English: The face of a black windup alarm clock (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For those of you who follow my blog, you know tomorrow is my least favorite day of the year. I’ve surely written enough about Daylight Savings Time and how it turns me into a zombie for a few weeks after the time change.
So, how many times can I beat this dead horse? Apparently, at least five times. I guess I just need to really get my opinion out there. Daylight Savings Time just sucks the life out of me…….and millions of other people too.
But, I have to admit, the whole time change did have one perk: church. Now, don’t judge, but I just did not care to attend church when I was younger. My dad was a Sunday school teacher, so we had to get up every Sunday morning and drive downtown to church. And, I’m sorry, but I just didn’t like it. I had a problem with the whole Noah’s Ark story when I went to that private hell of a Catholic school from first through third grade, and was tired of arguing about it with Sister Maria and then at Sunday school. I just didn’t buy it. I was mad at God for drowning animals. Taking only two of a kind was really mean, and when I was little, I held a grudge for a tremendously long time. So, I just thought the whole church thing was a big ole fat lie to get money in a collection plate.
So, there was one Sunday each year that I didn’t have to go to Sunday school, and that was when it was Daylight Savings Time. Oh, I remember my parents talking while sitting on the couch about how they had to remember to turn the clocks ahead before they went to bed. I always wanted to try to sneak into my parent’s room and change the Big Ben alarm clock my dad kept by his bed, but after getting caught the first time, I decided I was doomed and would have to go listen about multiplying fishes and walking on water. None of the Bible lessons were believable to me. People can’t get that old. I told my mom Caspar the Friendly Ghost cartoon was more real than church. I remember my dad looking at me like I needed an exorcism. His Bible was all marked up and his handwriting in the margins. He was clearly into it, but his nine year old heathen daughter wasn’t buying any of it.
I know my dad would change the kitchen clock above our lovely gold refrigerator that Saturday night before he went to bed. He would change the time on his wrist watch. He would change the time on his Big Ben alarm clock and set the alarm to get up for church. But, every Daylight Savings Time Sunday morning we would always miss Sunday school. We slept it! My mom would yell first.
“Elwood, wake up! We’ve missed church!” I would wake up and smile. But, then, my mom would march into my room and ask why I pushed down the alarm clock so it wouldn’t go off.
The problem with all of this is that I was a great liar and lied every chance I got. So, when I really told the truth and tried to explain that I didn’t do it, no one believed me. I would be just like me to sneak into my parent’s room and push in the alarm buzzer thingy.
For years I thought my sister was the culprit because she would laugh at me for getting yelled at for turning it off. She wanted to go to church because she liked wearing her white patent leather shoes. She would deliberately put on a pair of white anklets that had a hole in the big toe so she could entertain while sitting in the pew at church. But, you know, I never ever pushed down the alarm button to keep us from waking up on time. I mean, I wouldn’t wait until Daylight Savings Time to do that. I’d do it every damn Sunday.
Years later, when I had my own children and complained how my husband wanted to go to church the next day when it was Daylight Savings Time, I would always try to balk. “Oh, come on. We are losing an hour. Let’s just sleep in.” My mom was visiting during one of those time changing moments and just smiled when I was complaining about being blamed for turning off the alarm.
“Mom, I really wasn’t the one who would push in the alarm so we could sleep in after losing an hour.”
“I know.” I looked at her and she was wearing a shit-eating grin on her face.”
“God dammit, Mom! …….You were the one?…….and then you came in and blamed me?” She smiled and nodded.
Well, there was only one thing I could do….
I stood up and clapped.
“I needed that hour,” she said with a shrug.
So, in the end, the heathen’s mother threw her own daughter under the proverbial bus in order to garner a lost hour of sleep once a year.
Map of West Virginia counties (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The governor of West Virginia, Earl Ray Tomlin, introduced Senate Bill 359, an educational reform bill, which will be voted on soon. Teachers have given the bill a big, fat F, which in my opinion has nothing to do with reform.
Reform- to amend or improve by change of form or removal of fault or abuses.
I’m not going to go into each point of the bill, only to say that it is a slap in the face to all educators in the state of West Virginia. You know, teachers in the Mountain state make one of the lowest salaries in the nation. Many teachers head east to work outside the state borders to garner higher wages. But, in the end, teachers are working the best they can, despite the obstacles that are coming directly from the higher ups.
Obstacles, you say? Absolutely. Someone a few years ago had decided teachers need to test more. I give a beginning Math and Reading test at the beginning of the year. I give Benchmark tests twice a year in four subjects and the students have two online writing tests to get ready for the big one in March. The Westest is held in May. Now, mind you, this is on top of the tests I give weekly in Social Studies, Reading, Spelling, and Science. I also have to give end of the year tests.
I would just rather teach.
I’m 56 years old and I think I received a pretty good education when I was young. We memorized our multiplication tables. We learned our state capitals, had spelling bees, and wrote and presented book reports. It was all about Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. We grew up fine. Some of my peers did better than fine.
Ok, this was before my time….but we had those desks.
But, something along the way changed. Someone has decided that to exist in the 21st century, we must bathe our children in technology or they will surely die. So, in the elementary setting we are testing, and we are teaching technology….on top of Handwriting, Math, Spelling, Grammar, Reading, Science, Social Studies, and Health. And we are doing this in crowded classrooms.
If you want to reform, let’s first take a look at teacher/student ratio.
The governor wants to require early childhood education programs to be made available five days a week for the full day; allowing program to be for fewer than five days per week and less than full day under certain circumstances.
I don’t understand this. This is not the reform that we need. Before adding new programs, we need to address the teacher/student ratio in k-2. Class size should be limited to no more than 16 students and the curriculum should be restricted. Let me explain:
Years ago, there were a lot of two-parent households. A lot of the moms did not work outside the home. Someone was there to make sure students did their homework, and were more hands-on. Now, I’m not saying that a lot of people don’t still do that. Of course they do. But, for the most part, it is fact that the divorce numbers are much higher than they were years ago. Even without divorce, economics force both parents to work. Some single parent households need help. Grandparents are raising many of the children. Many children come from homes where abuse is a way of life. Drug use is more prevalant than it was years ago. Some children go to bed hungry. Yes, I realize that has also happened in the past, but in the end, the classroom is now a home- away- from- home for a lot of children.
I have fifteen students this year in my fourth grade classroom. Last year I had twenty-one. Six less students makes a world of difference. And those teachers with twenty-five and twenty-six students are overwhelmed. I know my students. I can look at one and know she is not feeling well because I know her so well. I send her to the office to get her temperature taken…101.6. I smile and give her a hug as she leaves to go home. I know not to give much homework because it is an unfair advantage to the several who are lucky to have a piece of notebook paper or pencil at their homes. No one goes through their backpacks at night. No one helps them practice their multiplication table. My mom drilled me nightly when I was in third grade. I knew them when I went to fourth grade. Some students in general just have no clue. Some children have behavioral issues. Some are learning disabled. Some have attention deficit problems. This is not the same mix of students that I went to school with, but yet, nothing has changed in the way of class size.
So, I teach time management skills in the classroom and basically let them do some homework during class time. This only seems fair to those who aren’t lucky enough to have help at home. Sure, in the end, fourth graders can learn to do their homework on their own, but they need guidance and direction..but sadly, a few are not receiving it at home. They are allowed to sit and kill things while playing their video games. And I know a majority of the boys do this. I ask these things…. Technology at its finest. When I was young we had three channels on tv and the World Book Encyclopedia as our internet. We honestly didn’t have much to do but our homework on school nights.
When you shove many children into a classroom, something is lost. So, let’s begin our educational reform by taking a look at teacher/student ratio. I know you won’t, because that would mean hiring new teachers. It’s bad enough that the governor wants to hire anyone with a bachelor’s degree to enter the classroom. You are going to be opening a can of worms if this hiring practice is passed, however. It will change the scope of teacher education in this state forever.
I know some of you will not agree with me on this next point, but I think technology is making us stupider. (Yes, I realize that is not a word.)
“The fog of information can drive out knowledge.”
Don’t get me wrong. I think technology in the classroom is great. I use it in some form every day. If we are studying volcanoes, I have a volcano simulator waiting on one of the computers. I have a penguin cam up some days. There are many, many internet sites that are extremely beneficial. That’s not what I am talking about.
The state of West Virginia implemented a program called Tech Steps. All students from kindergarten on must complete about six assignments. In my opinion, this program should not be used in the elementary school setting. Why do elementary school children need a technology component when we should be concentrating on core subjects? If you want our test scores to rise, don’t inundate us with work that can wait until fifth or sixth grade. You are making us waste precious time. Do third graders really need to learn how to use a spreadsheet? Sure, we are in a different world now, where computers and technology are at our every turn. I get it. I think it has merit in junior high, but not in the early grades where everything depends on them learning the basics so they can go on to the next year and build on that.
In the end, it is not the same as it was. We are forced to test too much when we should be teaching. We are forced to teach more children in our classroom than is beneficial to their educational growth. We are forced to teach technology, when in fact, we should review our multiplication one more time instead of completing yet another techsteps assignment that will have no bearing on other important educational milestones, such as defining words, rounding numbers, and correcting a run-on sentence. K-2 teachers should be teaching a limited curriculum, plain and simple.
There are only so many minutes in a day for an elementary school teacher. We have to teach Spelling, Social Studies, Science, Math, Reading, Grammar, handwriting, and Health. We are also referees, bankers, counselors, and health inspectors.
So, Senate Education committee people, there you have it; the rambling of a fourth grade teacher. If you truly want an educational reform in West Virginia, start with kindergarten and give those teachers a small class size. We teach with kids squished into our classrooms because that’s the way you want it. We test and test and test to make sure we are testing because that’s what we have to do. We teach technology subjects that the wee ones should not have to be introduced to until an older age. We do all this because you told us to. If something is broken, it’s not with the teachers. It is with the system. Please be careful with every point of our governor’s education reform bill. It needs to be chewed up and digested to see if it sits well with teachers. Take us in consideration instead of pointing fingers at us. Because after all,
You can lead a student to the test, but you can’t make him pass it.
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Several men dressed like Abe Lincoln will gather on a knoll tomorrow morning, proclamation in hand, and will proceed to yank a fat squirrel out of its heated den. Crowds who have gathered on this cold cold February morning will wait with bated or alcoholic breath, whichever comes first. Will Phil see his shadow? We must know.
Another Groundhog Day, another prediction. Will we have another six weeks of winter or will spring be right around the corner? According to Wikipedia, ” if it is cloudy when a groundhog emerges from its burrow on this day, then spring will come early; if it is sunny, the groundhog will supposedly see its shadow and retreat back into its burrow, and the winter weather will continue for six more weeks”.The Weather Channel is already telling us we are going to have six weeks of winter. So, why all the brouhaha over a sleepy chubby squirrel?
Ok, a groundhog is not a fat squirrel. I apologize. A groundhog is a member of the squirrel family, but much larger than the ones I see eating out of the bird feeder. Putting that aside, I’d still like to know how the people in a small Pennsylvania town decided years ago they have a weather prognostigator?
“Hey, look at that groundhog! I can see his shadow. Do you think that means something?” I mean, how did this weird ritual start?
And it is weird. Think about it. People drive from miles around to gather in the cold to watch the town leaders grab a sleeping groundhog from its luxury living quarters, hold it up, and then proclaim to the masses if there will be six more weeks of winter. The crowd will clap and yell “hoorah” or moan and go home…or back to the bar. When did we start believing a groundhog? Why not a raccoon? They are smart enough to take the lid off of a garbage can. Surely they too, can predict the weather?
Ok, I know we don’t really believe a groundhog, but how did the people of Pennsylvania believe in it enough over the years to create such a tribute to weather forecasting? I just had to know.
I have written several times about the little varmint Ground Beaver DayGroundhog DayGroundhog Day and a Haiku or Two in the past, but really never took a look at how this event started. I actually have this on my bucket list. Sure, why not drive up there one year just to say I did it?
English: Welcome to Goolers Knob – Groundhog Day 2005. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Well, it looks like Groundhog day began as a German custom in the 18th century in this country. When German settlers arrived in the 1700s, they brought a custom known as Candlemas Day. Supposedly, a custom in ancient European weather lore used a badger or a hedgehog as the prognosticator. Seeing there aren’t too many badgers or hedgehogs in Pennsylvania, I guess the groundhog was the next best thing. It has been celebrated in Punxsutawney since 1886 or so. In Europe, it was the tradition on Candlemas Day for the church official to bless candles and hand them out to the people in the middle point of winter.It also has something to do with Mary and Jesus, but I didn’t want to go in that direction, so I ignored the religious meanings of the day. So, If the sun came out February 2, the mid point of the season, it meant six more weeks of winter. Tomorrow will be Punxsutawney Phil’s 127th prognostication.
Shouldn’t he be dead?
So, when you turn on the Weather Channel in the morning, you will undoubtedly witness the faux Abe Lincolns pulling a fat squirrel out of a den on Gobblers Knob in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. It’s a big deal. And maybe the ground hog will be alive, celebrating its 127th year of forecasting or maybe he is an imposter for the real Phil, who no longer sees his shadow. Regardless, it is a tradition in our country that is here to stay. In fact, there are many “Phil’s” in different parts of the country. Afterall, the weather in Florida is different than Pennsylvania. It is known as “The Sunshine State.” Of course Phil would see his shadow down there. And that surely wouldn’t mean six more weeks of winter in Florida. That means, “Hey, I saw my shadow because I am in freaking sunny Florida.”
Here are some of the other “Phil’s” that will be called upon this February 2:
French Creek Freddie – My home state of West Virginia.
A pissed off French Creek Freddie
North Carolina has five prognosticating groundhogs- Grady, Nibbles, Queen Charlotte, Sir Walter Wally, and Mortimer. ( I fancy the Sir Walter Wally moniker)
Tennessee- Chattanooga Chuck
Georgia- General Beauregard Lee
Canada- Wiarton Willy
New York- Staten Island Chuck
Ohio- Buckeye Chuck
I could go on and on. There are many famous fat squirrels that will be pulled out of their dens tomorrow.
Happy Groundhog Day! (Whatever the hell that means)
I was sitting at our local lazer wash the other day thinking back to the first time I ever went to an automatic car wash. I grew up in Weirton, West Virginia, and the new “automatic” car wash had just opened “up on the hill” near our home. I can’t remember what kind of car we had back then, but the whole family jumped in when my dad told us a car wash opened where you sit in the car while it is being washed. What??? No taking a bucket of water, soap, and a garden hose out into the driveway anymore? Well, not that I really helped wash our cars in the first place. I was and still am, a “non-finisher.” I just really can’t finish anything all the way through. Same for washing the car. I would get one side done and then spray the other side with the hose to knock some dust off and call it a day. You could never see that side from our picture window, so it looked like I did a great job.
When we pulled up to the new car wash, we had to wait in a line because, as all things new, people wanted to experience this new-fangled way to wash a car. It was the 60′s, after all, and inventions were just waiting to be invented. When it was our turn, a guy motioned for us to move up a bit. We then had to put the car in neutral. They guy then took some gigantic hook and put it somewhere in the front of the car.
“Will that pull off the bumper?” I thought that was a pertinent question.
The guy told my dad to make sure all of the windows were rolled up. We were ready. There was a little jerk and our car was on some track through a little building with these scrubber things on the sides. The noise was loud and the water was really hitting the windshield and roof of the car. To be perfectly honest, it was a bit scary. Those brushes were right up against our windows and then one roll up over the car and down the windshield. Hey, this was fun….but not really.
After we were done, there were two teen-age boys who wiped our car with dry cloths. My mom had to interject her authority of being Queen of Weirton.
“Make sure you dry the car good….and there better not be any spots of dirt anywhere.”
Oh, but there was. When we pulled into the driveway, she had my dad not park the car in the garage. She wanted to inspect the job the new automatic car wash did on our family vehicle.
“Well, we won’t be going there again.” I remember there were seven places that were missed. I smile at this because I can’t remember what I did fifteen minutes ago, but I can remember my mom ranting about SEVEN missed places on the car after visiting the new automatic car wash “up on the hill.” She loved to find something to bitch about. My dad was probably relieved that he wasn’t at the end of this particular rant. I remember thinking he was going to like this new car wash. Anything she disagreed about, my dad was then quietly all about.
So, one day I was sitting, watching tv, with our dog Smokey, on our lap. It was a hot summer day and my dad must not have wanted to wash the car by hand. I mean, who would want to, now that we basically had a robot to do it for us? He asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him to the car wash.
Since Smokey was already sitting on my lap, I just picked her up and carried her a la Paris Hilton with her prized chihuahua to the car. Smokey often rode in the car. As all chihuahuas, Smokey was a yapper. Yap, yap, yap. But, who knew what was about to transpire.
Well, Smokey went ape shit. The noise first scared her and she buried herself beside my hip. We were yanked ahead on the conveyor belt. When the brushes hit against the car, that’s when Smokey defended her territory and her family. She ran over to the window and bared her teeth and growled and barked like she was ready to take on the brushes. She ran back and forth, over my dad and over me to each window. She was going to save us from this barrage of red and yellow bristles attacking us.
Rotating brushes inside a conveyor car-wash. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I should have counted how many times she ran back and forth. My dad also found it amusing. Smokey the chihuahua was fighting with the brushes at the automatic car wash.
When we got home, Smokey was exhausted and fell fast asleep on my dad’s lap.
The next few times we went to the car wash, we took Smokey along for our pleasure. It seems so cruel now to put the little yapper through this sort of animal abuse, but you have to understand I never once thought I was being abusive. I just thought it was really really funny.
And each time we got home, my mom would disappear downstairs for a few minutes. We knew she was heading for the garage.
English: The Rocky Mountaineer boards at Banff. Image by User:Leonard G. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I was little I traveled on Amtrak from Pittsburgh to Spokane Washington with my mom, brother and sister. It took three days and three nights and I fell in love with train travel from that point on. I never traveled by train again until last summer when I thought I would take a different mode of transportation to visit my daughter in New York City. I think I smiled all the way into the Big Apple. There is something about the clickety clack of the train as it travels over the countryside and the whistle blowing at interections that I just really enjoy.
For years I have said my “trip of a lifetime” would be to travel through Canada by train to Victoria and Vancouver, supposedly some of the most beautiful cities on the planet. I know others would probably choose a more exotic location if they were choosing “a trip of a lifetime,” but mine is Canada by train.
Well, I just booked a trip for this summer aboard the Rocky Mountaineer through the Canadian Rockies. This is a trip I have had on my so-called bucket list for several years now. I haven’t been able to go because of my poor old cat, Whiskers. She passed away in October, so it looks like I will have some free time to take a trip longer than three nights.
I am beside myself with excitement. I decided not to travel all the way from Halifax to Vancouver just yet. I mean, I watched the episode of Sex and the City where Samantha and Carrie traveled to San Francisco by train. They were miserable. But, then again, I don’t think they left New York City too often, and I have to realize they weren’t really real people, so I need to erase that visual out of my mind.
I looked at routes and found this Rocky Mountaineer train. Hmmmmmm, this is right up my alley. I can’t get this song out of my head.
Rocky Mountaineer is a privately owned company. They offer three classes of service; Red Leaf, Silver Leaf, and Gold Leaf. The Gold Leaf offers perks for someone who is taking “a trip of a lifetime.” I want to travel in a glass enclosed train car and walk down a spiral staircase for a gourmet breakfast and lunch.
I want complimentary drinks even though I don’t drink…much. So, I booked the Gold Leaf, which also gave me deluxe accommodations in the hotels.
Hotels, you say? Yes. Depending upon the route you take, you can stay overnight on the way to your destination. I was overwhelmed with the choices and routes. The packages are called things like “Circle Rail,” “First Passage to the West,” and “Journey Through the Clouds,” just to name a few. I had to mull over where I wanted to start and where I wanted to end.
Photo credit: Fresh Tracks
I decided to fly from Pittsburgh to Vancouver, and then travel on their “First Passage to the West” in reverse and fly out of Calgary. Six delirious nights. And it isn’t just train travel. There are things to do when you get off the train if you wish. And I wish. So, this is my itinerary. I liked what Rocky Mountaineer offered in their package design especially for what I would like to do on this trip, but in the end I decided to go with a travel agency called Fresh Tracks/Canadian Train Vacations. The only main difference between the two companies was Fresh Tracks was going to have someone waiting for me at the Vancouver Airport for the drive to my hotel. The cost was about the same for both and I loved working with both companies.
I booked “The Essential Rockies” with Fresh Tracks. My custom built itinerary looks something like this:
Day 1- Fly into Vancouver. I added a second night in Vancouver because I was afraid if my flight from Pittsburgh to Toronto to Vancouver was delayed or something, I would have another option to get to Vancouver before the train left the station. I plan to take a bus over to Stanley Park, which is the third largest city park in North America. It looks beautiful. I will be staying at Sutton Place. The reservationist on the phone told me that there are a lot of movies filmed in the Vancouver area and a lot of celebrities and crew stay at the Sutton. That would be cool to ride an elevator with someone famous.
Day 2- Discover Vancouver and Grouse Mountain Sunset Tour- I will be traveling by trolley to the base of Grouse Mountain, where I will take the largest gondola in North America to the top of the mountain. Much to do on top of the mountain.
Day 3- Ahhhh My Rocky Mountaineer adventure begins. I will be picked up and transferred to the train station where the fun begins. They have an open vestibule on the back of each car where I plan to be for a good bit of the time, pretending to be a photographer. The pictures I have seen of the Canadian Rockies are majestic, and I can not wait to experience it behind my own camera lens. First night stay in Kamloops.
Day 4- My adventure continues as we travel to Banff. This is supposed to be the most magnificient part of any train route through the Rockies. We will pull into Banff in the evening and I will be transferred to my hotel, The RimRock for two nights.
Day 5- I added this part to my itinerary. Day 5 was supposed to be a free day to visit and walk through the town of Banff. And I want to do that, but I also wanted to travel to the Athabasca Glacier and drive onto the glacier in a special Ice Explorer. It’s a nine hour tour. I will be picked up at my hotel and with a small tour, stop at sights along the way for general sightseeing there and back. It will be interesting to stand on a glacier. I don’t get to do that too often in West Virginia.
Day 6 Leave Banff and meander through the Rockies with a private guide stopping along more majestic picture taking opportunities. We will then end up at Lake Louise. I can not wait to stay there. Lake view. I will have to take a canoe ride.
Day 7: Alas, my adventure will end today at the end of the month of June. I hope for clear, sunny days, and fault-free trip itineraries. I will keep you posted. My driver will take me to the Calgary airport for my flight for home. I guess I should have mentioned that I am doing this by myself. A couple of people told me it wouldn’t be any fun by myself. Hmmmm. I think I’m a lot of fun. Add Canada and a train to the mix and the fact that I don’t know a stranger, I think I will be just fine. I mean, I did a test run and flew to Disney World by myself last year. If I can do a solo trip there and not feel lonely, I think I’m good to go.
All twelve tokens from the U.S. Deluxe Edition Monopoly. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I have played Monopoly in the past, I have always reached for the iron as my token. I know for a fact I have never played with another token. I never came across another friend who just had to have the iron too, so I guess that was good because I wouldn’t have played. I guess when you find a right fit you just have to go with that one each time. And the iron and I made our way around to pass Go many, many times. So, imagine the horror when I heard today that Hasbro, the maker of Monopoly, is going to send one of the little steel tokens to jail……and they can’t even pass Go first.
What a great marketing ploy. Hasbro has set up a Facebook page and is letting people vote for which token gets to stay and which one will replace it. I went to the site to see how this was going to unfold. The choices to vote for are the car, thimble, shoe, dog, ship, hat, iron, and wheelbarrow. I wish we could vote for which one gets to go, but alas, we were only allowed to vote for which one we wanted to stay.
It’s funny, but I think baby boomers are going to feel the same way about this that I do. Oh, sure, in the whole scheme of things, I really don’t give a rat’s ass about the impending doom of one of the Monopoly tokens, but yet again, off I went to vote to save my beloved iron.
The options to replace the permanently jailed token are a helicopter, a diamond ring, a cat, a robot, or a guitar. I immediately voted for the diamond ring. It makes sense and goes with the game. What the hell does a robot or a guitar have to do with Monopoly? Ok, I guess an iron doesn’t make much sense either, but you know, whatever.
So, baby boomer friends of mine, what token did you use when you played Monopoly?
I used to watch the Rose Parade every New Year’s Day for years before I was told all the floats were made of flowers. Maybe I just didn’t listen much to the commentator:
“And here’s a float from McDonalds…blah blah blah blah..roses.”
I was hyper when I was little, so maybe I just couldn’t watch and listen at the same time. The floats were beautiful. And it was named after a flower. Hence, the name, Rose Parade. I thought maybe it was named after a woman…….Rose McGillicuddy of Pasadena…..Ok, I made that name up. But why roses, I asked? Why not the Purple Cone Flower Parade or The Natural Material Parade?” I didn’t ask that when I was little. I’m asking that now when I am older and still challenged in so many ways. But, since I love to learn about insignificant things, I headed to google, king of all kings.
So, it looks like The Rose Parade started way back in Pasadena, California on January 1, 1890. The Rose Bowl football game was added in 1902 to help fund the parade. I thought that was pretty interesting.
The whole reason the parade started was to showcase the mild California winters. Many members of the Valley Hunt Club, the organizers of the very first Rose parade, were former residents of states in the east and midwest. One member announced at a meeting, “In New York, people are buried in the snow. Here our flowers are blooming and our oranges are about to bear. Let’s hold a festival to tell the world about our paradise.” I would think the man should have said the oranges were ready to be picked, but I guess that’s how the hell they talked back then.
And so they did organize a little parade to show off how wonderful Pasadena is in the winter and how putting flowers on moving things made the freezing New Yorkers jealous enough to withdraw all of their money and move to their sunny community. What confuses me is the fact there was no television in 1902. People elsewhere would have to read about it in a newspaper. So, in the end, I am thinking the Valley Hunt Club wanted to ride down the street on their horses.
They had horse drawn carriages adorned with flowers. After the parade, there was a chariot race, tug-of war and other games which drew about 2,000 people. After a few years, the parade got too big for the Valley Hunt Club, so the Tournament of Roses was formed and later a football game replaced a chariot race, which was a big deal of the whole celebration.
English: A Tournament of Roses Chariot Race from 1908. The race was later replaced by the Rose Bowl Game in Pasadena, California (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The floats of today take about a year to construct. According to Wikipedia, “It is a rule of the parade that all surfaces of the float framework must be covered in natural materials (such as flowers, plants, seaweeds, seeds, bark, vegetables, or nuts, for example); furthermore, no artificial flowers or plant material are allowed, nor can the materials be artificially colored.”And this is what bothers me. I mean, it bothers me just a little, but enough to gripe about it. Isn’t this a waste of nature?
I’m beginning to think somebody in the Valley Hunt Club was a florist.
Think about it. I bet you there are more florists in the Pasadena area than anywhere else. Ok, maybe flowers are shipped in from other flowery places. Tulips from Holland, perhaps. Acorns from a forest in the Applachians. I don’t know. But, this has got to be a boon for florist owners and growers. I guess that is a good thing for the economy. But, what happens to the flowers and natural materials after the parade. Do they go into the biggest compost pile in the world?
So, being that my mind is still a bit hyperactive and all over the place, I wondered about other wastes…..like Christmas trees. I have a bit of a problem with cutting down beautiful pine trees, dragging them home on top of a car, sticking them in the corner of a room and putting things on it….only to throw it away come New Years Day. Poor pine tree.
But then again, everything is like that, isn’t it? Chickens are raised only to have their heads cut off so they can be served on our dinner plates. Corn is grown on farms just so we can eat popcorn and cornbread stuffing. I guess I could go on and on. So, in the end, flowers are grown for the Rose Parade. I guess I have to live with that.
That being said, I think it is our responisibility to watch the Rose Parade to see the beauty of Pasadena’s mild winter and of course, the magnificent floats. They are beautiful. Band members nation-wide fund raise their little asses off to be able to be part of the parade. Our very own East Fairmont High School was able to participate in the Rose Parade several years ago. That was a big deal. And it was exciting to watch on tv. I didn’t notice the sunny environment of California, however.
Is this still the objective? Regardless, watch the parade tomorrow. Kudos to the Valley Hunt Club of 1890. They came up with a great idea. Look how many people are now living in California.
English: Bicentennial Mexico ~ Rose Parade January 2010 ~ Pasadena, California Español: Bicentenario de México durante el desfile de las rosas en Pasadena,California. Enero 2010. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
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It all started with Groundhog Day, you know. There was a famous groundhog prognosticator in Pennsylvania, and soon after cities came up with their own weather fortune teller whistle pig. Such is the case with the big New Years Eve ball drop.
When you think of New Years Eve, all those who don’t live under a rock know about the ball drop at midnight in Times Square in fantastic New York City. I took a picture of it from the top of the Rockefeller Center when I was there this summer. It’s just not the same, I guess, as being there smooshed up against thousands of people on a cold, drunken New Year’s Eve.
The first ball drop in Times Square took place on December 31, 1907. According to Wikipedia:
“The first New Year’s Eve celebration in what is now known as Times Square was held on New Year’s Eve 1904. The New York Times newspaper had opened their new headquarters at One Times Square (at the time, the city’s second tallest building) and persuaded the city to rename the triangular “square” surrounding it for their newspaper (which the city later did on April 8, 1904). The newspaper’s owner decided to celebrate the opening of the company’s new headquarters with a midnight fireworks show on the roof of the building on December 31, 1903. Close to 200,000 people attended the event, displacing traditional celebrations that had normally been held at Trinity Church. After four years of New Year’s Eve fireworks celebrations, the newspaper’s chief electrician Walter F. Palmer constructed an electrically lit time ball that would be lowered from the flagpole on the roof of One Times Square. It was constructed with iron and wood, lit with one hundred 25-watt bulbs, weighed 700 pounds (320 kg), and measured 5 feet (1.5 m) in diameter. It was first lowered on New Year’s Eve 1908 (December 31, 1907).”
The Times Square ball drop is one of the best-known New Year’s celebrations, attended by at least one million spectators yearly. The Times Square ball drop has also inspired other drops across our great nation. So, if you can’t be there in New York City for the ball drop, and don’t really care to watch it on tv, you can always check to see if your city has a creative drop of their very own. Not all cities drop balls. Some cities use their famous icon to ring in the new year. It is obvious the state of Pennsylvania loves to share their symbols on New Years Eve.
* Saint George’s, Bermuda- a Bermuda onion wrapped in Christmas lights is dropped.
* Key West, Florida- A gigantic conch shell is dropped. There is also a gay bar that drops a giant ruby slipper with a drag queen inside. Fun times.
* Miami, Florida- The Big Orange Drop. Well, Florida is the orange capital of the world. “Mr. Neon” was recently renamed, “La Gran Naranja,” which I am thinking means the big orange. I really know my spanish.
* Atlanta,Georgia- The Peach Drop. Georgia loves their peaches.
* Gainesville, Georgia- Chuck the chicken drop in honor of the humane society.
*Harrisburg, Pennsylvania- strawberry drop.
* Tallapoosa, Georgia- they drop an oppossum. It started out as a joke and has now grown as their biggest yearly event. I hope it isn’t alive. The Possum Drop
* Cincinnati, Ohio- A flying pig is not dropped, but flown, maybe to show there is at least one time “when pigs fly”.
* Allentown, Pennsylvania- a replica of the liberty bell is dropped.
* Akron, Pennsylvania- a gold and purple shoe is dropped.
* Beavertown, Pennsylvania- a beaver is dropped. I hope to God it isn’t real. PETA would be all over them.
*Bethlehem, Pennsylvania- a Peep is dropped. Yes, one of those yellow Easter peeps. The company that produces Peeps is based there. I was happy to see they aren’t dropping baby Jesus in Bethlehem that night.
*Blain, Pennsylvania- a wooden cow is dropped from a silo. Moo.
*Cleona, Pennsylvania- a pretzel is not dropped, but raised. Why, Cleona, are you raising the pretzel? Not cool.
*Carlisle, Pennsylvania- an Indy car is dropped.
*Cornwall, Pennsylvania- a Cannonball Drop.
*Dillsburg, Pennsylvania- two pickles are dropped. I guess one should drop a pickle in Dillsburg.
*Duncannon, Pennsylvania- a sled is dropped….without any kids holding on I presume.
*Easton, Pennsylvania- a crayola crayon is dropped early in the night to accommodate little kiddie’s bedtimes.
*Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania- a giant M& M is dropped.
*Falmouth, Pennsylvania- a stuffed goat is dropped.
*Frogtown, Pennsylvania- a frog is dropped. This is getting sort of redundant, no?
*Gratz, Pennsylvania- a wildcat is dropped.
*Halifax, Pennsylvania- a hemlock tree. Oh, come on, now!
*Harrisburg, Pennsylvania- a strawberry is dropped. My son has been to this one.
*Hershey, Pennsylvania- a Hershey Kiss is dropped. Well, this makes sense.
*Hummelstown, Pennsylvania- a lollipop is dropped.
*Ickesburg, Pennsylvania- a french fry is dropped. These people are just bored.
* Lebanon, Pennsylvania- a giant stick of bologna is dropped.
*Lisburn, Pennsylvania- a pair of yellow pants is dropped. Can’t wait to read the history on this one.
*Liverpool, Pennsylvania- a canal boat is dropped.
*McClure, Pennsylvania- a kettle is dropped in honor of their Bean Soup Festival.
*Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania- a wrench is dropped. The Wrench Drop
*New Oxford, Pennsylvania- an antique trunk is dropped.
*Palmyra, Pennsylvania- The Giant Shoe is dropped.
*Pottsville, Pennsylvania- a bottle of Yuengling beer is raised. I bet those attendees are having fun that evening.
*Red Lion, Pennsylvania- a cigar is dropped.
*Shippensburg, Pennsylvania- an anchor is dropped.
*Strasburg, Pennsylvania- ping pong balls are dropped.
*Shamokin, Pennsylvania- a chunk of coal is dropped, turning into a diamond when it hits the bottom….like magic…oooh
*Hilton Head Island, South Carolina- a giant golf ball.
*Fredericksburg, Virginia- a pear is dropped.
*Mobile, Alabama- a moon pie is dropped. Yes, a moon pie and then the manufacturers of the moon pie hand out about 5,000 of them to revelers.
*Wetumpka, Alabama- a meteorite is dropped in honor of the meterorite that hit the city. Um, ok.
*Fayetteville, Arkansas- a hog is dropped.
*Panama City, Florida- a beach ball is dropped.
*Pensacola, Florida- a pelican is dropped.
*Des Plaines, Illinois- a diamond is dropped.
*Manhattan, Kansas- “The Little Apple” is dropped. I get it. Cute.
*New Orleans, Louisiana- a gumbo pot was dropped for a while. The new drop is Fleur-de-lis. Like I’m supposed to know what that is.
*Bartlesville, Oklahoma- an olive is dropped.
*Memphis and Nashville- a guitar and a music note.
* Plymouth, Wisconsin- a cheese wedge is dropped.
*Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin- a dead carp caught by locals is lowered.
* Show Low, Arizona- a deuce of clubs cards is dropped.
*Flagstaff, Arizona- a pine cone is dropped.
*Tempe, Arizona- a giant tortilla chip.
*Honolulu, Hawaii- a pineapple is dropped.
*Vincennes, Indiana- watermelon drop. Many engineering students across the nation drop watermelons and pumpkins throughout the year.
So, there you have it. There are New Year’s Eve celebrations all across the world. Many more cities just drop a ball, but some places use their representative symbol to usher in a brand new year. Happy New Year to all!
I have decided to have my own celebration….. I am going to drop a few pounds.
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My dad was one of those unfortunate souls who could not get a decent night sleep. I believe I was in junior high when I first noticed he was having a problem with insomnia. I guess after tossing and turning and turning and tossing, the poor guy would start roaming through the house while the rest of his slept. His night roaming was a disaster for the rest of the family at first. My mom made sure if he woke her up, he was going to wake up the whole damn family.
After tossing and turning, my dad would get up and turn the light on beside his bed. My mom and dad had separate twin beds just like the couples we watched on tv. Laurie and Rob Brady had single beds. But, when my dad would turn on his light, it would wake up my mom, who in turn woke us up next door.
“Dammit, Elwood, turn the light off!” Mom rarely cursed in front of us when we were little. Cursing in front of sleeping children didn’t count.
So, my dad would then stumble out of bed every night without turning on a light and would immediately yell out after walking into an object in the bedroom.
“Dammit! Son of a bitch!” This would be followed by my mom. “Quit waking up the whole household! You should know where the hell you are going.”
Since I was hyperactive, I had a hard enough time getting to sleep myself. I would also wake up if I heard as much as a pin drop. So, I could hear him get out of his bed, shuffle slowly like a ninety year old man wearing scruffy slippers, and then appear in the hallway and down the hall into the kitchen. Our house was not large, so the three bedrooms were grouped together at the end of the house. I could hear him turn on the kitchen lightswitch and then I would know what was coming next. He was heading to the refrigerator.
After a while, he wised up and purchased a small flashlight for his nightly forays into the kitchen. I could hear the refrigerator door open. It stayed open for a long time. My mom would yell at us if we stood too long with the refrigerator door open.
“What’s in there is in there. Nothing is going to magically appear. Get what you need and close the door……….It isn’t an air conditioner.”
But, I could listen to my dad’s nightly excursions and know he kept that refrigerator door opened for a long, long time. I don’t know why, but it made me smile. My mom yelled at my dad all damn day. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. The poor man was damned. She was the definition of a rolling pin woman. So, he had the power to keep the refrigerator door open in the middle of the night way past her imposed time allotment. You go, Dad.
By high school, I was moved downstairs. My sister and I fought so much and I kept telling my parents I needed my own room, so they eventually agreed and divided our large rec room into a small rec room and a bedroom for me. It was so quiet down there, except that I could hear faint walking on the floor above. I could no longer hear him or see a hint of light from my bedroom. I was so happy to be in my room, but I did miss my dad’s night walking a bit.
Flash forward years ahead to just last night. I made the mistake of drinking a Coke after 8p.m. That means disaster for me. I was stupid and wanted to stay up late getting some Christmas decorating done. I knew what was going to happen. And it did. Dreaded insomnia. I read statistics that stated 40-60% of people over 40 suffer from insomnia. Even if I didn’t drink that Coke, I haven’t slept through the whole night in years. Years. So, when I stared over at the clock on my nightstand and it said 2:35a.m., I was pissed. I wanted to get to sleep.
When I was little, I used to rub Vicks Vapor Rub under my eyes in order to keep them shut. It burned like hell and made me look like an idiot for doing it. (See my Vicks Vapor Rub post) So, that option was out. I thought about the proverbial counting sheep.
Who the hell started this “Hey, I know….if you can’t sleep, try counting sheep” scenario? I just didn’t get it. I visualized a fence with sheep going over it…..1……2…….3………the hell with this shit.
getting ready to jump over the fence
Really? Counting sheep? I had to google it.
According to Wikipedia, “In most depictions of the activity, the practitioner envisions an endless series of identical white sheep jumping over a fence, while counting them as they do so. The idea, presumably, is to induce boredom while occupying the mind with something simple, repetitive, and rhythmic, all of which are known to help humans sleep.”
I don’t know about you, but if the idea is to induce boredom, why not transfer boredom for relaxation and plant yourself on a beach with a book, listening to the waves crashing while counting each pebble of sand? I mean, at least put me in a relaxing situation, not in a field with sheep poop and a bunch of sheep bleating as they jump over a fence. Yeah, my sheep bleat while jumping, mainly because FREAKING SHEEP DON’T JUMP! I mean, maybe they can, but not like a horse…. or a mexican jumping bean.
If anything, shouldn’t one count sleeping sheep? Jumping sheep are active, so your mind stays active counting the little shits as they jump over the white fence (that needs painted, by the way.)
1…..2…..3……4….zzzzz
In the end, I guess what works for some may not work for others. Counting sheep is stupid, in my opinion. I just read about eight articles that agree with me, although the word “stupid” was not used in any of them. But, if you insist on trying to count sheep as a sleep aid, the best advice I can give you is to stock your refrigerator, because, like my dad and millions of other insomniacs, you will end up standing in front of it.
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A lot of people have bucket lists. You know, a list of things you’d like to do before you “kick the bucket.” For a lot of people, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade live from the parade route is near the top of their bucket list. I now can cross this off of mine.
I flew to New York City to spend Thanksgiving with my daughter. At first we thought we would just get up a bit early, grab some breakfast and just head up to the parade route. I thought if I just snapped some pictures of the balloons from afar, that would be good enough. But, after googling and reading about the parade, I thought since we were there, we might as well do it right.
We woke up at 4:30 and were at Dunkin Donut at 5:00a.m. We decided we better not eat or drink anything since we wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom for at least five hours. That is really hard for me. I can’t even imagine taking kids to watch the parade.
We thought we were prepared for the weather. It was going to be 52 degrees and sunny for the day and when we left it was 43 degrees, so I knew we wouldn’t freeze. My daughter suggested I pack my Uggs and wear them to the parade. My Uggs were in a box in my closet. I had never worn them. I don’t know why. So, I packed them and put them on for our adventure. I also brought extra gloves for Alex.
So, we were off to the parade. We rode the subway and got off at 59th Street and Central Park. I read where the parade is top and bottom heavy, so I thought something along Central Park would be a good place to stand. Not too north, and definitely not south where people probably camped out all night. I’m thinking this way because we saw chairs and blankets saving spots along the parade route. That didn’t seem fair to me. That’s like how people run down in the early morning and put their towels down to reserve beach chairs at a resort. Except in this case, there was always one person standing over the reserved area. If you are going to want a place up front, get your ass out there and stand like the rest of us. Sort of pissed me off.
We finally found a little crack in the armor and were able to find a place right in front of Trump Plaza.
I looked around to make sure there weren’t any kids around. There’s nothing worse than being in one spot for hours with a lot of children. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m a fourth grade teacher after all. But, kids spill stuff and move around and hang on gates, and some will just not stop talking. I just wanted to wait for the parade without much fanfare. Morning was breaking, so we decided to sit down on the cold concrete and wait the time away.
My daughter looking excited to wait for hours
The time just went by slowly. I didn’t mind, however, since I like to people watch and eavesdrop on conversations.
Central Park was across the street. I love that place. There were blockades marked “Police Line: Do Not Cross” and that side of the street stayed vacant for a good part of the early morning. Later, I found out that ticket holders who were family members of the NYPD and firefighters were able to stand all along the Central Park side of the parade route. I thought that was nice. Soon, that side of the street was filled with people, but they did get to sleep in longer than us non-ticket holders.
It seemed like we waited forever. I knew better to drink my bottled water, but I did take a few bites of my Dunkin donut. We stood up and stretched, only to find three people now standing behind us. They were taller than us, so I am sure they were happy about that. We soon struck up conversations with all those surrounding us. Some people were from Louisiana. Some were from Connecticut. The couple to our left were from Brooklyn. I don’t know why, but I think people are a bit shocked when I say I’m from West Virginia, like we aren’t allowed across the state line or something. Someone asked me how I liked New York City. Sometimes I just can’t believe the things that fly out of my mouth.
“Well, I really never cared to visit a large city like this and never wanted to come here…. I’m all about raccoons and squirrels….blah blah blah.”
What? I few minutes later, my daughter looked at me, burst out laughing and said, “Really, Mom. That’s what you’re all about….raccoons and squirrels?” She started laughing at me so hard she was crying. It was so normal of me to say something so stupid. I just had to start laughing too. At least I wasn’t wearing camouflage like the lady from Louisiana. Maybe she understood me. She was probably all about crawdads or something.
Well, we could see a helicopter hanging out above us and we could hear sirens off in the distance. The parade was supposed to start at 9:00 up around 77th Street. We figured the parade would be to us around 9:30. And then it began.
We were excited
The police presence was just unbelievable. They were every where. There was a bomb sniffing dog that took a liking to Alex. A guy wearing a red cross button was walking the dog on our block repeatedly. He told the dog to give Alex kisses. Since we were sitting on the ground, the dog obliged and wagged his tail, taking a break from sniffing for bombs to love on Alex for a minute. He was sweet.
Kermit, sneaking up behind this cop
Some of the balloons seemed pretty sad, helium speaking. Kermit was low to the ground and saggy in some spots. A lot of them were like that. Kermit wasn’t going to look pretty for the cameras down in front of Macy’s department store. That’s when the people behind us told us there were floats and singers we wouldn’t see. What?? I wondered how the parade could start on NBC at 9:00, but yet we were on 59th and the parade didn’t get to us until 9:30. There was another street of performers and balloons somewhere that hooked up to where filming took place for the tv land people. They would perform and then go to the end of the parade. We began to feel gypped a bit. Who weren’t we going to get to see?
I really enjoyed all the people who were dressed up in crazy costumes. They were so full of energy and would come by giving up high fives and throwing confetti in our faces. It was fun.
I had fun laughing during the parade. Some of walkers were having a hard time balancing their heads.
It was fun seeing celebrities. We saw Jimmy Fallon and Kareem Abdul Jabbar. I was able to take a pretty good picture of some of them.
Whoopie Goldberg was a pirate. I don’t know why.
And then there were singers like Trace Adkins, who I didn’t really know about since I am not a country fan. I did notice he and his wife should have been happy that people from PETA weren’t around with some paint.
fur wearing people
I don’t know why I got so excited to see the cast on the Sesame Street float, but I did. I watched Sesame Street every day with my kids when they were young. So, I yelled Bob’s name.
Bob really had no choice but to look in the direction of the crazy lady screaming his name.
Bob is looking at me
Singer Flor ida…or Flori da…or Flo rida. I have no idea.
I yelled at Mr. Planters on top of the Peanutmobile to look over our way so I could get a good shot, but he wouldn’t look at me. What a nut!
Creepy elf balloon
In the end I took more than 75 photos. It was fun. I am now able to cross this item off of my bucket list. I still need to travel to Devil’s Tower, travel Route 66, and sit by Loch Ness with a rented bag piper, waiting with my camera for Nessie. I have a lot of items on my bucket list.
The Macy’s Day Parade is a once in a lifetime experience. Notice how I said, “once in a lifetime?” Would I do it again? Oh, hell no. Not in a million years. I was cold and I had to pee. But, I got to spend time with my daughter, and that was priceless. I missed my son, though. That would have made the day perfect. But, that perfect day will come when they both fly home for Christmas.
As we left after the parade, I took my best shot of my whole trip.
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My fourth grade class was debating yesterday as to who should win the election today. I just sat back and listened to their reasoning. Or lack of reasoning. But, one thing is clear, they repeat what they hear in their household, and in the end, most of the reasoning I heard was well, scary. I think I heard three students say something that made me feel their parents are informed.
When I was in fourth grade, if someone asked me who was president, I may have replied, John F. Kennedy. Oh sure, I knew he had died on my parent’s anniversary several years before I was in fourth grade, and I knew that the gunman was gunned down by some night club owner, but I didn’t know who took his place. Wait. That’s a lie. I remember my grandfather talking about “LBJ, that goddamn snake in the grass.” So, our president was LBJ….Grandpa liked Ike, whoever the hell that was. Later, I found out it was Eisehower, who was president before “that catholic boy.” My grandfather was all about being a republican. But, I was nine years old and had important things to do like go to Campfire Girls meetings and play chinese jump rope. I didn’t care about politics. The only thing I knew at the time was that presidents used initials and short nicknames instead of their names….Ike….JFK…..LBJ. I was VLM. My friend Ramaine was RAC. Lori was LAM, and LeeAnn was LAW. I was pissed because my middle name messed everything up. I could never have pretty monogrammed towels.
And kids really didn’t pay attention to who was running for president back then. But, that changed when we baby boomers had kids and talked about it more and the kids listened. Why did they listen? Well, because our kids stayed indoors more than we did when we were young. We were outside as long as it wasn’t storming. Well, my mom forbade it to lightning on Woodland Estates, so we were outside most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, my kids played outside plenty, but the mid 80′s were different than the mid 60′s. Kids of the mid 80′s listened because they were around the parents more.
English: Seal of the President of the United States Español: Escudo del Presidente de los Estados Unidos Македонски: Печат на Претседателот на Соединетите Американски Држави. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My daughter became a big fan of CNN when she was little. She liked Tucker Carlson and his bow tie. She became interested in the environment when she was very young, getting mad at the Harrison Power Plant and its wicked plume of black smoke that came out of the stack. She was in tune. Both of my kids were. So, they listened. She pointed out later, “Mom, you are so not a Republican. And Dad……he is definitely not a Democrat.” They listened and picked up on things. And she was right. I changed my party years later so I could vote for Obama.
But, back to my fourth graders. I let them go at each other. One said that Romney hated the Earth. Another said that Obama was going to close all of the coal mines in the state. (West Virginia)
“I’m voting for Romney. Obama doesn’t believe in God.”
“I’m voting for Obama because Romney is a Mormon.” When asked what a Mormon was, the child told me, “It’s a man who has a lot of wives…and that is just wrong.” Another boy added, “I think having a bunch of wives is wrong….but if they could cook, it might not be so bad.”
“Romney is going to win because Obama is going to make rich people pay more taxes.” I asked if his family is rich. “Yes, my mom works at Walmart.” A girl laughed and replied, “Working at Walmart doesn’t make you rich. You have to win the lottery if you want to be really rich.”
“Obama is a terrorist. His middle name is a terrorist name.” I asked him what Obama’s middle name is. “Something like Muslim or something.” Another child laughed at his response. “Muslim is not a middle name. It’s something you sew with.” Um, okay, muslin is a cotton. Points scored for knowing fabric.
In the end, their rants and reasons for voting for their respective candidates were highly amusing…and sad at the same time. I had to wonder:
Do people really understand the issues or do they vote because of what they hear from others the same way children form opinions from watching and listening to their parents and believing it is right and just?
It that is the case, which I think it is in a majority of people, we would always see the proverbial snake in the grass.
The important thing today is to exercise your right to make a decision of some kind. It may not be for the best reasons, but we are lucky to be in a country where we are free to make a choice, even if is because you just like the man. Reagan received a lot of votes because people just liked him as a person. If that alone makes you get in your car and stand in a line to vote, then good for you.
For those of you who have been following my blog for several years now, you know it is time for my Daylight Saving Time rant. Yes, it is time for all of us to take down our clocks and turn them all back an hour tonight. Well, it ends at 2 a.m. I am sure there are some people out there who are OCD enough to wait until exactly 2 a.m. to turn them back. The rest of us will change them before we go to bed tonight. I shall be mumbling and cursing as I change each time machine.
I just re-read my Daylight Saving Time posts from the past and it is clear I have issues with the stupid time change. And it is stupid. My economics professor son told me once there is a savings. I say “No way, Jose!” It messes up the workings of my inner clock and that’s all I care about. It takes me almost two weeks to feel normal again. Well, as close to normal as one can feel.
All I know is that it will now get dark earlier until Daylight Saving Time begins again on March 10, 2013, when we spring forward yet again. I find this yearly thing a little monontonous, especially when there are problems associated with this procedure…. My beside alarm clock adjusts itself. Well, my former clock adjusted itself and it is now in a landfill somewhere nearby. It decided to change back an hour on a Wednesday in the middle of October. I woke up an hour later than reality and barely made it to work on time. Damn Daylight Savings Time. I got to school and realized that I only put mascara on one eye. Maybelline hates Daylight Saving Time too, I imagine.
I think the only good thing about Daylight Saving Time is that it is also known to be a time to change the batteries in your smoke detector to make sure they work. The Energizer battery company endorses that, you know. So, you will be reaching and dusting and changing clocks and changing batteries tonight. Life just sucks.
Arizona, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, U.S. Virgin Islands and American Samoa do not observe Daylight Savings Time. These are the smartest people on the face of the earth. There are also 75 countries that do not observe the time change. Again, smart people. The rest of us should rise up against the machine. I have no idea what the hell that means.
Here are my Daylight Saving Time rants. I would write more today, but how many times can one beat a dead horse? Apparently, I try more than three times. See you in March for my next rant. I am not a happy camper when that one enters the picture.
You know, this is all George W. Bush’s fault. Yes, I realize he has enough blame on his plate, but he is the one that changed it to the first Sunday in November. I remember the day well:
On Monday August 8, 2005, then President Bush signed into law an energy bill that extended Daylight Saving Time by four weeks beginning in 2007. Since 1986 the United States had observed Daylight Saving Time from the first Sunday in April through the last Sunday in October. The new bill calls for Daylight Saving Time to begin three weeks earlier on the second Sunday in March and end on the first Sunday in November. Why? Why can’t this madness just end? No, Georgie wanted three more weeks of Daylight Savings Time….so we all could save what? I don’t know.
The mastermind behind Daylight Saving Time is Benjamin Franklin…. inventor, statesman, and someone who played out in lightning storms one time too many. He wanted to save candle burn time. Well, guess what? We now have freaking electricity.
In the end, I’m not saving a damn thing that I can tell. I’m wasting. I’m wasting time writing about Daylight Saving Time when I could be doing something more productive……like changing the batteries in my clock or something.
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As I was watching the students at recess while I was on playground duty Friday, I took notice that none of the kids play actual games. There are swings and seesaws and sliding boards to keep their attention, but if they aren’t on one of those, they are usually running amok. There is screaming and chasing without reason. I don’t hear the words monster, villian, or bad guy mentioned at any time. They would never use the word villian anyway. They are just amok runners.
So, I stood there, trying to think back to when I was little. Did we act goofy like that? I mean, I am sure we did, but at least we were organized with a goal in mind kind -of- goofy. And that goal was to stay away from someone who had cooties or run faster than a fox or wolf who may be chasing us. And that made me think of playing Colored Eggs.
Colored Eggs was a childhood game that we brought to the playground. Well, I tried to bring it to the playground at the Sister Mary Mary Immaculate Academy. I played it at home with all the neighbor kids, and since we really didn’t have much in the way of a playground at this nun academy other than gravel beneath of swings and a leaning sliding board, our recess was a wash. So, I thought that I would mention Colored Eggs to the other kids standing around because they didn’t want to go down the slide ten times in a row because there wasn’t anything else to do.
The object of Colored Eggs was to be quicker than the fox. There was going to be a lot of chasing with this game. First, the kids had to decide who wanted to be the fox first. If no one spoke up, I volunteered, because, well, because I had my reasons. Then we all had to quietly pick a color. We sat in a circle on the grass when we played this game at home, but since the nuns had spread gravel under our feet so it would cushion our fall, gravel was not fun to sit on with your legs crossed.Plus we had to wear stupid uniforms. My skirt went down to my knees, so I could completely hide my legs under it while sitting down if I wanted to. And I wanted to. Back then we called it sitting Indian style. Nowadays I hear the kindergarten aide telling the kids to sit Criss cross apple sauce. What? See, this is one reason I don’t teach the little ones. Who would have thought that the way you sat down would be considered politically incorrect.
So, anyway, after everyone chooses a color and sits down, the fox stands to the back or side and calls out a color. The person that silently has that color needs to stand up, run quickly around the circle and get back in his or her spot before the fox can tag them on the back. We sat in a wide circle. For some reason I always always called yellow. I called yellow because I knew that every time we played Adele Stillman would pick yellow. She never changed her color. I would position myself close to her so that when I called yellow, I would be on top of her. Was that cheating? No, I was a fox, dammit, and foxes are crafty. I was being crafty.
I yelled, Yellow, and Adele took off. Too bad I knew her past behavior and I was on that chick faster than you can say creamed chicken on biscuit. She was now the fox and I had to quietly pick a color. Sometimes kids picked the same color and it was easy for the fox to pick off someone. When it was my turn to sit on the fun gravel, I had to move those ugly gray rocks around and position myself to where there wasn’t a piece of gravel biting me somewhere, like my butt. Once I was comfortable, I wasn’t going to get up and run around. I was done. So, I picked an odd color.
My mom unknowingly helped me master this art of not playing the game.
“Mom, what are some other colors beside yellow, green, blue, red, and white?”
I thought gold or silver would be good enough but the next time we played the damn fox called out silver. I had to jump up and wrinkle my nest of smooth gravel with my shoes as I took off to avoid the fox. And trust me, it is not fun to run from the fox around the circle and then plop yourself down once you made it around safely. It’s a hard landing and I had little sharp gravel points all over my legs and butt. Stupid gravel spreading nuns.
“Can you think of other colors?” Surely my mom didn’t think I was asking because I wanted to broaden my color horizon.
My mom took me downstairs where she kept all of her thread for sewing. It was like a goddamn rainbow. She read the colors off the thread for a good five minutes. “……..and there’s beige, maroon, turquoise, violet, burgundy, lime, pink, lavender, and umber.” I never understood why she had so many colors. I don’t remember her ever making me a top that had lime in it. She came home with a spool of thread every single time we went to Grants Department Store. She was a thread hoarder I am sure.
Anyway, I had an arsenal of color names that were just not used when playing Colored Eggs. After volunteering to be the fox first, I could make my bed and lie on it, never to get marked up by gravel again. Stupid nuns.
I knew that there would be no way anyone would ever call, “Umber!” That sort of made me chuckle. Of course, I had no idea what the hell umber was, but my mom was the one who told me it was brown like, so the rules did not state to use common colors. I was a very smart second grader I thought. But it was all in the name of not getting sharp gravel biting me on the butt.
I also realized that you could lie. I mean, who the hell knows what color you picked? You didn’t have to write it down. I learned that after some smartie said my color, “violet” and I just really didn’t want to run, you know, because of my nest. So, when Winston demanded to know my color, I would say one that hadn’t been called yet. I realized that pretty soon they were all going to be mad at me, so I would oblige once in a while to take sharp gravel on my ass for the team.
All in all, playing Colored Eggs was fun. I taught my own children strange colors like magenta, and ecru, but realized that they had grass to play on. Being a yellow or a red was not so bad…..if you could out run the fox.
It’s really easy to get me addicted to new things. After my divorce, my friends talked me into coming over to Facebook….to farm. I did. Farmville kept me up late at night. Well, someone had to harvest the damn wheat crop. And then Pinterest reeled me in. I have over one hundred boards. Why the hell would I need one hundred boards? Yes, I’m easily addicted. I’m just glad I never started smoking.
Several months ago I started playing Angry Birds. I mean, what the hell is wrong with me? I play one game a day and am in a weekly tournament. And this on top of writing two books this summer. As I look around my living room, I notice that it is neat as a pin. Well, it should be since I have been on this damn computer most of the time. And now SongPop has invaded my life. But, I’m not too happy about this one.
SongPop is my newest obsession. A friend invited me just last week to play them in this fun Facebook game. I didn’t understand how to play at first, so I was already screwed for the week. A friend sends an invitation to listen to a few tunes and then you can pick the answer from four choices. No one told me there was a time limit. Right now I am playing about nine people. And I’m ready to throw in the towel and I will tell you why.
This game is a great test of reaction times. Most of the people I play are about 20 years younger than me and I can’t press the button fast enough. I know a lot of the answers, but it’s like I mosey on over to the button with my mouse. What the hell? This is a sure way to let me know that I am getting old. It’s actually pissing me off, because I am actually really trying and I just can’t ring in fast enough. I’d suck if I were on Jeopardy.
A Facebook friend wrote that she was done with SongPop due to the fact that she feels that she has a neuropathy problem. She is a sarcastic lass like me, and I hope she doesn’t really think that she has a problem. I’m just pissed off that age has robbed us of our rapid fire response finger. We are getting old and SongPop has just slapped us across the face. We can’t play with the big dogs anymore. Well, I guess I should only speak for myself. I can’t play with the big dogs anymore.
But, that’s not all. I don’t know music like I used to. I still know all the words to Aqualung and Hotel California. I know my Disco and Classic Rock. I don’t know a damn thing about Modern Rap or Latin Radio. My daughter was home this week and she sat on the couch playing SongPop and would send me songs in the Latin Music genre. Thanks, sweetie.
The fastest I have been able to buzz in on a song is Ice Ice Baby. How sad is that?
In the end, I guess the older I get, the worse my response time will be. Pretty soon someone will take my car keys away from me for fear that I will hesitate and then pull in front of a truck or something.
But, then again, I always sucked at Hungry Hungry Hippo. Maybe it’s just me.
I must live under a rock. I have no idea what the hell is going on most days. And then I get laughed at for being such a dingbat. I mean, I’m fifty-five. Is that old? I don’t feel old. Well, I do moan when I bend over to pick things up. Ok, I’m old.
But, I always thought that I was with the times. My mother-in-law used the word “dungarees” for jeans until the day she died. My mom favored, “pocketbook.” I don’t think she ever used the word, “purse.” I thought I understood contemporary slang. Nope. Not at all.
It all started with me overhearing one of my kid’s friends saying something about watching MTV Cribs.
MTV Cribs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I think this was like when it first came out circa 2000. Well, hell, I thought they were talking about singers who had children. Seriously. I really did.
“I didn’t know that Moby had children?” I thought I was really with it because I knew who Moby was. I got laughed at. Then it was explained to me that cribs=homes.
“That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.” My daughter laughed at me. Well, I guess I was. It didn’t get any better. I sure as hell had no idea that “hooking up” meant having sex with someone. How casual people are speaking nowadays. I heard this on tv one night:
“So, did you guys hook up last night?” Back in MY day that would have meant “So, did you guys meet somewhere last night and then go to the movies or something?” And yet, my daughter is the one who scoffs at me because I still use the phrase, “Are they going together?” Well, hell, back in the 70′s that meant going steady. What the hell is wrong with that?
So, now I am getting really made fun of at the school where I teach because I didn’t understand “That’s what he said.” WTF are you talking about? Evidently, I often say things that my perverted co-workers laugh at and then insert that comment. I didn’t know why. And that made them laugh harder. I mean, why say that after I talk about the snow fall from the night before. “I only got an inch or two last night.”……that’s what she said. It took me a while.
My biggest misunderstanding came from the History Channel show, American Pickers. Just a few months ago, after talking about heading out to go antiquing, someone asked me if I ever watched American Pickers. I thought that was a pretty random comment, considering we were talking about antiques.
“No, to be honest, I am not a real big fan of Country music.”
Yeah, so they laughed. Hell, I didn’t know it was about guys hunting around barns and whatnot for antiques and collectibles. I thought it was about people playing fiddles and banjos. Seriously.
So, it was no surprise that I didn’t understand my two friends when we were leaving dinner last night and they were laughing and making motions with their arms like a “raise the roof” motion. I drove up to them and rolled down the window.
“Padiddle!” They both yelled and then laughed. “You’re headlight is out, Vickie.” Of course, it doesn’t pay hanging out with girls in their late twenties when I am in my mid-fifties. I realized I have no idea what the hell is going on. So, I just laughed.
So, when they read this blog post, they will laugh again because I am just so clueless about Padiddle. I had to look it up on Wikipedia:
“Padiddle is a night-time travel game with the objective of earning points by spotting vehicles with a burnt-out headlight. You must say “Padiddle” and hit the ceiling of the car as fast as you can, while driving.”
So, Sheena and Erin were laughing because it is a game that is supposed to be played in the car while traveling. I thought they were laughing at me because I just bought this car and it already had its headlight burned out. I guess that makes me feel better…….. No, don’t feel better. I’m still a dingbat.
I don’t remember my kids ever playing “Padiddle.” I sure as hell didn’t teach them. And if they played it and I don’t remember them playing the car game, then I have bigger problems than not knowing what things mean.
I am too old for this shit. Why can’t we just keep playing Slug Bug?
My mom made it quite known to me after I had children that she didn’t believe in bragging about her children. Well, Mom, that was obvious. All I was doing was calling her to tell her both of the kids made it to the state social studies fair. I mean, that was an awesome feat that siblings could win the local and then county Social Studies fair. And since she lived two hours away, she would not have know about any of this.
Regardless, I had to hear her tear me down one more time. “Vickie, I think that’s great. You know, you three kids did a lot when you were little, but I never believed in bragging.” No, no you didn’t mom. Well, except when it came to my stomach.
Now, you have to understand that I really didn’t excel at much. I didn’t play a musical instrument. I did try out for our junior high band, if that is what you want to call it, but they just refused to hand me a clarinet or flute or whatever the hell I wanted to learn to play. We had to take a music test of some sort and I really couldn’t hear the difference in tone. I was a tone deaf clarinet challenged retard. It was just another test that I flunked. Like the early entrance test to start school early.
I did win a safety slogan contest when I was in fourth grade and even got a little trophy. That was a big deal. I think my mom came up with the slogan though. I’m not sure. I’m just saying that to continue on with my “I really didn’t excel at much” scenario.
I wasn’t much on selling stuff to win contests in our Bluebird and Campfire Girls troop. I absolutely hated going door-to-door and asking people if they wanted to buy goddamn light bulbs or magazines or even candles. I remember the candle drive. I think I went to five houses and each lady of the house bought something, but I just was tired of that bullshit and went home. I was actually doing pretty well, but I just wasn’t into it. Thank goodness I didn’t have to collect money during the sale, because then I would have had to follow through with it.
My best friend won a selling contest and got to wear a Clorox bottle crown, sit in the front row and hold flowers. I was happy for her because she sold a shit load of whatever we were selling. It wasn’t for me, so I just smiled for the picture as a loser in the back row. Not that the other girls were losers in the back row. Sorry, MaryLou. Talking about me, not you.
So, no, I didn’t excel at much and my mom didn’t brag about me too much….until summer time rolled around.
I don’t know what it was in my neighborhood, but for some reason we liked to lay out in the sun. Like all the time. If we weren’t at the pool, we were laying out. And I laid out on our back patio on a towel. On the concrete. You’d think that my parents would buy some porch furniture for the back, but they never did. That just dawned on me right now. I know my mom always said that the sun didn’t like her and she rarely sat outside, well, because there was no place to sit. We had one lawn chair on our front porch and that was it. So, I laid out on a towel.
The summer after I was a freshman in high school was the summer of my great tan. I was quite dark. I mean, like really dark. And my stomach for some reason was the darkest. I had a little egg timer and would roll over when it would ding. I was like frying my body. Would think that I would look like a piece of leather or a shriveled up raisin now that I am in my fifties. Oh contrare. I still look quite young. Well, that is what my fourth graders tell me. They think I am 30. …brown nosing little shits.
So, whenever my mom and dad would have company or one of her women friends stopped by for coffee, gossip, and cigarettes, my mom always called me into the kitchen.
“Vickie, show her your stomach.”
“What?”
“Lift up your shirt and show her your stomach.”
Um, ok. I would lift up my little summer shirt to reveal my stomach. And my mom would then laugh and say something different each time, depending on who was sitting there, sharing her coffee.
“Now is that a Florida tan or what?”……………..”Look how dark she is.”……………”Have you ever seen anyone so dark?”………………….”I know. She looks almost like a black person.”………….”And she puts baby oil on her stomach.”………………….”and it really doesn’t fade…………”
She didn’t care what I was doing. If we had company and it was summer time, I knew at some point I would be raising my shirt. “Vickie!…..Vickie!!…….Come up here!…..” I wished she didn’t have friends.
So, the bragging began. No, it wasn’t for being smart as there weren’t any A+ papers on the refrigerator. No, it wasn’t for winning a slogan contest or for even singing Are you Sleeping, Brother John in front a whole auditorium of Campfire Girls or memorizing everyone’s line during the church Christmas play. No, my mom bragged about my stomach tan.
Typical.
You’d think that with the invention of tanning beds that I would still be a fool for a tan. When I did have a pool,I had a tan, but it was a SUN tan. Those tanning beds are not the same thing. My sister has a sun tan business and about 12 beds in her place. I laid in it one time years ago, and felt like I was in a damn coffin. It just wasn’t for me. I am more of a plant me under the sun kind of gal, and haven’t done that for a few years. When I go to the beach, I head under an umbrella after a while as I guess “the sun doesn’t like me” anymore.
When I was young I am pretty sure that the tv commercials were directed right at me. Now, you have to understand that we only had three channels on our tv set. Thank god we didn’t have QVC or Home Shopping Network then because I would have been grounded for using my mom’s credit card every other day. Well, if we had credit cards back then too. Shit, we didn’t have much back then.
First of all, Saturday morning cartoons rocked back in the 60′s. I got up early and watched them all morning. Well, before my mom shooed us outside to play. I loved Foghorn Leghorn. He was my hero. I would sit glued to the tv set all freaking morning, because the commercials were just as exciting for me. And when I first saw a commercial for Soaky Bubble Bath Time, I was beyond excited. I mean, you could take a bubble bath AND have a prize. The bottle was a cartoon character. This was unbelievable to me. I’m sure I was sitting there with my mouth open. This was an exciting time for this little skinny little seven year old. The year was 1963……. and it was bath time.
Soaky Bubble Bath Time….Wow, what a great way to take a bath. I had to have this. My mom, however, was never on board with anything at first. She came up with an excuse that as a seven year old I could not possibly understand.
“Vickie, I am not buying bubble bath soap………….it will not make you any cleaner…………..no it won’t…………no it won’t……………Vickie, there is so a bar of soap in the bath tub………………………….yes there is………………well, I’ll tell you what, let’s go and take a look…………………………..Ok, where did you hide the soap?”
Ha! I knew she was going to cause me some problems, so I hid the soap before we had this conversation. I was soaky bubble bath time smart. But, then she confused the hell out of me.
“Vickie, I am NOT buying you this so-called Soaky Soapy Bubbles.” Ok, first of all, stupid mom, it was called Soaky Bubble Bath Time. But, I let her go this time, because she was not finished.
“The soap can give you an infection.” What? Sitting in a bath tub can give you bronchitis? My mom was a loon. Oh, but once again, she was not finished. She saw the expression on my face and decided she needed to be more precise with her statement. “It can make your deet itch, Vickie.”
Ok, I have to tell you that I thought everyone in the world called their female private part a “deet.” That’s what my mom called it. When I was young I always had to make sure that I washed “down there real good” when it was bathtime. And of course, I knew when I was quite young that that area was always last with the washcloth. And you know, well, that was always a great piece of advice. But, I didn’t want an itchy deet. But, was she lying? She lied to me a lot.
“Vickie, Dr. Parker said that bacteria in the water can make your deet itch…………………I realize that soap is not bacteria………When did Dr. Parker tell me this? A while ago………………yes, he did…………….yes, he did……….Vickie, I am not going to argue about this. I am not buying bubble bath. I can’t use bubble bath.
Why the hell would my mom use a Popeye Soaky Bubble bath bottle? She doesn’t even watch cartoons. She made no sense. And when she said “no,” that only meant one thing: ask Dad or Grandma.
So, the next time I stayed at my grandparent’s house was the first time I bathed with a Soaky Bubble Bath Time. I have no idea which cartoon character I took a bath with first, but I am thinking it was Elmer Fudd. But, I could be making that up. I can’t remember. Grandma Orpha always thought I was going to drown or she was cheap as shit because she only gave me about 1/2 inch of bath water. Well, it wasn’t up to my armpits like we had it at home every night. I poured in a cap of the bubble bath and played for a while. I loved going to my grandmother’s house. I asked her if I could take Elmer Fudd home to share with my brother and sister. Yeah, like I was really going to do that. Grandma said I could take it home with me. My mom was not amused.
“Vickie, it can’t make your deet itch right away.”
Ok, fruit loop, how long does it take? Well, it didn’t matter. It was already brought into the house and we used it that very same night. I still took a bath with my sister, so we had a good old time. We played “Ethel and Mabel” most nights during bath time anyway, so adding bubbles to the mix made bath time so much more fun. We used up all of the washcloths and put soap in the middle of the washcloths and then would fold the cloth over the soap and then punch it to make the soap spurt out. What fun we had. We stayed in there until our fingers looked pruney. My mom didn’t care. She was able to sit and smoke a few cigarettes in peace while we were in the bath tub.
“Bath time isn’t quite the same without your cartoon buddies!”
So began our soapy bubble bath time. We bought them left and right. We had Mr. Magoo and Popeye, and Sylvester kitty cat. My dad even had a use for Sylvester. He had a huge flagpole in the backyard and somehow the finial blew away or just fell off of the top of the flagpole. So, what did he put up at the top of the flagpole for all the neighbors to see every day? You got it. Sylvester the cat’s head.
Yes, we Mendenhalls were high class, that’s for sure. But, what is for sure is that reports came out years later that bubble baths weren’t so good for girls and women…..and their deets. But, it was already too late. We went through a lot of bottles of Soaky Bubble Bath time soap without any “girl” problems. My best friend, Ramaine, and I would even laugh and say, “deet de deet” and sing it to the Pink Panther theme song when we realized that no one else called it that. It was now our private little joke. Why the hell did my mom call it that?
Just a few minutes ago, here in 2012, I private messaged Ramaine on facebook and asked her if she called her deet anything else when she was little. It’s so funny that I can still ask her stuff out of the blue as bizarre as what we called our deets back in the 60′s and she immediately has an answer for me. I mean, when was the last time we talked about our deets? When we were 13? Her memory is so much better than mine. She reminded me about the “deet de deet” and that in her family they called it “cho cho.” I guess each family may call it different things, like how my mom called my little budding breasts, “mosquito bites.”
In the end, I am just glad I never went the bath salt route. Because, we all know what happens when people use bath salts. An itchy deet would be the least of their problems.
When I was young I watched a program on tv about Sasquatch. Scared the hell out of me. Of course, this program talked about the Canadian hairy guy, so I didn’t think that he could cross the border and head south to find me in West Virginia. But, I had questions for my mom, nontheless. She was, afterall, from Sasquatch country. She was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. Sasquatch was right across the border.
“Vickie, Sasquatch is in Washington and Oregon too……….people out in Northern California have been calling him Bigfoot………Well, they have a name for him all over the world…….”
Say what? Bigfoot could be in my backyard? This was not good.
It was bad enough that I watched that tv program, but the next year, 1967 I believe, a guy by the name of Patteson had evidence. I sat with my eyes glued to the tv set as a home movie camera recorded Sasquatch walking in the woods. Dear God, he is real! And he crossed the freaking border. I was eleven years old and impressionable.
This was not good, especially when a neighborhood cat suddenly disappeared one night. I immediately blamed it on Sasquatch. He supposedly smelled like rotten eggs and had a howl that could put chills down your spine. So, of course I heard the blood curdling scream the very next night. I rushed into my parent’s bedroom.
“…….Vickie, what are you doing up? It’s past midnight……………………You did not hear Sasquatch………Vickie, I am not getting up……………….Vickie, no I do not smell rotten eggs………..He couldn’t make it to West Virginia that fast…………He is probably in Montana……besides, he can’t cross bridges………………….because he is afraid of bridges.”
I went back to bed but heard Sasquatch seven more times. I cracked my bedroom window so I would be sure to hear him if he was in the neighborhood.
“Vickie, I don’t want to see your window opened at night again. Do I make myself clear?”
Well, hell, I won’t be able to hear him coming then. “Can Sasquatch disappear like the Indians believe?” Hey, I asked my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Garrity. She told me a few Indian beliefs.
My mom nodded her head, lighting up a cigarette, amused by something. She laughed, “Vickie, your eyes are darting back and forth so fast. Stop it.”
My mom had neglected to mention that my Uncle Don, her brother, had seen a Sasquatch when they were little and he was fishing with some friends out in the wilds of Washington state. That meant Sasquatch was an old Sasquatch then. I felt relaxed.
“The Indians believe that Sasquatch appears and disappears and that’s why no one can catch one of them.”
Ok, shit, my mom just said, “them,” like there is more than one of them. This can not be good.
Sightings of Bigfoot in USA based on information from the BFRO Geographical Database of Bigfoot/Sasquatch Sightings & Reports (accessed 2009-04-08). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Well, since we only had three television stations and the internet wasn’t invented yet, I didn’t have a way to keep tabs on the big guy. I was obsessed for maybe a week and then I moved on to something else. But, Sasquatch was kept on file in my head.
So, when I had children and Al Gore finally invented the internet, one of the first thing I searched for was “Sasquatch.” Well, the very first thing I searched for was wooly worms. I know, I’m a strange bird. But, the internet put me in touch with a data base that included sightings of the hairy ape man. There were thousands of sightings. If the internet was around when I was ten or eleven, I would have had a child ulcer. I was worried about one old Sasquatch in the Pacific Northwest when there was a sighting in Pocahontas County in West Virginia when I was six. Thank God I didn’t know about it.
So, when my daughter had to make a Social Studies project for school and she really didn’t want to do it, I gave her a suggestion; “How about Bigfoot?” She didn’t care so I started finding information for her. I emailed a Bigfoot expert in Montana by the name of Dr. Jeff Meldrum and he responded to her. I chuckle when I see him being interviewed on almost every Bigfoot documentary ever made since that time.
Alex won the school’s Social Studies fair and went on to the county fair and won first place. We then drove down to Charleston, our state capitol for the state competition. That was fun….for me. I was like a Social Studies stage mom. Alex did not care at all. But, I did. I put a lot of time and energy into her project. She even had a large map with pins indicated where there were Bigfoot sightings. She had a tape recorder to let the judges hear a Bigfoot scream. We made a model cast of a Bigfoot’s footprint. She was ready and I won Honorable Mention. I mean, she won Honorable Mention. Big foot scored.
I am still a fan of the hairy creature. Do I believe in Bigfoot? Absolutely. I saw one in the McDonald’s parking lot one night, so I know he is real. I took this picture of him. Or I could be lying.
I really loved being in high school during the 1970′s. It was a great time. I went to Brooke High School in Wellsburg, West Virginia. The school had a large population for our area, so the school was divided into four smaller schools under one roof. They were called centers. I was in center 4.
There were many clubs and activities one could join at Brooke High School. Some of them included Future Teachers of America, Student Council, Ski Club, Chemistry Club and Spanish Club just to name a few. I tried to be active and joined a lot of clubs, but none were as fun as the Drama Club. And it was when I was in the Drama Club that I decided to try out for a play.
To tell you the truth, I can’t remember what the hell part I tried out for. The play, Up the Down Staircase, was made from a best-selling book about an inner city high school English teacher.
I just remember that it was a large cast. I did play one of the high school students, but that is all I can remember about the part. And I don’t remember the cast party that was held after the play ran its course, because, um, someone spiked the punch.
I was a sophmore in high school at the time of my very first night of punch drinking. The cast party was held at the home of one of the girls who was in the play. Glenda also happened to be a relative of some sort. She was a senior at Brooke High and was two years older than me. When doing some genealogy work this past year, I was finally able to see how one of the branches in our family tree swung over to her family. I guess we were cousins, after all. I don’t remember ever talking to her.
Since I was only fifteen at the time, I wasn’t a driver. And to tell you the truth, I have no idea who dropped me off at the party or if our parents did the drop off and pick up routine. All I know for sure is that I don’t know much about that evening. I got there, I drank a bunch of glasses of the best punch in the whole world, and the next thing you know I’m at home, unloading the dishwasher while my head is pounding.
I guess I was having so much fun that I told my friend I came with that I had another ride home and that I was going to stay a bit later. That part was true, I guess. I was having fun. I have no idea if I had another ride home or not.
The only visual that I can remember is a large punch bowl sitting on what appeared to be a pool table that was covered with a huge table cloth or sheet. The punch had floating ice in it and it was a pinkish color. There was food on plates on the pool table, and that’s where we all hung out. The food was delicious, and director of the play was happy because everyone who attended the play was giving great compliments. Well, they had to, most of the people who attended the play were our parents and grandparents. Bravo.
Well, I was eating and drinking and having a good old time. I didn’t know that someone had spiked the punch. I was lucky if I only weighed 90 pounds at the time, so I didn’t have much meat on my bones. So, I imagine just one glass of the stuff would have knocked me down. I was told that I had at least three, because I kept telling people how great it tasted. Oh, there had to be a sinsiter high school boy who was snickering right about now.
Now, I have to admit that it is a bit strange to write about something that you don’t remember. That would make for a very short story. But, my mom was able to fill in most of the hazy memories of that night. And she reminded me of it for days, weeks, and months after wards. I guess I was the life of the party.
I still don’t remember who drove me home that night, but my mom was standing at the door with her hands on her hips. I vaguely remember that, but I have no idea who drove me home, other than it was a car load full of people. A guy and his girlfriend were in the front seat, and I am pretty sure I kissed a guy that I was sitting in the backseat with right before I got out of the car. I don’t know for sure. I was a tramp. Or I was going to be a tramp. My mom used that word a lot after that night.
I have to depend on my mom about the rest of the night. I guess I gave her a big hug when I finally made it to the top of the outside steps that led to the front door. The kids in the car couldn’t get away fast enough. I guess my mom was furious, but I was too happy to notice that. My mom said that I kept hugging her and telling her what a great time I had and how they had the BEST dog in the world. My mom said it was useless to reprimand me that night because I was, as she repeated over and over and over again, “Two sheets to the wind.” I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I had a feeling that my mom was drunk that night, because what the hell did a couple of sheets in the wind have anything to do with the fabulous cast party?
Ok, so no, she wasn’t drinking. I guess I was the one who had been drinking. I wish someone would have told me that. My mom said that I could not quit laughing and I was talking a mile a minute, ALL about what a great job I did in the play, sitting there in the “classroom,” remembering my lines and delivering them loud and clear. I was a great actress. She said that I was messing with my little sister, who I shared a room with. My parents were in the process of remodeling the basement and adding a bedroom down there for me. I guess this was one of the last nights that I would be spending with her and I just had to tell her what a fantastic sister she has been to me.
I guess my mom was so pissed at me that she just guided me to my room and that was about all. She said that I took down the covers on my bed, and plopped myself in my bed to go to sleep. I guess I then remembered that I was still wearing my clothes. I guess one shouldn’t go to sleep in their jeans and flip flops. I was still talking and laughing when the first flip flop came flying at my mom. I was still having so much fun. The other flip flop hit her in the leg. I guess I thought that was the funniest thing in the world. The last thing my mom saw before she said, “Good-night, Vickie,” and turned off my lights, was me taking off my jeans and swinging them in the air. When she checked on me ten minutes later, she said I had one foot on the floor and was out cold.
I DO remember my mom coming into my room the next morning at 7:30.
“Vickie, get up. I need you to take the dishes out of the dishwasher.” I opened my eyes, but that’s all I could do. My head was pounding. Wow, I must have the flu or something. I sat up slowly, and my mom was just standing at the doorway, staring at me. What? Why was she staring at me? I was getting up. I looked down and there was a pair of jeans lying on my chest. I was wearing a top and not pajamas.
“Vickie, did you have any idea that the punch you were drinking was spiked with booze last night?” My mom looked at me and told me that if I did that again I would end up being a ”lady of ill repute.” What? First of all, mom, I have a freaking headache the size of a….large guinea pig. That’s what I told her. A guinea pig. Ok. Second of all, I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me to get up and unload the newly fixed dishwasher.
I got up and tried to put the jeans on that were lying on my bed. “Don’t put those back on Vickie. I think you vomited on them.” What? I didn’t vomit. I went to a cast party and came home and went to bed. And all of a sudden I was being called a lady of ill repute and a vomiter. The rest of the weekend was just going to suck.
Well, I finally got to my bedroom door, tripped over some flip flops that my sister was stupid enough to leave in the hallway, and made it to the kitchen. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee, wearing a huge smile. ” Good morning, Drunky.” He burst out laughing. What?
I guess my mom didn’t really want me to get up that early to unload the dishwasher. She wanted to put me under the light and question me like the police do on those police shows. I was so confused. My brain was not wanting to work. She hounded me and asked me a million questions:
”Who brought the booze for the punch?” What booze?
”Who drove you home and who did you kiss in the backseat?” What? I kissed someone?
“What are their phone numbers?” Who? I don’t know who drove me home. Wait. I kissed someone?
The questions did not stop. My mom had called my cousin’s mother who hosted the cast party and she repeatedly told my mother that she and her husband and a few other adults chaperoned the cast party and she had no idea that the punch was spiked. She said no one was drunk. No one. My mom didn’t believe her.
“….and she said no one was drunk or acting drunk. But when you got home, Vickie, you kissed whoever you were sitting with in the back seat as you got out of the car and you were swinging your jeans. You were as drunk as a skunk.” God, settle down, Mom. Besides, when have you EVER seen a skunk that was drunk. I mean, really. Who is the drunk one here?
Well, my mom finally was able to recreate the whole evening because I think she talked to everyone who was there. Everyone. I was grounded until I was thirty. Or until I went to her the next night.
“Mom, I didn’t get drunk on purpose. Someone spiked the punch and I found out from Cindy that I was with her most of the night and I only had two glasses of punch.” My mom ungrounded me.
I can’t look at a punch bowl without thinking it should only be for a spiked beverage. That cast party was a great time.
These must be those ladies of ill repute my mom was talking about.
I couldn’t leave things alone when I was little. I couldn’t sit still and I couldn’t quit thinking and asking questions. So, yeah, ok, maybe I was a bit hyper. I guess the Cricket moniker was appropriate. I am so not like that anymore. I would be a female Richard Simmons (???) if I had continued on with my hyperness. And yes, “hyperness” is a word because I just made it up.
During the warm to hot summer months, the Mendenhall kids played outside about 98% of the time. It didn’t lightning and thunder in Woodland Estates because my mom forbade it. She also had power over the ice cream truck that drove into our neighborhood every afternoon during our nap time. The nerve. Mom somehow stopped that too. He came later, after we were refreshed after our nap or pretend nap. She pushed us out the door, back outside, money in hand for an ice cream cone.
So, I had plenty of time to take in the sights and the sounds of every neighbor and every child on a three block radius. We lived on the corner of Crystal Lane. My bestest friend, Ramaine, lived on Crystal also, at the end of the street. LeeAnn lived next door to Ramaine. So, since I walked down the street all of the time, I knew everything about the neighbors. One lady scrubbed the street in front of her house almost every day. We called her Bungy. Maybe that was her name. I don’t think a woman would be called Bungy, but who am I to judge. I lived in a family with crazy names, such as Orpha, Elwood, Wilma, and Zella. Bungy was normal.
LeeAnn’s brother, Ralph, was in a league all by himself. Can’t explain him, but I did get a chuckle with the things he did on a daily basis. One day, for no particular reason, he put rocks in everyone’s mailbox. And then put up the flag. That was brilliant.
Fernwood Drive was a long road that ran right the other side of my house. There was an empty lot across the street that my dad once had a big black barn on, but that was later torn down. I think we still owned that property and the creek and woods that ran down the street across from the houses on Crystal Lane, so the world was our playground. And believe me, we went on adventures daily.
We decided to make a cabin in the woods one summer. Oh, it wasn’t really built with wood. Girls don’t need a real live cabin. We just pulled weeds around the little locust trees and made “rooms.” The trees were the walls that separated the rooms. Girls have such a great imagination. So, we would then give ourselves new names, like Mabel and Ethel, and begin living in our cabin. Until some little shit neighbors came upon us.
I don’t even know who these little rugrats were. They had to be visiting grandparents who wouldn’t play with them or something. OR, they were not from the two block radius. Which would be unacceptable. And these strangers wanted to play with us. It was like the story, The Little Red Hen, all over again.
Who will help me gather the wheat? Not I, said the pig. Not I, said the duck….etc. etc.
Who will help me play in the cabin? Oh, we will, said the little urchins from outside the neighborhood perimeter.
Yeah, I may have only been about eight or nine, but I knew a sham when I saw one. They waited until all of the work was done, and then strolled on in to play. Not going to happen.
Now, you have to understand that in order to build a cabin, you needed to cut stuff and dig. So, most of my mom’s butter knives and spoons were at the cabin. I did try to remember to sneak them back into the house right before dinner, but my mom somehow noticed the utensils in the sink. And believe me, there were always dishes and stuff in the sink to be washed.
“Vickie, why is there dirt on these spoons?” Damn. I only had half of a brain.
“I dropped them on the floor.”
“Vickie, my floors are not dirty. You took my good silverware outside to dig with again, didn’t you? I know you did it, so don’t lie.”
I don’t know why I was always the one that got in trouble.
But, let’s get back to the strangers. We were getting ready to play restaurant when they came upon us.
“Can we play?” they asked. We all looked at them. And then we looked at each other. It’s like they read my mind.
“Sure!” we all exclaimed.
I explained to them that they would be the customers. They sat on tree roots that came out of the ground and gave a great seating area in the cabin. I can’t remember who was going to be the waitress this particular day, so I will just say it was my sister, Cheryl. Ramaine, LeeAnn and I would be the cooks. Yes. The cooks.
Here, eat this tent caterpillar.
Since I can’t keep my hands off of anything, I was always smooshing or taking apart plants and weeds when I was playing outside. I’m still pissed that I can not whistle through a blade of grass. Damn thing gave me a paper cut on my lip one time, however. Never did that again. I knew where the berries were and wild pears, if there is such a thing. And I knew where the pepper was.
But, the dandelions were my favorite. Dandelions morphed, and I liked that about these flowery weeds.
Now, there are parts of a dandelion that can be picked apart and they look like great pretend food. So, a dandelion would be great for our cabin in the woods restaurant. Of course, how would we know that most of the dandelion can be eaten nowadays.
Ok, so, the menu was limited at our restaurant. We had creek water, pears with pepper sprinkled on top, dandelion and several types of berries and mushrooms. Thank God we really didn’t feed them the mushrooms as I would probably be behind bars today. Hell, we didn’t know some mushrooms were poisonous.
Everyone should have this book if you plan to have a restaurant in the woods.
So, in the end, the kids ordered dandelions and pears with pepper sprinkled lightly on them. And this is the part I really remember, because Ramaine and I were laughing so hard when we watched that one little girl bite into a wild pear with pepper. Now, you have to understand that in the past we ate everything we played with. I tried a wild pear. I tasted the white milky crap that came out of a dandelion, and although I cursed the briar bushes as they raked the shit out of my legs as we macheted our way through them, I tasted the berries too. And we still lived.
So, what the hell is the problem with having a kid eat a wild pear with some dirt sprinkled on it?
I mean pepper.
I never got in trouble for that one because I told the kids my name was Ethel. And I was Ethel when we were in the cabin. Or Mabel. Can’t remember. They didn’t ask where we lived because we told them we just moved into the cabin.
The moral of the story is to never leave your two block radius unless you are prepared to eat dandelions and pears with pepper lightly sprinkled on top.
It’s just our way to welcome you to the neighborhood.
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.
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.
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-
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
I guess there are a lot of things that just grate my nerves. I already wrote about the whistler that was following me in Walmart. I loathe people who chew their food and make that disgusting smacking noise. Keep your mouth shut please. And I want to be a teacher and hold out the palm of my hand to all gum snappers. You know who your are.
I would have to say that gum snapping ranks in my top 5 of “Things That Make Me Want to Slap Someone.” I really can’t stand it.
Years ago, while I was sitting in church, I heard a woman behind me snapping her gum. I looked behind me and gave her a look. Oh, it was just a fake smile kind of look. I wanted to connect the sound to the face to see if I could take her. Gum snappers have no place on this earth. Well, she must have just put the Dentyne in her mouth (I saw the wrapper) and she just really went to town on it. My daughter, also a gum snapper hater, gave me a look that rivaled mine. I was impressed and proud. But, the church gum snapper lady would not stop. No one else seemed to be bothered. Gum snappers remind me of cows chewing their cud. And this cow had to stop.
The church I belong to is not one of those raise your hands in the air and talk out loud kind of churches. But, I wanted to turn it into one of those that Sunday morning. I wanted to raise my hands in the air, sway them from left to right and then stand up and exclaim to the congregation-
“Dear people…. the lord just spoke to me!…… (Gasps from the crowd I am sure) And he told me that this woman (pointing to the gum snapper) is going to be struck down by a Mack truck…..this afternoon….if she does not stop her gum snappin ways.”
I could only dream. Well, I stopped attending church and so I don’t have that problem anymore. Yes, I run away from my problems. It’s hard to do when you are on a plane, however. Yes, there was a huge gum snapper in the airport while we were waiting for our flight to Cancun last summer. There was no way I was going to sit with a gum snapper in a closed in space for a couple of hours. It was not going to happen. I would have to shake and then slap her. I moved from where I was sitting at gate whatever and could still hear her. Shit. Thank God she ran out of gum and even told her husband she was out of gum. She was going to hurry and buy some before boarding the plane, but her husband told her no. She looked like a drug addict waiting for withdrawl. I was pleased.
So, imagine my surprise when I was looking at images on pinterest last night and came across a photo of a gum wrapper chain. Wow, I haven’t seen one of those………..since I made one in the early seventies. Completely forgot about those things.
Wow. I made a gum wrapper chain. I forgot about that. I made one either in junior high or high school. I hung it in my bedroom, running it all around the perimeter of my room. Sort of looked like a narrow little border. My room was about 13×13, so it was a long chain. And I made it. So, was I a reformed gum snapper? I had to think back.
You know, reformed people are the worst kind. Former cigarette smokers are judgemental. They will tell you to your face how bad cigarette smoking is for you. Well, some of them are. I don’t want to piss anyone off here. Some people who never wore their seat belt until they had an accident now won’t start the engine until everyone is fastened up. And some people who didn’t attend church and now found God will let you know all about it. So, was I a gum hater because I once was a gum snapper?
I don’t know how I came across making gum wrapper chains, but I was all about making one. It was easy to learn. Not so easy yesterday, when I tried to make one on my own. I forgot how it was done. Luckily, the interneter gods have photos and videos all about making a gum wrapper chain.
First, you need about a thousand gum wrappers. I remember asking my friends for their empty chewing gum wrappers. Throw away the silver inner wrapper and give me the outer one. I also remember chewing a lot of gum for the gum wrapper chain.
I don’t remember how long it took me to make the chain. I wanted to wrap it around my bedroom. And I refused to stop until I was done. I kept it as one long chain, so I am sure I kept standing on my bed to see how far it had made it around my room. I realize that I could have just laid it on the floor and run it around the same way, but I was an airhead, so I did it my way.
I never made a pattern with my gum wrapper chain like the person did in the above photo. I had no time to be colored coordinated. It was like one of those pot holders I weaved. Random colors. I was all about being random. My OCD anal ways didn’t rear its ugly head until much later.
It’s funny how memories can be supressed. I now remember my mom yelling at me to stop snapping my gum. Dentyne to be exact. It was the most snapable gum. Really. Dentyne.
So, I was one of those………..Wow.
I don’t chew gum so much anymore. I only chew it when I fly because that’s what I was told to do so my ears wouldn’t explode. I was fine this last trip to visit my daughter in New York City. And I didn’t sit by anyone who was a gum snapper either.
I wish I would have kept my gum wrapper chain. I remember taking it down when I went off to college when my little sister took over my room. I simply threw it away. I spent hundreds of hours making that damn thing and I just threw it away.
Maybe I didn’t want to be remembered as a gum snapper.
There are only a couple of things that are great about being 55…..Thinking…Thinking….Ok, there is one great thing about being 55.
I don’t have a period anymore.
Ok, guys, some of you are going to quit reading now. And that’s ok. But, if you have daughters, you should keep reading. Because you are going to hear her speaking in a language you don’t understand. You are going to think that she is doing something she is not supposed to, because she is talking in code. But, the lingo is geared to not let dad’s, brothers, or boys to understand what is going on. It’s “Period speak.”
Ok, yeah, maybe I made up that phrase, but it is alive and well. “Period Speak” has been around since, well, women have been having periods. It shouldn’t be a secret, but we think our code is just for those in the female persuasion.
Now, the whole reason I am writing this post is because I heard a teen-age girl on her cell phone yesterday. She was standing beside some dork who I assumed was her boyfriend, because I heard the code.
“No, I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m just going to go home and lie on the couch….Yeah…. my friend is visiting. Giggle.”
I had to chuckle. She heard me chuckle. She could have flipped me off for eavesdropping, but she smiled at me and then looked at her boyfriend. He was clueless. Maybe he thought he was the friend and was going to go home and lie on the couch with her. He would have been fine with that.
Most girls use the “my friend is visiting” scenario when talking about their period. So, you are probably wondering, “Why the hell can’t you just call it your period and be done with it?” Well, because we can’t. It’s against the laws of puberty. Or something like that.
When I started my period for the first time, I remember to this very day, going straight to my mom, scared to death. She was sitting in the kitchen. My dad was in the family room, and I did NOT want him to hear what I had to say.
“Mom, George is visiting.” She just stared at me. So, I said it again, this time out of the corner of my mouth. “George. is. visiting.”
“Vickie, what is wrong with you. Gen and George are not here.”
Ok, we had a friend named George. A real person. Not a period. Obviously, my mother had never had a period.
Shit. My older friends who had their periods told us on the bus to say, “I can’t. George is visiting.” Every one of them used “George” as their code phrase for their period. I was just doing what they told me to do. Hell, I didn’t know. It’s scary to go to the bathroom and see that you are bleeding to death. My mom never explained a damn thing to me. Still pisses me off.
So, I tried the other code phrase. “Mom……It’s that time of the month.”
It took her a few seconds and then she got it. She told me to grab my sweater and we would go to the store and get some napkins.
WTF? Napkins? My friends all wore pads. Back in the late sixties, we had to wear a white belt-like apparatus around our hips. A sanitary “napkin” belt. There was a metal thingy in the front and one in the back to weave our pad ends through them. I am terrible at explaining this. Regardless, she had to take me to the store. Why the hell didn’t we have any in the house? It just made a better case that my mom must have never had a period.
“Elwood, Vickie and I are driving to the drug store. She started her period.”
I stopped in my path. You didn’t just say that……to my father!! Oh my God, Mom. I will never be able to look him in the eyes ever again. I will have to go live with my bff Ramaine or something. I almost started crying. I thought that we were supposed to talk in code so males would not know that we are on our period. We were never to use the word “period” in front of them. I was beside myself. I was bleeding to death and mortified. Plus, the stupid loon of a mother could have easily told me to put some kleenex in my underpants until she got home. But, hell, no, I had to go with her. Hello, Mom…Um, period….flow…..needs…to…..stop. Shit. This just sucked.
Well, time went by and I finally learned that you don’t need to change your pad every ten minutes. My mom was pissed when we had to go back to the drug store the next day. Well, shit, Mom. It sort of would have been nice if someone explained to me that we had to sit in that disgusting pool of George.
I began to use my code phrases around the male family members and boys in school. I used the “I can’t. George is visiting.” Or I would say, “I can’t. My friend is here.” I think those are the only code phrases I used. I was not imaginative. Oh, if I would have heard someone else say another phrase, I would have surely used it. The girls in Weirton, West Virginia, used “George” for the most part.
So, it made me wonder what other girls would say. I have a feeling that the girls today just say it without embarrassment. “I can’t go. I’m on my period.” Boys get it. They probably got it back then, but we had to hide it. That’s just how it was back in the day.
So, I went looking on the internet and found some interesting code phrases for having a period. I found these on a yahoo forum from three years ago. Here are some of them:
“I had a roommate that would always tell me her unwelcome friend came for a visit. Sometimes I refer to it as Aunt Flo. And I’ll never forget the movie “Clueless” where they refer to it at “surfing the crimson wave.”
“Ha! When I was in 7th grade my girlfriends and I use to call it “Our Cat”. I forgot how we developed such a title-but there was some reasoning behind it. I just call it my period now. I guess I’m too old to use pet names.”
“I don’t remember how this came about. but me and my friend say were going to china. we hang around guys alot and they have no idea what were talking about … its hilarious when they ask and were like uuuhhh …. nothing inside joke.”
“Me and my friends have this thing we say “our leg hurts” and if we need to ask someone for a pad/tampon we say we “need ice for our leg” i don’t no how we came up with this though:)”
“dont remember where this came from but me and my friends refer to it as George, i feel bad for any guy with that name now though.” Ah, that girl must be from Weirton.
“….The volcano erupted….My redheaded cousin is in town…..I got my car…”
Here’s a creative one.. “China time (Asian flag has a red circle and I taught my daughter to refer to that part of her body as her “China”) But,um, isn’t that the Japanese flag?
Japanese flag, not the Chinese flag. I wonder how old they will be when they realize they have been calling their period the wrong country.
It sort of matters.And here is what the flag of China looks like.
photos via wikipedia
I bet that woman knew my mom. Unless you are quite talented, I don’t see how your period would form five points…and be yellow, unless you are tremendously jaundiced. Just sayin. Let’s continue.
“When I was in school my friends and I called it TOM…..TimeOfMonth.”
“It’s red week…or Aunt Flo is here visiting.”
“I say I’ve been cycling. No one realizes I don’t currently own a bike.” That’s a good one.
There are other phrases, such as “My curse,” the easy lie, “I can’t. I’m sick,” and for those who never did care who knew, “On the rag.” I always felt that those were the girls who would grow up to be sluts. How could you look a boy in the face and tell him you can go swimming because you are on the rag? I would shudder at the thought.
No, it would be better to obey the rules and never let them know when you are on your period.
While teaching my fourth graders about solid figures during Math class the other day, I decided to show them how to draw a cube. You would have thought that I just found a cure for cancer.
Earlier in the year, one of my students was almost distraught because he couldn’t make a star. So, I had him come up to the board and baby-stepped a star for him. He was weirdly excited about this. I guess it’s the little things in life.
In my attempt at teaching my students how to make shapes and draw stars, however, I realized that I have created doodling monsters.
And it made me take a trip back to when I was their age.
I am not sure what age kids start doodling. If you have never doodled before in your whole life, then there is something wrong with you. Well, unless there is something wrong with those who doodle. Regardless, people doodle. What the hell does that word even mean? I had to go back to colonial days and name calling to find out.
When the colonists started getting pissed at the British for enacting ridiculous taxes on the colonists, such as the stamp and sugar acts, the beginning of grumbles and throwing tea off boats and the like, they started calling the British names.
“Hey, you stupid lobster……..Hey red-coat!” They wanted the British soldiers to go home. They didn’t want to pay taxes to read a newspaper or to put sugar in their newly imported tea. So, they decided that name calling that helped them cope with high taxes and soldiers walking around wearing white knee socks under their black go-go boots.
And they call us a "doodle."
So, the British soldiers, in their bright red lobster red coat uniforms, called back. They called those silly colonists, “Yankee Doodles.” Now, I teach the Revolutionary War to my fourth graders, so I know all about this time period. I am a little too enthusiastic about teaching it. But, we all know that a “yankee” is a northerner or another name for a colonist. A “doodle” is a “fool” or “simpleton.” In the seventies, we would have used the synonym, “retard,” but it is politically incorrect to say that word now. Retard. I just really like that word.
Anyway, that is what a doodle means. So, what does that have to do with scribbling on the side of your paper? Is that a reference that all people who doodle are retarded? In the seventeenth century, it meant to be lazy or wasting time. But, according to Wikipedia, “In the movie Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Deeds mentions that “doodle” was a word made up to describe scribblings to help a person think.” Ahhhhh, this makes so much sense. So, people are not retarded. They are pausing.
So, what Mr. Deeds is telling us is that doodling is good. It is a pause mechanism so to speak. You are pausing while you are thinking about what you want to write about. I learn something new every day. I also learned that if you put toothpaste on a pimple, it will clear up. See, every day, new information.
The modern meaning emerged in the thirties, and meant to “dawdle.” Mr. Deeds, you are confusing me.
Thomas Jefferson, Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton are some of our famous doodlers. They had been known to doodle during meetings. Reagan most likely doodled with one hand while popping jelly beans in his mouth with the other. Regardless, did they doodle because they were bored, lazy, or retarded? I am sure that the answer could be debated.
I don’t know if the kids doodle in third grade. I only have a few who have started doodling in fourth. It’s usually just a happy face or a “hi” to me on a paper they have to turn in to me. I have a feeling I will be seeing a few cubes in the next week or so, since I told my kids that’s what I doodled when I was in high school. Or was it junior high? I think it was junior high. And I remember exactly what I doodled.
Cubes, flowers, and my name for one. Notice that it isn’t necessarily artistic people who doodle. I can’t draw worth a lick. So, I thought that I would perform an experiment. I decided to doodle and then see if doodles can be interpreted, like dreams. Maybe it can tell me if I am happy or sad, lazy or determined. Smart or retarded.
Some “experts” seem to think that there is a reason that we draw and that like dreams, these symbols have meaning. Well, let’s look into that. I’m sure there is a doodle interpreter somewhere on google…….Yeppers. Found one.
“Doodles can certainly reveal something of a person’s mental state, but it should be noted that no graphologist or psychologist would use them as the sole indicator.” Uh oh. I bet my little cubes mean that I feel boxed in. And writing my name and intials mean I am arrogant. And my balloons mean I want to be a social climber. Am I close? The following information is from drawsketch.about.com.
“Why no, Vickie……Regular patterns from geometric shapes tend to indicate an organised and efficient mind. Triangles are a geometrically stable shape but also suggest direction and sense of purpose.”
So, the author of this study is telling me that I have an organized and efficient mind, eh? I am stable and I have a sense of purpose? Simply splendid.
So, do you doodle? Look at what some of your doodling may mean. Because, you may be mentally unstable and not even be aware of it.
1. Boxes-”3-D boxes indicate an ordered mind and love of routine. Often drawn by people with a good sense of spatial relationships.” Ok, now boxes were and still are the number one thing that I doodle. So, that obviously means that I have an ordered mind and I love routine. Ok, the routine thing is true. Some of my co-workers would argue about the ordered mind part.
2. Flowers- “Doodles of flowers indicate a gentle personality, a love of nature, sometimes childlike innocence or wistfulness. They represent the feminine, passive aspect of the universe.” Oh, yes, I have a gentle personality. Go on please.
3. Stars-”Stars are drawn by ambitious people and may suggest a desire for self-promotion. Little stars indicate optimism, while asymmetrical stars suggest excess energy.” Well, I used to be hyper when I was little. Had to take a little green pill every day before I went to school. That’s probably when I stopped drawing stars.
4. Mazes- Uh Oh..my mazes are not good. “Mazes can suggest a feeling of being lost with nowhere to turn, being unsure of which direction one ought to take, or may indicate mental disorganization.”
5. Hearts- Notice I have none. “generally, hearts are drawn by people in love, but may also indicate a romantic disposition.” Does this mean I should join eharmony?
6. Repetition of doodles- “Repetition is a common feature of doodles that suggests a methodical, patient approach to tasks. Repetition also increases the significance of a particular motif.” I’m thinking that it could mean that one just isn’t creative to think of other doodle marks.
7. Zig zags- “Some sources suggest that zig-zag lines indicate an experience of harsh reality and a need for comfort.” Wow, I’m just all over the place. Does that mean I am unstable?
8. Wavy lines- “Wavy lines are sometimes drawn to represent long hair, meaning a desire for beauty and femininity.” Would that mean if I desire it, I must not have it?
9. Arrows- I have always doodled arrows. “Arrows represent direction and ambition. Drawn aggressively, they represent a desire for action. Drawn in careful outline, they indicate a desire for progression or advancement, especially if pointing upwards.” Aw, look. My arrows are pointed up. I want to advance.
10. Eyes- I would draw eyes with glasses sometimes. I don’t know why. But, according to the doodle doctor, “They are sometimes regarded as showing a wish to be desirable.” So, I’m ugly. Is that what you are saying? Oh, this just keeps getting better.
I personally like to doodle. Will I like seeing doodles on the margins of my fourth graders’s papers? Sure, as long as they have their work done. I usually let them draw when they get done with their work anywho.
In the end, like dream interpretation, doodling symbols and shapes can be interpreted too. So, the next time you draw a balloon, know that that really means that you are emotional and long for love and harmony. If you draw straight lines for boxes and houses, you like to be in control. And finally, if you draw stars and things with triangles in them, you are looking to vent.
Remember when you were very young and you were given shapes and had to put them in the holes of the same shape? Well, you shouldn’t, unless you played with them when you were eleven. But, most of us have played with those little shape finders. Some kids were stared at by some guy with a clipboard, clad in a long white jacket to determine how long it took you to put the circle block in the circle hole. If it took too long, then you were retarded. (Sorry, my word in my generation.) Regardless, we had to fit things where they belonged.
And now I am doing that again with an addiction called Pinterest.
Pinterest. It’s going to what gets me fired from my teaching job. I haven’t gone to Pinterest from school yet. But, I want to. But, for those of you who have not received your invitation yet, you are probably wondering, “Vickie, what exactly is a Pinterest?” Hell, I don’t know how to explain it.
It’s like gathering and sorting and putting things in their places. Things we like. And we put them in little squares and rectangles. And then we give those little “boards” names, like “My Style” or “Bucket List.” You see, Pinterest is for pinning our interests. Hence, the name Pin terest.
Say you like cats. Well, there are cute little images of cats that other pinteresters (my word) find on the web and upload onto one of their little boards. And then someone might see it and smile and think, “I like that, and then you would re-pin it, which means steal it in a way. Someone is doing the work finding an image online and you can take it for your own little categorized board. And then maybe your friend likes that picture and takes it from you. Oh, they don’t take it, per se, but copy it. And it goes on and on. It’s all the rage.
Being that my explanation sucks, let me say that lot of well known people have pinterest. Martha Stewart, Ellen DeGeneres, and Maria Shriver, to name a few. Maria Shriver is now following me. Yeah, you can follow people if you like their boards. You can even see if someone repins one of your pins. Doesn’t this sound fun?
So, as mentioned so precisely, a board is where you put everything from one category. Here are some random boards that people have on their pinterest:
Recipes to Try Travel Furry Friends Quotes My Style Christmas
Humor Sweet Tooth For the Birds For the House Products I Love Fall
You can have as many boards as you want on Pinterest. Some people only have five. Some have hundreds and thousands of followers. As of today, I have 70 boards. I am following 74 people and I have 50 followers. And right now I need to wash clothes. But, here I am, writing a blog post on my wordpress addiction about my new Pinterest addiction. I’m so glad I don’t smoke or drink.
I do worry about myself when I look at some of my board titles. I have some “normal” boards, but then I have weird ones. I mean, I have one titled, “Ventriloquist Dummies Creep Me Out,” where I have repinned a bunch of disturbing scary wooden people.
“Nuns Scare Me” is another board. Because, well, they do scare me.
And then I followed it with some food. A board just for dips. “Dip It, Dip It Good.” I liked that title.
Here’s a list of some of my other boards. Well, just in case something may catch your eye. And then you could say, “Hey, Vickie likes that too!”
1. My Blog-Jumping in Mud Puddles
2. Wanderlust
3. I Love Central Park
4. Favorite Movies
5. Quotes and Written Stuff
6. My Fascinating People
7. Hang it On a Wall
8. Animals I Like
9. I Dont Think So…
10. History Dork
11. Funny
12. Bare Ware
13.When Pigs Fly
14. Saturday morning Cartoons
15 All Things Mendenhall
Yeah, I could go on for another 55 titles, but you can see my sampling and the things that “pinterest” me. Don’t you want to be a pinterester too?
Katie Couric just pinned a bunch of pictures for one of her boards, “Best Advice Contributors.” Pretty interesting selection. Or perhaps I should say pinteresting. She’s getting into it, I can tell.
All in all, pinterest is a lot of fun. I’ve tried new recipes and now know that I can use tootpaste on a pimple.
WordPress, please don’t be jealous. I have several categories just for you, “Photo’s For My Blog” and “Blogs I Follow.” Writing is still my passion. But, pinterest is my obsession this month.
And that’s how easy it is to put a round peg in a square hole.
While traveling from JFK airport into Manhattan, one obviously notices the skyline of tall buildings that make up all that is New York city. The buildings sit right against each other and compete for a view of the clear blue sky. Space is valuable. Most New York apartments are tiny. Oh, there are larger apartments, of course, but let’s just say the expense is much greater.
My daughter took me to a couple of eating establishments and bars while I was visiting her this past week. I love the look of the old brick on the walls and the close proximity to other tables. Space is at its minimum. The places are quite narrow. Some only have eight to ten tables that seat four people, all hugging the tiny perimeter of the tiny establishment. I liked it. Made me feel all snug in a bug in a rug. Their grocery stores are small. Some fruit markets appear on the street to make room. They work with what they have. I love it.
All in all, real estate in New York is pricey and you don’t get a lot of bang for your buck. But, that’s ok. It’s a trade off for being able to live and work in the greatest city on earth.
I did notice one piece of real estate that looks different from where I live. When I was little, we used to drive past the Paris cemetery on the way to my grandparents home. I had to hear the same joke from my dad every single time. Oh, how I wish I could hear it one more time.
“Hey, Vickie, guess how many people are dead in that cemetery?”
“I don’t know, Dad. How many?”
“All of them.” And he would crack up like it was the first time he ever told the joke. I am serious when I say that I heard that joke at least one hundred times. As I got older, I would act like I never heard the joke before. That made it a lot of fun.
But, the Paris cemetery had some green space. Shouldn’t all cemeteries? Doesn’t everyone want to be placed under an oak tree after they die? I mean, I sure as hell don’t, but really what is the purpose of a cemetery? It is supposed to be, afterall, a “final resting place.” Well, I want to be buried in the sand on the beach then. Beach burials. I think I have something here.
But if we are supposed to be “resting” , I’m thinking that they think differently in New York City about burying people. I was amazed how the people of New York are basically buried on top of each other. Well, I mean, dead people. I am sure they don’t mind having their coffins touching another one. After all, it’s New York. They die like they live. Close to others.
photo via wikipedia
The trip from the airport took me by several graveyards. I was amazed as to how close the marble headstones are to each other. There is no rhyme nor reason. I can’t imagine hunting for an ancestor. How the hell would you even to begin to find someone? Genealogy is a big thing in this country. I even belonged to Ancestry.com for a few weeks. Finding a grave in New York City would be like, well, finding a particular park bench in Central Park. Except that would be so much easier. I am sure they would have to have a graveyard counter person.
May you rest in one piece
“Oh, Wilbur Macgillicutty? Yes, Wilbur is resting in row 2C, space 4.” This is how it is probably done in a majority of cemeteries.
Oh, not in New York. Good luck finding Wilbur Macgillicutty. And if you are looking for a Joe Smith, good freaking luck. I don’t see how it could be done. The gravesites are that close to each other.
As for visiting when you do find the gravesite, forgetaboutit. There is no room to sit down and have a conversation with your grandpa. You would be sitting down on Mrs. Martino. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Don’t go there on a hot sunny day. There aren’t many trees, if any at all. Remember, space is limited. It’s New York City.
I guess it is a good thing that there is at least someplace to lie your head after you die in New York City. They could have put you on a barge and set you out to sea. I mean, you have to go somewhere.
As the real estate in New York gets more expensive and land becomes even more precious than it is now in 2012, what will become of the cemeteries in New York City? I’ve watched Poltergeist, you know. I know what greedy land developers are capable of. They have been moving cemeteries for centuries. Or just their headstones. Scared, aren’t you?
So, what is going to happen? Some cemeteries are filled up I am sure.
Will they start making cremations the norm? I have my own valid suggestions. Now, don’t get upset with me. I just personally don’t want to be buried. I’m too claustrophobic. Oh sure, I know I will be dead, but perhaps the dead have feeling too. We don’t know for sure, now do we?
This is what I think we should do.
Space- Well, we need “space,” right? Well, why not the real space? You know, like way out there. I know our space program has been dismantled, but I think that was a bad decision. You could put the dearly departed in space and inject them into an asteroid belt. They would have different orbits that could be named. Just like how we have Orion’s Belt, we could have them called Rest Haven. People buy their very own star. Well, you could tell people that Grandpa is now in orbit instead of that he went to Heaven. Heaven is so subjective. I really think I have something here.
One big campfire- I, for one, want to be cremated. I don’t want people putting stupid wreaths on my grave that look like horse blankets for race horses. I just really don’t understand the purpose of cemeteries. Well, funeral directors are right up there with bankers and lawyers for some people. Ambulance chasers for the dearly departed. But, why not go to camp after you die? Relatives could sing “Kumbaya” and then put your little pine box on the bonfire wood. I would so do this. It’s better than having stupid piped in music at the funeral home and the minister talking about you, mispronouncing your name. I’ve been there when it happened. I just think it is a racket that I want no part of. So, yeah, send me to camp.
In the end, New York City is going to have to take a look at their graveyard situation. They are making money on tours, as there are famous people resting in some of the graveyards.
Green Wood Cemetery- In Brooklyn, there are 560,000 permanent residents, including F.A.O. Schwartz and Leonard Bernstein.
Woodlawn-The Bronx-More than 300,00 permanent residents…Nelly Bly, Duke Ellington, R.H. Macy, Herman Melville, Joseph Pulitzer, F.W. Woolworth. This cemetery is hopping. It conducts an Easter egg roll and has music by Duke Ellington at times, and an early morning bird walk. This is the one I believe that I passed while on my way to the airport. It’s huge.
In the end, there is an end. We all will end up there. The city of New York is unique in that there are so many people living there. And again, in the end, people need and deserve a final resting place. But, as real estate becomes even more expensive and rare, creative thinking will need to come into play.
And I’m thinking space will have some space. Who wouldn’t want to be lying among the stars?
Grandma and Grandpa. They did not get along. Why do this to him? Poor Grandpa.
The road from my hometown to where I attended college in the seventies was a monotonous drive. Other adjectives that come to mind are colorless, droning, dull, blah, flat, humdrum, mundane, and prosaic. This is my first time using “prosaic” in a sentence. It’s very exciting. More exciting than driving that road every freaking weekend.
I graduated from high school in 1974. The state road people were working on a huge section of Interstate 79 that would alleviate my need for boring adjectives. I could not wait until they were finished with it. It took me about 2 1/2 hours to get home. The new interstate section would knock off at least thirty minutes of tiresome driving time. Please hurry state road people.
Now, Interstate 79 may not seem like a major thoroughfare, but I beg to differ. Canadian snow birds use this route. I see more Ontario license plates than say, Pennsylvania or Ohio. Before this section of road opened, I’m sure Canadians were cursing as they veered around the wild wonderful almost to West Virginia roads.
I drove home about every other weekend, depending on what was going on in Fairmont. Freshman who stayed in the dorm were not allowed to have cars, but I was given special permission because my dad was having open heart surgery and my mom couldn’t take the time to drive down to get me when so much was going on. So, the college let me drive. I drove Rusty, my yellow Toyota. I named her that because, well, she was full of rust. There were dings all over her. People on campus did not care when they got out of their vehicles. I guess it is not fair to blame just college kids, because people of all ages and intelligence opened their car doors with no care as to what was in the way. So, Rusty was full of pock marks. She had car acne.
I had a car full of sorority sisters one particular Friday. I honestly don’t remember for sure who was in my car. I do know for sure that Stephanie was with me. She mentioned the episode to me on Facebook just a couple of months ago. And I’m thinking Anita, maybe Tanya or Irvin or maybe even Paula. Oh, hell, this I don’t remember. I know there were at least three others for sure.
We were traveling on the part of Interstate 79 that was finished. We traveled up to Mount Morris, Pennsylvania, right across the county line, when someone in the backseat made the remark:
“I heard the new interstate is going to open next week.”
This bit of news made me slow down a bit, but my pulse sped up.
Hmmmmmmm. Awwww, how wonderful that will be. I could use new adjectives from then on to describe my drive. Like pleasant, quick, and unmundane. Ok, maybe not the last one.
I wonder……..
So, I kept driving and didn’t get off onto the two lane drive of misery. There were barricades blocking the unfinished interstate. It was calling out my name, I am sure.
”Vickie, drive on me….. Be the first motorist on my new road.”(You really need to sound like a ghost when you say that sentence)
I paused and then saw a place where my Rusty could squeeze through. I was going for it.
Nervous giggles in the car. The worst that could happen was a section of unfinished road that we would topple into. We wouldn’t be found until the ribbon cutting ceremony. I could see it now…someone standing with a huge pair of scissors in the middle of the new interstate. Off in the distance you could see the butt of a car and smoke coming from a huge hole. Except that wouldn’t make sense. The smoke would have been all done by then…and well, maybe the road would be ready for motorists. Hence, the ribbon cutting ceremony.
There's no bridge over troubled water here.
Regardless, who would find our bodies? I was just going to have to drive slower than usual. Just to make sure there weren’t any paving machines or construction workers to hit.
I was able to drive for a decent amount of time. It was a barren road. A barren, finished road. I saw a truck driving over an overpass. Dammit. Whoever was driving paused and watched me drive by. Uh oh. He was probably the head road guy. Or not. Maybe he was just like me, a motorist who did not want to drive that boring shitty drive to Waynesburg.
Nope.
He called the coppers. The rat.
A state trooper up ahead sat in his car. His lights were on, and he was waiting for us. Notice I said “us” because this was not my idea. I was forced to drive by crazy sorority sisters. Ok, that wasn’t going to work.
I slowed down and pulled over.
The interstate barricade
“Oh my God, Vickie! What are you going to say?” Someone in the backseat was ready to crack already.
Well, hell, I didn’t know. Was I supposed to say anything? I got caught. I was just going to hand him my driver’s license and registration card. I was just going to keep my mouth shut, take the ticket and make up something for my mom.
My mom would lose her mind if I came home with a ticket for driving on an unopened section of interstate. But, then again, she would think that was a lie. That was too preposterous to be true. Seems like I was screwed no matter what.
The state trooper approached my newly rolled down window. I was just going to keep my mouth shut.
“Officer, thank God you are here!!!”
I went on to blabber nonsense about a car of guys chasing us and trying to get us to pull over. When I wouldn’t pull over, they kept hitting us in the back of the car. I was afraid to get off of the exit because I was afraid they would force us off of the two lane road over a cliff or make us crash.
“I knew that if I drove on the interstate I could make it to one of the exits and then get to the state police barracks.”
Did I just say that? Shit. I better cry.
So, I started crying and showed him my hands. They were shaking from holding on to the steering wheel while those guys in a black car kept hitting my bumper.
“When I got onto the new road, they quit following us.”
Someone added something from the backseat. Now we were pretty little liars.
He just looked at me.
I don’t remember what he said, if anything, but he didn’t give me a ticket. He let me go. Of course, I had to drive back the way I came and take the regular exit to the road of misery.
“But, what if the black car is waiting for us?” I thought that was a great point. My lie had to be genuine. If this really happened, that would be something that could happen. Sure, Lifetime movies weren’t invented yet, but I was way ahead of possible outcomes. The state trooper sort of smiled (sort of ?) and told me he would follow us to make sure we got off of the interstate. Didn’t he want to know more about Ted Bundy and his buddies?
So, we drove off. We talked about it all the way home. Now, this is where it gets foggy. Either Anita was in the car or we ended up at her house sometime during the weekend. Anita told me to tell her mom’s boyfriend (fiance? husband?) the story. So, I did. The man smiled and said:
“I would never have believed that one.”
Everyone in the room laughed. I was talking to a cop. Ha ha Anita. I think he was the Hancock county sheriff or a town cop. He could have been a state trooper. I don’t remember. I just remember a nervous laugh.
So, the moral of the story is that when two roads diverge in a wood, should you take the one less traveled?
I don’t know, but it could make all the difference.
My crazy grandma Orpha used to have the best saying when I was little. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.” I had no idea what it meant at the time, but I liked the way she said it. Crazy people don’t know they are crazy. Or, in this case with a turnip truck, naive. So, when she said something like that, with such conviction, well, it always made me smile.
My grandfather was not allowed to drink coffee in “her” living room. I don’t think he ever spilled coffee to be banned from bringing it in her perfectly coiffed room. It is what he did to her that banned the dark wonder in a cup. Her living room was spotless. She had a light pinkish carpeting that we would draw circles in to use while we were playing marbles. Nothing was ever out of alignment.
But, when Grandpa would be allowed to have his after dinner coffee, he would mess with her. He would pretend to spill it.
Much worse.
And that’s when she would yell it from the kitchen. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Arthur!”
One time, though, when she let me bring him an after dinner coffee to his chair in the living room, he smiled and winked and then whispered to me, “Run in the kitchen and tell Grandma I spilled the coffee.”
Not giving me a chance to say anything, Grandpa yelled out, “Oh, no, Vickie!!! Hurry, go get a wet towel!”
And I ran.
I ran right into Grandma Orpha, coming around the corner. Damn, she had the best hearing of any old lady anywhere.
“Um, Grandpa spilled the coffee.”
At hearing this, Grandma Orpha sort of brushed me aside and entered the living room, horror on her 1960′s OCD face. And that’s when Grandpa said it.
“Looks like Grandma finally fell off the turnip truck.”
Oops, we lost Grandma a mile back.
Well, Grandma didn’t get mad at Grandpa. She got mad at me. Crazy people don’t like when there is a conspiracy. She called my mom and I didn’t get to stay at their house that weekend. Grandpa went back to reading his paper and drinking the “spilled” coffee. He did wink at me as I left. I wondered who the crazy one really was.
Naive. That’s what it means, you know, falling off the turnip truck. And naive means, “gullible,” which my mother called me every chance she got.
“Oh, Vickie, you are sooo gullible.”
“Eat shit, Mom.”…………….. Ok, I didn’t say that. Oh, how I wanted to say something.
Ok, so, perhaps I was a bit naive about things…. A space cadet…… An airhead…… A blonde.
Yeah, maybe just a little.
That means I must have fallen off the turnip truck at some point.
So, years later when I decided that I wanted to be a writer, I joined wordpress to start the ball rolling. I was going to be a blogger. I wrote and read other people’s blogs, and wrote and read comments. It’s been wonderful.
But, I didn’t expect this spam nonsense.
I had thirty five spam messages just this morning, waiting for me.I rarely read them. Such a pain in the butt. I have just one question for spammers?
“Do you think I fell off the turnip truck?”
When I first joined wordpress, I began reading some messages that were in my spam filter. And I realized that they wanted me to think that they actually read my blog post. You little shits.
I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.
Here are some of the spam messages that I received in the past day. They are so well written that it is easy to be fooled. Really.
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Not realizing that they fell out of the turnip truck.
In the end, riding in the turnip truck at fifty-five is a great accomplishment. Oh, sure, I occasionally fall off.
But, for the most part, I am driving the damn truck.
You know, I was surprised to read an article the other day about colored peeps. Well, that is what I call them. I used to beg my parents to take me to GC Murphy every Easter to look at the colored chicks that were for sale. I always wanted the Easter bunny to bring me one. But then, my mom always stepped in, even before I started begging.
“Vickie, the answer is no. They will poop all over the house and drive the dog nuts. The Easter bunny would never bring you a peep.”
Well, how the hell did she know that? I had friends who got Easter peeps from the Easter bunny. My mom was a moron.
I think down deep I really didn’t want a colored peep. I would have begged more. I was good at begging. But, their little peeping would have driven me crazy. Why the hell do they have to make continuous peeping? I really didn’t want any part of it.
That’s such a lie. I wanted a freaking baby colored peep. I am thinking about the noise as a middle aged woman. Kids don’t care about noise. They are all about noise. But, my mom was adamant. Even when I didn’t believe in the Easter bunny anymore, but swore I was old enough to take care of a chicken. I mean, chickens didn’t need to take baths. They didn’t bark when someone rang the doorbell. They would peck up dropped food onto the floor. I thought a chicken would make a great pet. If it grew up to be a rooster, it would wake us up in the morning. Valid reasoning.
“Vickie, I said no……..Because I said so……………No, you can’t keep it in the playhouse………….Well, a cat will get it…………..I know cats can’t open doors. I’m talking about it being in the backyard…………Your father is not building a fence for a colored peep……………We are not buying one for each one of you……..Because I said so……..”
And then the next year my mom lied and told me that there were no colored peeps at GC Murphy’s. What a liar. My friends Ramaine and LeeAnn told me they saw them. I guess once you see a colored peep, you really don’t care to see them every Easter time. But I did. I just loved animals.
Flashforward I don’t know how many years, but many states have banned selling colored peeps. It’s about time. I always wondered what parents did with the chicks after they came home. I mean, we used to come home with goldfish from carnivals. Friends came home from the beach with hermit crabs. But, those were manageable “pets.” What the hell do you do with a chicken or a rooster if you live in a subdivision? Well, you drive it to the nearest farm and give it to a farmer. I was told the little chicks would lose their pretty color when they molted. That would crush a kid.
“Mommy, where’s Chicky?…….That’s not Chicky!!! Chicky is blue!!” And then they would hate their mother for years for lying. The kid would think Chicky died and mom ran out and bought another plain colored chicken to explain it. Little kids don’t understand “molting.” I wish we could molt.
I am thinking that most parents just let the little poopy chicklets loose. You know they wouldn’t be around too long. Dogs and cats would have them for a snack. Feral chickens can be a problem though. They can form packs and attack. Like wolves.
Ok, I was teasing, but wikipedia lists a site of cities that have a feral chicken problem. Key West, Florida? Fair Oak, California? Houston, Texas? Hell, I was trying to be funny. I guess you need to watch where you walk.
It is illegal now in the United States, but people used to raise roosters for cock fighting. I guess a colored peep could have been a Rocky of the rooster world. They would fight to the death. Like Hunger games…except with roosters. Buy a colored peep today, and train it to fight.
If you didn’t want to set it loose into the streets of your city, I guess you could keep your peep and call it a family member. You could put a diaper on it. I’ve seen monkey pets wearing diapers. Why not chickens?
And then you can make clothing for it.
Cutest chick on the block
You’ve seen people dress up fake geese that sit on their porch. Which I’m sorry, but is sort of stupid. Especially when you can dress up a live one.
Tori Spelling has a chicken in her house. Many people have chickens in their house. Which is fine. But, don’t they poop every minute or two?
In the end, whoever first came up with the idea of dyeing poor defenseless peeps and selling them in a GC Murphy’s was a sick individual. Poor chicks. And then the stupid consumer who fell for it. Shame shame.
What’s next? Colored bunnies?
A purple dog?
I guess I shouldn’t talk. I had a colored chick when my kids were little. We named her Alex.
Every week my fourth graders discuss and then draw an idiom. With Easter approaching, I had them draw “A Good Egg.” We discussed its meaning and then they drew some pretty great pictures. They also wrote an Easter haiku. As I walked around the room, admiring their creations and listening to one say that his was a disaster, it reminded me of one Easter that was a true disaster. For my daughter.
You know, most mothers do try to do their best when it comes to raising their children. Oh, sure, there are some women who should just live in a box and never reproduce, but for the most part, most of us really do try our hardest. Every once in a while, however, we just screw up.Royally. But, in our defense, we are on call 24 hours a day, so I’m thinking that we should be allowed a couple of mistakes. But, when you personally do something to make your child cry, well, you just want to start drinking.
My daughter, Alex, was named Alexandra when she was born. I love that name. Except when people called her Alexandria. Pissed me off. Do you see an extra vowel in her name, Goober? Well, then, don’t call her Alexandria. Anyway, she decided one day that she didn’t want to be called that anymore. She wanted to be called Alex. Her brother, Adam, always called her “Alice” when he was a toddler, so she knew that it could be shortened. And she was tired of learning to print her name. It took forever to print Alexandra. So, Alex it was. Oh, I love that name too, but I really should start calling her Alexandra again. Alexandra.
Anyways, Alexandra, now Alex was in kindergarten, and Easter was approaching. Her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Phillips, sent home a note and asked each parent to send in 6 eggs for the kids to color. Being a great mother, I naturally sent in a dozen. I was worried that some other child had a mother who should be living in a box and would not come to school with eggs. So, I sent in a dozen. I was a good egg.
I was glad they were going to color eggs at school, because I was never a fan. When I was little, I just didn’t get it. Dipping hard boiled eggs in a dye. Well, and then what? Some people ate them. Well, I learned very early that if you take something out of the refrigerator for so long, they really shouldn’t go back in there. Yeah, I was and still am OCD about food storage and reheating. Plus, I thought hard boiled eggs were gross. I was a picky child. Picky Vickie.
My mom really never colored eggs with us. Some people hid eggs outside and then the kids hunted them down, put them in their baskets, and then bragged on who found the most. I didn’t get it, even when I was little. After plastic eggs came on the market, then I got it. You could hide good stuff in the eggs. Like money or Hershey kisses. Then it was fun. But, hard boiled eggs that had been left out long did not appeal to me.
So, I boiled the eggs and sent them in.
Alex came home that afternoon and got off of the bus crying. I hated it when she cried. She was such a good little girl with such a good heart. It hurt when I would see her upset. I was ready to beat up whoever made her cry. She said that “….they made fun of my eggs.” Little kindergarten punks.
We got into the house and I went through her little backpack and saw a note in her homework folder from Mrs. Phillips.
“Vickie, Alexandra Alex cried all afternoon. I had no idea why until I noticed her eggs we just got done coloring………..You sent in brown eggs.”
I just stared at the note.
It may as well have looked like this:
Shit.
I sent in brown eggs.
I wanted to first blame my husband for making me buy brown eggs in the first place. The Mendenhalls never ate brown eggs. I never really even saw a brown egg until I went to college and my roommate brought some from her real chicken. (As opposed to a fake one I guess.) Luckily, my roommate, Pat, who was from Philadelphia, and was just lost in rural West Virginia, spoke up first.
“Jeri, those eggs you brought back with you are rotten.”
“How do you know? Do they smell?”
“Uh, no. They are brown.”
Jeri cracked up and then explained that they weren’t rotten. They were just brown. Well, hell, that didn’t explain a damn thing to us. In my book, that meant that black cows really did give chocolate milk then.
But, after my flashback, and blaming my husband for thinking brown eggs taste better than white eggs, I re-read the note.
Shit. I sent in brown eggs.
I could just picture the kids in the kindergarten class. Sitting there, dipping their eggs in bright red, blue, and green colors. Oh, what fun. Well, for everyone except Alexandra/Alex. Hers probably came out camouflaged pukey green. All of them. No matter what color she used, the outcome would have been subdued and ugly. Fugly. She would probably look at the first one as a mistake and then was crying by number three dippy egg. Poor Alexandra/Alex.
I felt horrible. What a rotten egg. I was not an eggcellent mother. I was eggstremely awful.
So, I put the kids in the car and we drove to the store for some spiffy white eggs and an Easter egg dye kit. And we colored eggs that evening. And she quit crying because one of them was truly beautiful. Of course, I sang her praises and apologized a million times, as it wasn’t her fault. It was mommy’s fault. So, we colored eggs.
It would have been nice if I had remembered to boil them first though.
When I was a teenager, I would sit for very long periods of time, hunting down split ends and chopping them off with one quick snip. I would go to the bathroom drawer and retrieve the little silver scissors and park myself in the living room where the sun came streaming in, letting it hit me right in the face. It would illuminate the split ends. I could find them and kill them. It just wasn’t me. All my friends were OCD about split ends. It did help, I should mention, that I had long hair. Much easier to find them.
I could actually see Lori, who lived across the street, sitting in her picture window, looking at her split ends. Did I get the idea from her or did she get the idea from me? I don’t know. All I know is that it was a problem. A big problem.
I blame the commercials that we watched in the late sixties and early seventies. Now, remember, we only had three channels, so we had to watch and believe the commercials. The shampoo people kept telling us that split ends were a big problem. So, it must be a very big deal. I remember watching the first commercial about split ends and then rushing to the bathroom to look for them. Dear God, there’s one! Shit, there’s another one! I had split ends! I asked my mom to take me to the store immediately to buy some Breck shampoo. It would save my hair.
“Vickie, they are just trying to get you to buy their shampoo. There is nothing wrong with the Head and Shoulders that we all use.”
Head and freaking Shoulders. I hated that shampoo. It reminded me of toothpaste. I used to try and waste it so that my mom would relent and finally buy something else.
Now that I think about it, we had quite the hair products back in the day. I think that I finally tried every shampoo that came out on the market. Notice I said, “finally.” It took my mom awhile to abandon her precious Head and Shoulders. I apologize to those ardent Head and Shoulders shampoo users, but I just couldn’t take it any longer. It may have been the choice for mom and dad, but oh hell, not for a teenager. Teenagers did not want to use Head and Shoulders. My time to revolt was near.
Well, because I had split ends. No one was ever going to ask me out. Okay, maybe, I exaggerated just a bit. That’s what teen-age girls do. And if I didn’t get some Breck shampoo soon, I was going to be one big split end.
Not that I took great care of my hair. I was not nice to my hair. I started by putting Sun-In on my head when I was in seventh grade. I used Dippity Doo when I rolled my hair.
I used PSSSSSSt, the dry shampoo when I didn’t feel like washing my hair. I was such a dirt ball.
The 70's...the dirtball era.
But, Psssssst gave me a great idea. I decided to perform an experiment on my mom. I did it on a weekend so I wouldn’t get looks at school. Surely, this would help.
“Vickie, you need to go take your shower. It’s almost time to leave.”
“Mom, I took my shower about 2 hours ago.”
“Did you wash your hair?”
“Yeah. It gets so oily, you know I have to wash it every day.”
And out of the room I walked. I didn’t wash my hair. I took a shower and unscrewed the Head and Shoulders to make it look like I used it. I knew she would check. I didn’t wash it on Sunday either.
“Vickie, My God. Wash your hair!”
“MOM!!! I did wash my hair. You heard me in the shower.”
“There is no way that you washed your hair. It is filthy!”
“It’s that stupid shampoo you are buying. It makes my hair oily. Please buy something else.”
My dad, who always seemed to be either reading a newspaper or sitting downstairs in his garage where he didn’t have to face the rolling pin woman, knew what I was up to. He left to go show a house, as he was a realtor, but when he returned, he put his finger up to his mouth and handed me a bottle of Lemon Up. Yay, Dad. It wasn’t Breck shampoo, but it also wasn’t Head and Shoulders. I was a happy camper. Maybe the Lemon Up would help my split ends problem.
So, the next morning, I came upstairs, ready to eat some breakfast and head to the bus stop. My mom looked at me like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.
“I see your hair is miraculously clean today. How surprising for such a horrible shampoo.”
“Dad bought me a great shampoo yesterday. Lemon Up. It really really helped my oily hair. Look how shiny my hair is.” I moved my long hair like I was in a commercial. Just look at what this shampoo has done for my “Let’s fry some french fries on my oily mat of a head”. And with that I walked out of the house and never had to use Head and Toothpaste again.
There were many great shampoos in the seventies. Here are just a couple of other shampoos that were popular when I was obsessing over my split ends.
1. Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific- Yep, that was the name of the shampoo. The commercial is what really sold us on this shampoo. Get a nice looking guy to smell your hair and say, “Gee, your hair smells terrific!” Off to the store we would go.
2. Lemon Up- This was one of my favorite shampoos. And not because it and my dad rescued my hair from a life of toothpaste shampoo. I liked smelling squeaky clean, like a lemon. I swear this was the best shampoo ever made.
3. Breck- Everyone wanted to be a Breck girl. The first Breck girl was Cheryl Tiegs in 1968. Cybill Shepherd, Jaclyn Smith, Kim Bassinger, and Brooke Shields were other Breck girls in that 1968-1974 time frame. The commercials made me realize that if I used that shampoo, I too, could be a Breck girl.
There were other great shampoos, such as Body on Tap, Yucca Dew, Protein 21, No More Tangles, Long and Silky, Short and Sassy, Agree, and Milk Plus 6. We smelled great.
Breck, though, was THE shampoo for split ends. I know this to be true because of the commercials with the beautiful hair. This shampoo sort of glued the split ends back together. I was able to put my silver scissors back in the bathroom drawer for a while.
Well, until I discovered the ironing board. We started ironing our hair. I would plug my mom’s iron in, lie my hair down on the ironing board, put a thin towel over my hair, and iron away. Stick straight. I loved it. Nowadays, girls are able to use a flat iron. Sure, it works the same, but our way was more…..dangerous. We took dangerous steps to have beautiful hair. I burnt my ears, my fingers, and tinged my hair several times. Oh, the price of beauty.
I don’t care anymore if I have split ends. Those are the least of my hair worries. I am graying. I guess that happens as one ages.
Years ago, people used to really dress up for Easter. Oh, sure, people still dress up now, but back in the early sixties, it was a style highlight. Women had a new dress, new shoes, a giant hat, and a new pocketbook. Hello Easter Sunday.
Easter is usually a time to reflect on how crappy my mom dressed us each Easter Sunday. I really don’t know what she was thinking. We looked like rejects. Rejects. That was a popular word that we used back then. And come Easter time, the Mendenhall kids were the biggest rejects on the block.
You can’t see it, but our little white shoes are so scuffed it is not even funny. Our white anklets are filthy. I think my dad may have taken this picture after all of the Easter festivities were over. Which I guess included scuffing our shoes and stepping in mud. He usually took us over to the Weirton Photography Club studio and snapped pictures of us in front of a lovely backdrop like the one shown. My dad belonged to the club, which was sort of neat in the fact that members could go over there and use the studio. So, we would hop in the car and head there for an official portrait. Which was not fun. And the outcome was sad. Sad because, well, we looked like rejects.
I think my little ensemble was brand new, or my mom lied and told me it was brand new. I personally think it was a hand-me-down from a reject. Cheryl looked like she always got a new dress. I think it was because things fit her. Things just hung on me because I was so skinny.
We always lined up the same way. I was on the left, David was in the middle, and my sister on the right. Oldest to youngest.
When I first found this picture last week, my eyes first went to my lovely hairstyle. My mom used to put little pin curls “to frame my tiny face.” She would put two hairpins in each pincurl and then I would go to sleep. In the morning, I had hair pins on my pillow and my hair looked like a monkey fixed it. A monkey that was blindfolded. I don’t think she even combed my hair. I think I was old enough to fix my own hair. I know I could have done a better job.
She always kept my hair short because my hair color was “dingy” and my face was so small that long hair would just make me look like a rag mop. Isn’t it funny how I remember all of the adjectives that my mom used on me? Years later she asked me why my daughter looked like a little rag mop with that long stringy hair.
“Just to irritate you.” I really said that too. I was proud of that moment. Usually I would hang up on her, but when she said that in front of my daughter, well, it’s hard to tell what spontaneously comes out of my mouth.
But, take a good look at my Easter hair. I am sure I was made fun of behind my back. I know it was the early sixties, but I don’t think other kids my age looked like that on Easter Sunday.
My brother David was styling with a cowboy necktie, aka a bolo tie. Which looked great with his non cowboy shoes. If you are going to dress him like a cowboy on Easter, you need to put him in boots or a Easter cowboy hat. Why the hell did she put that on him? Maybe my dad wore one too that day.
The worst Easter Sunday outfit was the one my mom made me when I was in fifth grade. Oh Dear God. She made my sister the exact same dress and threw a damn rose in the middle of the dress. She also made me wear it when we had our fifth grade class picture taken. I looked like hell.
My hair was growing out a bit, but I guess my mom didn’t feel the need to comb my hair after she took the curlers out. And the backdrop changed that year. This was taken at my grandfather’s house. We always went to visit my grandparents after Easter church service. That’s probably where I scuffed up my shoes.
In the end, dressing up for Easter Sunday was a lot of fun most years. Especially when I got to carry my very own pocketbook.
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
Photo credit: Fresh Tracks
photo credit: Banff National Park
following me home
Rocky Point-Rhode Island
Flooded after Katrina
2011
photo pinterest
Latch hooking. So easy I could do it.
ebay photo
I mean, who wouldn’t want a Mrs. Doubtfire latched rug?
t-shirt latch hooking. 
Not too shabby.
8. Animals I Like
