June 26, 2021--National Roller Coaster Week
How many times in one person's life can he or she say, "I'm never doing that again"? For some of us, the number of times seems infinite. A year ago I wrote a post about National Roller Coaster Week which astute readers may or may not recall. In that post I said that I had only a few roller coasters that I hoped to ride before I died. I meant none of it. What can I say? It was during the pandemic. I thought we were all going to die. I'd say anything at a time like that. Little did I know that when I wrote that post, I would find myself in Las Vegas once more, only a short year later. They say that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. I contend something a little different. I say that the memories of Vegas are better than the reality of Vegas. And with that in mind, I now will recount my (what I hope to be final) roller coaster adventure. A person can get lost in Las Vegas and never find their way back. There were many times when I thought this was happening as I blithely followed my family around. I still don't understand why we picked Las Vegas as our adventure land to reset our lives after the pandemic. Our daughter just graduated college. I suppose that would be reason enough. College was done. It was time to corrupt our protégé before we sent her out into the world to seek her fortune. Our son had graduated from college the year before, and there was not very much celebrating going on back then due to the quarantine. He didn't even get a live graduation, only an on-line one. So, there was the idea that these kids both needed some fine corruption at the hands of their parents. And then there is the fact that Husband goes to sleep each night with the sound of the mountains calling his name. His idea was to plant us snuggly in a city that offered never ending things to do. Then he could leave us in the capable hands of Sin City whilst he sneaked out to climb a mountain. And that is what he did. I had forgotten how much walking there is in Las Vegas. Even with Uber, taxis, or your own car, there is more than a fair amount of walking. On our last day in the city, we visited the New York New York Hotel and Casino. It was just getting built the last time I found myself there. And I had said then that someday I would be back to ride the roller coaster that is a feature of the place. I was lot younger then. And much more daring. Now, my daring has been replaced by blustering bravado. But I had blogged about riding it. And I could not let my faithful readers down. The only other one of our party who would ride with me was Daughter. And that is how it should have been because if I didn't make it back, there would be someone who could account for how I died. I knew I had made a grave mistake after we purchased our tickets. I saw the only other riders were all gravelly looking men in their early twenties. It was much, much too late to turn back, so I sat in the seat and tightened the seat belt as tight as I could and still breath. There was a young married couple in the car in front of us(the only other non-gravelly looking people riding that day). As we started the first incline, the afternoon sun blinded us. I commented, "I think I already died, and I'm in Heaven." The man in front said, "This ain't Heaven. We're buckled in." He was right, in more ways than one. As we climbed higher than I ever imagined I would be in a car on a narrow track, I looked across the way. We were as high as the top story of the Excalibur Hotel. Normally, when I rode a coaster in the past, I would scream and curse and say all kinds of embarrassing things. This time, I opted out. I wanted so badly to redo the whole idea. It was too late, however. There was nothing enjoyable about it. Instead of shouting to add to the fun, I just hunkered down. If I closed my eyes, I didn't have to look at the steep incline. It was awful. Even though I didn't look, I still felt the sharp slope. The rush of wind and sensation of falling were the same as any other roller coaster. They just lasted longer because this one, called The Big Apple, is bigger and more dangerous than anything I had ridden previously. When we finally rolled into the exit station, the woman in front of us was laughing. She asked if we had heard her husband crying. "I heard everything," I said, "The crying and the cursing." He laughed and then said, "I wasn't crying." "Yes, you were," said his wife, gleefully. "Well, don't worry. I won't tell anyone anything if you won't tell anyone what you heard from our seat." "What happens on the roller coaster in Vegas, stays on the roller coaster in Vegas, " he said. Instead of shaking hands, we did a four way high five and walked out of there, still alive and with all visible body parts intact. If we had shaken hands on this man's parting words though, I would not have been able to write them here. A high five split four ways is not as strong of a transaction as a hand shake. And about the whole experience, I can definitely say, "I will never, ever, ever do that again." June 24, 2021--Young Doctor's Day
Oh, those young docs. All bravado and no practical experience. I can speak with authority on this subject because in 2012 I broke my elbow. It was a "bad break," according to my orthopedic surgeon. Husband and I waited in the exam room while Dr. Young Guns buzzed in and out. He would look at my elbow, then leave for a few minutes only to return to look at it again. It began to seem passing strange. "What's with this guy?" asked Husband. "That's the second time he's left in ten minutes' time." I just shrugged. "Maybe he was absent the day they covered broken elbows in medical school," I said. We thought he must have been going back and forth to his office to look up elbow breaks in his textbooks, or worse, on WebMD.com. We had not really chosen this doctor. We had called the same office of the orthopedic surgeon who had set my daughter's broken arm in 2004. However, when booking the appointment, we were told that the doctor whom we trusted had since retired. Just my great luck, I guess. The practice had been taken over by a Young Turk. Time was on his side, it seemed, but on ours--not so much. He seemed affable, albeit really young. When you have a broken bone, there is not really time to shop around for a doctor. Bones, like babies, cannot wait. So I went ahead and agreed to see this guy who looked like he might have just passed his exams, and barely at that. And that is how we found ourselves giving helpful hints and bits of advice to a man in a white lab coat. He skipped in and out of our exam room like the bits of shadow and light shining through the fourth floor window. "If I didn't know better, I'd think he was a magician," said Husband. "He keeps disappearing and reappearing." "Should we applaud the next time he comes in?" I asked. True to form, he reappeared for the third time to look at my elbow again and say, "This is a really bad break." Each time before he left, he would pause for a minute, look up at the ceiling, and then say, "I'll be right back." If ever there was a legit time for crib notes, that would have been it. I know doctoring is hard work. And getting to his position was expensive. Who knows what was really going on in this man's mind. Now that I have watched all five seasons of "Breaking Bad," I wonder if he was cooking meth somewhere in that fancy office. Maybe he was trying to hide a body. Perhaps he had high anxiety about repaying his student loans. Maybe he had scammed his way into med school or cheated on his exams. Perhaps our appointment had left him in the middle of a tryst in his office where a hottie lay in wait for him. He had to keep checking back on her to make sure she hadn't done something stupid like set fire to his medical diploma. Perhaps he was shooting up or taking a shot every time he left us without explanation. Maybe his creditors were on hold on his telephone. Or waiting in his office ready to chop off a finger. Possibly his newborn was in there waiting to be changed or fed because his nanny had up and walked--along with his wife. He was so anxious, I could see this last scenario playing out in my own head. So much so that I had to bring myself back out of my own trance when he finally returned for the last time to render his verdict: "This is a really bad break," he said. "My secretary will schedule surgery for you." After he left for the final time that day, I looked at my husband and said, "No shit, Sherlock." Later that evening, as I phoned in my lesson plans for the next three days, my colleague expressed surprise over the phone. "Three days out?" she exclaimed. I stated that it was doctor's orders. "Oh, tough break, kiddo. Tough break." June 23, 2021--Typewriter Day
I like to think I know a thing or two about typewriters. After all, my dad worked for IBM once upon a time. My mom was a secretary for years. Even after her job title was changed to office assistant or office manager, she still referred to herself as a secretary. I can remember her and my dad waxing on poetic about the new IBM Selectric. Oh, if only we still had one. Wait, I don't think we ever had one. That typewriter model was launched in 1961, the year of my birth. No wonder I feel a kinship to it. They were expensive, back in the day. Also, I don't think IBM employees got any kind of a discount to purchase a home model. The reason we didn't have a typewriter in my home while I was growing up was probably the same reason we didn't have a set of encyclopedias. Once an encyclopedia salesman came to our home and spent the better part of an evening talking to my parents. They ultimately declined his offer, but there was an hour or two when I thought we might be getting a set of them. I believe my folks told my brother and me that we didn't need a set of encyclopedias at that time, but they would reconsider a purchase at a later date. That later date never came. I now realize that "at a later date" was a euphemism for we can't afford it. And truth be told, we couldn't afford it at a later date, either. That is how things were at our house. As I got older, the things my parents could not provide made me resourceful. It is why I held so many jobs in my teen years. I started babysitting as a first job. This job made me realize that I did not like kids. At least I didn't like other people's kids. So, eventually I became a school teacher. Go figure. My grandma had a manual typewriter that she used to type up the bowling reports when she was the treasurer of her bowling league. If I could have any thing from my grandparents' house today, it would be that typewriter. I once tried typing on it. Before I got caught and told to stop, I realized how difficult it was to use. You had to really smash down on the keys. Kids today do not know how to type. In my time at school, I took a typing course or two. There was nothing else like it. It had to be the most boring, yet easy job for any school teacher. All they did was stand at the front of the classroom, and say things like, "F...F....F. J...J...J." Anyone could do that, but I imagine they had to have qualifications like a degree from business school, a teaching certificate, and some kind of magic wand. If you didn't obey and type the letters they called out, you got turned into a toad. I know this to be true because in all of my typing classes, everyone always obeyed, and no one got turned into a toad. So that proves it to be true. June 13, 2021-Write to Your Father Day/Klutzes in the Kitchen
Dear Dad, You have been away from this earthly life for a little over a year now. Today is a day to celebrate Klutzes in the Kitchen. When I think about Klutzes in the kitchen, after I think about myself, I think of you. I guess I had to learn my kitchen klutziness somewhere. Between you and mom, it is a very close tie as to who was more of klutz in our kitchen growing up, and I will hereby tell you why you just may make the pendulum swing to your favor. Do you remember all of those pancakes you used to make us for breakfast? I imagine they number into the millions. I did not know for the longest time that a pancake should not be blackened. Blackening something is a cooking technique used for fish and chicken. It consists of dipping the item in butter and herbs and then cooking it until it has a nice brown or back crust. I am not a chef, so I only know all of this by doing a quick google search. You served us our pancakes with a blackened crust and then soft in the middle. This method of over and undercooking was perfected by you. There is no accounting for it, except for upon reflection and hindsight. My best guess was that it was due to a flame too high and too hot. Also, you always insisted on making the pancakes in an iron griddle pan. I am fairly certain that iron skillets were not meant for making pancakes. A skillet cake is more to the liking of one of these pans. Skillet cakes are most often made up of some kind of corn meal and usually have a cornbread texture. I only know all of this because I can read. I don't pretend to be able to cook pancakes to perfection. However, I can tell you that they are much easier to control if you have an electric griddle. I was always hesitant to cook pancakes at home because of the ones I had been served as a youngster. Then, one day, I got married, and my husband cooked me pancakes. That is the day I learned that pancakes should not be served with a black crust. I don't mean to harp on you, now that you have passed on and all, and I have been a less skillful cook myself, from time to time. There is a distinct difference between then and now, however. I guess what I am trying to say is that I always own my cooking disasters. It was crazy how we used to eat our burned to a crisp pancakes and not complain about them. Well, we probably did complain, but that did not change your cooking style. Another thing that has bothered me for a long time is how you once cooked us crabs. While I thank you for the experience of crabbing that day on Galveston Bay, I have since learned something else. When we brought home our catch from our crabbing expedition, we cooked them on the stovetop in a covered pot. I can still hear them scratching around inside that pot until the water boiled and they were no more. Yeah, turns out, we weren't supposed to end their lives that way, either. June 10th, 2021--National Farm Workers Day
To awaken on a summer's morning on Grandpa's farm was to all at once get a sense of yourself and where you were in time and space. You might be on their Naugahyde sofa, split into two parts and made up into a bed. If you stretched a bit, you could find your brother's feet who was sleeping at the other end. Or you might find yourself on a pallet on the floor made up of bedding that started with mattress ticking and ended with one of Granny's quilts which tucked you in safely and held you through the night in their embrace. As you poke your head out of the covers, it is still dark, but the glow of the rising sun is peeping through the window. Just barely. By the time you really wake up, that same sun is high in the sky, yet still far from its highest point. Grandpa is out working somewhere on the farm. He will return at midday for his largest meal, and then the house will grow quiet until late afternoon. Grandpa will have stretched out on that Naugahyde sofa. But before all of that takes place, you find yourself falling back into your pillow. While you fight going back to the land of dreams, there is the smell of coffee, sausage, eggs, and biscuits wafting toward you as you lie in your silent, important place. When you finally do wake up, the table is cleared, and the kitchen cleaned with the midday meal ready to be prepped. A plate of food has been saved for you. It is in the oven, because there are no microwaves in this long, lost place. Or if a plate has not been saved, Granny will crack another egg and quickly cook it for you. While you are still on your pallet, you can hear Granny and Grandpa in the kitchen, talking Czech and Polish. She speaks Czech and he speaks some combination of them both. You don't know what they are saying, but the rhythm of it lulls you back into your sleepiness. You hear them both talking at once, softly and in unison. Their chorus makes your eyelids heavy while your head grows tired. To awaken on a summer's morning on Grandpa's farm was to feel at one with the world. The first thing you heard on any morning here was the sound of Granny and Grandpa's voices reciting the Lord's Prayer. You could count on it happening every day, without fail, and World Without End. Forever and ever. Amen. June 5, 2021--National Attitude Day
Sometimes, you just need an attitude adjustment. No where is this more apparent than in my attitude about wearing a facemask. Who am I kidding? Let's say my hatred of wearing a facemask. But I still wear one when required because I am a rule follower. I have avoided wearing a face mask as much as possible this past year by not going places where they are required, which is everywhere. I still went to the pharmacy. And occasionally to the grocery store. However, my forays into grocery shopping have significantly waned. What I have been doing for food is eating what is here. We keep/kept way too many edible things on hand before the pandemic. We still have not made our way completely through the cereal, granola bars, and oatmeal on the pantry shelves. Also abundant is rice, beans, pasta, tuna, and of all things--canned chicken. Of course someone in this house has taken over the shopping for food so that we at least have fresh milk, eggs, bread, juice, and butter. However, if I wanted to, I could be baking my own bread. I have bread flour, yeast, a bread machine, and a bread machine cookbook. I have been un-American by not joining in the make-your-own-bread during-the-pandemic movement. When you live with someone, and they complain about having to clean up all of the parts of your project paraphernalia, it gets to you. Oh, I clean up my mess after I'm done. It's just the putting away of things that I may have, from time to time, neglected. One of us in this household detests clutter, and that person is not me. We work around this issue by changing our habits a bit. And acting un-American in our culinary arts. Speaking of culinary arts, I own almost every contraption built for cooking on God's green earth. As mentioned, there is a seldom used bread machine, eleven or twelve crockpots (I honestly lost track), a stand up mixer, a handheld mixer, a juice machine, an electric kettle, an electric griddle, a machine made for making homemade lemonade, a Ninja food warrior blender, a food processor, and mini food processor, an ice cream machine, an electric knife, an electric wok, a machine that boils eggs, a rice maker, two electric can openers, a coffee pot, and a toaster. All of that, and on any given day, I cannot think of what to cook for dinner. But I have been lucky in that there is another adult here who has taken over most of the cooking. I am waiting silently for him to tire of it, though. He just needs something to do since he recently retired. We don't live near any mountains, so hiking is out of the question. I am biding my time. From time to time, I go into our panty and say hello to all of my kitchen accessories. "Don't worry," I say. "I'll be back." And I have plans. Oh boy, do I. On the day that face masks are no longer required, I plan on shopping for an Igloo portable ice countertop maker, a knife sharpener, and a Brookstone recipe printer. I have had lots of time to think about these things, and they are the items that will make my life one hundred percent better. On that day, when face masks are no longer required, I will run faster, jump higher, and be a finer person than I have ever been before. And my attitude is now adjusted. June 3, 2021--World Bicycle Day
I love my 'hood. Schools, children, and dogs abound. Baseball fields and soccer games are overflowing on any given Saturday. Feeling thirsty? Why you can just walk to your local bar. My neighborhood is home to a bar, established in spite of community conflict . What's more, it is not only a bar, but it is one of those places where the waitresses are scantily clad. And it sits across the street from a school. How the bar gets around the laws protecting innocent school children from their negative influence is that it calls itself a restaurant by serving food. Also, the patio area has a protected fence so you cannot see the friendly waitstaff. Finally, the address of this place is a street a block away, facing away from the school. The parking lot and back door of the bar is what you see when standing on the steps of the school. There is often a metro bus parked in the street there. It is a short metro bus, the kind you see at airports and hotels. I fantasize that it has taken the local assisted living community for a bit of day drinking and shenanigans, but I have never seen a line of walkers and wheel chairs rolling their way to this bus for pick-up. I am familiar with the short metro buses because they are what the disabled patrons of our community take to get around the city. They frequently show up to places where my son has activities. Many of Son's friends get around our town this way. In fact, for a disabled person, the ride is free. Back in my days of teaching school, I used to guard the children who were waiting for the late school buses to arrive. There was one particular bus driver who always had to use the restroom which made the children wait even longer to get home. He would rush off of the bus as soon as he arrived and tell me he had to "take a minute." He would then try to open the door of the school, but it was always locked because, you know, school security and such. I would then have to use my key that I probably was not supposed to have to unlock the building for him. Meanwhile, all of the children would have loaded his bus and would be seating themselves nicely. Well, as nicely as you can seat yourself on an unairconditioned bus. Then we all waited. My feet were killing me by that time, no matter what kind of shoes I had worn. Eventually, Mr. Bus Driver would come back, mount his bus, and drive away. However, it got me thinking, "What do you do when you drive a bus and nature calls?" I had forgotten this story until recently when I was riding my bicycle on my usual route through my area. Across the street from the very same school where I used to wait with kids for the errant bus driver to return from his business, there was parked the same short metro bus. After dismissing the assisted living idea due to lack of evidence, I noticed a man crossing the street as I approached the parked bus on my bike. The man was crossing from the playground area of the school which was closed due to Covid. I would have never remembered him at all except for one thing. His pants were unbuckled. As a matter of fact, his belt buckle was flapping freely in the wind. Or at least flapping freely in the wind he created as he jog-walked back to his bus. He must be the bus driver. He was waiting for his clientele who were undoubtedly whooping it up inside the restaurant. "Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do, indeed," I thought. "Here I am, a private citizen, peacefully riding my bike through my neighborhood, and I now I must bear witness to this travesty. There is a bus driver. And there is his bus. And here is probably the spot where he marked his territory. Nooo!" I raised my feet up as my bicycle grazed near (but not over) the place where he likely peed himself silly. Also, I have not mentioned that the very school where all of this shocking behavior took place is also the home of the school district's inhouse police department. District police cars are parked right outside the building, only steps away from where this bus driver unzipped his pants and let it fly. And to illustrate how ludicrous the whole episode was, the bus driver-- with his belt undone, and fixing it back in place when he saw me, but still walking quickly back to his abandoned vehicle--was wearing a facemask. You know, due to Covid. He didn't want to expose himself to the virus, although exposing himself in other ways is apparently standard operating procedure. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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