Hubris

    Okay, I guess it is time to write about hubris. At one point in college, I looked through the Canisius library for a book about pride. Yeah, my love-life was non-existent, and I was super analyzing the void. There was definitely something wrong with me, and of the seven deadly sins, I had determined that pride was my worst – and I wanted to understand it and figure out how to fix that. All these many years later, I still do not know how to get rid of my pride – but I sure do know it is still a devil-on-my-shoulder part of my life.

     Anyway, I actually found an ancient book about pride on a shelf in the Canisius library. I'm not sure if hubris was in the title or if it was the whole title, but the book was about the hubris kind of pride. I had never heard the word hubris before, and not much since then until more recently, and now I think the word hubris is overused and perhaps even misused.

     My interpretation of hubris from the reading of the book way back then is that hubris is a pride that is too too much – the kind of pride that causes one to fall, the tragic flaw, an arrogance that offends the gods, sometimes even the arrogance where one plays god!

     Is there a kind of pride that is okay? I don't think that question got answered, unless it is an obvious no – no amount of pride is okay.

      I had a reputation at the time of being negative about myself in an effort to not appear proud, and yet that gave off negative vibes of pride to everyone around me. And when I wasn't being negative about myself, I was too proud – and truth be told – insufferable. And truth be told, I still am.

     The hubris book had a list and explanation for the three kinds of people who had the most hubris – the proudest people of all – the ones with the most tragic flaw of the worst of the seven deadly sins. And I remember well, even after all these years, those three kinds of people.

     Number three on the list – the third worst offenders of the sin of pride – are the people who suffer from constipation! Think about it. People with constipation are so unwilling to give of themselves that they actually have trouble moving their bowels! They don't want to share – they hold it all in. Making the connection between generosity and pride might be a stretch – I realize now that I cannot explain it well in words, but I sure can feel the truth of it! Next time you are constipated, ask yourself, are you in a mood such that you want to be alone – are you not wanting to share your space, your time, or even the content of your bowels with the world?

     Number two on the list – the second worst offenders of the sin of pride - writers! Writers can create a world from nothing. They bring life to characters, and they decide who lives and who dies. Writers are basically playing God! What greater act of hubris could there be?

    There is a book I read a long time ago, probably when I was in junior high. Mom had belonged to a book club years earlier, and the books sat tantalizingly on the shelves where I would read the titles in my grade school days, and I would fantasize about when I would be old enough to read the books myself. And of them all, the only one I remember ever eventually reading was one called The Feast by Margaret Kennedy. 

     The story takes place at a hotel on a mountain. The characters in the book were the guests and employees at the hotel. At one point, some of the people were going on a picnic near a cliff on the mountain, and it became apparent that some natural disaster was about to occur. I was very excited as the story moved closer to the disaster– some of the characters were delightful, some not so savory – and with the impending disaster, there were those I was hoping would survive, and there were others I was thinking should die. But it was the author who decided the life or death of the characters! That discovery was so cool!

     I wanted that kind of power – I wanted to write! After reading the hubris book – it all became clear – why I had wanted to write, and why deep-down it felt kind of wrong (aside from my lack of natural writing talent).

     So I was a constipated writer wannabe – two of the three worst kinds of people guilty of hubris – the worst kind of pride to have.

     And what was number one on the list? Who was the worst offender of the sin of pride according to the hubris book, and was I going to fit into that category also?

     Number 1 on the list? Virgins.

     Sigh.

     Damned if I do, and, apparently, damned that I didn't.

     (This is one of those common sense moments again, isn't it?)

     But, you see, I thought I was a virgin, not necessarily by my choice, but because no one liked me enough to want to be with me. But perhaps the real reason was I was keeping them away? Perhaps my expectations, my judgmental nature, my outright obvious blatant unlovability – kept everyone away. The desire to not want to be less than perfect built a wall around me. Pride kept me, and keeps me, from sharing.

     A while ago, someone asked me if there are any books that I can say actually changed me after having read them? It took me years to come up with a list. And it is a short list, but The Feast, and the hubris book – are both on it.

181 20150630 Hubris

Good For Business

     It was Monday, October 31^st and some of the children were arriving at the day care in Halloween costumes. Little Clair Clark, who was only three years old, had on a fairy princess outfit, complete with wings!

     I said, “Oh Clair! You are so beautiful!”

     And Clair said, “Yes, I am a vision.”

     Clair's best friend, Gilly Green, who was also three, did not have on a Halloween costume. But she did have a large lump on the side of her face.

     Her teacher, Ms Bonnie, said, “Gilly! What happened?
     And Gilly said, “My Daddy kicked me.”

     Ms Bonnie then did what she was required by law to do. She went to the person in charge of the day care and repeated what Gilly had said.

     Ms Nancy, who was the top administrator at the day care did not do what she was required by law to do. Instead, Ms Nancy said, “Oh, we don't know for sure that Gilly's father kicked her. And Gilly has two brothers who are enrolled in this day care along with her. If we took this matter to the police, Mr. Green would know it was us, and he would get mad and remove the children from the day care. And that would be bad for business and so sad if it turns out that what Gilly said is just not true. And it would be so much better for the children to stay here where we can observe, and later, if we are convinced that Mr. Green is abusing the children, we can let the police know then.”

     On Tuesday, November the first, Ms Bonnie, who was Gilly's teacher, called in sick to the day care. She was not sick. Ms Bonnie went to the police station and told them what Gilly had said to her.

     On Wednesday, November the second, a social worker from the police station arrived at the day care and interviewed Gilly and her two brothers individually. It took a while, but eventually the three children each talked about abuse going on in their home. The social worker told us that the kids would tell their parents about the interviews.

That meant that soon Mr. Green would know that we knew.

     On Thursday, November the third, a social worker from the police station went to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Green to have a talk.

     Now there is something I have to share with you about Mr. and Mrs. Green. They were from another country. They were from a country where there was a war going on for all the years of their childhood. The Greens were recent emigrants to the United States hoping to make a better life for them and their children.

     At the day care, we knew that Mr. and Mrs. Green could speak English. But that Thursday night when the social worker was knocking on their door, Mr. and Mrs. Green refused to answer and shouted through the closed door that they could not speak English!

     The social worker then followed protocol which was to leave the premises and return later with a social worker who could speak the same language as the Greens.

      Finding this social worker took more than a day. It took more than a week, and in fact, it took longer than a month!

     We at the day care got very nervous! Every day we worried about what Gilly and her brothers were going home to each night – were they getting hurt? Every day we worried about Mr. Green – if he was capable of hurting his own children, what might he do if he were given a real reason to be angry? And we had given him a very good reason to be mad – we had talked to the police! Would he take his anger out even worse on his kids? Would he come to the day care and make a scene? Would he come to the day care and make threats? Would he come with a weapon? Could he follow any of us home and hurt our families?

     And these fears rose from something that we knew about Mr. Green – what about all the unknown? What about what we don't know about everyone around us? What are they capable of?

     It was enough to make us realize the obvious – there are no safe places.

     Never for one moment did we regret having spoken to the police about Gilly. But none of us knew, before we did it, the scope of what that meant.

     Doing the right thing, in this instance, meant putting ourselves, and all who we hold dear to us, at risk.

    On Monday, December 4^th, a social worker who could speak the same language as Mr. and Mrs. Green knocked on their door, and they had a talk. The social worker explained to Mr. and Mrs. Green that in this country there are laws, and if certain of those laws are broken, one's children could be taken away!

     On Tuesday, December 5^th, Mr. Green withdrew Gilly and her two brothers from the day care, complaining about things being none of our business.

     You would think that there is a finite number of day care centers in the Dallas, Texas metropolitan area, but try as we did, we were unable to find out where Mr. Green had moved his kids.

     In all the years since then, we have had to have faith in the system and trust that after all that, all went well for Gilly and her brothers and her mother and her father, otherwise we would be hostage to the fear of what we knew about Mr. Green and hostage to the terror of all that is unknown.

     On December 24^th, Christmas Eve, the ghost of Marley came to Scrooge. The ghost was covered in chains, and he was moaning that he wished he could have done more when he was alive. Ebeneezer, in his effort to make his friend feel better said, “You were always a good man at business, Jacob,” whereupon the ghost moaned ever more loudly,

     “Mankind was my business!”

180 20150629 Good For Business

Cast Your Bread Upon the Waters

     The wishlist of a mother and her two children was adopted by the women's group from the angel tree one Christmas at the church where I was a member when we lived in Bartlesville. We diligently got all the items on the list buying and wrapping them ourselves or chipping in money for the bigger items such as a bicycle for one of the kids.

     When we were all done, there were $50 leftover, and one of the women suggested we give the cash to the mom rather than shopping for more gifts to total exactly $50. Everyone agreed that was a good idea.

     But then one of the women asked if we could tell the mom what she could get with the money – say, groceries, or clothing, so as to imply she shouldn't use it for alcohol.

My eyes got big as I looked at all the others. This was my usual state no matter what church I went to – I was always observing (and never contributing)– hoping to learn from their example as I figured they were all better people than I was.

     In this instance I was not disappointed. Another woman said that the $50 should have no strings attached, and we would proceed with faith that the mom would use the gift in the spirit with which the gift was given. The mom might take us for chumps and drink the cash away or otherwise spend it in what may look like a frivolous way, or she might look at that money and reflect on the generosity of the church to have provided a Christmas that she and her children otherwise might not have had and then spend the money with a full heart.

     Living by that example since then, I try to use gifts in the spirit with which they were given to me, and I let go of gifts as soon as I give them to others without trying to control how they will be received.

179 20150628 Cast Your Bread Upon the Waters

Tulsa Wheels

     When we lived in Oklahoma and the Hubby worked at Phillips, his immediate boss, who I will call H, held a department meeting, I think it was every week, around the conference room table. One day at the end of a meeting, H said he had a personal topic to ask advice on. He and his wife lived in Tulsa, a 50 mile drive to Bartlesville every day. They chose Tulsa so their two boys could attend one of the private schools there.

     H's older son was about to turn sixteen, and H thought that he would give his wife's car to his son on his birthday, and he would buy a brand new car for his wife. Sounds like a practical plan and wonderful gifts to both his wife and his son, doesn't it? Well it is a great idea if you are all grown up and thinking about people other than yourself. But, not surprisingly, H's son was not at all pleased with this plan. In fact he informed his parents that he would not be caught dead driving his mother's car to school. It was just not going to happen. And then the son told his parents the exact make and model of the brand new car he wanted for himself which would be acceptable for him to show up at school driving. A yellow sports car.

     H's question in the conference room that day was, “What should he do?”

There were plenty of opinions spoken – all of them in favor of the father and maturity and not giving in to the teenager with the attitude.

     H then said, “Ah, but there is only one person here who has a child older than sixteen, and I want to hear how he would have handled, or did handle, this situation.”

     All eyes turned to Fritz.

     Fritz's daughter was in college.

     “When my daughter was sixteen, she had a car all picked out that she wanted. We could not afford that car, nor would we have just given it to her just for the asking if we could have afforded it. But my wife and I thought long and hard about what car to get for her because we knew where she would be going to college. And the college is a three hour drive away. We did not want to spoil her with a fancy car, yet we did want her to have something that was reliable and would get her to and from college for four years and give us peace of mind while she was on the road. So we ended up buying a brand new car for her when she was sixteen, but it was not the fancy car of her choice.”

      Fritz seemed a little worried that the rest of his colleagues would feel he had still spoiled his daughter, but when I heard that story later, I appreciated the practicality of it and told myself to remember it as our daughters got to be driving.

      As for H, he bought the exact car that his son had been demanding. And H's wife did not get a new car. One Saturday morning H asked his son for the key – H was going to take the fancy wheels for a spin – and his son said no.

      I wonder where those wheels finally got him?

178 20150627 Tulsa Wheels

Strapless in Atlanta

     Different events have intersected in my life recently which have caused a particular song from the past to resurface. And I think I will talk about it today, although it might make some readers uncomfortable.

     For the past few months I have been losing weight. It was consciously done, and frankly I'm more surprised than anyone that I have succeeded. And of course, I am practical enough to realize the weight might all come back again – because that has been a pattern in my life.

     The Saturday back in March that I was telling a story at Fernbank for the Stories Under the Stars program, I put on a black skirt and a low cut black blouse. The clothes were looser than they had once been, and the shirt was exposing more than it used to. I mentioned to Mike that I would have to wear my black bra so if the straps showed, they would match the blouse – but I did not like my black bra because when I move my arms, what little bit I have in the breast would pop out, and the bra would then kind of float in front of my breasts until I had a chance to reposition, very uncomfortable. I left my hair down and made sure there was plenty in front to hide the fact that it looks like there are two sets of breasts under my blouse once I move my arms around when telling the story.

     Mike absorbed all this information which he had apparently never heard me whine about before, and he went online to study up on bras!

     The next day Mike snuck up behind me with a tape measure, and then with my cooperation he took several measurements in accordance with the instructions he had read on the internet for the perfect bra fit.

     And in the next few weeks, bras of all colors and styles began arriving in the mail for me from Amazon! Mostly they fit beautifully, and the few that did not fit quite right – we just returned in the envelope provided. Mike had taken the time to do something that I could never be bothered to do – shop for pretty, well-fitting bras.

     He said that he was so excited about my weight loss that he was inspired to get new clothes for me! This included other undergarments and sleepwear, and even a beautiful dress that I'm supposed to take on vacation. Now I am motivated more than ever to keep the weight off!

     Among the bras that were purchased were two strapless models – one beige and one black. They fit all right, but have tons of padding in them - on me they are more like prostheses than bras – but if there are no straps, the padding is needed.

     With the warmer weather upon us – warmer weather? actually it is hot as heck this June in Atlanta, I wear the beige strapless bra often with my outfits that have thin straps on the shoulders – dresses, blouses. And I go out – and it is hot. And when I get home, the bra is sticking to me from sweat and I can't wait to get it off. So I take it off and throw it on the hamper.

     That is when the song from so long ago starts playing in my head.

     It is a song by Jud Strunk. Not exactly a household name, is it? I only remember his name because he was from Buffalo. In the late sixties Jud Strunk was on Laugh In as a hillbilly-type character playing a banjo and singing. A couple of times his songs made it to the radio.

     And one of those songs was called The Biggest Parakeets in Town. It is about a woman with birds, all kinds of birds, and the biggest parakeets in town; the song continues with the play on words and in the final verse talks of a wedding night when the groom sees lying on the dresser, not in the bed, the woman's biggest parakeets in town!

     After a hot, sweaty day, when I catch sight of the strapless bra lying on the top of the hamper with the two cups of padding staring at me accusingly, the song comes right back – they are the biggest parakeets in town!

177 20150626 Strapless in Atlanta

Why Get Married When the Boat Ride is Free?

     One year when my gyn walked into the examination room, he looked concerned and said,

     “I have always thought that you looked familiar to me, and now I think I know where I remember you from.”

     “Okay,” I said, sure that this was another load of bs.

     “I think I know you from high school, and if that is true, I can no longer be your doctor – was your name once Denise Des Soye?”

     Oh my gosh! This guy was actually trying to convince me we might have gone to high school together!

     “Yes, my maiden name is Des Soye.” And I tried to add, “you have always known my maiden name from my file,” but I did not get the chance to say it because the doctor had continued with his joke of the day.

     “I knew it. We did go to high school together!”

     “No!” I started laughing, “How could we have gone to high school together – I'm from up North, and you are from Alabama?”

     “Actually I lived up North for a while – were you in high school in 1969?”

     “I graduated class of 1971, so yes, I was in high school in 1969.
     “Yes! I was two years ahead of you! Now I know why you always looked so familiar!”

     “That is so absolutely untrue! If you had been in the class of 1969 in the high school that I went to, there is no way you would have noticed a lowly sophomore as myself – you could have almost had me believing you until you said that!”

     Finally he admitted he was kidding around – and since we were not old high school buddies, he could continue to be my doctor.

     The year that Mike and I got married, 2009, the nurse at the gyn office had put a note on the folder about the marriage and my name change. The doctor saw it on the cheat sheet and walked into the examination room with the comment,

     “Why did you have to marry him? He already lets you ride on his boat!”

     Even though I was used to expecting goofy comments from the doctor – he still managed to leave me dumbfounded with this one.

     By the time last year's meeting with the doctor came along, I had told my story of the 2007 physical three times in public. I was feeling a little more confident in myself around him and asked the doctor where in Alabama exactly he was from? He looked at me and said that if he had ever given me the idea that he was born in Alabama, it was because he was just being a smart ass! He is a native of South Carolina.

     Although the doctor has won the war of the wits during each year's examination, my being a storyteller is not one of the notes on his cheat sheet – and all I can say to that is.....

     Gotcha!

176 20150625 

More from the Physicals

     So another year I was at my gyn physical and the doctor said, “You will need to get a colonoscopy before you turn 50 next year.”

     “Next year I am going to be 49.”

     He wrote something on the front of my folder which I call his cheat sheet and said “Defensive.”

     “I am not being defensive!” I proclaimed most defensively, “It is important for me to let you know that it is wrong to imply any woman is older than she really is!”

     He scratched out the word defensive on the cheat sheet and said, as he wrote down something new, “Pre-menopausal.”

I stewed in silence.

     One year the doctor decided to pick on the nurse who was in the room instead of me. He pointed to the white splotches I have on my skin – areas where the pigment decided years ago to just disappear. “Do you know what that is?”

     The nurse looked it over and had no clue.

     He asked me, and I said, “Vitiligo – or Michael Jackson's disease.”

     “Vitiligo,” and the doctor, mostly addressing the nurse, gave what sounded like the textbook definition of vitiligo, going on for a while and actually causing me to relax, grateful that someone else was the target of his small talk that year.

     “It is probably caused, in this instance, by the hypothyroid condition that she has.” My thyroid had stopped functioning sometime after Sarah was born – probably brought on, it was surmised at the time, by the hormones of pregnancy and breastfeeding. When Sarah was six months old, the doctor saw I had a goiter – and since then I have taken pills that supply what the thyroid should be producing, and the goiter went down and I have been fine. I didn't know until that physical that there were any other side effects – like the aforesaid vitiligo which showed up one day and has slowly created more splotches over the years.

     “And the hypothyroidism also caused the premature gray hair that she has.”

     “Or,” I just had to rain on his parade of words, “the premature gray could be because my mother started to go gray when she was 17!”

     “Or,” the doctor continued without missing a beat, “her gray hair was determined by genes,” and the bedside chatter continued without me.

175 20150624 gyn part 2

Physical of 2007

    Imagine, if you will, a plump fifty-something female with a life long history of self-esteem issues lying virtually naked on a gynecological examination table, receiving her annual physical, from a doctor who thinks that the best way to distract his patients from what he is doing, is to make inane conversation sprinkled with the occasional, but never predictable, verbal gotcha!

     Thus is the relationship I have had with my gyn for the past sixteen years. Why do I continue to see him? Well, two reasons, actually. First, he has never found anything wrong with me – and, I like and appreciate that in a doctor. And second – I now have sixteen stories!

     The most outrageous of all those stories is the physical of 2007. In 2007, Mike and I were not yet married, but the doctor knew that Mike was in my life. He knew that because a couple of years earlier he had asked if I was in a relationship, and I told him about Mike.

     At that time, the doctor wrote one word down on the cheat sheet that is the front of my file folder. The cheat sheet is what the doctor looks at before entering the examination room each year – the cheat sheet where he puts one or two bits of the info on it into his brain and then comes into the room pretending as if he really remembers me from the year before!

     The year I told him about Mike, the doctor wrote down one word on the cheat sheet.

     That word was not Mike.

     That word was not relationship.

     Can you guess what that one word was?

     Alabama.

     The state that Mike is from – the state that the doctor had led me to believe he was from. By seeing that one word – Alabama – on the cheat sheet before entering the exam room for my physical each year, the doctor has enough ammunition for silly small talk for years to come!

     And so the physical of 2007 began. The doctor came into the room and asked me a few questions about the past year. He wrote down notes on anything that was pertinent to my health.

     Then he said, “Well, let's get started.”

     That was my cue to lie down.

      I stared up at a spot on the ceiling – my own attempt at distraction. But I could not concentrate, and I could not relax because the silly small talk was about to begin. I would have to be alert – pay attention – say “yes” and “no” in all the right places; I would have to sound interested – no matter how offbeat the subject matter was; and I could never ever sound defensive – or I would be teased.

     And besides, I harbored the notion that one day I would match wits with him – if I went along with his conversation – I might get the better of him – perhaps 2007 would be my year!

     I waited for the talking to begin – out there some where.

     The silence was making me more and more nervous.

     Then my whole body jumped about an inch off of the table!

     There was whispering at the level of my right ear!

     “Your boyfriend's family doesn't like you very much, do they?”

     My eyes opened wide! I could not believe what I was hearing – was he really going to go there with me – into the abyss of my insecurities?

     “I think they like me,” my voice squeaked out.

     “And what makes you so sure?” his voice was louder now and gruff.

     “What makes you so sure they don't like me?” I asked, in all my nakedness.

     “Well,” he snorted, “They are from Alabama, and you are......not.”

     Shucks! He was just messing with me! Just messing with me.

     It took all the self confidence I had been able to amass in my fifty-something years to respond,

     “I think that his family is happy that I am in Mike's life, and they don't care where I'm from.”

     “Oh really? Do you eat grits?”

     “No,” I was instantly humbled, and he knew he was winning.

     He swooped in for the kill.

     “Do you eat greens?”

     “Okra?”

     “Drink sweet tea?”

     “I'll bet you're not even a Baptist!”

     “No," I gasped, "But one time Mike asked me to try creamed corn, and another time lima beans, and I like them both now!”

     “Creamed corn!” he snorted again with disgust, “Do you honestly mean to tell me that there has never been any friction at all between his family and you because you are a Yankee?”

     I made a face, tried to keep it in, but finally I burst out, “All right! All right! Once, there was a little bit of friction because of the pimento cheese!”

     The doctor shook with glee, “You don't eat pimento cheese?” his delight at having achieved verbal gotcha was audibly orgasmic!

     “I don't like it,” I said with a vanquished breath.

     “And his family will never accept you... Give me your hand, I'll help you sit up, we are all done here, everything is fine, see you next year!” 

     And with that he was gone.

     But I was not okay.

     Because he......had seen.......me naked!

174 20150623 the Physical of 2007

Rock and a Hard Place

     Okay, mixed in with all the stories about my Dad and his achievements that ranged from remodeling every room in the house to getting his three kids to church every Sunday, there is the tale of his most famous foible that we include to keep him human.

     In the days when Dad was in the midst of his remodeling of the Zimmerman house, company would come by from time to time, and we would walk them through the house showing off all the things that Dad had done so far and point out what the plans were for the next project. It was with pride and excitement that we would share this with everyone.

     One day, during such a tour, Dad smiled and humbly told us something we had never heard before – his very first project at the house! He said when we first moved in, he wanted to get rid of the rock at the end of the driveway. It was not quite what I would call a boulder, but rather a big rock. And it was not in the driveway, but rather to one side of the driveway and almost on the shoulder of the road. I thought it made a nice marker for the driveway. And in the years that we lived there, in winter, if we found the rock with the snow shovel, then we knew where to shovel to clear the driveway. But apparently Dad had not liked the looks of it and wanted the rock gone.

     So for his very first project at the new house, Dad walked into our barn, which was what we were using for a garage, and he grabbed the sledgehammer. Then he walked to the end of the driveway and stood in front of the rock.

     Dad slung the sledgehammer over his head. And he swung it down onto the rock.

     Then the sledgehammer immediately bounced back (following the laws of physics!) and smacked Dad squarely in the forehead!

     Dad looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed what had just happened.

     No one had.

     He walked back to the barn and set the sledgehammer inside.

     And the rock remained at the end of the driveway for all the years that we lived there, and it is probably there still.

173 20150622 The Rock and a Hard Place

Francis

 

Confirmation Day

   When I was growing up, Catholics did not have Sunday school classes, just Mass. And our public schools had one day of the week with a shorter schedule so the Catholic kids could leave early and actually go somewhere else for religious instruction! 

     In grade school, it was Thursdays, and bizarre as it sounds now, we walked from Boston Valley Elementary down Back Creek Road to Zimmerman, then to the old Route 219 past the law office where Mom worked and then we had to cross 219 to get to the North Boston Fire Department where we had our religious instruction classes. I seem to recall there was an adult or two along with us for the walk, but there was not really a lot of rigid structure for the walk – I can remember it being rainy sometimes, and of course, cold in the winter – but I do not think there were ever any injuries or complaints about the whole thing being unsafe. I can't imagine anything like this going on these days – parents allowing their children to walk along country roads during school hours in inclement weather and/or using tax dollars to carve time out of the public school week to accommodate some of the kids' religious instruction!

     Each grade had its own class in the fire hall, and one year I remember my class was in the little tiny hall for the lavatories, folding chairs crammed in every which way and the volunteer teacher acting like it was not at all strange.

     In Junior High, we walked about a mile down sidewalks in Hamburg to get to St. Peter and St. Paul Catholic Church on religious instruction day, again on Thursdays. The church had a school – it was where I took Saturday classes at the age of seven to prepare for First Holy Communion. So we had regular classrooms and nuns for teachers.

     In eighth grade we were getting ready for the sacrament of Confirmation. I do not remember this as vividly as I do the catechism drills and confessional stresses of First Communion. All I do recall is that the ceremony would involve walking up to the altar with a sponsor – kind of like a godmother when getting baptized, and the Bishop himself would give a blessing and then a traditional slap on the face! Confirmation is the time when we supposedly have thought things through on our own – as opposed to Baptism and First Communion – and commit ourselves to our faith and religious community. We even take on a new name – a Confirmation name!

     What would my new name be? Who would my sponsor be? Well my sponsor was a friend of the family named Fran. Her husband, Sam, had been the postmaster at the post office in North Boston when it was attached to the law office where my Mom worked. And then after a while Fran worked there with him, and later it was just Fran – I don't remember if Sam then had another job or not. But they became friends with Mom and Dad, going out socially. They were Catholic – and so it was a good choice to ask Fran to be my sponsor.

     At the altar, the Bishop asked my new name to which I replied Francis – then he slapped me – just a tap on the cheek. And that was it.

     After Confirmation, Mom said that the important part of my religious instruction was complete and it was my choice if I wanted to continue going to classes after eighth grade. Well I was so curious to find out what all the other kids were doing at school when we Catholics walked down the street to church on Thursday afternoons, that I opted in ninth grade to not go to religious instruction anymore. And on those Thursdays, when the Catholics left, we sat in our homerooms and had study hall – which meant I mostly goofed off.

172 20150621 Francis

Oh What a Lucky Girl She Is

     There is a line that I find myself saying almost every day, and the line goes all the way back to the Jackie Gleason Show from the early sixties – not his Honeymooners show, but the variety hour that came on Saturday nights.  

     I did not care for the Jackie Gleason Show then at all – the skits seemed not funny, and I had no appreciation for the physical humor and perfect sense of timing that Gleason had – now of course I marvel in awe. Back then I winced as each skit began – each seeming like a repeat of the skits the week before with its recurring characters – the same June Taylor dance, the same cup of coffee with the implication that it is alcohol and everyone knowing it really was coffee, or not-alcohol, and the comment, “How sweet it is!”, Crazy Guggenheim coming into the bar and talking funny but ultimately singing in a perfect singing voice some love song – whenever I think of the Jackie Gleason Saturday Show I picture and hear Crazy Guggenheim singing Red Roses for a Blue Lady – and I wince again.

Denver 2010

     But the skits have stuck with me all these years – and the different characters Gleason played have endeared themselves to me.

     And that brings me to the line I find myself saying almost every day.

    There was a recurring skit that by Googling the details today I have discovered was called Arthur and Agnes. Alice Ghostley was Agnes. Everyone else remembers Alice Ghostley from Designing Women or from Bewitched – but I will always love her from the Jackie Gleason Show. 

    At the beginning of the skit, Alice Ghostley as Agnes is sitting on the steps of a tenement house in the city. The audience sees right away that Agnes is not beautiful, and she is not well-to-do. Agnes talks to the camera about her boyfriend, Arthur, glowing about all of his wonderful character traits – and including his good looks. Arthur then comes along – he is Jackie Gleason – not particularly attractive at all – and his financial circumstances are not any better than his girlfriend's. Arthur and Agnes talk for a while – from what I can remember, I think Arthur talks about his dreams, his some day – while Agnes listens with love. It is obvious to the audience that Arthur will never rise much above his present station in life, and we are sure that Agnes knows it too.

Greenville, Georgia 2010

     But when Arthur says goodbye and walks off, Agnes looks into the camera with a smile that is both totally sincere and yet all-knowing, and says I'm the luckiest girl in the world!

     Now I do have to say that my own young man is a good looking guy. And his economic status and prospects have always been very good – worlds better than Arthur and Agnes. And his dreams and some day are definitely doable. But there are times like when he looks at his phone and reads his messages when I am talking to him, or when he has spent half a day with his shirt buttons one off from the corresponding buttonholes before I see him and am able to tell him, or he walks through the house naked after his shower to help dry off – times like that every single day – that I know just how Agnes feels – and that is when I look into the camera and say with all sincerity I'm the luckiest girl in the world!

playing with software

     And I am.

171 20150620 The Luckiest Girl in the World

Adult Conversation

    Dad took his three kids to church every Sunday. Mom stayed home. I think she enjoyed that hour of peace every week when we were gone.

    There was a time, for a few months when I was 10, that the man from across the street, this was still at the Heinrich house, a very good friend to my parents, and  recent widower, would come by and chat with Mom while we were at church. She was a good listener to all the tough stuff Mr. J was going through. He was usually still there when we returned from church, and he would stay and visit a while then too.

     One Sunday morning I woke up and was not feeling well. Mom and Dad both said I could stay home from church that day. And suddenly I got very excited! If I was home with Mom, well, maybe Mr. J would stop by, and if neither of them noticed, I could get to hear adult conversation!

      My curiosity about what big people talked about was always very strong.

      Well Mr. J did come by, and the three of us sat down at the kitchen table together. Mom probably made him a cup of coffee. They chitchatted for a while, and I started to get bored. Then suddenly Mr. J said, “Hey Mary! I heard a joke this week. Get me a piece of paper and a pencil and I'll show it to you!”

      I perked right up, very eager to hear an adult joke! I promised myself that I would remember it always – even if I didn't get it – because when I did grow up, I might get it then, and I could tell other people the first adult joke I ever heard!

      I then tried to make myself inconspicuous so as to not get asked to leave the room before I could hear the joke.

      Mr. J took the paper and pencil and on the left side of the page, he drew a tree. At the bottom of the tree, on the right side, he drew what looked like a lump or a rock – I couldn't tell what it was. To the right of that, Mr. J drew a plus sign and then a second tree and a second lump or rock; to the right of that he drew another plus sign and then a third tree and a third lump or rock-like thing. And to the right of that, Mr. J wrote an equal sign and then the number 10.

     It looked something like this:

     He sat back so Mom could look it over and try to figure out the joke.

     I studied it intensely. “Oh, a math problem!” I thought. “Something three times equals 10. But 10 is not evenly divisible by 3.”

     I looked at Mr. J and asked, “is the thing next to each tree a rock?” He did not answer me.

     Mom said that she gave up.

     Mr. J proudly pointed to each drawing on the paper as he announced, “Tree and a turd, plus tree and a turd, plus tree and a turd, equals 10!”

     Then he laughed!

     That one particular word was not something I had ever heard in our house before. I had barely ever heard it outside of our house! And I was fairly sure it was a word that was not supposed to be heard in our house – except maybe in adult conversation.

      Mom gave a half a smile as her way of acknowledging the joke yet not encouraging more of the same from him, I'm sure, because I was there.

      I have to tell you, though, I was sorely disappointed. This was adult conversation? This was an adult joke? Potty humor?

      Maybe that is why I was always asked to leave the room when adults wanted to talk – so I would not be judging the adult conversation - so they would not see that I was kind of expecting so much more from them!

170 20150619 Adult Conversation

Coat of One Color

   This story is the complete opposite of Dolly Parton's song Coat of Many Colors – no drama, just laughs.

    The sewing stories I wrote about recently have reminded me of the winter coat Mom made the year I was a freshman in college. I think the project was more of an experiment – Mom wondered if she could make a coat, so she set about to do just that.

     Mom's favorite color was green. The wall-to-wall carpet we eventually got for the new living room at Zimmerman, which was a few months after the sewing of the coat, was green. And the winter coat looked a lot like a green carpet – thick and plain.

    The pattern Mom got for the coat did not have buttons – just a band to go around the waist and then tie the coat shut in front. The sewing of buttonholes was not something Mom was afraid of – although they always seemed rather daunting to me – but the opportunity to make a winter coat with thick green-winter-coat-material without buttonholes was one that Mom was happy to undertake for this, her first coat.

    Well, Mom was pleased with the finished product. And she was especially pleased that she and Dad would not have to invest in a new winter coat for me to wear when I went to college. I myself was okay with the coat – college was going to be expensive and I truly wanted to cause as few financial ripples as possible. To me, it was just a coat – nothing too weird about it – even the band to tie the front shut did not seem especially strange.

     I have to stop here because there is a phrase that keeps going through my head while I type and I just have to interject this story.

     There is a picture we have of Mom at about the age of six. If you saw it, you would say it is a very nice picture of a little girl. For Mom, however, the picture would trigger a few

Mom at 6 in the "it's warm" dress

emotions. The dress she is wearing in the picture was hand-made by her mother. And Mom hated the dress – not because it looked bad but because it was hand-made and her mother told her to wear it.

     When Mom complained that she did not like the dress, her mother said, “it's warm.”

     Why would anyone complain about a piece of clothing if it was keeping one warm?

     And so as I tell you about the winter coat Mom sewed for me, all I can hear in my head is, “It's warm!”

     The coat was warm – warm enough for standing at the bus stop to get to and from school most winter days. (Some days in Buffalo were so cold there could be no coats warm enough – especially when the wind was blowing and the snow drifts were deep and the bus I wanted to catch I had just missed, and it would be 45 minutes standing there in the cold because there was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do until the next bus came along.) And the coat was warm enough the Saturday nights we parked downtown and walked a block or two to Memorial Auditorium to watch the Griffins play basketball. And it was warm enough and practical enough that I did not wish I had another coat instead that was prettier or more in style – why would I?

     “It's warm.”

     However - kids made fun of the coat, and after a while, I realized that the initial teasing I got about the coat, from everyone at school - its unattractiveness, its wrap tie, my obvious complete indifference to my appearance - this teasing continued long after my classmates' first impressions of the coat. It finally sank in that the coat was being laughed at – every time I had it on!

     I don't remember what I wore the winter of sophomore year – but I am fairly certain the homemade coat was retired. I had been a good sport, but I decided one winter was enough.

     Yet the coat had served me well, and in spite of the ribbing I got from friends, one still had to admit

    “It was warm.”

169 20150618 The Coat of One Color

Election 1976

     My other story about the woman at the agar factory who couldn't go home until she had gotten paid, gone to the bank, and then had cash to put gas in the car, I will call her Wilhelmina, is the anecdote about the day after Election Day 1976. It was a big presidential election year – Gerald Ford was the Republican candidate running against Democrat Jimmy Carter. I don't remember my co-workers and me talking about the election much – we probably laughed over the political jokes being told more than discussing any of the issues.

     The day after the election, however, Wilhelmina was very vocal in letting all of us know she had not gotten to bed until well after 3AM that morning – she had managed to get herself to work on time, but she was really dragging through the shipping department that day. Finally we asked why she had stayed up so late – I could not have imagined it was because of the election because Wilhelmina did not strike me as being particularly political.

     But she said she just had to stay up to see which candidate was going to be declared the winner. She had to!

     So then we had to ask because the answer was not obvious – which candidate was she rooting for? 

     "Jimmy Carter HAD TO WIN!” Wilhelmina answered – she was shaking all over.

     The election had really meant that much to her!

     What did she like about Jimmy Carter? I was dying to know.

     Jimmy Carter had to be the next President because Wilhelmina did not want Jerry Ford to win. Simple as that.

     And so why did she not like Ford?

     Jerry Ford was actually already in the White House as the current President – he was not elected to office, and his run in 1976 was the first time he was selected as the Republican candidate for President. Ford had been chosen by Richard Nixon to be Vice President in 1973 when Spiro Agnew resigned; and then less than a year later, in August of '74, Nixon himself resigned, and Jerry Ford became President.

     In the two years since then, Ford incurred the wrath of many Americans by pardoning Richard Nixon from any criminal charges that might be brought up against him in the future – mostly wrongdoing involving the Watergate Scandal during the 1972 election.

     This was exactly why Wilhelmina did not like him, and she stayed up most of the night to be sure Ford was not elected for a new term!

     One of us said, “Wow! Good thing you got out and voted!”

     Whereupon Wilhelmina looked at us as if we were crazy, “Oh I didn't vote! I never vote.”

     But she stayed up all night as if watching the TV until the last vote was counted had some power in it?

     There are people I know who don't vote for reasons of disdaining all of politics and not really being for anyone in or not in office; and there are people I know who do vote and firmly believe their votes don't really make a difference, but they do it anyway; but Wilhelmina standing there that day claiming how important it was to her that Carter be the next President but not being involved enough to do even the smallest act that she could toward making that happen – casting her single vote – that truly astonished me.

     For the record, and it is a rather revealing claim, to be sure, I voted for Jerry Ford that year. The very thing most Americans disliked about Ford – the pardoning of Nixon, was what endeared him to me – he put the healing of America and an end of the Watergate Scandal ahead of his own political future – I happen to like that in a President – even if he is a Republican. Ford was the only Republican candidate for President I have ever voted for. And I doubt that another will ever come along to impress me with actions the way Jerry Ford did.

     I did not tell Wilhelmina she missed her chance to knock out my vote at the ballot box.

168 20150617 Election 1976 

Pay Day

   When I worked at the agar factory, my first job out of college, we got paid every Friday with a real paycheck handed to us by the manager. On Friday mornings he would walk around with the checks hanging out of his back pocket. And eventually he would pass them out.

     A few minutes past quitting time one Friday afternoon, I walked into the breakroom and there was the woman from the shipping department just sitting there looking a little ticked off. She was older than the rest of us, probably in her thirties – one of the recruits from the Your Host restaurant at the nearby plaza. She was married and had a young daughter and was not well off financially at all.

     I asked why she was still at work instead of gone for the weekend, and she said that we had not gotten our paychecks that day. She needed her paycheck so she could put gas in her car to get home!

     The office part of the company had never been in the same building as the factory part when I was working there. When I started, the admins and the two owners were in a building across the street. And later, when they bought and were refurbishing a building a couple of miles down Kensington Avenue, the office part was finished long before the production rooms, and the secretaries had moved in and were working there. The manager would be in either location at any given point during the day.

     Apparently he was at the new building at quitting time that Friday with the paychecks still sticking out of his back pocket! My co-worker was hoping he would remember and return soon.

     I got on the phone and called the office. Then I asked to speak to the manager. When he said hello, I started badgering him about waiting until after quitting time to pass out the paychecks and that he needed to get back immediately. The manager, predictably, told me he had been busy all day and I needed to understand that. I responded that busy was no excuse for keeping any of us waiting, especially an employee who needed gas money to get home. There was really only one thing he needed to do all day and he failed to do it – I was getting a tad hysterical.

     He hung up on me.

     By then there were other women in the breakroom waiting to get paid.

     I was not one of them – I went to my grandmother's house where I was staying when I worked at the agar factory – my financial circumstances were such that I had the luxury of not stressing over some pompous idiot holding my paycheck hostage every Friday – but it still made me irate that he treated us all so badly. Then I called my parents and told them I was probably getting fired.

     The next day, Saturday, I went to work – getting some overtime just like every other Saturday for the last few months, since I decided to get as much earnings as I could as quickly as possible to pay off my student loans and then look for another job. The few co-workers who were there told me the manager had shown up shortly after I left the day before and gave everyone their checks and mentioned how wrong it was for me to yell at him when he had been so busy all day.

     And they were wondering what I was going to do.

     The Saturday manager was a different guy than the one we had during the week. He had only heard about the events of the day before.

     He asked, “So what was your problem yesterday?”

     Surprisingly, I was able to respond in a rational, even articulate way. And I said, “You, and X (the other manager) and the owners expect so much from us every single day; and we all work so hard. It just seems like the least you could do in return is to show some respect for all that hard work and pay us before quitting time on Fridays.”

     The Saturday manager then gave me my paycheck with no repurcussions for my outburst of the day before.

     And from then on we were paid on Friday mornings.

     I think that on payday, whether it is once a week, or every other week or once a month or whenever – the boss or accountant or HR person should hand each employee his or her paycheck or paystub or whatever token signifies the worker has just been paid, and then the person giving the token should look the employee in the eye and verbalize a sincere thank you.

     That would be a class act place to work!

167 20150616 Payday

Lincoln Doomsday

    President Abraham Lincoln died on April 15^th 1865. When the one hundredth anniversary of his death was approaching in 1965, I was in sixth grade. There were all kinds of dooms-day rumors about that the world would end on April 15^th 1965. Maybe it was because I was just a kid and it just seemed that way – but the end of the world talk seemed like a really big deal – similar to the millennial end of the world predictions when we approached the year 2000.

     But even as a sixth grader, the end of the world on the 100^th anniversary of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln seemed rather hokey – why would the powers that be end the world on what was really a rather arbitrary date in the grand scheme of things, especially globally? One would think that if Lincoln's presence or absence in the world determined the fate of the earth, then things would have ended upon his death, not exactly one hundred years to the day after his death.

Who was I, however, to argue with the rumors that the big people were speculating upon? It could happen.

     And we sat around in class talking about it and pondering on whether or not we should do the homework that was due on the 15^th? Really, what a waste that would be!

Mr. Friar, our teacher, would hear none of this doomsday talk. He said if we didn't do our homework that day – we would go through a different kind of end of the world experience – one of our own making and his implementing.

     That seemed more real.

     Still – what a waste of time it would be to do homework when there were just hours left in the whole world!

     What sixth graders worry about.

     By the time April 14^th came along, the plainly clear consequences of not doing my homework outweighed the presumed consequences of existing in a world that assassinated Abraham Lincoln.

     And because we all did our homework, April 15^th, 1965 was just like any other day.

166 20150615 Lincoln Doomsday

What do you do with a Router?

   

Mom in the finished kitchen

  Once Dad was finished with the bedrooms upstairs, he started on remodeling the rooms on the first floor. My former little bedroom became the new bathroom, and the old bathroom was taken out; the walls for the old bathroom, master bedroom, and closet were removed such that those three spaces made one big room that was going to be the new kitchen. The far end would become the cooking area with cabinets, appliances – including a dishwasher, and counter space and the other end would become the eating area with a sliding glass door out to the deck overlooking the row of hemlock trees I have mentioned before.

     One day Dad turned on his charm and said to Mom, “You know, I really could use a router.”

     Mom's participation in all this remodeling was to hold the figurative purse strings – she would let Dad know if they had the money go pay for the next thing they needed for the house projects. If they did not have the money – they waited until they did. The Folks did not pay cash for everything – they had a Sears credit card that was almost never paid off – but they did not run the credit card up too high – always watching their pennies. If Dad had credit at the local lumber company – Rucker Lumber down past Patchin in the Town of Boston – he either paid it off regularly or did not let it get too high. I remember trips to Rucker Lumber, but I do not recall how things got paid for.

     So on the day that Dad was sweet-talking Mom about a router, Mom looked very apprehensive and asked what the heck a router was – she knew the common tools – but Mom had never heard of a router before.

     Dad leaned in to her and said, “Mare, with a router, I can build you kitchen cabinets that will be nicer than any we have seen in the stores.”

     With that, Mom put away the figurative purse and picked up her own real pocketbook, she said, “Christmas is coming soon. Maybe Santa will put a router under the tree this year.”

     Seeing opportunity, Dad quickly added, “A router table too – the router has to attach to a table. A router table costs about $40.”

     Mom then glanced over at me. Because, you know, Dads are hard to shop for – it is difficult to come up with gift ideas or to know what it is they would really want. And here was a huge hint being handed right to me!

Maudie or Sudee atop the Admiral fridge

     I scraped together my babysitting money, and under the Christmas tree that year, next to the wrapped up router, was a wrapped up router table.

     And the subsequent cabinets that Dad built for the kitchen? Well they looked nice, and at the time I just thought that is just what Dads do. 

     But when I think back on those kitchen cupboards now, I can't help but believe they really were the most beautiful cabinets I have ever seen before or since.

165 20150614 The Router

Bedroom on Zimmerman

     The mention of the built-in bookshelf in my bedroom in yesterday's post got me to thinking about the Zimmerman house again. We moved in to the old farmhouse in 1965 and seemed to think that the place had been built in the early 1900s. My understanding, based on what I heard my parents talking about, was that Dad was going to re-do every room in the house over time.

     On the first floor there was a kitchen with an uninsulated pantry stuck off the side. There was a big master bedroom with a walk-in closet, a bathroom with a claw bathtub, no shower, a much smaller bedroom behind the kitchen, next to the bathroom. There was a living room with bookshelf dividers so the living room had the appearance of two rooms and one could be used as a dining room. Across the front of the house was an uninsulated but enclosed sun porch with 13 windows and steps down to a door, the front door, to the outside. There was a huge basement, and there was a second floor. On the second story there was nothing but an unfinished hardwood floor.

     When we moved in, the small bedroom became mine, my parents of course had the master bedroom, and my brothers slept in the uninsulated sun porch. The thought was that Dad's first project would be to finish the upstairs – putting in all new bedrooms, and with luck, Clark and Eric would only have to spend one winter sleeping in the cold sun porch.

     One story I do have to mention about the old bathroom – the lamps on either side of the sink had pull chains and the sink had separate faucets for the hot and cold. One day I walked in and put one hand on a faucet and one hand on the lamp chain, turned the faucet knob and pulled the light chain – I got an electric shock that jolted right through me – the water and electricity were not a good combination. Days later, I did the same thing again – grabbed the light chain at the same time as turning on the water – and the electric shock went right through me again. Even though it took two times for me to get the message not to turn on electricity and water simultaneously, it has stuck with me ever since – there are few such hazards in the bathrooms these days to cause electric shock, and yet I always seem to have one hand free when turning on anything with the other!

     Dad rented a machine that sanded the unfinished hardwood floor on the second story of our Zimmerman house. Then he did whatever else was needed to finish the floor – pine boards, absolutely gorgeous.
     After that Dad built and completed four bedrooms upstairs – one for each of us. Mine was in the middle with a dormer – windows out on the side of the house that had the row of hemlock trees – quite cozy. I had a walk-in closet that had a door at the end going to another, smaller closet lined in cedar! A cedar closet for the whole family's off-season clothes. Very nice.
     Between my closet door and the wall with the windows was a modest built-in bookshelf – something I took for granted at the time – but thinking about it yesterday I realized the bookshelf was not something Dad had to put in, I don't think it was structurally necessary – and yet he did – just one of his special touches!

     When the bedrooms were finished upstairs and I moved in to mine, my folks got a whole bedroom set for me – double bed, 2 nightstands, a dresser with mirror and a desk with a chair.
     I still have that bedroom set. The nightstands are on either side of the bed we have now. The desk is downstairs acting as a dresser in the guest room – its chair broke years ago and is gone. The dresser is in North Carolina with Sarah and John's kids. And the bed frame is in the garage waiting for either of my daughters to say she is ready for the whole set – the chances of them really wanting it are slim, but it would be a shame to get rid of any of the pieces when the bedroom set has so much history after all this time!

     There is an irony to having kept the bedroom set all this time – having gotten it in 1966 and being ready to move out into my first apartment in 1977, I wanted to leave the set with my Folks to they would not have to get something else for that space. And I wanted a brass bed for my apartment. You know, Bob Dylan was telling me to lay across that big brass bed. It was the only thing I knew I wanted for my entire apartment. But a bedroom set was the only thing I owned – Mom and Dad were telling me to take it – it was mine – and all the while they were keeping a poker face about my wanting to lay across a big brass bed ala Bob Dylan.

     So I moved to my apartment with nothing other than the bedroom set, determined to return it to Zimmerman once I got a brass bed. But you know, I had to get a couch – the retro couch as my daughters call it now – I still have it; and a carpet for the living room because back then it was the fashion to cover the beautiful hardwood floors; and kitchen supplies including a table and chairs; and after a while the practicality of appreciating that which I already had and spending money on what I actually needed took over.

     And in the ensuing years, there have been many beds and bookshelves and Bob Dylan cd's in my $5 record collection; they bring to mind old stories and make me realize I have not missed the things I have not had.

164 20150613 the Bedroom on Zimmerman

Girl Scouts

   

     The mention of Hiawatha the other day also reminded me of Girl Scouts. On the built-in bookshelf in my bedroom back then was a Girl Scout Handbook – and part of the poem of The Song of Hiawatha was in the handbook – I do not know why, I just knew it was there, and it came in handy when there was a need for something to memorize for the 8^th grade English final.

     I started Girl Scouts as a Brownie in grade school. My troop leader was Mrs. Courneen, one of my Mom's best friends who lived two doors down from us on Valley Circle Lane and who had a husband – a big redhead who I with much informality called Tommy and who had a son named Donny in between Clark and Eric's age. Rita also had two daughters from a previous marriage who were teenagers and our babysitters when I was growing up, Kathy and Patty. Mr. and Mrs. Courneen were also the folks who came to the rescue the day Eric split his lip on the icicle and I was not sure if it was enough of an emergency to call Mom at work, so I called the Courneens.

     If truth be told, however, I don't think Mrs. Courneen liked me. One day at a troop meeting I saw something from my house that had apparently been borrowed for the meeting, a kids' record player that I have not previously mentioned in these posts – it only played 78s – I did not know she had borrowed it, and so I let out, very childishly, “Hey, are you going to give that back?” And Mrs. C took me aside and had some very strong words for me – I got the impression from her words that she had been waiting a long time to share her opinion of me – no doubt I deserved the lecture, but what lasted forever was the thought that she did not like me and never would. Even years later, after I got out of college and sheepishly asked Mrs. C one day if she could show me the basics of crochet, I couldn't help but feel like she was merely putting up with me for the sake of her friendship with my Mom.

     Anyway, Brownies was okay. I had a uniform and I sold Girl Scout cookies door to door in the neighborhood. People were friendly to me when they answered their doors – but being a door to door salesperson was definitely something I would not care to do for a living!      We also went to different campgrounds to spend the weekend occasionally – Hemlock Ridge which was just up the hill on the way to Chestnut Ridge – and another place past Eden whose name I don't remember now. One summer I spent a few days at Green Lake which was off of 277 across from the country club in Orchard Park – I did not like that – we slept in tents, and I did not go with any friends and it was not comfortatble hanging out with strangers. I think we went swimming there – at Green Lake, but I can't remember anything else except that one of the girls had the initials MM, and she said everyone called her M&M like the candy.

     When I got to junior high, I flew up to the junior level in Girl Scouts. There was a different uniform and a sash to sew all my merit badges on. I had two leaders, Mrs. Speich who lived in Valley Circle Lane with her husband and four children, and Mrs. Faulring who lived on the old 219 in a house with a built-in swimming pool with her husband – her daughter was grown and married. We met once a week at the North Boston fire hall. I would walk there and back. One whole year of Girl Scouts while in junior high there were a couple of the cool girls who shunned me if I made eye contact with them, and insulted me if I tried to talk to them - I was uncomfortable enough to want to quit but not enough to tell my parents why – so I stuck it out and the next year was a little better.

The Girl Scout is me - local Parade

     Mrs. Faulring had another house that was near Zoar Valley, south of the Town of Boston, nearing Springville. We would spend weekends there sometimes, sleeping on the living room floor of her big house in sleeping bags, hiking in the woods on the property, horseback riding at the nearby stables – it was so beautiful there! When my daughters and I rode around the area back in 1997 – I could not find the stables nor the old house – and that made me so sad.

     The biggest trip our Girl Scout troop took, though, has to be the jaunt to Dearborn, Michigan and Menlo Park  – Thomas Edison's lab and museum! This was the summer of 1966 when I was just 12! We took a big bus there and walked around a lot and learned a lot. The picture at the beginning of this post is me the morning I left for Michigan – complete with my uniform and all the badges on my sash that I had up to then. I remember the picture being taken – I'm standing in what was our old kitchen of the house on Zimmerman – and my smile is for real! The second picture is from a parade, in 1967 - I think in North Boston - 'way cool!

163 20150612 Girl Scouts

Honey Harbor and Barrie

Mom at Honey Harbor 1962

      Yesterday's post about Hiawatha reminded me of the Ojibwa and our trips to Honey Harbor, so I decided to share today a page I wrote in 2008 about some of our trips to Canada when I was young. The story begins with our visit to Barrie.

Eric, Dad, and Clark

    One winter, I do not remember the year, we went to Barrie, Ontario to visit my mom's cousin, Victor, and his wife, Martha, and their three boys during the city's Winter Festival. I don't remember much about the trip other than it took about three hours to get there – a drive to Toronto and then an hour west. It was very cold but sunny. The city is on a bay – I had to look it up – Kempenfelt Bay, which was frozen – and many of the festival activities were taking place on the ice, including, of course, the ice fishing. We might have gone ice skating – but all I do remember for sure about that trip was watching Martha play piano on the upright piano in their living room.

Dad at our first cabin

     There were three summers as a kid when we went an hour further west of Barrie and met Victor and the family at their summer place in Honey Harbor which is situated on the Georgian Bay, part of Lake Huron. It is in the midst of Ojibwa country.

     We went down a gravel road to Honey Harbor. There were a few tiny cabins, a boathouse, and a general store. At the end of the camp where the general store was, there was a hug wall of rocks – we could climb the rocks and play, or we could just sit and sun ourselves. On the water side of the general store was a dock where I would fish sometimes with Dad and sometimes by myself. I remember catching sunfish, and one time something heavy got stuck on my hook – it felt like a shoe, but when I pulled it up, I saw a turtle just before it got loose and swam away!

     At the other end of the small beach were the boathouse and another dock – sometimes we would fish from that dock too.

     In the mornings Victor would walk along the beach and clear off whatever had washed ashore – seaweed, dead fish.

     And in the heat of the afternoons, we would all go swimming.

Den, Eric, Toby

     One summer Victor took us out on his motorboat to a place called Beausoleil Island – I can still see the Beausoleil Island letters on the side of the big hill there. It was known at the time for it's large Native American cemetery – we took a walk through it and then rode the boat back. I have never forgotten how beautiful it was there.

     There were no televisions in the cabins at Honey Harbor – a concept totally foreign to my young mind. Mom brought jigsaw puzzles to help pass the evening hours.

     The second summer that we went, the general store had closed down and was converted to a three bedroom cabin – that's where we stayed that summer. Several years later, when I was a teenager, we returned to Honey Harbor again. That time the boathouse had been converted to living quarters, and we stayed there – the boathouse had lots of paperback books on the shelves and I read a few of them, mostly mysteries.

     Mom had pictures from our days at Honey Harbor – the boys posing with fish they had caught, Mom in a big flannel shirt sitting on the rock wall.

     We did not go so often as to take the place for granted, just often enough to make Honey Harbor special and create an aura in our memories about its history, its beauty, its lure still calling us back after all these many years. And we wonder what it might be like today?

     The pictures posted here are from our first summer in Honey Harbor in 1962.

This memory was originally written in December of 2008; Mom responded with a paragraph that same month: One more note about the Barrie, Ontario winter carnival. There was an ice fishing competition on the bay – you know, small tent like structures, men sitting in a circle...fishing lines extended into holes cut from the ice, a small heater puffing in the corner. Victor asked Dad if he would like to try it. Of course Dad didn't know and had to be told that he could not talk to anyone while they were in the enclosure because fishing licenses were required if you weren't a resident, and if Dad talked everyone would know he was a Yankee. You have to imagine the sacrifice Dad made being cooped up for any length of time, being mute with no audience to appreciate his banter. He came back to their house very cold, no fish. We chuckled over this for a long time.

162 20150611 Honey Harbor and Barrie Ontario