Chicken Scratch

My grandma Orpha had chicken scratch handwriting. Well, that’s what my mom called it.

“I can’t read this recipe…Crazy chicken scratch.”

I didn’t know what that really meant at the time. My mom was always speaking in tongue. I visualized a chicken scratching in the dirt on a farm. So, I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. The only thing I cared about was getting my hands on those molasses cookies. If my mom didn’t know how to read, I was going to have to settle for Nilla wafers. Life was so unfair.

It wasn’t until I was older that I really took a look at my grandmother’s penmanship. It really sucked. It looked like she wrote a recipe down on an index card while she was riding on a roller coaster. And that visual made me laugh out loud. Grandma on a roller coaster. Writing down a recipe. I still have the recipe for “rheumatism medicine” which included whiskey. Yeah, grandma would so ride on a roller coaster.

I really tried to have nice penmanship when I was little. I really did. But, it was ugly. I know that because Sister Maria told me so.

“Vickie, that’s a very ugly capital V. You would think it would be pretty since it begins your first name.”

I really really hoped that she would trip over that outfit she wore every day. I hated going to that private school. The Immaculate Heart of Mary Academy just ruined my attempts at pretty penmanship. The letter “V” can not be pretty. It is just not pretty. An “L” is a pretty letter.

I was happy when I was able to transfer to public school. But, Miss Emler wasn’t much better. She told me all of my letters were made correctly, but they weren’t pretty. Come on, people. I’m a teacher, and I would never tell a student their handwriting was not pretty. I tell them it sucks. Ok, just kidding.

Plus, my bestest friend, Ramaine, had the prettiest handwriting in the whole world. It was, and still is, beautiful. Her dad was an artist, and she inherited his wonderful artistic genes. If ever I write a children’s book, I would want her to be my illustrator.

So, yeah, I never won a penmanship award or medal. And as I grew older, I realized that my handwriting was ugly. It was boring and ugly. So, I doodled in high school, making fancy letters in the margins of my papers. I was practicing, perfecting the art of ugly penmanship.

Years passed and when it was time to get married, I decided to address all of my invitations in calligraphy. Yep. I bought a calligraphy pen and learned how to print fancy-like. There were 350 people invited to the wedding, and I don’t remember how many envelopes I addressed.

Sister Maria, who art in heaven by this time, wasn’t invited. I should have sent one to the convent so the other old nuns who were still there would marvel over how little Vickie turned out ok, handwriting wise.

So, yeah, my handwriting growth was stunted because of a nun’s opinion. What the hell do nuns know anyways? Who said they should be teachers?

That would be like ….letting a jockey be a veterinarian.

In the end, it is not going to matter one damn bit. Technology is going to take away our last bit of handwriting practice: check writing. In a few years we will all have a microchip imbeded in our left wrist and we will just scan ourselves at the local Walmart. We won’t have to write anymore.

Unless you want to copy down my grandma’s rheumatism medicine recipe.

Ada and Memorial Day

Memorial Day, like most holidays, has changed over the years. Christmas had morphed into one commercial bonanza with a bearded red suit leading the way. Easter is all about jelly beans and scruffy looking man-bunnies waiting at malls for kids to climb onto their laps.

Mom, how the hell could you even let this happen? lol

I’d say Thanksgiving is doing ok since we had the first one. Thanks, pilgrims, for making pumpkin pie. It’s a fine tradition. I am thankful.

But, Memorial Day began as a solemn rememberance of those who served and lost their lives while fighting for freedom. In 2012, it has turned into a three day weekend. Today there is no garbage pickup and the banks and post offices are closed. Everything else is open for business. Sure, families have picnics and if it is warm enough, pools are opened.

Yet, there are many who know too well what this day clearly stands for. It is a day to reflect and remember those who lost their lives while serving and defending our country.

When I was growing up, my dad was the one who instilled in us what Memorial Day truly meant. My dad served in World War II, stationed in Alaska while building airstrips and in Okinawa.

My dad

Later on, he belonged to the VFW and the American Legion, among other organizations. He was in every parade every year, dressed in uniform, carrying the flag, representing the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He was one real live proud veteran. And he made us aware of what war could do to a nation and how soldiers should be shown every day how proud we are that they put their lives on the line for us. Some never made it home. How sad.

It’s funny, but my dad never really told us what he did in the war. A lot of dads were like that. I was told he was a typist, then he build airstrips. And that he had to have his appendix taken out while stationed in Okinawa. Was never told what he did in Okinawa.

We had a flag pole in our backyard and every Memorial Day, Flag Day, Veterans Day, and Fourth of July, we would march like little soldiers up to the flag pole. My brother David really got into it. He would salute the whole way from the back porch to the flag pole. My dad had us stand across from each other, as we all unfolded the flag. My dad would then raise the flag and we would salute. Dear God, don’t let the flag touch the ground. That was a hard rule to follow when you are little. Dad said if a flag touched the ground, it would have to be burned. I thought that didn’t make any sense. I just looked it up and it is an urban legend. My dad would be amused.

 photo via Wikipedia

I don’t remember how old I was when we did this, but I do remember for some reason my dad put a Sylvester puddy cat head from a bath bubble bottle at the top of the flag pole. It sat there for years…on top of the flag pole. I think the metal finial that was once there either fell off during a wind storm or time rusted the little silver topper, but Sylvester is what he found as its replacement.

 Bubble bath soap bottle. Unscrew the head and put it at the top of your flag pole.

Years later, after my dad had passed away and we built a house out in the country, I met our elderly neighbor, Ada.

And every Memorial Day, before I even think of my father who was a veteran, and before I think of those who lost their lives serving our country, I think of Ada.

I don’t know why, but Ada always comes to mind. Every year, first thing that pops into my head.

Ada, who lost her love during World War II.

They were engaged and he just never came home. And she never ever talked about him. I had to hear it from another neighbor.

“She was young and in love and they were going to get married right before he left, but they ran out of time. And he was killed.”

And that just broke my heart. Here was this woman, who lived in this small, wonderful home, full of antiques and memories, with no one to share it with, other than her precious dog, her faithful companion. Her sister lived with her until her death, but for the most part, she was always alone after her love never was able to return home. I was told she never wanted to marry.

And so Ada  lived on until her memory of him and everything else faded. I remember helping her hunt for her dog when she said he was lost. My son and I searched the neighborhood, frantic, looking for Sam the dog. When I checked back in with her, Sam was sleeping on the couch. She told me, “Oh, not Sam, the other dog.”  The other dog had died some twenty years earlier. It was a long goodbye and I missed talking to my neighbor after she died.

So, yes, Memorial Day is a “day to reflect and honor those who have given their all to service to their country.” Yet, it is Ada I think about first today. Her loss was profound, yet she lived a long and independent life. I wrote this poem when I was in college after a break up, but always thought it would be pertinent for a loss of any kind.

Time flies

and with each morning sun

comes the thought of you

and the smiles left behind.

Tears will dry

and wounds will heal,

but memories linger on.

 

In the end, I think Americans do a pretty good job at remembering what this day stands for. Sure, like I mentioned, it is a three day weekend full of outdoor activities with the family. It is also a day for memories of all those who we love who have passed. And that is great, too. But, above all, it is a day to reflect upon what sacrifice truly means and to honor all those who have served our country. My thoughts are with them and their loved ones.

Dragonfly Apocalypse

When I was little, my dad used to take me fishing at the Paris Sportsmen Club. I actually hated the whole process of fishing, but felt I should be there to talk my dad and brother into releasing the poor little fish after catching them. It was bad enough they had a hook in their mouth. I just didn’t get it. I guess if you liked the taste of fish and your mom fried them up upon arrival, that is one thing. But, to catch fish for sport? I thought that was stupid.

I worried about the hooked fish. It had to hurt them. If I was hooked in the mouth, I would be screaming. I would still be screaming about it, forty some years later. I just knew that fish had feelings and shouldn’t be hooked in the mouth, dragged to shore, and then shoved into a bag like thingy until they died from being out of the water too long. Where is PETA when you need them?

But, after I realized that my dad was a real fisherman, there was no talking to him. He went fishing all the way up to Canada. North Bay, and more specifically, Lake Nipissing. That name cracked me up when I was little. I still laugh at how I laughed.  But, if there was a place to throw a pole in the water, he was there. He went fishing under the Freedom Way bridge that led from our Weirton to Steubenville, Ohio, home of Dean Martin. I would go fishing there with him a lot. He caught a lot of fish there and would put them on a chain like thingy and let them flop around in the water while he caught more. One time I pulled the rod out of the muck and they all floated down the river. Oops. Fish on a chain.

Now, the Paris Sportsmen Club was just a little bit creepy for me. Creepy in that there were high weeds here and there surrounding the pond. Someone needed to pull on some rubbery wading pants and go pull some weeds. Cattails were immense. But, among the weeds and cattails were unseen creatures, I feared. Bullfrogs used to scare me to death. And I saw a snake swim by one time. Of course, I told my mom he crawled beside me while I sat on the bank. I was such a little story teller.

But, above every thing else, I was the most wary of the flying machines. You know, dragonflies.

Dragonflies at the Paris Sportsmen Club were evil. I swear one chased me on purpose. I would run one way and it would fly across the pond and head me off at the path. Ok, well, maybe there were more than one and they were just flitting around, but I didn’t see it that way. Their intent was to sting the shit out of me.  They approached me like helicopters hovering over the Viet Cong and the rice paddies. Ok, I’m using my imagination.  Also, the club was on Devil’s Den Road. What’s that tell ya?

I never really understood their purpose, but I watched them enough to know that they seemed to rule the roost. Birds eat worms. Snakes went after baby frogs. Who the hell wants to mess with a dragonfly? Dragon fly. I liked the name, but it evoked fear. Could it spit fire at me while it chased across the moors? Yes, I’m in Great Expectations and I’m Pip. Run, Pip, Run. I realize I had not heard of Great Expectations when I was little, but you get my point. I would make scenarios up in my head as we traveled to the Paris Sportsmen Club each time we went.

I would stand by my dad for a while, because the dragonflies didn’t come near my dad. He had a hat full of fishing crap on his head. I always wondered why he put lures and hooks and little bobbers on his hat. Who knew that fisherman were stylish? But, anywho, the head dragonfly this particular day, aka winged monkey dragonfly was going to leave the great Oz with the fishing lure hat alone because he was oh so great and powerful. No, they were coming for me, aka Dorothy, from West Virginia. My house landed on my mom and I had to put on red tennis shoes and find Oz.  Red pom poms on my shoes would have to do. So, I couldn’t be standing near Oz to begin with if I was going to play Wizard of  Paris Sportsmen Club, now could I? I would have to head down the side of the pond and see what I could find to represent the scarecrow. My mom headed us off that morning before we left.

“Vickie, you can’t take Susie with you out there!” She grabbed my little terrier from my arms.

Damn, caught. I tried to take Susie the dog, aka Toto, to the Paris Sportsmen Club with me that morning. How the hell can you play Wizard of Oz without a damn dog? She just pissed me off. That’s why the house landed on her that day.

Just great. We were only there for about thirty minutes when it began to rain. I was just starting to make a scarecrow out of sticks and cattails when I heard Oz (I mean Dad) call for me. We ran to the car and drove home. Those damned winged monkey dragonflies would have to wait another day.

I did find out something interesting that day. My dad told me while we were driving home that dragonflies can’t bite or sting.

I just stared at him. The hell you say.

I had been going out to the Paris Sportsmen Club with him for as long as I could remember, and he just got around telling me this crucial piece of information when I was like eleven. Thanks, Dad. Although actually, I think he kept that to himself. He had to watch me talking to myself, making up role-playing games while he fished. The dreaded dragonfly would have become just a bug, and perhaps I would have become bored while waiting for him to hook yet another poor little fish. That was an interesting ride home in the rain.

So, when it would rain and we would be stuck in the house, I would sometimes draw pictures of dragonflies. I couldn’t draw worth a shit, but they were dragonflies nontheless. I admired them but feared them. I just knew that the next time we went to the Paris Sportsmen Club, a huge, dragonfly monster was going to rise up out of the cattails in the creepy part of the pond and pick me up with their wicked fly claws and carry me away. Or drop me over the middle of the pond, where another water creature would be waiting for me. Like the gigantic fish with the whiskers. Don’t let the name “catfish” fool you. Catfish were evil too.

The Paris Sportsman Club 2012..The damn cattails are still there.

Well, I guess I got a little older and I was just too cool to go with my dad to the Paris Sportsmen Club anymore. I never went fishing after sixth grade or so. But, the dragonflies weren’t done with me yet.

Several years ago, we had just finished dinner, when my son called me out onto our patio.

“Oh my God!” I could not believe my eyes.

Now, you have to understand that we had an in-ground pool and a pond. Several neighbors had ponds. We were used to an errant dragonfly or two, hanging around. By this time, they were beautiful to me and my favorite insect. Everyone has a favorite insect, right? I had a dragonfly shower curtain in our pool house and dragonfly hooks for the towels. I was all about dragonflies.

But, what I saw made me smile, nervously. There were thousands and thousands of dragonflies heading toward us. And they didn’t stay high up in the sky, like the Canadian geese do when they migrate. Was this a migration or was this a swarm?  Like a swarm of Paris Sportsmen Club descendants finally coming for me.

I mean, that’s what had to be going on, right?

Ok, kidding. But, what a sight!

We stood on the patio and watched them fly through. It was remarkable, but eery at the same time. Was it the end of the earth? Would some of those flying beasts have the face of a lion? Revelations and all that scary stuff. A dragonfly apocalyse.

Some of them hung around for a day or two. Stragglers came for a few days afterwards. So, of course, I went right to the internet and found out that green darners, among other species of dragonflies, migrate in swarms through our area toward North and South Carolina. I had lived on that hilltop for sixteen years and never saw such a sight. I am thinking maybe they were a bit west of their normal path perhaps.

 photo princeton.edu

Perhaps.

So, that brings me why I am writing this today. I am wondering again about dragonflies. It seems that there are dragonflies in the parking lot of our local Walmart. I’ve noticed them for a few years now, and they are back again today. Why a Walmart parking lot? Maybe there was a pond at one time where this stupid Walmart was built  a while back and by instinct they come back here. Nothing else makes sense. A parking lot is a stupid place for dragonflies to hang out.

As I unlocked my door to put my groceries in the back of my car, a dragonfly flew right in front of my face.

And I smiled all the way home.

following me home

The Thrill is Gone

Once upon a time a family drove to a little amusement park in their home state and joined all of the other families and people wanting a day of smiles and laughter. They rode rides and ate hot dogs and cotton candy. What a great memory in the making. Years went by. Families grew and found something else to do.  Bigger and better amusement parks opened. Families now saved their money to take the once in a lifetime trip to Disney, Six Flags, or Sea World.

Soon, most of the little amusement parks had to close their doors for various reasons. Some of these lesser known parks had thrilled people for more than a century. Some mom and pop operations were sitting on valuable pieces of real estate. An offer far more than the small profit made yearly with admission tickets made their operations  come to a close. For others, a lack of visitors forced some small amusement parks to sadly shut their gates and turn off the lights. And, sadly, the laughter.

 photo via wikipedia

I can think of two parks that were close to where I live that are no longer in operation. Both closed to make way for a new road. One was Rock Springs Park in Chester, West Virginia. The other one was a more contemporary park called White Swan. White Swan closed to make way for the new road to the enlarged Pittsburgh Airport. Defunct.

1. Rock Springs Park- Chester, West Virginia. This park opened in 1897 and closed after its final owner died in 1970. It sat vacant for several years until the state of West Virginia bought the property for its re-routing of a main road. My grandmother used to talk about this park and we visited it often when I was quite young. And now it is just a memory. It was a beautiful park.

2. White Swan Park-Near the Pittsburgh airport- Operated between 1955-1989. It was a small roadside kiddie amusement park that had a roller coaster that jerked at each turn. I do remember that.

But, although dismantling and tearing down  buildings and erasing its past is sad, the abandoned and neglected amusement parks are creepy and dismal. Vines and trees are reclaiming the space once used to bring joy to all those who entered its gates. Now, rust and rotten wood are all that is visable. The echoes of laughter are gone. The only thing that remains is an eery, ominous sight, creepy really. And quite sad.

Chippewa Lake Amusement Park-Ohio

 Rocky Point-Rhode Island

There are many amusement parks that have been left to decay with time. Bulldozers have left these grounds alone for one reason or another. And none of them compare to the Six Flags Amusement Park in New Orleans.

We all witnessed the horror of what hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf area. It wasn’t until some time later that I saw pictures of Six Flags. I thought maybe, just maybe, as the water receded, the park would be able to re-open. I was wrong. I have read several trip reports from people who have sneaked inside the locked gates to take photos of its untimely demise. How sad.

Flooded after Katrina

photos via lovethesepics.com

 2011

Six Flags New Orleans is currently owned by the city of New Orleans. Plans were announced this past March to build an outlet mall in its place.

Another ill-fated amusement park was Heritage USA. You remember that cry-baby evangelist Jim Bakker and his mascara infused wife, Tammy, right? Well, Jim opened a water park and theme park  where you would be closer to God and spend money on rides. Problem was, old Jim sold more partnerships than there were rooms in one of the towers. Oh, he had other problems as well. And Heritage USA closed.

Another abandoned amusement park is located in Wichita, Kansas. Joyland closed and was abandoned in 2006. It would be sad to have to drive by this every day.

 

In the end, I would say it is better to bulldoze a closed amusement park to make way for a road or another commercial venture than watching it decay year after year. To watch the grass grow high, and graffiti overtake a once brightly painted building would be painful, especially if youth was spent at these parks.

The thrill is gone.

The eery echoes of laughter remain, however, and memories do linger on. So, the next time you visit your favorite amusement park, make sure you take a lot of pictures of your family enjoying themselves. Because, you just never know. You may arrive one summer to find this-

Related blog posts- http://rockspringspark.blogspot.com A fantastic site from Joseph Comm, who has authored a book on the subject

Through the Sands of Time…

My parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I really don’t know why. I’m sure my mom had something to do with it. Three kids were too much for her. But, then again, she said we couldn’t have a real Christmas tree because she was allergic to pine needles. After I grew up and had my own kids, she laughed and told me that she wasn’t really allergic to pine needles, just picking up dead pine needles all over the house. The bitch.

So, yeah, I’m thinking that the reason we never went to the beach was because of my mother. I guess I can understand why. I would be off into the ocean, trying to make friends with a stingray. Cheryl would get mad and march off into the beach sunset, never to be found again. David would just sit and play with a toy truck in the sand, smiling all the while. David would have been a great beach person.

So, we just took trips around the state of West Virginia. Sure, we also ventured down to Tennessee to visit my mom’s best friend or over to Virginia to visit my cousin, Jackie. We went to Canada and watched my dad fish. But, other than that, we stayed in the WV, Pennsylvania, and Ohio perimeter. Which was ok. I didn’t know about how much fun people were having at the beach.

And therefore, I also didn’t know that people could build stuff out of sand.

What???  How cool would that be? If I saw something like this when I went to the beach when I was little, that’s what I would want to do for a living. Yes, I would then want to grow up to be a sand sculpturer.

photo pinterest

If I saw this on the beach I would not go in the water. I would first stare at this for about 30 minutes, and then I would want to create my own.

 

Ok, yeah, I would get frustrated at first. My mom would have handed us buckets and shovels without involvement. She would just stand over us, looking around. My dad, who would have been filming us as he always did, would hand my mom the camera and would show us how to build a sand castle.

But, that wouldn’t be good enough for me. I mean, I just saw a freaking alligator/dragon sand sculpture. I would want to make something special. Bucket forms in a circle with a shell on the top of each one was not creative enough now that I saw art.

Pure art.

How about something like this, Dad?

Or this.

 

Oh, yes. I would have given up my smoking actress employment route and taken up sand sculpture for a living. But, alas, my parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I never got to make sand castles with little plastic buckets. I never got to dig a hole and cover up my mother.

I had to wait until I was older. When I had my own kids. Well, not to cover up my mother.

Since I wasn’t able to go to the beach until I was in college, I tried to make up for it by going about every summer. We first started by going to Ocean City, Maryland, where they had wonderful beach sculptures. But, most of the ones we saw were religious. I just didn’t care if the guy worked on it for forty days and forty nights, I just was not into religious stuff. Give me a freaking dragon/alligator or something like this please:

I would love to see this. Young Vickie and older Vickie. I would have stared at it for thirty minutes and then would take the kids to build our own.

Well, except, that since my parents didn’t take me to the beach when I was little, I developed no talent or skill for sand castle making. Actually, I sucked. We did bury my son one year up to his neck and made him into a mermaid without his knowledge. We would giggle as we molded breasts for him and told him we were making him into a beachy strong man with big arm and leg muscles. It was a pretty good mermaid.

But, other than that, no skill. I wouldn’t let the kids use the formed buckets. No, we were going to make a castle with just our hands. Well, not like this one-

This was done by someone whose parents took him/her to the beach when they were little.

Even this one was done by a former beach child I am sure. This kid’s parents owned a beach house. I bet I am right. He probably sculpted this with his eyes closed. That’s how good kids can get at sand sculptures when their parents take them to the beach for vacation. Can’t sculpt out of sand when you are in car heading to Canada to watch your dad fish.

No, I will admit when I have no skill set. So,we were going to make drip castles! I watched someone make drip castles when I was pregnant with Adam. That was the summer that I wore a bathing suit that was green and red with black specks. At seven months pregnant, I looked like a damn watermelon.

So, I learned all about drip castles. I was ready for kids. They would go to the beach every summer, damnit, and learn to sculpt.

So,I found that the sand at Ocean City, Maryland wasn’t as good as the sand at Myrtle Beach for some reason. The first time I started scooping up sand, I was in heaven. I turned into a kid and would sit on the beach all day making the best drip sand castle ever. The one above, no offense, was nothing to the ones the Pellillo family made every year at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We would sign our creation before we left for the evening and put a big WV beside our name. Yes, I was finally able to make a sand castle! Yeehaw!

It wasn’t until my kids were a bit older, and I realized that they had given up after an hour or so of drip castle building, that I found that I was all by myself. I was sitting in a water hole in my Mickey Mouse t-shirt, dripping away on fantastic spires, when I looked at some women that were parked nearby. They were sitting with full make-up on, sun visors on perfectly coiffed hair, with their bright, long, red fingernails resting on the beach sand chair arms. They were my age and they were watching me.

I felt stupid. My kids abandoned the magic family drip sand dripping castle making and went into the ocean with their boogie boards and their father. I didn’t even know they were gone. Adam was working on one of the many bridges and Alex was working on making the roads throughout the kingdom while I sat in my water hole scooping up new wet drippy sand to create yet another forest tree. But, alone I sat. I had my hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a freaking Mickey Mouse over sized t-shirt.

Wasn’t I supposed to be behaving like the golf widows right beside me? Wasn’t I supposed to be sitting in a beach chair, reading a book and watching people walk by?

I guess my drip castle making days were over.

I never made another drip castle. Oh sure, I made some right beside my chair, like the sad looking starter kit that I made in 2010, when I took my kids to the beach after my divorce.

Adam joined in for a while, which made me happy. But, for the most part, we were over drip castles.

Time to read books and watch people.

Until the grandkids come along. Grandma Vickie will explain to them how a drip castle is made.

From my chair.

Do I Deserve a Break Today…At McDonald’s?

When I was little, we didn’t have fast food restaurants. We weren’t in a hurry. We mostly ate at home. You know, meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. Oh sure, there was the local A&W root beer stand. We were able to drive to the parking spot, and a girl would come out and put a tray at our window. We would order and the food would be brought to our car. This doesn’t work too well when it rains or there is a twelve inch snow fall. Hard to eat while wearing mittens.

Elby’s Big Boy was another place that had the same drive-in scenario. If you looked like crap, but were hungry, you could drive in your curlers or greasy hair and eat in your car. How convenient. And fast.

So, it wasn’t long before someone figured out that people would love to pull up to a sign with the menu written for them. They could order, be told how much it was going to cost at the next window, and then at the last window, pick up their food and be told to have a nice day. How wonderful would that be?

Although there were other chains who first claimed the ”drive thru,” the first drive thru McDonald’s was established in 1975. I was in college at the time, and I don’t remember what year the concept finally got to Fairmont, West Virginia. Probably last week. I would have loved a drive thru, as we had to put “scarf on head” and head to McDonald’s to nurse a hangover. Seems I wasn’t the only one who felt better eating greasy food the day after drinking jungle juice or swamp water at a party. But, no, no one thought to put a drive thru in a college town. They could have made so much more money during the mid seventies.

There are problems with drive thru windows, however. Just yesterday, my friend and co-worker, left McDonald’s and realized 15 minutes later that the goofy cashier did not return her change. $8.00. And to top that, she reported that the tea was so nasty that she couldn’t drink it and had to throw it away. First of all, I would never ever drive off without my change. Now, one time when I was trying to multi-task think, I drove right up to the window without stopping to order.  But, her experience yesterday made me realize the two things that happened to me after leaving a McDonald’s drive thru once upon a time.

To be honest, I have a lot of things happen to me at fast food joints. Sometimes the person at the window drops my change on the ground and then just looks and says, “Oops.” I think that is translated as, “Open your door and pick it up.”  But, one day I came home with something extra special. The thought still turns my stomach.

No, I didn’t get a severed finger or a rat’s foot in my sandwich. That would have made me rich. No, my delight was in my medium regular Coke.

Enjoy the surprise!

Now, I love my Coke. But, this Coke had a hell of a lot of ice in it. I could tell when the goofball head handed it too me. I was a little miffed, knowing that meant there was probably two sips of Coke and the rest ice in my cup. But, I drove home with my cup of ice and my cheesburger and french fries.

I took a couple of sips of my Coke, and realized I was right. Shit. Those stupid people put more ice than Coke in my medium Coke. I took another long sip and well, that was it. Not happy. So, I took the lid off and looked at the ice.

What ice? Oh, there was a couple pieces of ice. But, sitting in the cup, smiling up at me, was a part of the contraption of the Coke machine. The part where the Coke comes out into your cup had somehow fallen into my cup. It looked like a large plastic piece……..with…….MOLD all over it.

I immediately starting gagging. I was sick to my stomach. Dear God, the moldy coke machine was in my cup.

After I faux vomited for about ten minutes, I got pissed. Pissed like I was going to drive right back and shove it down someone’s throat.

So, I drove back to McDonald’s with my little toy surprise. I marched in and asked for the manager. He came right out and I began my little tirade.

“Um, are you by any chance missing something?”

“I’m sorry. Missing something?”

“Uh, yeah, like a part of the Coke machine?”  I then opened my coke cup and revealed the black moldy cokey piece.

And this is the part that made me want to spit nails. He said to me.

“Thanks.”  And walked away with Moldy. The hell you say?

“Excuse me??? Seriously, that is it? I drove home with  MOLD in my drink. I wasn’t able to eat any of my Quarter pounder meal because I was vomiting. I think you owe me a new meal…..and an apology instead of a thanks…..And please write down your name so I will be able to give it to my lawyer.”  I don’t mess around. Notice I super-sized my original order.

The manager gave me back my money and gave me a new Quarter pounder value meal. Which was much better than the cheeseburger and small fries that I had to begin with. Well, I wouldn’t have lied if he had apologized profusely the first time.

The second time the drive thru window did me wrong was sort of comical. I can’t remember the deal, but our McDonald’s had a certain day when cheeseburgers were like $.50 each or something pretty damn cheap. I went through the fast food window and got cheeseburgers for the fam and chicken nuggets for my daughter as even back then she did not like hamburgers. So, I drove home and unloaded the burgers, the fries, and went to the fridge for the ketchup for the fries. And then my husband spoke up.

“Vick, where are the cheeseburgers?”

“Um, right in front of you.”  Duh.

“No…..where ARE the cheeseburgers?”

My husband lifted up his bun to reveal a….bun. I brought home six cheeseburgers and none of them had the patties in them.

“You have got to be kidding me!”

So, I drove back to McDonald’s and asked to see the manager. I showed him the meatless meal and pointed out that all of the large french fries, sitting on my kitchen island, were cold now because I had to drive all the way back here….from Saskatoon, Canada….or three minutes down the road.

I had to laugh at that one. That’s like going to Kentucky Fried Chicken and coming home with a box of mashed potatoes and a roll. Or something like that. Maybe that Hamburglar really does have a problem with stealing. You just never know about Old McDonalds.

So, kids, stealing is ok.

So sure, fast food drive thru’s may be convenient and quick, but are they really? How many times do people go home with the man’s order who was in back of you in line? How many times did you get a mixture of tea and Sprite instead of a Coke? And how many times did you not get a straw or napkins when you were planning to eat while driving? Maybe it’s worth it, and maybe it’s not.

I wonder what the future holds for fast food. I’m thinking the Jetson’s. You won’t even have to go out of your space pod. Just push a button and it will appear. A Food-A-Rac-A-Cycle.

And hopefully, it won’t come with a side order of mold or no meat.

My First Barbie

I was walking down the toy aisle at Walmart the other day, when I came upon something that stopped me dead in my tracks. I had to stare at this oddity, sitting on the shelf, staring at me, before I said aloud, and to myself,

“This is f*&$!#  up.”

I had to turn around quickly to make sure that there were no children in this aisle. I teach elementary school, for goodness sake. Teachers aren’t supposed to throw around the f-bomb in the toy department of their local Walmart. But, I just couldn’t believe what I saw.

What the hell happened to Barbie?

Now, I realize that it has been some years since I have played Barbie dolls with my daughter. She had twenty-one Barbies and had names for them all. Well, of course she would name them. You have to. It’s a rule. But, I remember a different Barbie than the ugly, bloated, botox-faced  doll that stood in front of me….in a box. I just wanted to tear into each of their packaging and tear their little heads off. Not because I am a loon, but because these were imposters. That’s not Barbie. These so-called dolls look like the dolls my daughter got for the $2 gift exchange in kindergarten. Imposter Barbies. Now the Barbies are copying off of the imposter Barbies. You are following me, right?  And I’m not talking about the clothing. The outfits Barbie wears are awesome. Whoever the designer is a Mattel should get a high-five. No, I’m talking about their faces, their bodies. The mold was broken somewhere along the way and replaced by some cheaply made Barbie body. A plastic deformation has taken place…It takes a lot for me to curse in the toy aisle at Walmart.

I had the very first Barbie doll. The first Barbie appeared in the stores in March 1959. I was just three years old. I don’t know if she bought it then, but I had it. I probably toddled around, clenching Barbie in one little hand and my Lassie stuffed dog in the other.

Notice the earrings. This will be important later

I don’t know why I am being so overprotective of Barbie in 2012, because I didn’t treat her so kindly back in the early sixties. I sort of feel bad for what I did to her.

As I got older, I really enjoyed playing with Trolls. Trolls were big from 1963-1965. Barbie sort of got shoved off to the side while my friends and I bought trolls and everything that came with them. Lee Ann was the first to have a troll house. What?? There’s a troll house? Dear God, I had to have one too. We would all get together and play with our trolls. We would comb their hair and have great conversations.

I mean, is this not the greatest thing you have ever seen? I was salivating when I was little when I saw Lee Ann open this case. I realized at this very moment that I would never play with Barbie dolls ever again.

Oh, but I did play with Barbie dolls again. Sort of.

We had a clothes chute that ran from inside my parent’s closet to the basement, right beside the washing machine. I’m thinking that was done on purpose. Anyway, one day when Ramaine and LeeAnn weren’t around, I played trolls with my sister.  It was time for…..

Barbie in Peril

Or something like that. We set up a troll make believe campfire made with a few of my brother’s Lincoln Logs near their troll house/cave. I had watched enough Tarzan movies to know that the jungle natives put people in pots to cook them. So, that’s what was going to happen to Barbie. She was going to be cooked by the trolls (jungle natives).

I don’t know how this happened. Trolls were always sweet little creatures that lived in a cave. But, when I didn’t get to play with Ramaine and LeeAnn and had to play with my little sister, I guess I was mad. And therefore, my trolls became mean. Mean enough to cook someone in a pot.

My sister put a piece of twine, which I think was really the dog’s leash, around Barbie, and lowered her down the clothes chute until she was over the campfire. We let her hang there for a while. I do remember her swinging back and forth for a few minutes. We made native noises like they did on Tarzan and then I did something absolutely horrible to Barbie. If my mom saw me do this, she would have taken me to a shrink a minute later. But, hey, we were playing human sacrifice and sometimes, just sometimes, Barbie had to be tortured.

I took the earring out of her ear and plunged the tiny needle point into her chest. Well, her breast. And then I put her in the campfire pot (mason jar.) Barbie was going to be dinner.

I sound like a little Jeffrey Dahmer in the making. It sounds like something stupid brothers would do. One one hand, I’d like to think that I was just really being creative. I mean, I looked through pictures of the National Geographic and watched Tarzan. I knew all about Ubangi’s and native jungle people. And on the other hand, I feel like, years later, I need to apologize for being a part of a tortuous duo. I’m pretty damn sure this was all my sister’s fault. But, I feel compelled to write an apology to my first Barbie doll.

Dear Barbie,

    I am sorry I stabbed you in the breast with one of your own earrings. I will never do it again.

                                                                           Love,

                                                                         Vickie

My mom gave my Barbie dolls away to our stupid church when I went away to college. They had been packed away since I was in junior high. She never asked me if I wanted them. I did. That first Barbie doll is pretty valuable now. But, some little church going snot got my Barbie doll.

I wonder what she thought when she took off her swim suit, only to discover that Barbie had pin holes in her breasts. What’s your Barbie doll worth now, huh?

Ok, I’m done ranting. But, you know, it’s like everything else. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

A Rememberance

I pull my car into the parking lot behind our elementary school every day. Well, except for weekends, of course. I normally do not pay attention to my surroundings as I gather my little teacher bag, purse, and other paraphernalia that clutters my passenger seat each morning, and make my way to the side door.

Oh sure, once in a while, like after a big rain, I may stop to pick up a few earthworms that I know will never make it back to the grass before the sun beats down on them and fries their little bodies. I help them. Worms are people too.

Once in a while I talk to the cat who lives somewhere in the neighborhood but prefers the parade of people sweet talking to him as they make their way with their own teaching paraphernalia into the side door.

But, yesterday, I looked farther than the back parking lot. We are faced on two sides by a cemetery. On one side is a church with a yard full of tombstones. To the back are more tombstones. I look at them all the time as I pull in. I even asked a co-worker one time during Halloween, “You do see that woman by that grave, right?”

But, yesterday, I really looked at them.  We were dismissed early due to water problems, so I was in no hurry to go nowhere. I sat in my car and surveyed all of the memorials. The cemetery is filled with love and rememberance. It was sad, yet lovely at the same time. So, I took out my camera and starting snapping pictures.

There is understandable sadness among the residents. Some left this earth too soon. I am sure some left without being able to say goodbye. Some had a long, painful goodbye. These people were loved. I spotted one statue from my car.

The grass was wet, so I didn’t attempt the walk to the grave. I also have a bit of a problem walking through other people’s memories. Forever marked. Forever loved. So, I closed in on this particular point of interest.

Some of the tombstones, once erect, bend towards the sun. Others are crumbling from the effect of acid rain and time.  But, this little angelic marker stands tall and begs me to get a closer look.

On closer inspection with my camera’s zoom, I notice that the poor angelic figure is crumbling. His sad face will be but a memory. How long has it been there, I wonder? I just don’t want to invade its privacy.

I for one, will not have a headstone or marker, for I want to be cremated so I can sit on my  kids’ mantles and listen to everything that is going on, for that is how I roll. I just can’t grasp the idea of being placed underground. Oh, I know that I will be dead, and it won’t matter. But, being in a lovely vase where my children can talk to me seems fitting for the kind of person I am.

As I put my camera away after one final photo of the cemetery, I have to admit that it has opened my eyes to the other cemeteries that I pass every day. I don’t even give it a thought as I drive by each one. It’s a graveyard, after all.  Nothing more, nothing less. But, I now want to take pictures of the wonderful memorials that are placed there as a result of grief and enduring love.

Time may overtake these wonderful reflections of loss.

I think I will pay more attention on my daily drive.

Where is Your Growth Chart?

I have always been 5’4″ tall. Or short, depending how you look at it. I have never minded being short. I like looking up. And I don’t get rained on first. So, there are always perks. But, as I get older, I really think I am getting shorter. That thought, of course, took me back to my childhood and how my mom would back us up to the wall and score a pencil through our scalp. It was measuring time.

The walls in our kitchen were painted a pale pale yellow. That or they were white and were soot covered due to the smokestack that was my mother. In the kitchen was a door that led us to the basement. And right beside it, for everyone to view, was her growth chart.

Every once in a while, my mom would summon us to the kitchen. We had to kick off our shoes and put our heels to the wall and stand as still as a statue while she marked our new height. She would then put our name and the date on that line. I would usually get slapped to stand still. Hyperactive chihuahuas can’t stand still for very long. And besides, I didn’t understand why we had to do this. I was the oldest, so I should be the tallest. Cheryl was four years younger, so she should be the shortest. And who the hell cares that we are growing? Um, aren’t we supposed to grow?  I just didn’t get it.

Oh, I realize that things like this matter to mothers. I know how much I weighed when I was born and how long I was. So what? Is that going to make me smarter than other babies? I mean, sure, if I weighed 8 ounces at birth, there would be a little concern. Duh. But, as I aged a bit, I got to thinking about why my mom did this stupid measuring ritual.  I used to think that my mom was the only one who did this and that it was because David and I were adopted and she was afraid we were going to be midgets. You really don’t know what you get when you adopt. And I was thinking that I must be a midget.

So, this worried me. I never told anyone about this. I didn’t want anyone to know that I may be a midget. I realize that I am being politically incorrect with my “midget” talk, but that’s what we called them in the sixties. No one said, “little person.”  They said “munchkins” once in a  while, but that is because of the Wizard of Oz. Shit, maybe my dad or grandfather was the mayor of Munchkinland. I was going to have to wait about 6 months for it to be on tv again. I would have to wait to check the resemblance.

But, you know, I didn’t feel like a midget. Maybe my mom just liked to mark up the kitchen wall. Graffiti woman. I couldn’t wait for the house to drop on the wicked witch of the east.  There was only one thing to do. I had to just come out and ask my mom. I approached her one evening while she was reading her National Enquirer and smoking her precious Salem cigarette. The dog was on her lap.

“Why do you measure us with a pencil all of the time?”

“To show you how nice and tall you are growing.” She saved an exhale of lovely smoke for my second hand lungs.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why do you mark how tall we are?”    And then I burst out crying.

“Am I a midget?”

“What? ……Vickie, what are you talking about?”  She laughed at me. And that pissed me off.

“David and I are midgets.”

“You are not a midget. Your height is normal for your age.  You are just very thin.” What? Midgets couldn’t be thin?

I just couldn’t quit crying. I am trying to remember how old I was when I asked her this. I do remember wearing my stupid plaidish skirt uniform that I had to wear while attending Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, so I had to be anywhere from first to third grade. My midget years.

Later that evening, I could over hear my mom talking to her friend, Lenore, on the telephone. Lenore lived in Tennessee, and had no business knowing my business. I sat in my secret eavesdropping spot and listened to the whole conversation.

“Honestly, I don’t know where she comes up with these things….. She thinks she is a midget.”

And then I heard her say it. I wish I knew what Lenore asked.

“No, not black. David is a bit dark, though.” And then she laughed.

What? Black? I can’t be black. I have blond hair. David could be black. And a midget.

Adoption just sucks.

Well, I obsessed for a few days before I found out that a lot of people had measuring charts. Some had them in closets. Some on the back of doors. Some in their doorway. My mom was a loon and had ours right in the kitchen by the telephone.

This smart person put them on a traveling door jam. When you move, just rip it out and take it with you.

I wish someone would have taken a picture of it before it was scrubbed off. It became a smudged eye sore after a while, this pencil marking chicken scratch of a family memory.

Wow. How many kids did these people have?

I was curious to see if anyone still does this. We did it with our kids for just a little while in our closet under the steps. When we built our new house, we just never did it anymore.

I found charts that you can buy.

I don’t know about this. I’m glad we didn’t have this giraffe growth chart when I was little. It was bad enough thinking I was a midget.

I would have been freaking out thinking that my mom expected us to get as tall as a giraffe.

And you know that would never have happened.

My mom’s second hand smoke stunted my growth I am sure.

Oh, hell, maybe I am a giraffe.

photo by Vickie Mendenhall-trip to the Bronx zoo to visit relatives

Georgia on His Mind

My little boy is graduating tomorrow.  Well, he is not little anymore. He is twenty-six and poised to take on the world. He will be participating in the hooding ceremony at West Virginia University and will be coming home a doctor. Not a medical doctor per se, although he could probably get away with that if he wanted to. No, my son, the Dr.,  will be graduating with a PHD in Economics. He has worked his butt off these past eight years. And I’m wondering how time was stolen from me. Just yesterday, he was just a little guy, taking balloons down at my brother’s wedding reception, and selling them to the guests. It was hard to resist the curly red headed ring bearer, clad in a tuxedo and using his ornery nature to score some money from the wedding guests.

Fast forward many years, and I am trying to spend as much time with the former ring bearer/scam artist before he flies the coop.

And I am trying to figure out how this all started. We had to put him on a leash when we went to walk on the boardwalk at Ocean City, Maryland when he was three years old. He just couldn’t stand still. He was always running head-on to a new adventure. And it is still happening. My mother-in-law said it was her fault. She didn’t let the kids climb all the way to the top of the sliding board. I’m thinking it was my fault. We lived on thirteen acres and always went on “adventures.” Maybe it was something in the water. All I know, is that my two children have a wanderlust that cannot be contained. And now my son is moving to Georgia this summer.

I know what you are thinking. Georgia is not THAT far from West Virginia. Oh, but it is. Right now my twenty-six year old son is living thirty minutes from me. I can hop in the car and be there in no time. Georgia is just too far away. I remember when we drove to Disney World and went through Georgia. It wasn’t too far. Too bad my son isn’t going to that Georgia.

No, my son accepted a teaching position in Tbilisi, Georgia…..as in the country Georgia. Uh, yeah. Way over there.

So, I am happy for him, and at the same time have a knot in my stomach. I really should be used to his travels, his adventures, his near death experiences that I only hear about a year or two after they happen. I really should be one big walking ulcer. I have gray hair because of my kids. Oh, sure, I am in my mid fifties. It is time to get gray hair, right? Wrong. Women only get gray when their children give them gray hair. And mine is getting grayer by the day.

Adam first gave me gray hair when he went to Strasbourg, France one summer. He was flying over with students and a professor from WVU to study for a month. So, why did he buy airplane tickets on his own and fly over a day early and not with his class? Just because. Why in the world would he travel by himself?  He also rented a bicycle for the whole month. So, naturally, I was worried sick that he was going to get hit by a car.

That fall, he flew to Morocco to study at Al Akhawayn University for six months. Luckily, WVU asked him to write a blog while he was there, so I knew everything he did. Well, except for the parts he left out so his mom wouldn’t worry. His blog was so wonderful. And scary. Like his plane ride.

Photo-Adam Pellillo

While he was in Morocco, he traveled to Casablanca, got violently ill on the train ride back to Ifrane. And there was nothing I could do about it. I am sure it was food poisoning, as he often ate food that had been hanging around a bit.

He had been carrying it around in his back pack for while before cooking. I think he got sick after this picture also. Chicken on a stick.

Oh, just attending the University and hanging around there wasn’t enough for Adam. No, Adam had to go mountain climbing. But, wait. How could he do that? He was in Morocco, land of camels and sand, right? Well, yes, partially. Morocco is also home to some high mountains. So, naturally, Adam decided to climb the second highest mountain in Morocco. Of course.

I remember when he called me to tell me he was flying to Italy with his new friend, Neri. Another flight. Another worry. Who the hell is Neri? I don’t know him. Of course I don’t know him. He’s from Turino, Italy. But, Adam had a blast and still sees his international college friend when he takes his different escapades each year.

Well, I guess I should just run through his trip to Switzerland and six countries the summer after he got back from Morocco. He had great pictures from that trip. I had more gray hair coming in. He climbed up the Matterhorn. The Matterhorn. Well, a lot of the way up.

Adam’s adventures were not over. We sent him to Guanajuato, Mexico during his spring break to collect Alex, who was studying there. She was very sick and we were afraid that he would need to fly her to Houston to a hospital there. My husband and I didn’t have passports at the time (stupid parents), so we sent him. Adam was thrilled to go to Mexico. He took her to a hospital there, and the next thing you know, they rented horses for a six hour ride to a volcano. Um, okay.

I was worried sick about her. She just needed her brother.

Adam was also able to go visit Alex when she was living in Kobe, Japan, teaching for the Jet program. When she arrived there, she came down with swine flu. Of course she did. She was fine when Adam went to visit her. They traveled around Japan and had a great time.

With his sister in Nara, Japan

After Japan, his sister decided to teach English in Louhans, France, for a year. So, after Christmas 2010, they flew back on different flights. It was bad enough getting Alex home for Christmas. There was a huge snowstorm in Europe and she had to sleep in the Paris airport for two nights. On their flights back, Adam flew to Germany and Alex flew to  Geneva, Switzerland. Watching flight trackers for two planes was a lot of fun. Adam missed a connecting flight because of the weather. Alex hung out in Geneva, meeting people and making me nervous. When Adam finally arrived, they toured France for  awhile. Adam then headed to Italy to visit Neri and of course, ski on a high Italian mountain. More gray hairs.

When I first started to write this post, Adam was in the Czech Republic with forty WVU students and his professor. He flew earlier to Berlin, Germany for a job interview before he headed to Tbilisi, Georgia. He was offered a job at Montana State University, which alas, he turned down. I can understand why. But, I was ready to head west. Now I will have to go to Tbilisi, where he says the food is awesome. We shall see.

So, Georgia it is. I won’t be able to drive thirty minutes to see him come summer. That will make me sad. But, I just found out that his girlfriend will be attending grad school in Stuttgart, Germany this fall. That means monthly flights to see each other.

My hair will be totally gray by then.

I’ve only touched on a few of the adventures that my oldest child has experienced in his short lifetime. And it is already more than some people experience in an entire lifetime. I’ve been so happy to be witness to this remarkable person. Oh, sure, I am his mom and have to say these things. But, nah, not really. But, I admire his tenacity, his convictions to live life to its fullest. He has worked hard these past eight years. I hope he has time to play.

Adam will be traveling on the plane to Georgia with his cat, Atticus. I will be a nervous mother, that’s for sure. But,  it is time to realize that he is a big boy now.

And I am okay with that.

So, congratulations, Adam. You went from sword fighting with light bulbs and smashing jelly beans into the carpet so no one would buy the house we put on the market, to being a wonderful human being. I am so proud of your accomplishments and proud that I am your mother.

May your travels bring you a thirst for all that is new, and may you live a long and healthy life, so you can ski off that cliff when you are 99 like you mention.

And you know you always have a home to rest your weary head when you come flying back to the coop.

Love,

Mom

 On one of his journeys.

Running in the Rain

When I was little, no one in the neighborhood had a swimming pool. If someone did, I would have known about it. No, we had to get our kicks the old fashioned way. And by old fashioned, I mean running through the sprinkler, or waiting for it to rain.

I just watched a rain come through and it made me smile. It’s not summer yet, but I remember longing for a summer rain when I was little.

It is weird, but I remember my sunsuit. Well, I don’t know what the hell it was really called. That’s what my mom called them. And I think I had a million of them.

Now, you have to understand that my dad did not give a shit about his yard. He couldn’t care less if it had a bed of dandelions springing up all through the yard. He wouldn’t care if there were bald spots from where we used our sleds in the winter. But, I think that there may have been a man code in the neighborhood. When one man put out his sprinkler, they all followed suit. And that’s when we ran for our sunsuits.

 photo Ben Mall via Pinterest

Now, sunsuits were different than bathing suits. Sunsuits were play clothes, made of a light cotton. Mine were tied at the shoulders, gathered at the waist and had elastic at the legs. It was a bathing suit, but not really.

This is pretty damn close, but mine always tied at the shoulders.

I wore my sunsuit when I played on the backyard swing set. But, you couldn’t get in the car wearing this. Oh, no, that would not be appropriate. I had to put on another outfit if I was going to leave the yard. That outfit had to stay in the yard. I guess I would have been labeled a tramp or something. Nowadays you can go to Walmart in your pajamas without anyone batting an eye, but back then, you couldn’t walk out of the yard in your bathing suit. No sir re Bob.

A couple of years ago, I stood in my doorway and watched a summer rain. And then I lost my mind and took off my watch and changed from my semi-nice sandals into my rubbery flip flops and went out side in the rain. Oh sure, I realize that people driving by  probably thought I had a couple of screws loose, but I lived near the Rails to Trails, so I just started walking. And smiling. It was really raining. I didn’t hear any thunder, so I thought my chances of getting struck by lightning were slim, so I walked on the trail, and since there were no other crazy people out there beside myself, I was able to giggle a bit at my spontaneous moment.

When the sun came out a little while later and I searched and found a rainbow, I came to the conclusion that  at 54, I had not grown up at all.

How lucky I am.

Beautiful Wall Art

When I was young, I was all about making stuff. I made those colorful potholders. I remember my mom buying the plastic loom and I would sit and loop until it was done. And then present it to her for her birthday or Mother’s Day. I never realized that she probably knew what she would be given.

I was never one for the paint by numbers pictures. Oh, I am sure I did paint one or two of them, but I really had no patience for that little piss ant of a paint brush. You know what I am talking about. And besides, I would always end up with screwing up the whole picture by painting orange on #3, when everyone knew that #3 was supposed to be blue. I was an idiot. And you could never undo it, because two colors mixed turned into pukey brown green.

My mom took paint by number to a whole new ugly level. She borrowed a projector and projected a picture up on the wall of my bedroom and painted a picture….of a cherry tree. It covered the whole damn wall. A cherry tree. Pink blossoms. I hate pink. After that, she decided she was ready for a more difficult project for my brother’s room. She painted a clipper ship on his wall. I am talking about the whole wall was a clipper ship.

I wanted the clipper ship. The cherry tree, with its freaking blossoms, stared at me every day. At least I could hop on the clipper ship and sail out of the retarded bedroom.

Oh Dear God, the cherry tree is making a comeback. I had the whole damn tree.

Close by not really. My mom’s was actually pretty good

So, you would think that after staring at a cherry tree for a few years that I would not want anything on a wall. But, no, I’m a glutton for punishment.

No, I found another outlet: latch hooking. Once I learned how to latch hook, there was no stopping me. I hooked all of the time. I hooked in high school and hooked a bit through college. And then I hung the ugly rugs on the wall. Well, hell, I didn’t want anyone walking on them. I worked hard on those babies.

 Latch hooking. So easy I could do it.

Ugly babies to boot. I can’t remember how many I actually hooked, but I do remember latch hooking the Wizard of Oz characters. Yeah. It was after I pledged into the Sigma Sigma Sorority. The tri-sigs at my college had the Wizard of Oz as their big theme for everything. So, when I found a latch hooking kit for Dorothy and her friends, well, I had to latch hook it.

 ebay photo

Ok, so it didn’t look like this, but it’s the only one I could find.

I did make a pillow for my boyfriend, Rick.Or maybe it was Jay. I can’t remember, but some lucky boyfriend received this great gift. Made from love.  It was a red heart on a black background. I am sure it was truly ugly. I can’t remember what I hooked in the middle of the heart, but it was something retarded I am sure.

I did find one that I did latch hook. I think. Isn’t it simply awesome?

Is that a……clipper ship

The more I google, the more latch hookings I find that I completed. But these aren’t them. These are lovely examples that you, too, could latch if your heart desires so. I think you should.

   

and my favorite-

  I mean, who wouldn’t want a Mrs. Doubtfire latched rug?

I did get excited to see that latch hookers are finding creative ways to latch hook, but without the ugly kits. There is a tutorial on pinterest for taking strips of old t-shirts and making a rag rug. And, I saw a rug that doesn’t have a face or smurf or a unicorn on it. I just may start hooking again……You know what I mean.

 t-shirt latch hooking.   Not too shabby.

In the end, there have been some pretty ugly things that people make and hang on the wall. I guess rugs shouldn’t be hung on a wall. And potholders shouldn’t either, I guess.  We had some crazy things that were pretty ugly back in the seventies. But, this one is king:

 Now, this is the real deal. Dogs Playing Poker was a collection of sixteen oil paintings that were commissioned by a cigar company and painted by C.M. Coolidge. And this was started back in 1903. I personally like the originals. I would so hang one in my home. It is the reproduction of these pictures that have found their way into our basements and closets. Many are gag gifts.  And some are on black velvet. That makes it extra special. Now they are collectibles. Go figure.

Whatever you do, think long and hard before you paint on your walls. Sure, it can always be covered up by paint in the future.

But, your children will have already been damaged.

Free Stuff inside Paid Stuff

I bought a magazine the other day. As I turned each page, I came across a page that had one of those perfume inserts. I really don’t like when they do this. It’s like seeing the proverbial “wet paint” sign. You know you are going to open it up and smell whatever the hell smell they want to put in there. I could be smelling dog poop for all I know. Why are we so easy? Well, I realize, of course, that the perfume people want to give us a little tease so that we will run right out and buy their product, but I didn’t ask for smelly stuff inside my magazine. But, such is life! Estee Lauder wanted me to take a whiff of Beautiful. 

It made me think of freebies.

When I was little, I really only ate Rice Krispies or Corn Flakes. And that was fine, because Kelloggs loved putting stuff in the cereal box as an added incentive to buy their cereal. Kellogg was like the P.T. Barnum of cereals.

There’s something inside. Buy me and see!

Product inserts were really big when I was little during the late 1950′s and 1960′s. People in the industry call the little enticements, ”premiums.”

Kelloggs was the first to introduce prizes in box’s of cereal. Betty Crocker put coupons in bags of flour as far back as 1929. So, this has been going on for a very long time.

Here are a few of the companies that enticed us with their freebies:

1. Bazooka Gum- You may not think of it this way, but gum is gum, and they didn’t have to give us a comic to read along with the gum. But, every time we opened a piece of Bazooka chewing gum, there is was, waiting for us. I didn’t know that Bazooka gum was owned by Topps. They had a thing about including things with things. I always wondered why the kid was wearing a patch. It bothered me. Did someone stick him in the eye with a stick?   Bazooka Joe had some buddies in his comic strip. The one I remember the most was Mort, the skinny friend who always wore a red turtleneck pulled up over his mouth. See? I paid attention to the comics as I popped the gum in my mouth.

2. Cracker Jacks- I was never a fan of the carameled popcorn. It just didn’t taste good to me. So, I would buy a box just for the prize inside and sit and peel the wrapper off.

  Cracker Jacks was first sold at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. At first, it was a mixture of popcorn, peanuts, and molassses, and was called “Candied Popcorn and Peanuts.” It was named Cracker Jacks after an employee remarked after biting into it, “That’s cracker jack!” Back then, that meant, “awesome.” The remarkable thing about Cracker Jacks is how a songwriter but it in the song, “Take me Out to the Ballpark.”……

Take me out to the ball game

Take me out with the crowd

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks

I don’t care if I never get back.

Let me root, root, root, for the home team

If they don’t win it’s a shame

For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out

at the old ball game.

Talk about free publicity.

3. Topps- I bet my brother is not happy nowadays that he used his Roberto Clemente baseball card in the spokes of his bicycle. But, that’s not all that came with baseball cards. Topps wanted you to have a piece of gum. It was wider that the usual gum, which made it pretty darn cool. But, which came first?  From what I have read, Topps wanted you to taste their gum. Why not put a piece with the baseball card to entice you to their other product. Pretty smart marketing.

Ok, yeah, sure, mine gum usually looked like this when I opened up the pack, but I still chewed it.

Here are some of the other ”premiums” that I was able to remember:

4. Coke- circa 1991-They inserted Olympic cards into their 12 pack of cans. I should still have all of these somewhere. I posted the one of Mary Lou Retton because she is from Fairmont and is living here now with her family.

There are so many companies that gave away toys and trinkets inside their packaging. Cereals seemed to be the main culprit. I remember fighting with my brother and sister over some of them. I’d let my brother have all of the “boy” stuff, so I usually only had to fight my sister most of the time. And that just meant getting up earlier to open the new box of cereal.

Which got me sent to my room once in a blue moon for having too many boxes of cereal opened at the same time. I only ate Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. So, having more than one of those opened was not good.

I do remember cutting things off of the back of the box. Sometimes it was a mask. Other times it was a coloring page. But, it made breakfast educational because afterall, we were reading the box. :ere are some other items found with their products to entice us to use or eat their product.

Circus train animals- animal crackers..wheels to make it look like a real circus train

Sugar Daddies-free wildlife card insert

Wonder Bread-Star Wars Card

Reese cup mallo card add them up and get something free..like a mallo cup

Butternut bread- Snoopy for President

Big one- McDonald’s Happy Meals- I could write a lot on just McDonald’s. Their Happy Meal was a way to get a toy in a box that also had neat stuff for the kids. You can’t purchase the toy separately. I still have a lot of the kids Happy Meal toys. Some are still in the plastic, so you know it’s going to be worth a lot of money one of these days.

Lucky charms-Harlem Globetrotter whistle

Trix-atomic submarine..What? a sub? Inside? I hated Trix. But a sub? In a box of cereal. MOM!!

You can get a Creeping monster inside if you buy this box of Honeycombs. I mean, who wouldn’t want one? Added bonus-It glows in the dark, people.

Or three “groovy” balloons. Balloons aren’t special unless they are groovy.

Yes, the late fifties and early sixties were a great time to be a kid. Cereal inserts were commonplace. Kids ate their cereal. Some ate their cereal as a snack before bed. Oh, my, the cereal companies were doing well. Even the cereals with the word “sugar” in the title did well. We had Sugar Smacks and one of my favorite, Sugar Pops.  Life was good.

So, the next time you open a wrapper on a piece of Bazooka Joe gum, take a second to read the comic.

It is, after all, their way of thanking you for buying their product.