane out of my everyday life completely!

    The pivotal moment in my childhood.

     My best friend moved away.

     Fifth grade ended eventually.

     The summer after fifth grade, Recreation at the nearby Boston Valley school was disbanded.

     And all the kids went to the second, further down the road, Boston school.

    So that summer I was where, a year earlier, I thought I would want to be, except it was without Diane. Probably my first experience with the adage be careful what you wish for.

84 20150325 Recreation part 2

Recreation 1

Boston Free Library, Boston, New York

    During a few of the summers when I was in grade school, there was a program called Recreation. A regular school bus would pick us up and take us to either Boston Valley School or another elementary school further south in the town of Boston – the driver would go to both places – kids could get off at either one on any particular day. There were young adults there – I don't really remember there being more than one or two at a time – not teachers, more like recent college grads or maybe even college students.

     In the mornings we could go in the school to drop off our lunches, and I seem to recall games such as duck duck goose and who stole the cookies from the cookie jar that we played inside. But mostly we had to play outside. Aside from baseball, there was no organized play – we could do whatever we wanted on the school grounds – but there was no playing in the woods beyond the fence or wandering off. At lunch time we could eat inside, and occasionally we could stay in out of the summer heat in the afternoons, and at the other Boston school, sometimes there were craft activities – I mostly remember the boondoggle – colorful plastic strips that could be woven into key chains.

     Recreation was free! Can you imagine something like this existing in today's world? And my mother thought it was a godsend! She went to work and did not have to worry about where her kids were and whether or not they were safe – they got on a bus every day and got to play with other kids with adult supervision and it was free! Could anything be better than that?

     I think Recreation at Boston Valley School is where I remember chasing the cloud shadows I mentioned in another posting – I can see the fence and the flat mowed field of the school in between the playground and the baseball diamond – the latter where I was hit with the baseball. And there was a fence beyond the baseball field that I always wanted to climb over and explore the woods – but I was never quite bold enough to do it.

     The other Boston school held a lot of curiosity for me because it was different. The bus ride was fun as we went miles in the direction opposite of Hamburg and Buffalo – a direction the family didn't usually travel. And you know, Boston was and still is quite beautiful! Once a week we walked, with supervision a little bit down the street to the Boston Free Library and someone read to us – we might have even checked out books. After a while, a friend and I did take to escaping the confines of that school property to walk to the store and buy Necco Wafers and stuff them in our pockets. We eventually got caught and got a lecture.

     Another highlight of the second Boston school during Recreation is the story of Clark locking himself in the boys' bathroom! Now mind you, Clark is three years younger than I am – so he was school age, but a young tyke. I did not know what was going on that tday – but suddenly there were sirens and a firetruck arrived at the school! Then firemen were at the boys' bathroom door, and kids around me were saying that my brother was locked inside. I looked around and did not see Clark anywhere – so it could have been true! I do not know if the firemen picked the lock or if they took the hinges off the door, but Clark finally emerged, face tear-streaked but otherwise okay.

     Today, the second Boston school is now an apartment complex. I drove into the parking lot last summer for a look around – I felt no aura of the past surrounding me. Boston Free Library is still there – I took a picture but did not go inside. The store is still there too – I'm sure the Necco Wafers are right where they used to be.

83 20150324 Recreation 1

Part 2 of Fifth Grade

     Here is part 2 of fifth grade. Mrs. Hrycik was a real stickler about penmanship. For those of you of the computer age – penmanship is handwriting – and my handwriting has always been known as less than stellar. My report cards before fifth grade sometimes had an added note that my handwriting could be neater. I did try, and I wanted to make teachers happy – but this was one area where I did not succeed.

      Mrs. Hrycik's thing was that she wanted the ending to each handwritten word to have an upward curve. In fact, she was obsessed with it! Mrs. Hrycik nagged us about it – if only she could get us to end our words with a swirl as easily as she forced us to memorize our times tables, life for her would have been wonderful.

      After a while, I would write my sentences, and then I would go back over them again adding the upward stroke to the last letter of every word just to make her happy.

      But no, that apparently did not make her happy at all! One day Mrs. Hrycik walked up and down the aisles of the class while we were writing essays. I know I was adding curves to my word endings during that particular exercise, and I thought I was careful not to do my swirly curves while the teacher was watching. However, Mrs. Hrycik saw someone doing it! She gave a lecture to the whole class: penmanship was not about adding strokes after we were done with the word, it was about doing the task correctly, naturally, while we were writing. She continued, even more bitterly: the curve at the end was to be instinctive, not arbitrarily added afterward because some teacher told us to do it that way! I don't know why she was so sad – after all, I was just trying to give her what she was asking for!

      Now, my parents were not the kind to stress over grades. They knew we knew what was expected of us. They did not nag me over the fact that I did not get straight A's in grade school – they merely encouraged me to do my best. I am sure that if they felt I was not doing my best, I would have heard about it. So you can imagine my mortification when we got our report cards after the first quarter of fifth grade, and I saw a D in the column next to penmanship! Oh my gosh! What were Mom and Dad going to do to me for bringing home a D? Shame to the family – infamy – I would never be able to hold my head up again. Maybe they would even disown me. Why didn't I put the swirl on the end of my words the way the teacher wanted? Well, she sure showed me! Maybe next quarter Mrs. Hrycik will be mad enough to give me an E in penmanship!?

      I nervously handed the report card to Mom after school, and then she showed it to Dad when he got home from work. To my astonishment, they thought it was the funniest thing ever! A D in handwriting? Well, some people sure made a big deal out of nothing! They told everyone about it, much like I had imagined they would – but it was not with shame, but with laughter! A D in any other subject on the report card would have been serious indeed, but the Folks did not much care about some teacher's obsession with penmanship.

      I was so relieved to be off the hook with that D. And I learned from my parents' example that there are some things we do not have to take too seriously. May we go through life without feeling compelled to add that final flourish to the end of each handwritten word!

81 20150323 Fifth Grade Penmanship

Baseball Clown Story

     This is the official baseball story from when I was 9 years old. It was written up several years ago – but the incidents related here are not memories of memories but rather they are still very clear. And I have told the tale at storytelling events.

     It was the summer between fourth and fifth grade – so it was 1963. I was at a Little League baseball game on the field at Boston Valley Elementary School – it was early evening, and the sun was still shining brightly. I was with my best friend, Diane, and her mother and sister. Her brother was playing in the game. We were sitting on a blanket on the ground way out past third base.

     At some point in the game, I saw the pitcher throw the baseball to the third baseman. The third baseman did not catch the ball – so the ball kept flying past third base and was heading in our direction. Diane's sister ducked to one side and Diane ducked to the other side. But I stayed right where I was – I thought, “What are the chances?” I blacked out, and my head went down to the blanket. The baseball had smacked me in the mouth! The right side, upper teeth. It didn't hurt immediately, but there was bleeding.

     Diane's mother got me to her car and drove me home. Dad was out in the yard, and he met us in the driveway. Mrs. C explained what happened in as calm a voice as she could. Dad squatted down to my eye level to survey the damage. I can still see his expression as he put one hand to the side of his face in a “Oh my gosh” expression. He then helped me into the car and drove all the way to the emergency room at Mercy Hospital in South Buffalo.

     The folks at the hospital attempted a couple of x-rays, but nothing would come out clear. While we were waiting for the x-rays to develop, there was a nurse who was taking all our information. When we told her our address, her face lit up – she lived near us – on the hill off of Zimmerman. When she realized how old I was, her face lit up again and the nurse asked if I knew a boy named Kevin and she said his last name also. I said that I did indeed know him, he had been in my class at school. “What do you think of him?” the nurse asked, and I said, “Not much.” Everyone giggled as the nurse explained that Kevin was her brother! When the staff realized that better x-rays were needed for my mouth, they suggested to Dad that he take me to our dentist and ask if he could do some x-rays.

     So we drove all the way back to North Boston. And at first Dad was going to wait until the next day, Saturday, to take me to the dentist, but we were driving right past the dentist's home, and Dad decided to stop. Dr. H lives in a huge house – the front of it is the living area, and the back is where the dental office is. Dad knocked on the front door. By this time it was late on Friday evening. Dad explained things to Dr. H and asked if it was possible to take an x-ray of me, and Dr. H opened his office and did just that! My baby teeth in that area of my mouth were long gone, and the permanent teeth were in. A couple of those teeth were bent and loose after the baseball hit. My lip was split, but it was decided a stitch was not needed. The teeth, with luck, would go back into place and be all right. The very front right tooth was probably dead – a dead nerve – but we would not do anything about it unless there was a problem later.

     The next morning I woke up with a top lip that was hanging down almost to my chin – there was a scab over the split portion in the lip. I felt like the ugliest person in the whole world.

     In the kitchen, Mrs. C was sitting with my Mom at the table. Mrs. C was so upset at what had happened to me, and she was worried that my parents were mad at her! Mom assured Mrs. C that she and Dad were not mad at her – it was my own fault that I did not have sense enough to get out of the way of a baseball heading straight for my mouth! Mrs. C said that her family had an extra ticket to the circus in town that night – could they take me with them?

     My Mom was usually a negative person – and never was I more grateful for that than when Mrs. C asked if I could go to the circus with them. There was never going to be a better time for NOT going to the circus – I just wanted to hide at home with my wounded face. But to my infinite surprise, and adults were always surprising me with the things that they said, Mom answered that I could, indeed, go to the circus with them that night!

     Inside the big top, a mousy girl with a fat lip sat on the bottom bleacher hoping no one would notice or stare at her. A clown with a brightly colored beach ball stopped in front of me and wordlessly handed me the ball. Then the clown motioned for me to stand up – I felt so self-conscious, but I got up.

      The clown motioned me to walk to the nearest ring. And when I did, there was another clown in the ring motioning for me to throw the ball. I threw the beach ball toward the clown in the ring – it bounced wimpily, pitifully rolled to the clown and stopped halfway. The clown in the ring clapped and bounded to the beach ball as if it had been the most perfect throw in the world – picked it up and then was on his way. The clown outside the ring clapped and smiled and walked me back to the bleachers. I sat back down again but sensed that the clown was still there – so I looked up and we made eye contact. Then the clown waved a giant good bye and was on his way to the next set of bleachers.

      My eyes followed him until he was gone. What the clown had given me that night was my first ever experience with unconditional love.

      When I think back now on those who helped me through the baseball- in-the-mouth incident – I realize that they are all nothing short of heroes – from Dad and Mrs. C to the emergency room staff and the dentist Dr. H. The examples set from this experience taught me that I wanted to be all of them when I grow up.

      And most especially, I decided, from that moment forward, I wanted to be that clown!

81 20150322 Baseball Clown Story

Second Day of Spring

Happy second day of spring/

And Poetry Day too, if you will/

I’d write a little celebratory rhymy thing/

But it would shrivel next to nature’s daffodil!

 

     Oh dear! This is something I found in my notes from the 2008/2009 story-a-day files! Well, it is the second day of spring, and Poetry Day, so I might as well share it here. And the poem reminds me of another poem and ninth grade English class.

     I'll be writing about this class again in other posts. But today's is about an assignment we were given one day to pick a poem and illustrate it. I was excited – not because I was much of an artist, I was not – but because there was a particular poem we had talked about, and there was only one image that came to mind when I read it. And I could illustrate it.

     The poem is by William Wordsworth and it begins I wandered lonely as a cloud and then the fourth line is A host of lovely daffodils! And the picture that came to my mind when I read the lines is of a person walking along with a cloud covering his head – that is, a cloud where the head should be. And then daffodils at his feet and in the background. And that is what I drew!

     When it was my turn to present my assignment to the class, Mrs. Dye, my teacher, was a tad dumbstruck with the picture. “What is that where the head should be?” She did not get it. And the rest of the class did not get it. What's to get? The poet felt like a lonely cloud as he walked along!

     Oh well, Mrs. Dye would be glad to know that the imagery stuck – and on Poetry Day one year, I wrote about nature's daffodil!

80 20150321 Second day of Spring

Chaucer's Spring

   Thoughts of spring! There are almost no memories of the English class I took freshman year of college. Except, now that I write this, some scenes do suddenly come flowing back. I remember that I was too unconventional then to wear a wristwatch, so most days I had a pendant watch on a necklace to help me get to classes and the bus stop on time; and I had gotten glasses after high school graduation, but I was always taking them off – so there is a memory of me being very gawky walking to and from English class trying to keep track of my glasses and watching the time while carrying my books and paper and more than one pen because I took so many notes I used up a pen a week! Such a goof!

     In English, we moved our desks into a circle, and class was mostly discussion about the books we were reading. I never participated – just like in high school – I was afraid to speak up in fear of interrupting someone else – and I was terrified that I had nothing of value to add to the conversation anyway and I might make everyone aware of how literal and vacuous I was. So my head was always bent over my notes and my hand was constantly writing – hoping my silence would not be noticed.

      Instead of thinking independently about what I was reading and what the class was discussing, all my efforts went toward trying to figure out what the teacher wanted on exams so I could give him just that and get a good grade. Total goof!

     So it is not the teacher's fault I came away from the class with almost nothing – the blame is totally mine.

     But there was one nugget I did retain from class. Ever since that semester, when someone mentions spring, I immediately think of that English class in Old Main. We were doing Chaucer and the Canterbury Tales. The professor began with the prologue – it was about spring – imagery about romance, well more than romance, out and out lust – and the line I always remember is the one about the birds lying in their nests at night with their eyes wide open – anticipating, eager, each ready for a mate to come along. I still get a bit of a thrill inside when someone mentions spring, and my thoughts go straightaway to those birds with their eyes wide open – perhaps they remind me of a silly, gawky, giddily excited freshman girl I used to know.

80 20150321 Chaucer's Spring

Blue Eyes and Bitterness

   The night that Mike and I sat at Biba's talking about the song “Behind Blue Eyes” - I realized that the song not only takes me to freshman year of college and the desk with the words of the title carved into the desktop, but that it then takes me to another memory. A more uncomfortable memory.

     It was a few years after college. I was working at a lab on Main Street in Buffalo, almost downtown. And I was living in an apartment in Buffalo, near the border of Cheektowaga. I took public transportation to and from work every day. The Number 12 bus. The Number 12 route began on Main Street and wound its way through east Buffalo to the edge of the city and then to the suburb of Cheektowaga. One day I was on the bus heading for home when an elderly man got on the Number 12. He paid his fare, so I guess he was lucid enough to some extent, but he was talking to himself, and at times he was even raving. The bus was crowded, but we gave him some space, as best we could. After a while, the crowd thinned out, and people moved further and further away from the old man who continued to talk to himself. And finally he was sitting all alone in the front of the bus in one of those seats that faces the aisle. I was then the closest one to him, in a seat a few rows away that faces the front of the bus. The bus was empty enough at this point for me to make out the words that the man was saying.

     He stared out the window across from him to the people on the city sidewalk outside, and he said, “All the white people gonna die!”

     And a chill when through my body.

     A mother and her child got on the bus. The old man's eyes followed the little boy as the two walked past him in the aisle. They took seats far behind me, and the man said, “All the blue-eyed babies gonna die!”

     And then his eyes locked onto mine, and he said, “All the blue-eyed white folk gonna die.”

     He was crazy. What he was saying was crazy. There is nothing more to make of the incident than that.

     But after sharing the memory something was still digging at me.

     Something I did not want to surface, but here it is.

     This goes all the way back to junior high and high school. There were several kids who shared many of the same classes that I did for the six years combined of junior and high school. Of course we didn't know in seventh grade that we would be in so many classes together for all those years. And in that very first year, seventh grade, some of those kids let me know real quick that I did not belong. They were a clique – every bit identical to the cliques depicted even in movies about high school today – every bit as ugly and uppity. They made me feel that I had the wrong looks, the wrong clothes, the wrong economic status, even the wrong address – and it was futile to act like a peer – I would never belong, and they laughed behind my back.

     So I decided, right there in seventh grade, that I did not need them. I would not waste my energy trying to get them to like me or include me or acknowledge that I existed. I shunned them, stuck my nose up at them, would not give any of them the time of day should they maybe have even asked. I hated them for six years.

     There was one boy in particular I singled out to funnel all my silent rage onto – he epitomized all that I despised in their high and mighty snootery. He was the one laughing behind my back that day in seventh grade when he did not know I saw him. I enjoyed hating him and I loved blaming him for my miserable high school experience.

    Then on Senior Day at the end of our senior year, that very boy actually came up to me and asked if I would sign his yearbook....he asked very nicely. He passed me his yearbook, and I gave him mine.

     What did he write in mine? He wrote, “don't ever turn in your homework early or people might think you are a brown-nose”.

     This was in reference to a joke I had made in chemistry class a couple of months earlier. He had heard my joke? He had acknowledged a joke that was made by me? He would have had to acknowledge my existence if he heard my joke. And he must have liked it – enough to want to share it with me permanently in my yearbook! Why couldn't we have been friends? Well, it was his own fault that we weren't.

…. Of course I was writing in his yearbook while he was signing mine – so I did not see what he wrote until later.

     What did I write to him? Well, I wanted to pen something that would reflect our entire six years together – something that would encompass the mood. Yes, I could still seethe with seventh grade bitterness after all that time. I wrote.....”you have pretty blue eyes; but I can't think of anything else nice to say about you.”

     It actually took until several years after high school to realize that I was the one who had been an ass all that time!

     It is amazing that anyone ever sat next to me on the number 12 bus! The mirror finally showed me who is the raging lunatic – the idiot behind hazel eyes!

78 20150319 blue eyes and bitterness

Behind Blue Eyes

     One night a few months ago, Mike and I were eating dinner at Biba's, the Italian restaurant near our house. There was a sound system playing overhead, and a song came on that made me wistful, and I said to Mike, “I've always liked this song.” Mike, who knows my rock history is weak, immediately said, “And the artist is?” it took a moment, but then I realized I was sure of the answer, “The Who” then Mike said, “Why do you like it?”

     I told him, the song always takes me immediately back to first semester freshman year of college (1971) – I was sitting at a desk in class and looking at the graffiti covered wooden desktop – ink or carvings, just like all the desks, but on that particular day, three words that had been etched in jumped out at me - “Behind Blue Eyes” - It was the name of a song on the top 40 on AM radio at that time – a fairly new song. Seeing the words on the desk sent a chill through me – someone had so recently identified with that song – so strongly that he, and I presumed it was a guy with a knife, felt compelled one day in class, out of boredom, or depression, or that stereotypically college word – out of angst – he carved “Behind Blue Eyes” into the desk. I pictured the guy as someone with blue eyes who felt misunderstood.

     And then Mike said, “what does the song mean?” I had to confess then that when the song comes on the radio, I usually only hear the first couple of lines. The words take me back to that desk and the boy with blue eyes and then I go to other places, thinking about guys with blue eyes and they are attractive, and life is mostly easy for them because they are good looking and so they don't have to learn to be nice to get what they want, and then people realize they aren't nice and the blue eyed boys become mistrusted and shunned and they become lonely with empty lives and no one knows what it's like!

     After that, Mike and I did what we do more and more often these days – we whipped out our respective cell phones and googled. We were eager to read what Wikipedia had to say about the song “Behind Blue Eyes”. And my modest understanding of what was written is that Pete Townshend, a member of the Who, was standing outside after a concert one night when a female fan approached him and offered to spend the rest of the evening with him. He was tempted, but resisted the temptation and went back to his room alone and wrote the song.

     Now admit it, when you read just now that a rock star knew about temptation, you were surprised weren't you? And then when you read that not only did he know temptation, but he resisted it, you were even more surprised! Because is not the very definition of rock star equivalent to sleeping with a different groupie after every concert?

     We make assumptions based on reputation – we don't know what it is like behind blue eyes!

     It was a very satisfying dinner that night in Biba's – the sharing of an old memory led to a conversation that took us in many directions, and the conversation led us to do a bit of modest research that opened up new perspecives. I still say, “I've always liked this song”, but now the saying of that has so many more dimensions to it!

     And there is even more to the story – to be continued

77 20150318 Behind Blue Eyes

The Buffalo Breskis

    There was a professional women's softball sports team in Buffalo for a while called the Buffalo Breskis! For real – it was in the seventies – actually, Google says the team existed from 1976 through 1978 and then in 1979 the name was changed to the Buffalo Bisons, and then the league disbanded.

     Breski was the name of one of the players and founders of the team. The team would be mentioned during the sports segment of the news broadcasts, but most of us heard of them through the jokes that were made on the radio. You have to admit that naming a women's softball team Breski would indeed engender jokes – admittedly juvenile humor. But there you have it.

     Even thinking about the Breskis, one would ponder about the mascot possibilities; the imagery of a Breski up to bat, or sliding into home. Did the team realize this when they took on the name and decide the free publicity would be good? Or did they give us all credit for a lot more maturity and think Breski would be synonomous with outstanding female atheletes who made Buffalo proud?

     Well, it worked both ways – the humor in the name made them known, and their playing gave them respect.

76 20150317 Buffalo Breskis

Fifth Grade Part 1

   My fifth grade teacher was Mrs. Hrycik, pronounced “wry sick.” Her husband was also in the school system as an administrator somewhere. Mrs. Hrycik's two biggest emphases were spelling and penmanship.

    Spelling I could breeze through. For some reason, this always came easy to me. We had a spelling test every week with 10 new words. But every week, the word very was on the test. I spelled it correctly each time. After a few weeks Mrs. H said that she was going to continue to have very on the test until every student in the class got it right! I don't know how I managed to get it right the first time if it was so tricky for everyone else.

     There was a classmate who competed with me for the better spelling grade. One day she got a higher score than me and told me how hard she had studied for the spelling test that week! Study for spelling? What a novel concept! That had not occurred to me! I then realized that if I took the time to actually prepare for the quiz I might get perfect scores all the time. Again, a novel concept!

     For math that year we had to learn, and by learn, I mean memorize, our multiplication tables – from 0 times 0 all the way to 12 times 12. while we were memorizing our multiplication tables, we took addition tests – we added single digit numbers, just two numbers to add, ten problems across the page and ten problems down the page – 100 additions to complete in three minutes! Once we had mastered the addition, we started the multiplication problems – 100 of them, again to be completed in 3 minutes. We got to be quite good at them. Sometimes now when I need to multiply, for example, 8 times 7, and the answer does not come as instantaneously as it used to, I hang my head in shame as I imagine Mrs. Hrycik's frown.

     We had two plays that the class put on in the auditorium that year. One was a Halloween play. I was cast as the black cat. My scene was to walk on all fours across the stage to some children sitting at the feet of the parents who were telling a Halloween story. I felt really silly in my black pants and shirt crawling on all fours – there had been no rehearsal for the black cat – I was trusted to do the job right. I was very self-conscious in front of the audience, but for some reason, my cat made them laugh – they loved me! I guess I've been hooked on wanting to get audiences to laugh ever since!

     The second play I have no recollection of at all and only know about it because Mom had saved the program all these years in the envelope with my report card! The play was about Christopher Columbus, and I myself was cast as Mr. Columbus himself! It must have been a small role, maybe even without words – maybe I just stood there as a portrait of him? Because otherwise, I think I would have remembered it.

     The story of Mrs. Hrycik and our adventures with penmanship will have to carry over to another entry as it takes more than a few paragraphs to get through.

75 20150316 Fifth Grade part 1

babysitting II

     The family I sat the most regularly for as a babysitter had two daughters and a toddler boy who definitely took a full baby-bottle of milk to his crib at bedtime. Instead of the Moose Club, like the other family I sat for, the parents of these three children were usually at Republican Club functions in our town. There are three main incidents I can remember about babysitting for this family.

     One early evening the dad picked me up in his car and on the way to the house explained that he had been eating watermelon that day with the kids. They saw him put salt on his piece of watermelon, so they wanted to do it too. Later in the afternoon, one of the girls got sick. She had been vomiting. Dad thought perhaps it was the salt on the watermelon that made her ill. They put her on the bed in their bedroom, which was on the main floor, and since she had not thrown up in a couple of hours – Mom and Dad thought she would be okay enough for them to go out. The parents not only left a phone number that night, but promised to call – and they did.

    Well, the sick child was surprisingly all right while I was there. She did not get off of her parents' bed, but neither were there any incidents of vomiting. At bedtime, I put the other two kids to bed in the room upstairs. After a while, I could hear the daughter upstairs complaining that she did not feel well. I told her that she was okay, she just thought she was sick because her sister was sick. Then she threw up – all over her bed.

     I changed the bedsheets and her clothes. Took everything to the basement – but I was afraid to use the washer – I'm still that way with other peoples' washing machines. So I left everything in a pile on top of the washer, and I called the parents. They were upset and apologetic – I told them I thought the daughter was fine at that point. So the parents said they would not come home immediately, but soon.

     After that the little boy got sick. The pile on the washer was even higher when Mom and Dad arrived. When I got to my own bed that night, I thought I was going to be sick – I told myself that I was okay, I just thought I was sick because I saw kids upchucking that night.         And I was right.

    One night when I arrived at the house, the Mom was very proud to tell me that her son no longer had his bottle – and I was not to give him one at bedtime! But when it was time to put the kids to bed, the little one fussed. I asked the girls what was wrong. And they said that their brother needed his gun! He had traded his baby bottle for a gun. It was with grave ambivalence that I handed this little boy his toy gun to caress in his crib that night.

     The last story about this family has to do with babysitting for a whole day – from 8 in the morning on a Saturday until 6 that night – 10 hours – that's $5! When my kids were little, babysitters cost $5 an hour – and in my day I had to put in an entire day to earn that much!         Well, the Mrs told me she did not have the money but would pay me later.

      They never called me again.

      They still owe me five dollars.

74 20150315 Babysitting 2

Babysitting 1

      When I was in high school, there were babysitting jobs on Saturday nights. I got paid fifty cents an hour. Of those earnings, I tithed ten percent to the church – one of the messages that sank in after all those Sundays of attendance at Mass. And at one point, I had saved up $40 and bought a typewriter – my class reports and my college term papers were finalized on that typewriter. I still had it after a few years of marriage – but gave it away during one of our moves, having learned, but never mastered, computer word processing by then.

     There are many babysitting stories I could tell – like the family with three kids whose names all started with the same letter. The Mom and Dad liked to party at the Moose Club on Saturday nights – one night they did not come home! In the morning, I called another babysitter who came to the house so I could go home – the Mom and Dad arrived later in the morning - they were fine, just partied late – she called and apologized, might have even given me some extra money. A few years later they divorced – somehow I always think the Moose Club was to blame. I loved their kids – wish I knew what they are doing now.

     There was a family I only sat for once – they had a regular sitter and I was called in an emergency. There was a toddler who still slept in a crib and an older sister, maybe two older sisters. It was time for bed and the toddler fussed and fussed. The sister explained that the little one got a bottle at bedtime – so I put some milk in a bottle and gave it to the toddler in the crib. He rejected the bottle and continued to fuss. I looked at the sisters and asked if they knew what was wrong. “He gets Coke in his bedtime bottle!” I thought they were pulling a fast one on me – I was not going to give this child Coca Cola in a bottle! But they looked so sincere, and the toddler was fussing. After much hesitancy, I decided to give him the Coke. He immediately settled down. When Mom came home, I blurted out an apology about the bottle, but Mom said she should have explained that before she left – the child did indeed get a bottle with Coke at bedtime!

     I also vividly remember that night because Lent had just started, and I had given up TV for Lent – the kids were watching The Amazing Mr. Limpet – I kept averting my eyes, but I mostly saw the whole thing and felt guilty. Breaking my promise of no-TV with a Don Knotts movie and giving a child a bottle with Coke to go to bed with – made me feel like there was no hope for me as an adult – no hope whatsoever!

73 20150314 Babysitting 1

Mrs. Jones

          Fourth grade was far less eventful than third grade. My teacher was Mrs. Jones, an older woman who had taught for many years. She seemed old to me then – I guess it was her gray hair with soft short curls that made her appear matronly. I can’t really figure now how  old Mrs. Jones was when I had her.

          Diane, my best friend, was in my class again, and that fell right into a nice pattern. We decided that the teachers and maybe the principal was in on this - we were together every other year. We were in kindergarten and second grade together – and then fourth grade too. If we didn’t talk too much to each other in class that year, maybe we’d be together again in sixth grade!

         In Mrs. Jones' class, our desks were eventually moved away from each other for over-chatting – but really, we were good kids.

          One time when we were lined up in the hall to go somewhere, Mrs. Jones was talking to another teacher and they were walking slowly beside our line. There was a lull in their conversation when they were passing by me, and Mrs. Jones noticed me and stopped and said to the other teacher, “Look at Denise’s dress, here. Her mother sews the loveliest clothes.” The other teacher agreed with her and they moved on. I couldn’t tell at the time if Mrs. Jones was being flattering or sincere – but after all these years, that’s one big thing I remember about her!

          The other big fourth grade memory is not so happy. Funny yes, happy no. 

          One day we were all sitting in class – the kids at their desks and Mrs. Jones up front at her desk. She was talking. And talking and talking. I was in the row of desks over by the wall next to the hallway. I realized that I was going to be sick to my stomach, and I needed to leave the room. The lavatory was just a little bit down the hall.

           I couldn’t just get up and walk out though, I needed to ask for permission. Actually, we were only supposed to use the bathroom at scheduled times unless it was an emergency. Even though I had never asked for special permission to leave the room before, I thought this was enough of an emergency to raise my hand and ask to leave.

          Mrs. Jones saw my hand waving in the air and asked that no one raise  hands while she was giving instructions for the stuff she was talking about!

         I put my hand down and felt my face blush – why did she do that to me?

         Soon I realized that I really really needed to leave the room and I stuck my hand back in the air again.

          She looked right at me and did not ask me what I wanted! Mrs. Jones kept right on talking! I kept my hand waving in the air and a voice inside of me said I should just walk out of the room without permission. But I was scared – if I left the room, Mrs. Jones would run after me, and if I got to the bathroom and didn’t throw-up, boy would I be in a lot of trouble!

          So I put my hand down and got out of my chair. I walked to the door, thought about making a grand escape, but then instead walked over to Mrs. Jones’ desk.

          She wouldn’t look at me but kept on talking to the class. Why wouldn’t she ask me what was the matter? I wasn’t going to disturb her instructions! I just wanted to go to the bathroom!!!

          Mrs. Jones sat at her desk and looked across the room at the kids. She kept talking. My face turned from red to green.

          And then I upchucked all over her desk.

         Mrs. Jones took notice of me then!

         I puked on the class book that had attendance and grades marked down!

          What a horrible and yet heroic experience!

          Days later when I returned to school, I heard Mrs. Jones remark to someone that she learned a valuable lesson that afternoon!

          In all this time since then I thought that there was something about me that made Mrs. Jones think that I deserved to be treated that way. Now that I write it all down, though, I realize the episode was just plain mean!

          I can picture the desperate little girl waving her hand in the air for help and not getting it and not understanding why – and I can picture the little girl puking on the teacher’s oh-so-important desk and papers.

           And the bitterness passes, or will someday.  

72 20150313 Mrs. Jones

Monday of the Perfect Weekend

     On the third morning of the perfect weekend, Mike said there was a new message on my phone when I got up around 6:30, and I better check it because maybe it's the baby!

     Amanda's Matron of Honor, her sister Sarah, was nine months pregnant at the time of the wedding with the due date of March 27^th. People wondered, and probably took bets, although I don't know of any, if the baby was going to upstage the bridal couple by making an early appearance at the wedding!

Sarah and Amanda

Sarah herself just wanted the baby to stay inside long enough for Tony and Amanda to get married – and after that, any time would be okay.

     And the baby complied by not getting born on March 10^th. But early in the morning on Monday March 12^th, around 3AM, Sarah went into labor. She called me on the phone to ask me to come help with her two year old – Virginia was asleep, but labor could go on past Ms V's wake up time. I did not hear the call! What a horrible mother! But as soon as I got the message, I called back – John answered the phone. He said his mother had come over to take care of Virginia, and indeed, Ms V had gone off to day care oblivious to what her mother was going through and what would be awaiting her when she got home that afternoon. John said I was probably not needed. The midwife was there.

     About 15 minutes later, John posted on Facebook that he had a son! And then he called and said I could come over. They were living in an apartment in Atlanta at the time, near Lovett School where Sarah was the lower grades librarian. The midwife and her apprentice were weighing the baby and they examined the placenta before blending it and placing it in the freezer in ice cube trays! Sarah was wearing a librarian tee shirt that said “I've got Issues”. She told me to call all of the family – many of whom were still in town because of the wedding. Everyone was welcome to come by and see and hold and oh my gosh just lovins on the baby!

     What could be a more perfect culmination to the perfect weekend? My brothers came, and their significant others, and my niece Bethany and nephew Ben. And Amanda and Tony came to town from their hotel room in Helen, Georgia. And Mike. We held little Horatio. How many people get to cuddle and cherish an absolutely newborn baby? Such a beautiful gift Sarah and John gave to their family that day!

Mom and her hours old great-grandson!

     A great-grandson was born – and Mom felt complete. If it were fiction it would not be believable – but we lived it – March 12, 2012!

71 20150312 The Perfect Weekend's Gift

The Perfect Weekend

     Amanda and Tony's anniversary will always be thought of as the first day of what my Mom called the Perfect Weekend – that Saturday, Sunday, and Monday of March 10^th through 12^th of 2012. Mom had been so looking forward to the wedding because family was coming to town – coming for a happy event – and she would get to see everyone – and for most of them, it would be the last time Mom would get to be with them because she was not well and would probably not survive the year.

     And the wedding was everything anyone could hope for. Family had arrived safe and sound and in good spirits. There was no drama going on. The ceremony and reception were idyllic. And Mom was there – a part of it all. And she observed – soaking in the aura – knowing that her life mattered. If Mom had not been born, none of us would have been gathered in that spot at that time for that happy occasion, in fact many of us would not have existed at all! – that had to have made her feel that her life had been worthwhile!

     The day after the wedding, family was still in town. Mom's three children and our significant others and a couple of the grandchildren gathered at her house. Mom wanted to go through old boxes in her bonus room with us – old pictures might stir memories and maybe a story or two that had never been heard before. We teased and goofed on each other just like always. Mom basked in her family. We tried to get a group shot out in the patio under the pergola – there are only a couple of pictures from that afternoon without someone doing devil horns over someone else's head.

under the pergola March 2012

     The weather was again beautiful, and everyone was in great spirits – aside from the fact that we could have maybe spent a little more time with Mom in the bonus room – the day could not have been more perfect!

70 20150311 the Perfect Weekend