Smokey and the Car Wash

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.

“Four missed places this time.”

Free Book Today

My literary debut, Jumping in Mud Puddles  is free for download today, Thursday, July 12, through Amazon. If you don’t have a Kindle, don’t worry. It can be downloaded to your iPad, iPhone or even your computer. There is a quick and painless download from Amazon. I bought a Kindle last week before I knew you could even do this.

Jumping in Mud Puddles is a book of stories that I have taken from my blog of the same name. I have added and tweaked my posts into 44 chapters.

Here is the book description:

“Raise your hand if you-

1) Have ever been chased by a nun.

 2) Have been stung by a bee because it was injured and you tried to hug it and then you went into anaphylactic shock because the damn thing stung you on the cheek and you had to be rushed to the hospital (The bee didn’t make it).

3) Have ever made a tent caterpillar/dandelion meal in your cabin in the woods and have fed it to unsuspecting neighbor children.

 4) Were slipped a mild tranquilizer and was told it was a car sick pill……for years.

 5) Have killed the Boogeyman after lying in wait for it/him under your bed.

 6) Have peed your pants from laughing because a monkey has stepped onto your best friend’s head and the best friend doesn’t know what is on her head.

 7) Have puked on the school bus and all the kids had to raise their feet while the bus was going up hills.

If you have not been able to raise your hand for any of these normal every day experiences, you are invited to join Vickie as she revisits her childhood during the fifties, sixties, and early seventies. Visit the private Catholic school where she was sent because she flunked an early entrance exam. Sister Potato Head is waiting to stick you into the low reading group, “The Slow Sloths.” Follow Vickie as she takes you for a walk around the best neighborhood in Weirton, West Virginia. Don’t eat anything she tries to feed you in her cabin in the woods, however, especially if she is giggling as she hands it to you, but yet promises it doesn’t contain “real” things.

Jumping in Mud Puddles is a witty self-deprecating memoir with stories that will either make you smile because it reminds you of your own childhood or it will make you laugh because you are glad you weren’t a picky, hyper, big fat liar like Vickie.
And for the record, the cursing throughout the book is a really bad habit that grown-up Vickie acquired while teaching fourth grade. I mean, she doesn’t curse in front of the class…..yet. She apologizes for her potty mouth and hopes that you will see that she is just a grown up version of that skinny child of the sixties. Well, you can leave out the skinny part.”

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Thanks! If you feel so inclined to give me a review after you finished reading my little book that would be great, or tag and like me. If not, again, the download is free just today.

Enjoy!

Boom Booms

English: Fireworks on the Fourth of July (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My mother must have thought we were retarded (sorry, love that word) when we were young because she always announced when it was time for the 4th of July fireworks:

“Kids, let’s go outside. It’s almost time for the Boom Booms.” Well, first of all, I must be lying because the Mendenhall kids would have been outside anyway.  My mom shoved us outside first thing in the morning and would only unlock the door when whe had to use the bathroom. Ok, lying again. But, we played outside all damn day.

Second of all, we understood the word, fireworks. We really did. It was like a firecracker, but much larger, and up in the sky. But for some strange reason, my mom always called fireworks, Boom Booms.  Of course, this was the same woman who called my budding fourth grades breasts, mosquito bites, so she was just a loon on any given day.

Dogs don’t really care for fireworks, and our dog, Susie, was afraid of the damn Boom Booms. The sounds of firecrackers and people screaming from exploding firecrackers permeated throughout the neighborhood. Susie was a fox terrier, so she was small and first wanted to be held when the first of the noise-makers began, but then just couldn’t take it any longer and would bolt under my mom’s bed.

I loved growing up in Weirton, West Virginia. Fourth of July was a big deal in our city. Almost everyone in our neighborhood had their American flags out on their porches. We had a gigantic flagpole in our backyard. My dad used to march us up there like little memebers of the VFW and have a flag ceremony. My brother David would be saluting as he walked.

I was even in a few 4th of July parades when I belonged to a majorette group. I wore a red sequined outfit and threw my baton around like I knew what I was doing. I’m surprised I didn’t bop someone in the head with one of my missed baton throws.

So, yes, the 4th of July was a great time in Weirton. But, the people who lived in Woodland Estates were quite lucky because we lived near the Weirton Airport, and that’s where they had the fireworks. I mean Boom Booms.

So, after all the backyard picnics and the badminton games were over, people brought their chairs to their front yards for the big firework display that were put on at the airport. Most people drove to the airport and put blankets down like they were at the Bellaire Drive-In. But, we had thee perfect spot on our front porch or yard to view the fireworks. My mom would never have taken us to see the fireworks if we lived elsewhere unless we were on leashes. She would have lost us in thirty seconds.

So, you could hear everyone talking from their porches, waiting for the big fireworks to begin. My dad would be on the sidewalk, talking to our next door neighbors, Joe and Rosa. It was a great time. The fireworks would begin at exactly 10:00. When we were quite young, it would be way past our bedtime, so we would sit on the front porch in our pajamas. I remember being tired, although as a hyperactive worm, I couldn’t sit still in my chair. I was down in the front yard walking around in my pajamas until we could hear and see the first of the Boom Booms.

     And that is when Susie the dog would usually disappear. You knew when the big Boom Booms  were going to happen; there would just be a bright silvery blob in the sky and then Oh My God, what a noise! We would cover our ears and squeal in delight. Life was good.

So, on this 4th of July, I don’t think about the past and the people who fought for our freedom. I teach that every year and have a lot of fun with it, but it is not what I think of when that red, white, blue day comes every year. No, I think of my mom, sitting on the front porch, wearing those damn cat-eye glasses and smoking her Salem cigarettes, asking her children if they were excited about the Boom Booms that were about to start.

And you know, yes, we were. And it wouldn’t have been special if she hadn’t used that damn phrase.

And yes, I used that phrase one year when my children were quite young, and then I slapped myself.

Happy Father’s Day, Elwood

My dad was a remarkable man. At least I think so. He died in 1989 when his heart basically blew up. He was in his truck and managed to pull over where paramedics were called. And so was I. I rushed to his bedside, but I was two hours away and two hours late. No one met me at the hospital. But, that’s not the part I want to remember. I want to pay homage to a guy who adopted me when I was born, who taught me how to frame a great shot, who taught me how to fish, reluctantly.

He was also the guy who would quietly mow down my mom’s flowers after she bitched at him for something that really didn’t matter. She was a rolling pin woman. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He would also smile at her when he would go to leave the house. “Where are you going?” my mother would demand. “Up Mike’s ass to get a milkshake,” he would always reply. I just loved that guy.

Elwood Arthur Mendenhall was his name. It was a pretty goofy name, I thought. It was a bit weird that his first cousin was also named Elwood. I mean, what were those women thinking? Most of his close pals called him Mendy or Gomez, or Omar. But, for the most part, people called him Elwood. I just called him Dad.

The following is a reblog of one of my first blog posts that was originally published August, 2010. I thought that I would share it again since it is Father’s Day.

                                                                                 Miss you, Dad.

                                                                             Love, Your Favorite Daughter, Vickie

~***~

What can you say about a guy who walks into the kitchen wearing a plaid shirt with striped shorts and socks with his sandals? “Well, (sounding  just like Ronald Reagan), there is blue in the shirt and in the pants.”  I would roll my eyes. “Dad, it doesn’t match. You can’t wear stripes with plaid. It is against the law in West Virginia. You have to wear a plain top with striped shorts.” He would smile and go back into his bedroom and come back out with a yellow shirt on, never mind that there was not a speck of yellow in the shorts. “Good job, Dad.”

Dad parading around

My dad was a realtor and wore suits every day. He usually kept his suit on in the evening. He was always dressed up when we were young. He had places to go and people to see. He belonged to every club you can imagine. I have all of his membership cards. He belonged to the American Legion, the Masons (shhhhh, double double secret club), The Elks, The Moose, the Photography Club, The Shriners, and many others. I think a couple  of the clubs were suspect, like the Skunk Club. (I can’t even print what was on that card.) So, Dad was rarely home through the week. In the summer he was in a lot of parades because he was a clown with the Shriners. He even had a motorcycle with a sidecar for a while. We used to go to the Shrine Circus in Wheeling often. I loved to watch the Flying Wallenda’s.  They were and are a family of famous circus performers who do daredevil, death-defying stunts high up in the air without a safety net.  Even when I was young, I thought how foolish they were to not use a net. And I was not a bright child. They must be a family of nit-wits. Anyway, my dad wanted a make-up mirror for Christmas one year so he could put on his clown makeup. How many dads ask for a make-up mirror? Life was never boring with my dad.

When we were small, we weren’t supposed to answer the phone in the early evening because my dad received a lot of client calls. People were always wanting to see houses for sale in the evening.  Dad had a cut-off for client calls. After 8:00pm, Dad would answer the phone, “Duffy’s Bar, Daffy Speaking”, all the time. We knew then, work was over for Dad.

I loved listening to my dad talk to people on the phone. He had no idea he was doing it, but he would talk exactly how the people on the line talked. We knew when he was talking to his Irish friend, because Dad had an Irish accent. We knew when he was talking to his friend, Jimmy, because he would curse.  His Italian accent was so funny. So were the conversations when he would use poor English. “We was gonna go, but it started rainin….I ain’t goin. I’m too tard (tired).” He really had no idea he was doing this. I think that is a reason I love dialects so much and had a blast when I took a dialects class as part of my Speech degree in college.

Of course, when you are a teen-age girl, you are embarrassed to be seen with your parents. That’s a given. I don’t know why, but those couple of years before you are allowed to drive are miserable. So, my dad understood this, and took every opportunity to drive me crazy. One example, a Brooke High dance when I was a freshman.  I think Ramaine’s mom took us and my dad was going to pick us up AFTER the dance. Not before it was over, Dad, but right when it is over. I wish I would have specified that, or lied about the time it was over. I am pretty sure I did. He always had an ornery, “Ok, Vickie”  smile. Wild Cherry played at our school dance. Yeah, the famous Wild Cherry pre-Play that Funky Music group. They used to play at pool dances and school dances often. Anywho, about 20 minutes before the dance was over, a member of the band spoke  over the microphone and said, “Vickie Mendenhall, your Daddddddy is here to take you home” and then they put a damn spotlight over by the door and my dad was standing there, waving  like Forrest Gump. That one ranked.

A favorite thing that my dad loved to do was call me back when I was walking down the street to Ramaine’s house. I’m not sure, but I think there were like 9 houses that separated our homes. “Vickie, come here,” he would wave me back. I’d get right in front of him and he would simply say, “See how far you would have been  if I hadn’t called you back?”  After many times, (he was always so believable that maybe this time he really needed me..) of falling for his little prank, I just kept walking back just so he could get one over on me. I knew as I got older, that he was not happy with my mom. How could you be? He got yelled at for just looking at her wrong.

When I was a freshman in college, my dad had a bad heart attack. I guess any heart attack is bad.  He had to have a triple heart by-pass. Freshman weren’t allowed to have cars at my college, unless there was a pretty good reason. I got to keep my car because of all of the traveling home. So, I thought I was pretty special.  My dad was in a hospital in Pittsburgh. The doctor’s said it was such a success because the veins in his legs were very strong.  He played tennis in high school and was pretty athletic, so that was good. They hadn’t done very many triple heart bypasses at that time, but they thought he would make it through. It also helped that an elderly Italian looking lady dressed in black walked up to my mother and said that she prayed for those who entered into surgery that day and that “your husband will be the only one that will survive.”  And then, she turned around and walked back to where she was sitting. Well, hell, that meant that the person she was waiting for was going to die? Good grief, rosary-clutched woman.  What are you??? But, she was right. Or so my mom said. I had to go back and forth to college. My mom got to know the people who were on the same floor with my dad.

Well, the “Let’s embarrass Vickie” era continued. I  briefly dated  a guy in college named Tommy, and we had planned to drive to Pittsburgh to watch Pitt and Notre Dame play football. My parents invited us to stop by and eat before the game. So, of course, while we were sitting at the table, my dad, blurted out, “So, Tommy, I had open heart surgery,” and proceeded to unbutton his shirt, pulled up his t-shirt, and exposed his heavily bubbled scar.  ”See.”  Yeah, we see it, Dad. I was ready to slide under the table, with the dog. He really was proud of that scar. At least the day wasn’t a total wash. We saw Joe DiMaggio in a crowd outside the stadium and I stepped on his foot by mistake when I went to stand beside him for a picture. “Um….sorry, Joe….. 1…2….3…. Say Cheese.”   Well, not many people can say they stepped on Joe DiMaggio’s foot. I can.  I’m quite special. Come to think of it, I don’t think either one of us had a camera. I really think we both just went and stood on either side of him, smiling, like someone was going to take our picture.

After open heart surgery, Dad had a pace maker and had to make a phone call weekly and put the phone to his chest. Gotta love the technology of the 70′s.  Well, the years flew by. I got married, and was lucky to have my dad walk me down the aisle.  I stayed in Fairmont and had 2 children he got to meet and hang out with for a short while.

My wedding, October 1983

My dad had a boat load of pills he had to take. He had one of those pill compartment thingys (that I now have), but he still forgot to take some of his medication. My mom said he was getting mean, and with one swoop kicked my brother and my dad out of the house. Or, maybe my brother left on his own before that.  So, my dad, ill as he was, packed up some stuff in his truck and left the house and stayed with David.  My mom and sister  were alone at the house.

On November 5, 1989, I was called to come home as soon as I could. My dad had a massive heart attack while driving his truck and was in the hospital.  I hurried and packed, kissed 4-year old Adam and 2 year old Alex and drove like an idiot on the 2 hour journey home. (I didn’t leave them alone, just in case you were wondering.) Three weird things happened to me on my way home. It was an overcast day, and I was amazed how the clouds opened up and the light shined through like a flashlight beam. It was beautiful. For some reason it made me cry. The second thing was when a red-tailed hawk flew right in front of  my car like it was crossing the interstate, and then went up in the air into a tree. I had never seen one so close. The third was eerie. I passed a hearse that was driving slow and I looked over, and the guy gave me a sad, sad, smile. It was like he knew I was on a sad trip.

When I reached the hospital, noone was there. I mean, no one.  A nurse had to take me aside and tell me that my father had passed away. I asked what time he died, so she went to his chart and when she told me, I burst into tears. It was the same time that the hawk had flown by my car. I had noted the time of each of the three weird incidents  in my mind, because I believe in that shit.

I was soo upset that no one stayed at the hospital to wait for me to arrive. It would be just like my mom to just drive home and forget about me. When I first entered the driveway and got out of the car, my brother was there. We hugged, crying, and I said into his ear, “She killed him.”  And that is how I have felt to this very day.

We buried my dad on my birthday. That sucked. It was a cold November day and he had Masonic last rites or whatever they call it at the grave site. I felt like I was watching an episode of the Flintstones and a meeting of the Water Buffaloes. And dad was the Grand Poobah. They did this hand shake stuff that made me giggle, and then the next thing you know, I was silent laugh shaking. My dad would have expected me to laugh, so I did.

My mom informed me that she had no intention of visiting my dad’s grave. “I believe that if people aren’t nice while they are living, why visit them when they are dead.” I think that she may have been talking about my grandfather, because he didn’t like my mom.  I also think she is confused. Dad was a great person. Sure he gagged when he saw a hair in the bathroom sink all the time. Sure, he put on a yellow raincoat when he gave the dog a bath. Sure he always offered us a quarter if we could eat a sour pickle without making a face. And wearing those socks with his sandals was unbearable to look at as a teen age girl. But, he is now in peace. Only his name is on the headstone.  Good job, Dad!   He is next to my grandpa and Grandma, and no room for my mother. Maybe he knew that witches don’t die.  Karma, Momma, Karma.

We built our house on 13 acres and my husband cut the grass with an old 1949 Farm All Cub that my dad gave him.  I am telling you the truth when I say that the first time Jay cut the grass on that tractor (it had a stupid smiley face on the front that my dad put on years before), I had gone down to take him a drink of water, and I heard this “Caw”  and looked up and there was a red-tailed hawk flying in a circle above us.  I smiled for hours afterwards.

I sure loved my dad.  When I see an  old hoot wearing socks with his sandals,  I realize that teenage girls waste an awful lot of time being embarrassed by their fathers.

Dragonfly Apocalypse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just stared at him. The hell you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok, kidding. But, what a sight!

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

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

 photo princeton.edu

Perhaps.

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

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

And I smiled all the way home.

following me home

Six Word Saturday-A Slice of Heaven: DiCarlo’s Pizza

  A Slice of Heaven: DiCarlo’s Pizza

     I have to drive up to my hometown this morning for family business with my  family. My sister and I don’t get along, so I’m really not looking forward to sitting across from her discussing stuff. I do get to see my brother, and that is always nice.  Anyways, the drive is about two hours and all I can think about is DiCarlo’s pizza.

DiCarlo’s pizza is famous in the Ohio Valley. My bff Ramaine got me to try it the first time as my parents were anti-pizza, I think. They rarely brought home pizza. When I was young, I was quite picky. I would never try pizza because it had stuff mixed together and round pieces of mystery meat dropped all over the top. It took me a while of  listening to my friends Ooooh and Ahhhhh over its goodness before I tried a piece. Ramaine’s dad brought home a few boxes and I was going to get the chance to experience DiCarlo’s pizza for the very first time. I think I may have been ten or eleven.  Oooh…….Ahhhhhhh. A slice of heaven, I tell ya.

My husband wasn’t fond of it when he first tried it. He wasn’t from the Ohio Valley, so that was his first mistake. His second mistake was not liking DiCarlo’s Pizza. I couldn’t wait for him to taste this wonderful thing in a cardboard box. I stared at him, waiting as he bit into its square slice for the very first time. He was quick to judge.

“This is just fair.” He set the slice down and reached for his Coke. What? This couldn’t be. This is part of my culture. This is part of who I am. I wished that I had never married him. Ok, not really, but that should have sent up red flags. I took away his piece.

“You’re retarded. This is the best pizza in the world. It’s like….a stairway to Heaven.”

“Not even close. It’s just ok.

“You’re just ok.”

Why did you take that away?”

“You are not worthy.”

And then we divorced 25 years later. Never trust a man who doesn’t like DiCarlo’s pizza. Really.

DiCarlo’s is unlike any other pizza. It is sold by the piece or by the tray.  The pizza dough is first baked in several different ovens,of varying degrees, the result being a very crisp bottom with a tender top . (I love the corner pieces. Before the last baking, the sauce is applied and heated. It does not soak the crust and remains just a layer. The crust and sauce is then removed and put in the red and white DiCarlo’s box.  Cheese and slices of pepperoni are added. The lid is slammed shut and the intense heat inside steams the cheese and pepperoni, causing it to become the stringy cheese that most desire, with the pepperoni tender and not hard baked.

It is to die for. To. die. for.

Here are some of the reviews I found on yelp. I really think the bad reviews are people from other pizza establishments trying to tarnish the good name that is DiCarlo’s. Yeah, that’s it.

“ADDICTING. Call wayy ahead because you will have to wait forever. No delivery.” (Philadelphia, PA)

“The pizza is a standard crust cut into a 18″ by 24″ pan regular oven.  The sauce is good, a little pepperoni, but the cheese is put on cold after the pizza leaves the oven..  This is a local thing in the ohio river valley. I was in the mood for a calazone but not available at this Elm Grove location.   Nice folks, but I didnt get into this type of pizza. $ by the slice.”  (Colorado Springs, Colorado)

“Anyone who tries this pizza is freaked out, at first. Mostly because they don’t melt the cheese, they throw it on after the fact. After they try it, a few days later they are begging me to get it for them again. I like it when you get a batch where the crust is really thin, it’s always crispy, the sauce is amazing. The wait can be long for your pizza so call ahead. I love it.” (Pittsburgh, PA)

“The locals rave about this pizza. I’m not so impressed. It is very thick crust and greasy. No delivery or seating to speak of. I think the locals like it because they grew up with it. It must be an acquired taste that I’ve not acquired after 7-years in the Ohio Valley.” (Mosier, Oregon)

“The pizza of my childhood. Every time I come to visit my family, it’s a stop on my very first night in. Tonight, my dad called an hour and a half in advance to snag some sweet deliciousness; patrons waiting in the shop who presumably hadn’t called ahead gave us the evil eye since we were in and out in less than two minutes.
When I was feeling really depressed a while ago, my dad sent me some cross-country. (They do that, hooray!) Needless to say, it cheered me up.    (Austin, Texas)

Make no mistake: There is only ONE DiCarlo’s. You may see other places in the area with the NAME DiCarlo’s, but they’re just posin’. It’s a completely different quality of pizza.
This spot – known affectionately by locals as EGD (Elm Grove DiCarlos) has some of the best pizza around. Its appeal lies not in a wide variety of toppings or intricate crust or fancy sauce. No, its appeal is in the perfection of simple, square slices coated with sauce, cheese and pepperoni. (They have a few other toppings, too, but it’s not what they are loved for.)
There is no better place to get pizza in the Ohio Valley. And there is nothing better when you are drunk, or hungover, or on a Tuesday, or in a box, or with a fox, or in a house, or with a mouse… (Columbus, Ohio)

“I couldn’t have said it better myself!  (See review below) It’s the best Pizza EVER!  I live in Chicago where their pizza is “world famous”  But I have to say, its doesn’t even come close to EGD (Elm Grove Dicarlos). In fact, I still keep their number in my cell phone as I always order a tray on my way in from the airport!  Yum! ” (Chicago, Illinois)

“Best pizza ever! I grew up in the valley and there is no where here in south florida to get pizza like that.” (Ft. Lauderdale, FL)

“I just went there over the holday weekend. Still unparalleled. Absolutely the best. Awesome. I grew up on this pizza. I live in VA now. The pizza near DC is fairly unimpressive. Everytime I come home it’s let’s get some DiCarlos Pizza. I haven’t tasted any pizza anywhere that comes close.” (Sterling, VA)

(Pittsburgh loser)- “This pizza is definitely an acquired taste… and one I have not acquired.  I cannot stand it.  We have two members of the extended family who can’t get enough of it, but the rest of us would rather eat anything but.  I’ve tried several times over the years to appreciate it… but my opinion hasn’t changed. It’s awful.  The unmelted cheese is particularly unappealing.  I know there are a lot of people that love it, I’m sorry but it’s definitely not for everyone and certainly not for me.”

“When I came to Wheeling, everybody raved about this place.  Then I saw how basic it was (crust, sauce, cheese), I had my doubts.  Silly me.  This is probably the best pizza ever created.” (St. Luis Opispo, California)

“Best pizza ever. Grew up in the valley and no longer live there but I crave it all the time. A must stop for anyone in the valley or just visiting.” (Cleveland, Ohio)

9 HOURS LATER-

DiCarlo's pizza and a pretend fire. What a great day!

PS. On Sunday, March 11, Parade Magazine listed DiCarlo’s pizza #10 best pizza in the United States. Do I know my pizza or what?

The Traffic Jam and Salem Cigarettes

Image via Wikipedia

The year was 1965. It was late fall, in the sleepy mill town of Weirton, West Virginia. Sitting in traffic with her three children, Georgiana Mendenhall was becoming agitated. This was a daily occurence on Cove Road, and Mrs. Mendenhall was in a hurry.

“This is ridiculous. I bet there is an old hoot up front, driving like a snail……I bet when we get where we can pass, there will be an old geezer up there. I betcha.”

Her daughter, Vickie, aged nine, took note of her mother’s words. This wasn’t the first time her mother had exhibited road rage. Vickie was sitting in the front seat, unprotected, and unaware that if her mother wrecked, Vickie would most likely go crashing through the windshield. Most likely.

Traffic was creeping. Vickie wished that she was in the backseat with her brother and sister. They were fighting, as usual, but yet it was always fun trying to avoid the sweeping slap that came from her mother, trying to swat at them to quit fighting while she was driving. Alone and seatbeltless in the front seat, made Vickie very aware of her situation as her mother’s road rage increased.

“Damnit the hell any way. Why are we moving so slowly. I NEED to get home.”

Georgiana Mendenhall did not NEED to get home. The woman was out of cigarettes and was slowly edging toward her next smoke. She was closer to her home than to a cigarette store. Of course, there was no such thing as a cigarette store in Weirton, West Virginia. Had there been, Mrs. Mendenhall would have worked there. She needed her Salem cigarettes, those cancer sticks in a green and white package.

Mrs. Mendenhall had no idea that she had left her pack of Salem cigarettes on the coffee table in front of the couch where she sat, inhaling the magic into her lungs. She smoked from the time she woke up until the time she went to bed. She smoked while cooking. She smoked while ironing. She smoked while smoking. She was indeed, addicted. The traffic was creeping, just as the hairs were creeping up on the back of Georgiana Mendenhall’s neck. She was ready to hit the car in front of her.

“Dear God, what is going on up there? If there is an old geezer causing this, I am going to ram him.”

Georgiana’s daughter was frightened for her life. For. her. life. She spoke not a word, however, because it would not make the situation any better. She just smiled to let her know that it was going to be ok.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?” Mrs. Mendenhall decided to take her edginess and point it right at her oldest child. “Do you think this is funny? I need to get home to fix dinner.” Vickie noted that her mother took grip of the steering wheel as if she were the Boston Strangler. The need for a smoke was becoming intense. Vickie later described the emotional turmoil in the automobile.

“Mom was falling apart. The Traffic jam was too much for her. I tried to joke with her, asking why it is called a traffic “jam” since you should be able to get through jelly. I thought it was funny, but she was having no part of it. She was ready to convulse.”

The children sitting in the back were blind to their mother’s growing need for a cigarette. They made matters worse by yelling at each other. Cheryl claimed that David was looking at her. David stated that he was not. Cheryl claimed that he was looking at her again. David stated that he was not.

And that’s when Georgiana Mendenhall lost her mind.

She began honking her horn. It wasn’t just a “beep beep” as in the Road Runner cartoons that her children loved so. It was a blare. Future writer Vickie noted the sound in a menagerie of synonyms she learned in fourth grade:

“It was a constant barrage, a cannonade,  a unrelenting reverberation, vociferation, cacophonous,and dissonant.”

This did not make the traffic jam disband or hasten its agenda. Traffic was as slow as molasses on a summer day in the desert.

Vickie looked over at her mother. Georgiana Mendenhall looked like she was holding a pretend cigarette in her right hand. Beads of perspiration were falling from her brow. The horn blowing continued. The person in the car in front of Mrs. Mendenhall threw up his hands in exasperation. It was not his fault. It was probably an accident that was making the traffic move at a snail’s pace. They were in traffic for a long, long time, perhaps ten minutes. Too long for a short fused, cigarette craving murderous mom.

The traffic seemed to increase in velocity when the road turned from two to four lane. Mrs. Georgiana Mendenhall put her foot on the pedal and accelerated. She moved over into the passing lane and approached the traffic jam culprit, lingering in the right lane.

“You son of a bitch!” growled Vickie’s mother. She put her hand on the horn and the sound blared as they passed the accused. Vickie looked over at the driver. He was an old man. He was driving a purple Cadillac. A very large and long purple Cadillac. She knew the car well. She rolled her window down and waved at the driver as they came beside him.

“Hi Grandpa!’ Vickie mouthed over to the old man. He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. His hands were stationed at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, an intense look on his face. Afterall, a crazed road ragian was trying to run him off of the road.

“Mom, it’s Grandpa you called an old geezer.” Vickie laughed.

Georgiana Mendenhall did not say a word. She was not fond of her father-in-law, and he was not fond of her. He was a big name in this sleepy steel mill town, and he could make her disappear if he wanted to. He was the same man who put his crazy wife in a “rest” home every time he took a cruise or flight to Florida. He could make life miserable for his daughter-in-law. He may drive slow, but his actions in his business dealings were swift. But, he sure loved his grandaughter, Vickie.

“I’m going to tell Grandpa that you said he was a geezer,” Vickie glanced at her mother.  Her mother looked ashen. Perhaps it was the want of a Salem cigarette physically making her sick. Or perhaps it was her daughter’s nonchalant way of bribing her mother.

Georgiana Mendenhall arrived at home and reached for her beloved Salem cigarettes. Ahhhh…….. Vickie, of course, had no idea at this age what an orgasm was, but noted that her mother lit a cigarette after she smoked that cigarette.

And three hours later, Vickie and her siblings were summoned to the kitchen, where they found newly baked whoopie pies, sitting in a pile on the kitchen table. “I thought I would make your favorite, Vickie.”

Vickie knew that her silence could be bought. Whoopie pies were an impressive purchase. She also learned that traffic jams are not necessarily a bad thing.

 And she learned at the tender age of nine that life is nothing more than one big bargaining chip.

Me and Grandpa

And This Little Piggy….

My family and my best friend’s family took a trip during the summer of 1972 to Acapulco, Mexico. We drove all the way there from Weirton, West Virginia. It was a blast. They were in their Station Wagon and we were in my mom’s boat of a Cadillac. Once we crossed the border into Mexico, we stayed in a roach infested motel room. Ramaine’s mom, Dora, wanted us to have a pajama party and stay up all night long. We knew it was because she was afraid that when we fell asleep, we would be subject to all creepy crawlers of the night. We thought it was fun.

Along the way, we stopped at an open air place that was supposed to be a burger joint. I was a little concerned about  what kind of meat they served. While we were waiting to get our food, out of the blue a mother pig and her piglets waltzed through the outdoor restaurant. The baby pigs were adorable!  They were right by our feet, squealing, and brushing against our legs as they ran around the tables.  I just fell in love with the little piggies.

I believe I was 15 when we went to Mexico. On our way back from Acapulco, we stopped at several market places along the side of the road. I found a small paper mache pig. I smiled and just knew I had to have it. After our Mexican adventure was over and we were back in West Virginia, I started my pig collection. And I have been collecting things ever since. My first purchase, of course, was a piggy bank.

One day, when I was driving on a back road somewhere with the school’s driver’s ed teacher, I quickly put my foot on the brake, and yelled, “Pigs!!!”  There was a pig farm right on the side of the road. Little piggies were running around and I fell in love all over again. I explained my love of the little porkers to the teacher, who just smiled, probably happy that I didn’t put the car in a ditch during my excitement. The next day he brought me a little plastic pig. “I stole it from my little boy’s toy farm.” I thought that was so sweet. I still have the little guy.

Now, when you are young, you can get away with having a bunch of crap in your bedroom. I used to have stuffed animals when I was little. As I got older, it was Barbie Dolls and Trolls. When I was a teenager, it was pigs. Where ever I went, I tried to find something with a pig on it. After a while, it was obvious that I really liked pigs. Even in college, I managed to find a pig poster. It wasn’t in the best of taste, but during the mid 70′s, this poster was very popular. (Makin Bacon) I hung it above our toilet in the apartment I shared with three others.

After I graduated from college, I looked around my “I’m an adult now” apartment, and realized that most of the pigs had to go.  I gave away or threw away (sigh) most of my pigs. I only kept a few things. But, my love of all things piggy  was too hard to get rid of altogether. I found an old “The Three Little Pigs” book in an antique shop, and decided, “Hey, what a cool collection that would be!” So I am on the look-out for those when I am antiquing.

In the end, I think everyone should collect something.  My grandfather collected marbles. We used to go to his house, crack open the can that contained the round beauties, and shoot marbles on the carpet. They were so pretty. My grandmother enjoyed her National Geographics. I really didn’t consider magazines a collection, but she enjoyed them. My dad owned cameras. He was an amateur photographer, and had different kinds of camera. After he died, I was able to obtain a mini camera that he owned.

I collect a lot of things, ranging from duck decoys to swizzle sticks, from antique letter openers to cast iron banks. I’m a collector. As I was looking around my dining room/living room, I made a discovery. I’m still a pig hoarder.

My little piggy from Mexico

Well, talk about subconscious purchasing. I bought the lamp last month. As soon as I saw it, I had to have it. My son gave me the pig cutting board at Christmas.

I guess I’m a pig collector once again.  I kind of like the little porkers.

Amityville Horror house?

A typical Crystal Lane home

I loved the neighborhood I grew up in. It really couldn’t have been any better.  My dad and grandfather developed Woodland Estates beginning in 1955 I believe. Most of the houses were the same. Dad later said that he really got a good deal on the brick face.  We moved into the model home on the corner of Crystal Lane and Fernwood Drive. (A lot of the brick face fell off over the years.) They named other streets Beacon Drive, East Parkway, Patterson Drive and Palimino Drive. Palimino Drive was named after my grandfather’s horses.

All of the houses were the same. The front door led you into the living room.  There was a side door that took you into a galley kitchen and a place for the kitchen table.  Down the hall from the living room were three bedrooms and 1 bath.  Our corner house was a bit larger than the other Crystal Lane homes because our garage was sort of to the side of the house, with a large screened-in porch on top of it. It had more yard space than the other homes, since it was situated on the corner. (I will have to find a picture of it. My descriptions suck.)  There was an empty lot, a wooded area and a gulley across the street that ran the whole length of the road. That’s where we had a lot of our adventures. 

We played kickball in the street by my house. There were also street lights right by our playing area, so we could play well past dark. My mom probably had the city install the lights so we would stay outside later. I mean, she called the ice cream truck people and ordered them not to drive through the neighborhood when her children took their daily naps. She could have done this too.

The great thing about Woodland Estates was the fact that there were so many kids on the 3 block area  that were the same age.   LeeAnn, Ramaine, Monica, Lori, Kathy, Janice, Tammy, MaryLou, Kacey, Melinda, Harold, and Cathy K…. And those were just the kids who were in the same grade as me. Poor Harold.

I will write later about our neighborhood adventures, but today I want to write about something I just heard about. My brother called me the other day and said someone stopped him in the grocery store. “So, I heard your house was going to be used in a movie?”  My brother had no idea what she was talking about. “You mean my mom and dad’s house?” The lady nodded. 

My childhood home

My sister and her husband now live in our childhood home. She stayed there after she finished flunking college and just stayed there with my mom. Never left. My mom is now in a nursing home and the home was turned over to my sister for taking such good care of my mom. (Free rent, electric, food, and other perks sure was a selling point also.) Anywho, my brother called my sister to find out what was going on.

So, it appears that JJ Abrams is directing a movie called Super 8. Stephen Spielberg is producing.  It is going to be an alien ET like movie, I heard.  Supposedly, in the movie,  items had to be transported to Ohio from Area 51 and there is a train accident and something escapes.  So, Paramount people were scouting areas to be used in the film. I guess there will be young teenagers who are playing with a Super 8 camera and catch something on their film.. They wanted a 70 era home and neighborhood for the kids, and they ended up in Woodland Estates….At my Mom’s house. (sister’s house now)

So, it is supposed to be hush hush. The whole movie is clothed in secrecy. It is supposed to be filmed beginning in September and the movie debuts next summer. I guess there was a trailer of it shown during Iron Man 2.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkvKfmaVFJg

So, out of the millions and millions of homes all across the United States, my childhood home may be used in this movie. I guess there were trucks and helicopters all over the city and many pulled up and like 28 people got out and scoured over the neighborhood and took pictures, measured things and my sister is not allowed to disclose how much they are paying her to use the house.

They said they needed to replace the front door and they also want to use the living room. They are using the house across the street also. I think the kids must be living in them.  I bet they need the living room to look out across the street at the other house being used. I can figure things out like that. So, if this pans out , my childhood home could be like the next Amityville Horror house. The next ET house. 

So, next summer, when you go to the movies to watch Super 8, look for my childhood home.

Unless of course, they decide not to use the house because the secret got out and ruined secret filming.

But, hey, my brother was the one who told me.

.

Lies That Bite Back

My dad was a realtor and was always off showing a house.  I remember one time he put a picture of one of his houses for sale in the paper and received numerous calls, mainly because  it was a photo of the house next door to the one he was supposed to sell.  He just chuckled, but when the rightful owners called him and demanded an apology and another apology  printed in the newspaper, my dad  blamed  it on his assistant and promised that he would promptly fire him right away because of his ineptness.  Poor assistant. Poor, Poor INVISIBLE  assistant. And that’s where I learned how to lie.  I learned by example.

I told several pretty big lies over the course of my lifetime. The first one had to do with a visit to one of my dad’s client’s home. They were living in Florida over the winter, and my dad was checking on the home to make sure the pipes hadn’t burst. Mom and the three of us were sitting in the car with the car running,  and Cheryl was getting fussy and I was getting fidgety. I’m not sure, but I think I was about 7 when this happened. So, anyway, I opened the door and said, “Oh, look, a fish pond.” So, without permission, the three of us got out of the car, and ran over the frozen ground to the fish pond. My mom didn’t care. She was smoking a cigarette and looking straight ahead, exhaling those rings of second hand smoke and wishing her last film wasn’t such a flop. (Oh wait, sorry. That was the real Joan Crawford..my bad.)

It was very, very cold outside, and some of us were bundled up pretty good.  When we got to the fish pond, we could see that it was just a small brick-like pond, frozen over, and you could see the fish underneath. They looked like huge goldfish. Oh my God, how can they breathe?  I must save them! I took the heal of my foot and tried to break the ice so they could come up for air.  The ice was hard (duh) and seemed pretty thick.  Hmmmm….must be thick enough to walk on. For a second I forgot about saving fish and entered “Adventure mode” and stepped on the ice.  How cool is this. Took another step, standing there with my hands on my hips like I just discovered The South Pole…and the ice broke. And down through the ice I fell.   Uh Oh…

The only thing I really remember is that it was so very cold. My coat was floating on top of the water all around me, because I was the only one who really wasn’t buttoned up. The water was child hip high. Well, at least I saved the fish from not being able to breathe. I may have been standing on one, but at that point in time, I only cared about myself.  “MOM!!!”  “David, get Mom.”  My dad heard me screaming and got to me before my nicotine-stained mother.  “Oh my God! Vickie! What happened?”  And my reply shocked one family member. “David pushed me!”

Poor David.  My dad scooped me up and ran with me to the car. They took off my wet clothes and it seemed like everyone gave me a piece of their clothing to put on for the drive home. (We were about an hour away from home.)  I couldn’t look at David, but I  he was crying before we even got back to the car. “Mom, I did NOT push her. She stepped on the ice.”   Attila the Liar-”Mommmm, I did not. I was standing there and asked how the fish could live under ice, and David just pushed me!!”  David cried all the way home. Mom smacked him several times on the butt as soon as we got out of the car and told him to go to his room. Cheryl didn’t say a word. She could have saved him, but she didn’t. David was a gentle, kind, kid. She had to share a room with me. I knew she wouldn’t squeal.

I knew I was going to get a whipping for stepping on the ice, so I lied.  Anytime I thought that creepy hand was coming for me, I lied. I was a liar. My lies got grander as I got older. I told many lies in college, mainly to excuse my abscences. Like the one where I fell out of a second story window into the bushes. Or the one (I’m going to hell for this one) where my sister was hit by a school bus and I had to run home every time her conditioned changed. But  there was one in particular, that stands out among the others.

I majored in Speech Communication and Drama. If you weren’t in a play, you had to help behind the scenes. The play we were putting on was called, “Our Town.” I was on the costumes crew and the old suits they used smelled like mothballs, and old man. I didn’t know what an old man was supposed to smell like, but this was not a good smell. I had to sew buttons on some of the old suits. That was my job for then. I didn’t like that job, but feared what they had in store for me next. So, I sewed buttons on the suits, cut them off, and re-sewed them. There were so many people doing soo many different things, they had no clue that I was just sitting on my butt, sewing over and over again.

In the middle of preparing for the next play, I was asked to go see Billy Joel in concert. The guy who asked me went to a neighboring college and was hot. Gus was his name. (Gus was later on named the Happiest Guy in the whole United States and was a guest on the Daily Show a couple of years ago.  Happy guy that Gus.) Anyway, I told him I would go, despite the fact that the play’s opening night was the same night, and it was mandatory attendance.

So, I began my big lie.  I was also in a class that the director taught, so I was around her a lot. She was an older woman, and all business. She lived, ate and breathed theater. The first day of my big lie, I was very quiet. (That in of itself, is weird.) She asked if I was ok. Yes, I was fine, just a little tired. Acted the same way at play practice that night.  The next day at play practice I mentioned to a cast mate that I didn’t really feel like talking, because I was getting a nasty sore throat. (Made sure I made the comment close to the director.) By the end of the 2nd week, I was tired, my neck was on fire, I had a excruciating sore throat, but would never go home from class or play practice. “I’ll be ok. I need to keep sewing.” Said with a minor laugh. What a trooper, I was.  I even had blisters in the back of my throat and swollen glands all around my neck. She was quite impressed with me. The night before the mandatory opening night, I told the director I was going to go home that weekend to get tested for mono. She sent me home that night. Boy, was I a great little actress. The worst part was that she felt my forehead, told me I was burning up and to go home.  A fever? Wow, I was good!

Well, things do come back around to bite you in the butt. Gus took me to the Billy Joel Concert. On the way home, we stopped at the Holiday Inn for a drink. The place was packed and the disco music was blaring. Gus was gone for a while and when he came back with drinks, guess who was with him? No, silly, not the director.

It was Billy Joel.

He sat with Gus and I for almost an hour. At the Holiday Inn. In little Fairmont, West Virginia. It was great. He was talking about other singers he liked and disliked and it was amazing. And no one bothered him or asked for his autograph. I don’t think that anyone else in that bar went to the concert, because he was incognito and having a great time talking to Gus and I. What a night!

I went home and realized I couldn’t tell anyone. Not a soul. I mean, I did, but swore my roommates to secret.  But, I realized that my lie kept me from telling my peers about my amazing experience. If  the director found out, I would have been on her shit-list. I had 2 more years to go and she really liked me because of my strong work ethic.   I couldn’t let her down!

But then again, if it weren’t for the lie, how would I have gotten to have drinks with Billy Joel?   I would have been sitting behind the curtain, handing out smelly old man suits.

My lie was my first acting gig. I really did have a severe case of mono in high school and knew how to build on it. I did good. When I took Acting 101 the next semester, I received so-so remarks on my one-act performance. Our peers always commented on each other’s performance. One peer said to me, “I don’t feel that you put much into developing your character for this role.”  The hell you say.

Actually, I thought, I research my roles in quite detail.   It’s called method acting, weird-O.  If they only knew that I pulled the wool over the whole cast and director, they would be asking me for acting advice. Well, I liked to think that. I was polite, but gave her one of my  ornery, liar smiles.

The Walking Water Tower

When I was little, we had a red and white Ford Victoria convertible. I hated that car. Sure, it was fun when we would take it to the A&W Root beer stand or to the drive-in. But, I had to sit in the backseat with my brother, David, and my sister, Cheryl, and I was made to always sit in the middle. And there
was a big problem with that. A big problem. For some reason, Ford decided it would be nifty to put an emblem in the middle of the backseat. Why?? The only thing I can think of is that they were just stupid. Stupid doesn’t need a reason.

The reason I was the designated middle seater was because my sister, Cheryl, had issues.  Cheryl gave new meaning to the phrase , “temper tantrum.” She was 3 years younger than me and was a spoiled only child. (David and I were both adopted, so you know what I mean). So, she threw tantrums. Twenty four hours a day. Mom would stop the car and make her get out and walk home. She always stopped at the same place in our neighborhood, but it was still like a mile walk. Or Mom would just leave her in the car when we pulled into the garage. “Vickie, David, don’t talk to your sister. Just get out of the car and we are going to leave her in here.” Cheryl would still be screaming and carrying on, and my Mom would slap the crap out of her. We weren’t really supposed to see that at first, because we were ordered upstairs, but then it became a common sight. Mom first used a paddle that looked like a cutting board. It has a picture of a deer on it with the saying “For the dear little behind” ( Or something like that. You can’t expect me to remember everything.) Then, she used the belt. And David was in charge of getting the belt. It was almost like she was sitting on her ring-of-cigarette smoke and coffee cup throne, saying, “David, get me the belt.” Even if the intended whipping was for David. It was funny how he danced around in a circle when she was hitting him. Well, it was funny to watch. Anywho, back to Cheryl…Cheryl would sit in the car for hours. With her arms crossed and kicking the seat in front of her. She was a real Nellie Olson.

After about 15 minutes, Mom always told me to go try to get Cheryl out of the car. Why the hell me? She would never get out of the car. But, I would stand at the top of the steps and yell downstairs. “Cher-yl….Oh Cher-yl…Cher-ylllllll…..Chay-ryl……Shay-rul…and that’s how she got her nickname, Shayru when we were little. So, David, who is two years younger than me, and I decided to mess with our little nutcase of a sister. Whenever we would drive by the water tower near our house, we would start singing, in creepy, sinister voices, slow at first..”The walking water tower….It eats everything by the hour…It steps on your toe, and Oh, No….There’s nothing left of the hour.” (Ok, we were very young, give us some slack) We would whisper the song at first, and then each repeat would be louder, and faster. Cheryl would start yelling and screaming, but we didn’t care. It was quite fun. Whatever happened to Baby Cheryl, the movie.

Well, then here comes the part why I hated our Ford Victoria. Since I was sitting in the middle, the stupid emblem was right behind my head. My mom told us several times to quit tormenting Cheryl. When that didn’t work, she would start swatting at us from the front seat. No one wore seat belts back then, so we moved to miss her hand. My mom burned the palm of her hand when she was a baby when she put it on a hot stove, and her hand was heavily scarred and ugly and when that thing came at you, you tried to miss it. It was witch-like, whatever that means. Well, I would jerk my head back to miss the Hand, and the back of my head would hit the emblem. Hard. “You made me hit my head”, I said, crying. And this is what my mom always replied. “God’s punishing you.”

Well, I didn’t do anything to God and it seemed like God was always punishing me. He punished me when my mom and dad brought baby David home the first time and caught me sweet talking to him while I was rubbing Vicks Vapor Rub all over his face. He punished me for hiding the food I didn’t want to eat under the antique table in little cubby holes. Did he punish Cheryl for putting the dog in the clothes hamper? No. Did he punish her for putting the dog on the Lazy Susan on the table and spinning her around and around. No. Just me. It took me only a short while to figure out that my mom was God.

After Mom would slap the hell out of Cheryl with her witch-hand, she would tell David and I that children who have temper tantrums like Cheryl are very intelligent. She always added that the doctors told her when she was pregnant at an older age that she would either have a baby that was very intelligent or a Mongoloid. I didn’t know what a Mongoloid was, but I was betting that’s what she ended up having.

I actually liked the dysfunctional trips in the car. I couldn’t wait to drive past the Water Tower so the tormenting could commence. My dad, who rarely said much in the car, always waited until we drove past the huge, round water tower on our way to Pittsburgh and always told us the same joke. “They just found some guys body in that water tower. He ran himself to death, trying to find a corner to piss in.” Good one, Dad.

Years later, Cheryl dated Carlo, a guitarist who put music to our Walking Water Tower. The last I heard, he was in a band in Pittsburgh. If you ever hear the song, The Walking Water Tower, well, I wrote that.

MonkeyShines

Most, if not all of my adventures when I was growing up in Weirton, West Virginia, were with my best friend, Ramaine. She lived down the street from me, and we were attached at the hip.  We were in Camp Fire Girls together.  We rode the school bus together. We had a cabin in the woods together.  It seemed like we were laughing all day long.  My childhood was great because I had a best friend who was just like me. We lived outside the box, and had some very creative days.  And, boy, were we stylish… We even  bought white pants with pictures of the Monkees faces all over the pants.  We were weird, but knew how to laugh at ourselves.  We did that quite well. Sang the definition of “lima bean” into a tape recorder.  The word, “bored”, was not in our vocabulary. The only difference we had was that she was a gerbil person, and I was a hamster person.  Which lead us to the pet shop.

We used to visit the pet shop often.It was at the Weirton plaza, a little strip of stores near our homes. The guy had a lot of different animals at the pet shop.  One particular visit to the pet shop concluded in uncontrollable laughter, one that I can say  was the hardest I ever laughed in my whole life. Ramaine reminded me that we were in 8th grade when this happened. Dear God, she even remembers what she was wearing that day. Well, it was a day for the record books, that’s for sure.

The pet store was small, with a long counter with rows of animals in their little cages beneath it. The place was jammed with critters. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the snakes, though. There was even a mynah bird that cussed like you wouldn’t believe. It always amused me. But, on this particular day,  I was on my knees, looking at a mother hamster and newborns on the bottom row. Ramaine was standing, bent over a little, looking at something else, when all of a sudden she asked, “What’s on my head?”  I stood up, and my mouth dropped open.  I didn’t or couldn’t say a word. A spider monkey  had stepped off the top of the counter right onto her head. I really think I could have put my fist in my mouth.  ”What’s on my head?” she repeated. Well, hell, I couldn’t answer. I mean, there was a monkey on her head. Just sitting there. Ramaine reached up to feel what was on her head, and the monkey swatted her hand away. “What’s on my head?”  She was expecting her bestest friend to give her an answer. She was panicking a little, starting to pace, and I  was not answering, but standing there with a big smile on my face. Ramaine tried to bend over, and that’s when the little fellow grabbed her hair with both little hands to hang on. That’s when I first started laughing.

“What’s on my head????”  Everytime her hand went up to feel what kind of creature was sitting there, he would release one hand from grasping onto her hair and slap it away. I couldn’t speak. I was laughing so hard. It was one of those silent, belly laughs, where you shake, but no sound comes out of your mouth. Now, Ramaine was pacing faster and moving her head, and bringing up her one leg for some reason, and that monkey was hanging on for dear life and I just couldn’t tell her that there was a monkey on her head.  It reminded me of  a little monkey jockey, riding something. I was in awe.  I had never seen a live monkey.  I did look around to see if a little old man with an organ grinder was standing nearby.

“VICKiE,  GET IT OFF!!  WHAT IS IT?  GET IT OFF!”  That monkey must have liked the view, because he had no intention of leaving Ramaine’s head.  She looked like she was having a seizure. Her arms and legs were flailing all about,  and the monkey was leaning to the left and then to the right, and would only take his hand off of the death grip on the her hair to swat at Ramaine.

I had to sit down on the floor. I started laughing so hard, I peed my pants. This is a recurring theme for me. Laugh. Pee. Repeat. “It’s a monkey….”  I finally was able to speak. “I peed my pants.”  Ramaine didn’t care. She had a monkey on her head.   The owner finally came over and had to pry the little monkeys fingers from her hair. It wasn’t working too well..  Finally, a banana (I think I am making this part up) was waved in front of  the monkey’s face and he left her head and went to sit on the owner’s shoulder. I found out later that the monkey’s name was Ginger. Ginger, I wish I had my camera that day.

I’m glad Ramaine was able to laugh about the whole thing on the way home. But, it was a nervous laugh, I could tell. I was sitting on a towel my mom brought for me and had to explain why, once again, I peed my pants. “I’m going to have to make an appointment for you to see Dr. Harper. There must be something wrong with your kidneys.”  No, did you not hear me?  There was a MONKEY on her head. I mean, come on.  Urination justification.