September 30, 2020--National Chewing Gum Day My mother's favorite gum flavor is Wrigley's Doublemint. When I was growing up, she always had a package of it in her purse. She easily passed it out on car trips, even it meant tearing a stick in half to share it. Then she would take the shiny silver foil paper it came in and create a small silver goblet out of it. On a lucky day, she might be able to make two or more of these things, and I would have a complete set. However, before any of that could happen, when I was only old enough to smash a small paper goblet by the mere act of touching it, I would shyly come out of where I was playing and greet my mother and dad at my grandmother's house when they came to pick up my brother and me after working all day. One particular day, I went in to greet them as usual, but there was a lot of commotion in the room. I don't know if something had happened that day outside in the big world. I was only aware of the world inside my house and Nanny's house. I wanted my mother's attention, but everyone was talking. I began, "Mommy." All the adults continued talking. "Mommy." My mother looked down at me and smiled. Her hand brushed my head while everyone just kept on talking. "MOMMY." She finally recognized me. "What is it?" she asked. I didn't know what to say. I mean I thought she was going to greet me in her usual way of asking me about my day and telling me she missed me. "Are you...?" I began. It started to grow quiet in the room. "Are you...?" I stammered on. Suddenly, it was deathly quiet. However, I was determined to finish what I had started. "Are you...?" I had no idea where I was going with this inquiry. Adults patiently smiled at me and waited. And waited for what seemed like an eternity. I took a deep breath. I had to come up with something. "Are you dot...?" I begin again. Still everyone waited. I trudged on. "Mommy, are you dot?" Are you kidding me? I had know idea what I was going to say next. Finally, I completed my question with the only thing my small mind knew she could do with accuracy--hand me a stick of gum. "Mommy, are you dot some bum?" To my relief, everyone laughed, including my mother. "Why I do believe I have some gum," she cried. "I'll get it from my purse in just a minute." From that day, moving forward, my family used my childish syntax to phrase any question they ever asked about what we had or did not have. "Are we dot some...?" filled in for even the smallest details in lieu of "Do we have any...? I never really liked the flavor of Doublemint gum, yet I chewed it frequently because it is what Mother would have wanted. September 29, 2020-Happy Goose Day
We were at home watching the old 1973 VHS version of Charlotte's Web that someone had given us. It was 2001, and I had to find something that both my children could watch together, as they are seven years apart. It was a battle between Power Rangers and Teletubbies, both franchises I would not mind abandoning. We found a rhythm with different episodes of Winnie the Pooh and the one version of Charlotte's Web. I thought I had learned everything I had to learn from Charlotte's Web long ago, but this time as I watched it, I learned something new. I had never focused much on the goose. People wonder and sometimes ask why there is a period of seven years between my children. I think they may assume that I'm on my second marriage, but that is not the case. There is a seven year gap between my children in age because I sat on three duds in between hatching each of them. At least that is what the goose in Charlotte's Web would say. In the book, she sat on eight eggs. However, there were only seven goslings. Templeton, the rat, takes notice, "Look," he began in his sharp voice, "you say you have seven goslings. There were eight eggs. What happened to the other egg? Why didn't it hatch?" "It's a dud, I guess," said the goose. (45). So, now what I tell people, should they ask, is that I had three duds. Oh, at the time, it was completely devastating. I kept finding myself in a very dark place...three times in a row. However, with the birth of my daughter, my second child, I came out into the light. Had my three duds developed any further than twelve weeks gestation, I would never ever consider using the term 'dud' for them. And it makes me cringe a little now just writing it. When I've used it in conversation, people stop. There is nothing much to say or add, I guess. But, I like that goose in Charlotte's Web. Her practicality and "good management"(45) made me consider my circumstance in a new way. So, thank you, E.B. White, once again for showing me that everything about life is a cycle. After death, there is new birth and growth, and we are all the richer for you and it. White, E.B., Charlotte's Web. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1952. September 28, 2020--Gone ta Pott Day
On a Monday morning of 2009, the skies opened up and just poured all their venom on us. At home and getting ready to leave for work, I had just put on my newly acquired red headed wig, my first and most expensive one. As we all gathered last minute items, I opened the front door and made the decision to wait a few minutes to load up the car. I thought perhaps the skies would let up a little. Sometimes September brings a deluge. September of 2009 was just such a month. I had my first chemo treatment in August of that year, and subsequently lost all my hair. And if that is not enough to just call it a day, or a year, September brought us vicious rain. Properly bundled for the walk to our car, my kids and I made a run for it. However, on this day, no amount of rain gear would have mattered. We all sat in our respective seats, dripping water onto the carpeted floor. I surveyed my surroundings. Wet and wild outside, but warm and comforting in. Our street already had standing water in it. The walkway leading from our front door to the drive way is fairly wide, so I decided to try something new. Rather than back up into standing water, I backed onto the wide walkway. Then I drove down the drive way head first into the deluge. My trusty minivan was built for such antics. By the time I got inside my school building, the last tardy bell had just rung. Wet bodies, however, still littered the hallways. I felt a sense of gloom come over me as I saw the assistant principal standing at my classroom door. Administration at your door spells trouble, so when I approached, I mumbled something about why I was late. The assistant man smiled reassurance. That surprised me. He then asked if I needed to take a minute. I said no, but then decided to ask a question. I trusted his knowledge of wigs, as I knew he had formally taught theatre. "Could you just tell me if my wig is on straight?" He stooped to my eye level, looked at me judiciously and rendered a verdict. "Yes. Look's great." So with that, I entered the muggy classroom full of excited voices and spent the better part of my day telling kids how I did a doughnut in my driveway that morning in order to get to school. September 27, 2020--World Rivers Day
In the fourth grade, we learned geography in Mrs. Brown's classroom. The geography textbook was tall and thin. It was all about the geography of the state of Texas, but mostly about rivers. One day we were told to open the large tome to the chapter about the Red River while Mrs. Brown called on classmates to read. The text book was so tall that you could set it up on your desk top and it would tower over your head, especially if you slumped a little in your seat. I was in the middle of my personal reading journey of Beverly Cleary books. I was having a Henry Huggins moment. It was of great personal importance to me to find out if Henry got to keep his found dog, Ribsy. I opened my geography book and propped it up on my desk. It created a side ways tent. While the other children read about the salt water river and the Apache Indians, I dug down into my desk and quietly got out my library book. I was deeply reading it silently, while turning the pages surreptitiously. I made sure to turn the page of the geography book when the other students turned theirs. I didn't think anyone was on to me, but then Mrs. Brown, who had been focusing her attention on the other side of the room, calling on people to recite, suddenly called on me. She announced my name. "Yes, Ma'am?" "I asked you to read." "Read?" "Yes, read." "I don't...I lost my place." "That's o.k. Just read wherever you are." "Read wherever I am?" "Yes. READ." "O.k.," I said. She had got me out of such an intense study, that I forgot my location in time and space. She said to it was o.k. and to read wherever I was. I began to read, "The Hugginses had not lingered at the breakfast table. All this meant the family was going someplace, and this time Ribsy did not intend to be left behind. While Ribsy kept..." My reading was drowned out by laughter that meandered through the classroom. Even Mrs. Brown stifled a smile. "What is that you are reading?" she asked. "My geography book." By now the stream of laughter was overflowing its banks. "That is not your geography book," said Mrs. Brown. I was afraid of Mrs. Brown. If you got in trouble in her class, she made you stand in the back of the classroom and spread your arms out. She would then place heavy encyclopedias on your hands. You had to stand that way until she told you to stop. If you were really bad, she made you jog around the perimeter of the school building. I just knew one of those things was going to be my punishment. I could not believe my luck when all Mrs. Brown had me do was to show the class my book, and then had me put it away. Later, that day, my shenanigans flooded the talk of the playground, rapidly winding around the conversations with the force of falling water into a plunge pool. September 26, 2020--National Family Day
I can pinpoint the exact moment in time when my loved ones became a family. We had our first child, and then waited seven years to have another one. I know we were technically a family before we had our daughter, the second born, but the family unit went something like this--two adults giving their full time and attention to one small boy. What was missing was the unpredictable dynamics that happen with groups of three or more. And as if to prove this point, sibling rivalry has been alive and well since we brought our daughter home from the hospital. We brought her home on a Friday afternoon. All day that day, we had been three people finding our way around her infancy--diaper changes, bottles, packages to open of brand new baby clothes, and lots of flowers and balloons--carried home in celebratory fashion from our hospital room. There were plenty of phone calls from well wishers. My mother came over to show me where she had put everything in the nursery (she had to finish it for us, as our daughter came early). My mother-in-law stopped by with dinner for us. In all, it was a day of celebration and no routines had been established. Yet. Around 8:00 p.m., my husband told our son, just seven years old, that it was time to get ready for bed. "Bed?" he said. "Yes, you need a bath, and then bed." Our son looked across the den at me rocking his four-day-old baby sister. "Um, is it time for all the kids in this house to go to bed?" We smiled at him. Yes, of course it is. ALL THE KIDS IN THIS HOUSE shall get ready for bed. Even if one of them has only ever worn some type of pajamas in her very short life--and up to that point had spent the better part of it sleeping, we would get both kids ready for and put to bed. And so, we did. And in that very precise moment, when our first born acknowledged the new kid on the block as his future partner in crime, we became a family of four. September 25, 2020--Math Storytelling Day If the math teacher leaves his home and fact family every morning at 5:45 a.m. and travels in a northward vector at 55 miles an hour, parks his car along the perimeter of the regular trapezoid shaped school building which sits parallel to 30 degrees north and 60 degrees west of the equator, and then enters the building at a right angle to the central office, walks 10.6 degrees north and turns left, walks 12.5 degrees west to where the coffee machine and copy machine intersect at perpendicular, yet obtuse angles, and fills his coffee cup less than 3/4, but more than 5/8's full and adds less than 1/4 cup of 2% milk while making 135< copies of his 5th test of the quarter, what percent chance will there be that the machine will jam or run out of ink before the elapsed time decomposes into opposite, yet ordered chaos, guaranteeing that the area between both machines is on a continuous symmetrical slide, derivative of a limitless acceleration through time and space, the velocity and acceleration of its chain rule creating a logarithm greater than but not equal to its slope field integral to the convergent series based on the fundamental theorem with a mean value less than "always."
September 24, 2020--Punctuation Day My daughter! She likes to end every single sentence In an exclamation point! When I asked her why!?! She said Because the period Is just too depressing. I suppose she's right! The period does indeed appear lonely, As it always arrives at the end. Today is Punctuation Day! And where would we be without it? I have spent my life dedicated to the practice of punctilious punctuation. It is not why I became an English teacher, however. Mainly I became an English teacher because I love reading.
And reading a lot, an awful, awful lot, is what got me to understand punctuation. Punctuation should go largely unnoticed. It is the matching brown leather hand bag to the brown leather shoes of an outfit. It is the ecru colored napkins holding the silver utensils at a fine restaurant. It is the hair gel keeping the wavy, uncontrollable locks in place. It is the minutest detail that holds a fine artistic statement together. People say you learn in school, but do you really? In fourth grade, we learned about nouns from the grammar book, the first one we had ever seen. In fifth grade, it was all about spelling. You could count on Mrs. Peak to offer an intense lesson at the blackboard each week on the function of vowels. On the other hand, Mrs. Fletcher, my sixth grade teacher, loved to have students copy long sentences from the blackboard. She loved this technique more than life itself, but we were all captivated by her enthusiasm. And in between all those lessons about copying and watching and observing my teachers in action, I went to libraries. You could ask permission to go to the school library when you finished your copying or spelling lesson. I rode my bicycle to the local library--no matter where we lived. I spent many an afternoon in my college library, only to get a paper I had written returned and marked up in so much red, it looked like the work of a serial killer. Those papers bled the blood of bad ideas or ideas not properly supported, if I am truthful, not poor punctuation--because by then complete osmosis had taken place. I had developed my sense of it. September 23, 2020--Key Lime Pie Day
I fell in love with Key Lime Pie on my honeymoon. And what better time to fall in love, right? My husband and I visited Florida, and ate dinner every night at the same restaurant near our hotel. It was my first time to eat Key Lime Pie, and it was the best I've ever had. Years ago, I taught at a school where the parents showed teachers appreciation each month by hosting a food event titled, "Food is Love." Every month would be something different--ice cream sundaes, cookies, cakes, pies, and and a full on luncheon in May. When I told my husband of this on-going celebration, it became an inside joke between the two of us. If he brings me a box of See's candy on my birthday, he says, "Food is Love." If I make him a delicious pot roast with all the trimmings, I say, "Food is Love." It is also a defense mantra. If one of us eats the last piece of anything that the other one coveted, the answer to the question, "Who moved my cheese?" is always, "Food is Love." If our family goes barreling down the highway with Dad at the wheel, when the children start to pass out from hunger, I gently remind him that "Food is Love." And when we are all exhausted from sight seeing, unable to pass muster, we will one by one fall out of formation. In the gloomy silence that follows, someone will mumble, "Food is Love." I've visited all of the Florida Keys in search of a better Key Lime Pie than the one I had on my honeymoon. Even in Key West, no pie holds a candle to that first pie. While there, I even had Key Lime Pie on a stick, dipped in chocolate, but it was ultimately disappointing. And way overpriced. But none of that matters when your entire family shares the same mantra, "Food is Love." September 22, 2020--Fall Equinox Normally it's about 90 degrees outside in late September, yet visit any woman's home in the Southern half of the United States of America today, and you will be greeted by fall foliage as great as anything found in New England. Lacking a true fall season, we Southerners will climb into our attics today and bring down boxes and tote trays marked "Fall" or "Autumn." After today, be prepared to fight your way into our homes, past the front stoop or porch littered with pumpkins and orange colored chrysanthemums. Yards that have nothing close to a tree will suddenly have a front door bedecked as if in the middle of a forest. Once inside, you will suddenly feel as if you are stopping by the woods on a pre-snowy evening. Even the air will smell like it, as there are now candles with a variety of autumn air flavors. I call mine "Burning Down the House" or "Wicker Man." We women, and a few fellows, owe it to ourselves, family members, and visitors to pay homage to our northernmost neighbors. They can legitimately escape the heatwave of the city on a weekend and visit a pumpkin patch or apple orchard in plaid shirts and sweaters. We cannot, but that fact does not stop our longings. It is all we can do here in the deep South when everything is still green and will remain so until one month after Christmas. I've never been to a state that has a real fall season during the fall season. Like so many of us here in the South, I transform my house as if I have. As if I know what it is like--gusts of wind, dark ominous clouds, wet leaves clogging the rain gutters, and the first freeze be damned. It's not really Fall inside our homes, it's what we think would be Fall. We don't pack up our outdoor furniture at the end of the summer season here. We just throw colored leaf garlands around it. What we will pack up, however, is the fake fall seasonal décor, but not until after Thanksgiving--when the annual Christmas decorating scramble begins. September 21, 2020--Escapology Day
My dog, a Schnauzer mix named Weezer, would visit our neighbor, Lisa's, back yard. We could not figure out how he did it. I thought for the longest time that the meter reader or tree trimmers were letting him out during the day when we were not home. My husband thought maybe he had left the gate slightly open. Lisa's yard was also fenced, but the factor we could not account for was whether or how often she left her gate open or ajar. It made sense because Weezer would not wind up there on a consistent basis, but if I really paid attention, none of it added up. Lisa would call us occasionally in the afternoon. "Weezer is in my yard again." I liked how she called our dog by name, as if he were one of the neighborhood's children. I would apologize, but she never sounded miffed by it. She thought our dog offered entertainment for her otherwise bored dog. When his great escape happened four times, so we excused it to human error, even though my husband would perform a perfunctory investigation, mainly focused on the fence boards. On the dog's fifth exodus, my husband investigated more thoroughly. He could find no visible means of escape. However, when he brushed back some tall plants that grew along the fence, he could see it all too clear. There was a lot of foliage along our back fence, as well as along Lisa's. When certain tall plants were pushed aside, we could see Weezer's work. He had dug a secret hole underneath the fence. Maybe it had once, long ago, been a rabbit warren, then was filled in by a previous owner. It looked so perfect, it didn't seem like the work of a single dog. The garden foliage hid it well. He had a friendly relationship with Lisa's dog that took place through her back windows. They were already acquainted from fence to fence sniffing and with Weezer's visitations, had figured out a way to play chase with each other for the length of her extra long patio doors. My husband boarded up Weezer's portal to another world, and as far as we know, he never left our yard unattended again. However, he gained a new nickname from his experience. We called him "Shawshank" based on the movie Shawshank Redemption about a guy who escapes prison by tunneling out. He kept the tunnel hidden from prison guards for 17 years until it was completed. Today is escapology day and is meant for celebrating escape performers, magicians, and daredevils who practice the art of escaping from restraints, traps, and tight spaces. I can honestly say that I knew an escapology entertainer in person or, that is, in canine. How many of us have had a pet who is an escapologist? September 20,2020--National Punch Day One thing you can find at a thrift store today on a fairly regular basis is a punch bowl set. Every time I see one for sale, I try to think of a useful purpose for it besides taking up space in my cupboard beside the one that I already own. I got my punch bowl and all the matching cups along with a few that do not match from a great aunt. My grandparents took care of her as she aged, and ultimately enrolled her in a nursing home. After that, my parents and grandparents had the arduous job of cleaning out her home in order to put if up for sale. What she could not take to the nursing home got divided up between family members. Since both my grandmother and my mother already owned their own punch bowl sets, my mom decided I needed Auntie's. We were at my grandmother's house when she presented it to me. I took it reluctantly. I had no use for a punch bowl and could not imagine ever needing one. One night I had been at the college theater for rehearsal fairly late when a young gentleman asked to walk me to my car. When we got there, he glanced in the window. "Is that a punch bowl?" he asked. "It was my great aunt's," I replied. "Did she die?" "No, she went to a nursing home." "Oh." "My mother told me to keep it." "So you put it in the back seat of your car." "Well, yeah." "Makes sense." That punch bowl survived my reckless college life and served its intended purpose at my wedding several years later. I have used it for about as many parties as I can count on one hand. Yet, I keep it. I plan to give it to my daughter some day. September 19, 2020--Women's E-Commerce Awareness Day
Whenever I shop for myself, there are times when I am in the zone, and times when I am not. In the zone while shopping encompasses several things happening simultaneously:
"That's called 'In the Zone,'" I explained. He looked at me surprised. "What does that mean?" he asked. "Oh, you know. When everything is going better than you expected on a shopping trip. Like everything is going right for you. In the Zone is like in football. The players have to get the ball across the end zone to score." He nodded, knowingly. "I was definitely in the zone." He handed me his shopping bag. I took out the coveted item. "How much?" I asked. "14.99 plus tax." We looked at each other. "Score!" we both said. Today is Women's E-Commerce Awareness Day. It is supposed to be a day to remind women entrepreneurs to use e-commerce for their business. I've got nothing against e-commerce, but there is nothing quite like getting in the zone on a shopping trip and making that touchdown. September 18, 2020--National Cheeseburger Day We were traveling in the car to my parents house in the country. It was past lunch time. My husband made an abrupt turn into a Wendy's fast food restaurant on the corner crossroad of a small town we had to pass through. "What the hell?" I thought. Sensing my dismay, my husband said, "I got a craving for their bacon cheeseburger sandwich." "You could have given us fair warning," I said. We ordered in the drive- through squawk box. Two bacon cheeseburgers for him and a bunch of other stuff for the rest of us. I only wanted a regular cheeseburger. When the bags of food were handed over to me, I divvied up the order. I handed him his burger and began to eat mine. After a few bites, he remarked, "You know, this bacon cheeseburger isn't as good as I remembered them. It tastes like a regular cheeseburger." "Mine's delicious," I said. He watched me take a bite and chew. "Wait...a....minute," he said. "You've got my burger!" "I do not have your burger." "Yes, you do. That's a slice of bacon hanging out the bottom!" I looked at it. "Well, no wonder it's so good," I said. "Here, you want the rest?" He stared at my gnawed up sandwich. "No. Never mind. But, they do make a great bacon cheeseburger." Later, that evening, we all gathered at a café in the small town where my parents lived. Everyone placed their order. I decided on a hamburger. My husband said, "You know, I never got my bacon cheeseburger this afternoon. Could you put bacon on my cheeseburger?" "No problem," said the waitress. The place got busy as we waited for our order. When it finally came, the waitress handed around large platters of food to the table. When everyone started eating, my husband remarked, "You know, this doesn't taste like there is any bacon on it." Just then, the waitress came by and inquired if all was well. He commented, " Um, excuse me, but there's no bacon on my cheeseburger." She looked befuddled. Then she stared around the table. "I think your bacon cheeseburger is over here," she said, pointing at my half-finished burger. "What? Are you kidding me?" said my husband. "I can bring you another one," said the waitress. "No, that's o.k.," said husband. He looked at me. "But you know--that's twice. In one day. You ate my bacon cheeseburger twice today!" "No, I didn't," I said. "Yes, you did," he said. "Don't you remember this afternoon?" "Wait....was that today?" I said. "Here, you can have the rest." I shoved my plate at him. He considered it. "Where's the bacon?" he asked. "Um..., I ate it?" "Was it good?" "A little crispy." September 17, 2020--National Professional House Cleaners Day
In the last five years, my husband and I have moved someone else eight times. We moved my Dad from his home to assisted living--to a smaller, cheaper assisted living--to a nursing home. We moved our daughter from our home to her dormitory in college--back home--back to college to an apartment--back home--to another college apartment today. You would think we would be good at it. We are not. It basically amounts to us swooping in with our well used plastic crates and totes and scooping everything up within arms' reach into one until it fills up. Then, we get the next empty one and do the same thing. We have not traded in our mini-van as it comes in quite handy in a move. Instead we are thinking of having something like "Have Mini-Van--Will Travel" posted on the side. What doesn't fit into the person's new abode gets transferred to our garage or game room. Going through the leavings of someone's life, piece by piece, is a slow, but steady process. I want my game room back and hubby would like to reclaim his garage. After a person moves from a rental unit, it is necessary to leave the place clean--or else no refunded deposit. The only people 'round here a refunded deposit matters to is my husband and me. We are the ones rushing to Home Depot for more Spackle at the last minute, scrubbing the dusty corners, and chucking the muck. If it wasn't so dang exhausting, we just might have a business model. September 16, 2020--Anne Bradstreet Day/Trail of Tears Commemoration Day
The two women washed the bed linens, tripping over the each other and the babies as they hung the sheets about the living room and into the kitchen because it was too wintry to hang them up outside. When the hired lady opened the door to bring in more firewood, a gust of wind rushed in behind her and blew through the house. Great Grandma went to peeling potatoes and the hired lady started to set her logs down next to the stove. Suddenly, there was a howling. The two women looked up. The logs dropped. The sheet had missed catching fire and had descended back, but it did not descend completely. The corner had caught on a jagged brick. The fire, starting to wane, leapt up again. It was also hungry, like the stove. It nipped about. A single ember. A tiny corner. That was all it needed to feed itself. When the small child started to wail and the women looked up, the sheet was in flames. The fire looked further. The next sheet. Go! So easy. The two babies roared in fright. Before the women could turn around, settle the babies, do anything, a third sheet caught fire. The only thing to do was to grab the tots. Reach in, grab them. Snatch them away before it ate at their dresses, their hair, their diapers. She grabbed the oldest one by the arm. He didn't like it and screamed louder. She tossed him in a tumbled heap to the hired lady and yelled, "Get out!" She turned back to the fire. Great Grandma felt something. A curl. A scalp. Her head. Her hand reached further to a tiny foot. She seized it and brought the wailing infant to her chest. Safe. In her arms. She then focused on finding the door. Not far. She knew it was not far. It had been left ajar and as she ran through it, more wind rushed past to aid the fire. Great Grandpa and his two field hands saw smoke in the distance and thought the women must be burning trash. It was not yet lunch, but when they saw the smoke increase, they started running for the house. By the time they arrived, the downstairs floor of their home was aflame. No fire truck that far out in the country. No phone. Those who were present, including some neighbors who had come when they saw the amount of smoke, pumped water and threw it on the fire, but it was not enough. There was finally nothing left to do but watch it burn to the ground. When my grandpa starting walking home from school that day, he was still a boy. But when he got there with his five younger siblings, he would became a man. They found their home gone, as if it had never been, and their parents in a state of shock. No insurance. No one had thought of insurance then. Nothing to do but reluctantly let the hired help go, and move the family into the bunk house to eek out a living. Grandpa, in the eighth grade and the eldest boy, quit school to help on the farm. He never returned. September 15, 2020--Born to Be Wild Day In the early 1970's, life in the suburbs meant one thing--a bicycle. Every single kid had one. And every single kid got around quite nicely on one. Back then, BMX racing was fast becoming a thing. I thought my brother made it up. What boys were up to back then was taking their old banana seat bicycles and changing out the seats on them for the more universal regular triangle shaped seat. Then they would take some old handle bars from an old cruiser shaped bicycle and exchange those for the upright handle bars that came on the banana seat bike. And Voila! They had one of the first BMX bicycles. BMX stands for bicycle motor cross, and is based on the motor cross sport. When every boy in my neighborhood started rebuilding his Christmas or birthday bike this way, they had no idea that it would one day become a legit sport. They just knew it was fun. There were lots of empty lots in the 'burbs where we lived. A bulldozer might have cleared some land next to an empty lot with plenty of foliage. The dirt left became small hills and those hills became a BMX trail. One of these areas was two houses down in the back of our house. What parents thought was just empty land providing densely forested area around the subdivision soon became a place where kids from everywhere were hanging out and pulling stunts on two wheels. Even I could pop a wheelie. These homemade bikes were the equivalent of a sawed off shot gun. Strange and dangerous to look at for starters, no one had seen the likes of them before. Raw, edgy, and tricked out--they were no longer used for their intended purpose of mere transportation. It's not the 1970's anymore. Master planned communities with paved walking and bicycle trails have replaced homemade bike trails surrounding a neighborhood. We knew what we were up to on bikes was rather wild back then because when our parents found out about it, they warned us to stay away from the areas we frequented. My parents actually said my brother could still go, but that I should not--without him. My riding the hills for fun was essentially doomed by their edict. I would not go again except for a few more times when all the kids from our street would attend together--an impromptu neighborhood rally. September 14, 2020--National Cream Filled Doughnut Day
September generally means back to school, and with that is the idea to generally start the day off right. Better Breakfast Month continues throughout September. Without a single blip in the schedule, we are encouraged to eat a better breakfast for the entire month of September with the hope that if we can maintain it for thirty days, it might become a habit. Why then, is September 14th designated as National Cream Filled Doughnut Day? It is as if the powers-that-be realized that we would all have a mini breakdown around today, the middle of the month. For most of us, our kids will have been in school (whether at home or in person school) for about a month if they started in August. It is just enough time for new habits to stop, breakdown, and revert back to what is tried and true. After the kids have been spit shined (literally), and plugged in or piled in the car, time for mom to make that important run to the doughnut shop. Depending on the age and size of the off spring, she should order a bunch of doughnuts and some milk. A large coffee for her, and oh, yes, go ahead and add a couple of cream filled doughnuts to the order. In a separate bag, please. One chocolate filled, one chocolate iced with lemon filling, and oh what the heck, a raspberry filled as well. Car pool lines are long. September 13, 2020--Bald is Beautiful Day
Breast cancer had me hairless for a time. Of all the losses during my treatment--my breasts, my dignity, my pride, the worst loss of all was my hair. You can hide the loss of dignity or personal self-worth. You can refuse to be a victim. You can listen to affirmation tapes in the car on the way to work and learn how to present your best face forward . The loss of breast tissue was a physical ordeal, but it was also something that could be kept hidden. I have since had breast replacement surgery, but for a time I contemplated leaving my body intact after breast cancer. The loss of both breasts should have bothered me more. The one thing you cannot hide, however, is the loss of hair. Women wear their hair like a piece of clothing. It accessorizes every outfit. You can wear a hat or a wig, but it doesn't really replace your hair. For me, hats seemed foolish and costume-like. At the most intense point in my cancer treatment, I had about seven different wigs. One was expensive, some were cheap, and most were borrowed. All different styles and colors, I wore a different one each day. When I took a shower every night, it was the most humiliating thing I had to do. Like a trans gender person, or transvestite, I would disrobe completely and have to come face to face with my whole and unacceptable self in the mirror. How I finally got through it each day was by doing something I once heard on Oprah. She believes that angels, or soul beings, surround every human. They are out there, just out of reach, but ready to help us in our time of need. I know that sounds like a bunch of malarkey. Just ask any murdered person. They probably wonder where their soul beings were at the time of their demise. But at the time, I was willing to buy into it, even if on a fantasy level. I would pretend that my soul beings, or warriors, were like a group of gal pals on a vacation at a resort. Much like bridesmaids are supposed to attend to the bride, I fantasized about my angel girls surrounding me. They told me I was beautiful. They reminded me of what and where to wash. They were there to hand me a towel, and most importantly of all, they blocked the mirror from my site so I would not see the me that reality presented. September 12, 2020 Farmer's Consumer Awareness Day My grandpa had a farm in Texas, just west of the Brazos river. Highway 36 runs perpendicular to this farm land, and about ten miles to the north lies Town. At the end of Mixville Road, the farm land lies flat, with fertile soil from the river. At the end of Grandpa's land was a slopping hill with a grove of pecan trees referred to as "the Bottom." On a summer day, you could feel the heat rising and the corn growing, near to the sun. The heat did not dissipate in the evening and sleep could become elusive. The geographical position and flatness of the land combined to create a landscape that had not its like in all the world. There was very little fat on it while getting to it. The way in made one think that there was very little luxuriance anywhere, as you had to drive down a long road filled with Huisache trees on either side. In summer, the land felt dry and the road looked burnt, like the color on a clay flower pot. The Huisache trees are dry and thorny with blossoms that look like moss. The trees had a solidarity about them, all lined up in formation--like an armada of ships with their sails unfurled ready for battle. They were unlike the trees in the yard or in "the Bottom." The yard was filled with Chinaberry trees. The Chinaberry tree is an invasive species to Texas and Grandpa called it a trash tree. The trees in "the Bottom" were pecan trees, the state tree of Texas. Their arms reached up high and dropped down their fruit in the fall, covering the dirt stained ground. The farm lay hidden, surrounded on all sides by other farm land that belonged to different owners, referred to as neighbors--although no roads led from grandpa's farm to theirs. The surrounding crops were corn, maize, and cotton that was so dense in some places it smarted the nostrils. The chief feature of the landscape and of your life in it was the dry, dusty dirt. It got under your fingernails and under your skin. It invaded the house in the form of thick dust that lay on most of the still life objects. When you woke up on a summer's morning on Grandpa's farm, you thought, "Here I am, where I ought to be." And so I thought it would always be. Family farms have fallen by the wayside throughout my lifetime. I took for granted the life there and ways of the land. Farmer's Consumer Awareness Day is to keep the American consumer apprised of the fact that nearly everything we own in this life comes from agriculture. When there are children today who get all of their food from packages, we should all take pause on a day like today. Grandpa's farm land today is overgrown where the fields used to be. The house still stands, but no one lives in it. I wonder if the pecan trees still drop their fruit and if anyone gathers them up? Karen Blitzen (or Isak Dineson) is the Dutch author of Out of Africa, which I largely borrowed from for this post. She left her coffee plantation in Africa in 1931 due to drought, mismanagement, and the falling price of coffee. Grandpa gave up his farm to retirement. These things happen, and land owners change. I just didn't realize it growing up. September 11, 2020--Women's Baseball Day
My brother played Little League Baseball. My dad and uncle coached his team. My mom was the team mother and arranged the banquet at the end of the season. I watched it all happen. We went to the ball park every weekend and at least once during the week, and to a local park for the team to practice twice a week. At the park, I could play on the play ground equipment--swings, see saws, a hot metal slide, or the stomach churning merry-go-round. At the ball park, it was not nearly as entertaining. So, I watched. When not watching, I walked around a lot. I went back and forth to the concession stand to buy candy. I climbed around on the bleachers. I watched the game. No one ever said that girls could play. No one expected that girls would like to play. In middle school, I attended EYC (Episcopal Young Churchmen) every Sunday night. We always prayed fast to finish the meeting early so we could play baseball in the back parking lot while waiting for our parents to pick us up. It was not my idea. We had some little league aficionados in our mist, and the girls just went along with their enthusiasm. That is when I discovered I could actually hit a baseball with a bat. In 1972, the US Congress passed Title IX, better known as Girls' Right to Access Sports. This happened before I reached high school, but like most things, the real world was slow to catch up. My high school had two gyms. One was built in the 1940's and the other one a few decades later. Guess who got the older gym? (Although truth be told, the older gym had more character.) We played baseball in girl's gym class in high school, but I pretty much sucked at it. Maybe because no one pitched to me with the hope that I might get a hit. Maybe I would have been a better baseball player if I had actually played baseball longer than twenty or thirty minutes while waiting for my ride home. Maybe today we should all be thankful for more opportunities and choices for our daughters and grand-daughters. I know I look forward to watching one play baseball or any sport she chooses, someday. September 10, 2020--Blame It on the Large Hadron Collider Day The first born is fortunate because he gets to play with all the toys when the parts are still intact. The second kid, not so much. We had a small collection of those wooden puzzles that you only ever find in preschool classrooms when my children were small. One of them was an alphabet puzzle. My daughter had to learn her abc's sans the letter 'O' because we had lost it, the fourth vowel of our language, years before she was born. Kid number one liked to play puzzles on the sofa, and we would frequently have to lift up the cushions to find all of the pieces. We had a large 'L' shaped couch back then that was too large for our small den. Due to some garage sale shenanigans, we were finally able to hawk that monstrosity to an unsuspecting consumer. But not before pieces of our lives were lost in it. There were many items lost to the deep cushions of that couch. One of them was the letter 'O' from the alphabet puzzle. When said piece of furniture was ultimately moved from our house, we cleaned it out thoroughly first. Later, that same day, I cleaned up the toys that lay scattered around the den, including the alphabet puzzle. My husband began helping me. "I got all the pieces of this puzzle, but I still can't find the letter 'O', " I said. We looked at each other. "You don't think..." my husband paused. "No, it couldn't be in that couch. You helped me clean it out yourself." We both ransacked the room again.
And the other one replies, "Did you find the missing letter 'O?'" We don't even live in the same house where the puzzle chunk went missing, but that makes no difference in our search. That puzzle piece would be 27 years old today. The rest of the puzzle was given away years ago to warp another child's understanding of phonetics, but when we do find our beloved and wayward letter, we plan to welcome it back home with open arms. However, today we have an answer to our family conundrum. The missing puzzle piece and anything else that has gone missing is inside the 575 feet-below-ground Hadron Super Collider. Just outside of Geneva, Switzerland, it is the world's largest super collider, measuring 18 miles in circumference. Some one like me, who enjoys completely disregarding science--or knows just enough to be dangerous, thought up this day in 2008. The super collider uses the world's most gigantic magnets, and therefore is blamed for anything gone missing. Someday, we will all be given forgiveness of our sins and will be redirected to our final home. Before I take my final flight, I plan to stop by that super collider and bid adieu for the last time to the the missing letter 'O.' September 9, 2020 Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders Day I was a brand new teacher. And I didn't know beans. I did what I was told and what I instinctually thought was right. I read aloud to them. And looking back, I wish I had done more reading aloud than any thing else. Part of the curriculum was to have them read aloud to me. It was a small class. And they would each take a turn at reading aloud. After everyone had a turn, I would ask for volunteers to continue reading. No one wanted to do this, perhaps myself included. However, one little boy would always Arnold Horshack his arm into the air and ask to read. If I called on him, we all would suffer through his sounding out every other word. When he finished his paragraph, I would again ask for volunteers. No one would raise their hands. Then, the same, enthusiastic soul would raise his hand. Before I could call on him, every child in the classroom would raise their hand to volunteer. It took me a couple of turns at this to figure out what was going on. I guess I was the slow one that time. No one wanted to listen to the exuberant little guy again. I could look out at a sea of arms in the air, as if the Titanic had sunk and they were all drowning in a sea of "pick me" requests. The excitement in the room was due to nobody wanting to suffer through another dose of, "Miss, what's that 'M' word?" ad infinitum. I am happy to tell you that after two six week's marking periods, my happy helper got individualized reading care. He was removed from my reading group. I should have been happy for him, but I was a little sad. Now I had no one to garner eagerness in our reading circle. I miss that boy, even now so many years later. I don't think I ever had another student who always, without fail, volunteered his reading services again. September 8, 2020--International Literacy Day
I started frequenting dollar stores while my waiting to pick up my kids from their various activities. There isn't always a comfortable place to read while waiting on them, but you can usually find a dollar store. Also, if I am going to shop while waiting, I figure a dollar store is a place where I can do the least amount of damage. While scouring the shelves one day inside one of these establishments, a Hispanic woman around my age approached me. "Excuse me," she said in broken, yet clear English. "Can you help me?" She motioned to something on a nearby shelf. I walked over to where she stood. She had two packages of instant oatmeal in her hand. I took one of them and turned it over to the back side. Thinking that she needed the directions to be printed in Spanish, I pointed them out to her. There were alternative Spanish directions on each box. "No, no," she said. "I can't read. Which one is better deal?" It caught me by surprise, but luckily I had some experience listening to self disclosures, since I spent 27 years as a classroom teacher. It is amazing what kids will tell, if you really listen. Careful to not bat an eye, I pointed to the serving sizes on both packages. One was for six and one was for four, but both cost the same downright discounted price of one American dollar. I told her to buy the one with six servings. She asked me if they were the kind where you just "pour the water." I said that yes, they were. She thanked me and went on her way to the cash register. I was left stunned, however. How many? How many others were like her? What had led to her inability to read after all these years? By the time I went to the cash register to make my own purchase, she was long gone. I wondered how she had gotten to the store. Did she drive? Was someone waiting in a car for her? The oatmeal seemed to be her only purchase. Was that all she was going to eat for a while? I have been back to that same dollar store several times since, but no one has even approached me, let alone have me read a label to them. On this world literacy day, I am remembering this strange encounter and wonder about this woman's country of origin. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be unable to read, especially at my age. The best scenario I can think of is that the woman I helped had severe dyslexia, and her country of origin either doesn't recognize reading disabilities or recognizes them, but does not offer any help for them. Whichever the case may be, it beats the other darker alternative ideas my mind can think up. All I know is that in regard to literacy, in general, the world can do "mucho mejor." September 7, 2020--Super Human Day
When my son was a baby, he walked and talked late, but other things developed on time. We used to bounce a ball to him, and he would catch it. One day in the drive way, I bounced a ball to him in the usual way, but he didn't even try to catch it. It was as if he didn't even notice it coming at him. He eventually learned how to catch a ball again, but we didn't realize at the time that there was something amiss. Our pediatrician was very reassuring. Or maybe I heard what I wanted to hear. When Nathan was four years old, going to our local Randall's to grocery shop with him was a parent's nightmare. The store had an on-going display of Mylar balloons shaped like butterflies scattered throughout the store. He was deathly afraid of them, just looking at one caused him to scream uncontrollably. The worst thing about it was that if I tried to get him(in the grocery cart) away from a balloon, we would turn a corner, and bam! There would be another one. The store became a terror-filled spook house. Trying to shop was like an bad avantgard horror film--all bad angles and weird out of focus close-ups. As we careened through the store on mostly two wheels, I had secret thoughts of taking a pin and destroying every single one of those butterfly balloons. And without a pin on me, I thought of stomping them to their ugly death. I would leave them deflated in my wake. We would leave that store and its bloody battlefield of dead balloons and never look back. That was my fantasy. It was the final time I shopped in that store with my son in tow for a long time. Slowly, over time and with medical intervention, my son has overcome his fear of these balloons, as well as many, many more things. Eventually, he was able to tell us the reason he hated the balloons so much. It was due to a perception problem. His brain made him think they were real. Something like an over-sized shiny butterfly that appeared real would scare a little kid. One day, years later, my son and I returned to that Randall's grocery store to shop. He had been four years old when he had the severe reaction to their balloons, and now on this trip, he was twelve. The old butterfly balloons were back that season. I commented about them as we were checking out. "Remember when you were afraid of those things?" I said pointing at one. The cashier looked at both of us and said, "I remember when he was." It was only then that I realized that my son's war is not only mine to watch him fight, but the entire community has a stake in it as well. Today, Nathan has a college degree, is both a professional actor and an artist, and has garnered many other accomplishments. He has his own community of friends, some who are fellow fighters on the autism spectrum. His dad, sister, and I consider ourselves merely foot soldiers in his on going battle. He is the warrior hero who we celebrate today. People like him with invisible disabilities are super human. Next time you see a little kid throwing what appears to be a fit in a store, think again. He could be just some spoiled brat, as many people like to point out, but then again, he could be a Super Human. September 6, 2020--Barbie Doll Day
Barbie has been many things in her sixty one year history, but has she ever been murdered? Back in the early nineties, you could not buy Barbie clothes at any stores. Well, maybe at FAO Schwartz, but not anywhere else. Girls of this era ended up with multiple Barbie dolls. In most cases of American girls (the real girls, not the doll), many, many Barbie dolls. Sales of the dolls were on the decline. The markets were flooded with them and other, similar dolls. But as far as Barbie's wardrobe and accessories? Good luck finding much in the stores. Girls received new Barbies on a regular basis, but with only the outfit that they came in. It was as if the toy box in my daughter's room had become a boarding house for unwed girls. My daughter loved her Barbie dolls. She would change their clothes frequently, creating fashions from scarves and wash clothes, or anything she could find. Her fashion mania frequently left one or more of the girls undressed--as in completely naked. I was cleaning up her room one day when a thought occurred to me. It was the third or fourth time in recent weeks I had found one of her dolls nude and lying in a heap. I had found them in the past--naked, face up, face down, with bendable legs all askew, arms cocked in crazy positions, and with their heads turned sideways as if they had been strangled. My daughter would have just left them that way to move on to something more interesting, with no nefarious intent. I, however, had been reading plenty of Patricia Cornwell novels. I became Dr. Kay Scarpetta, crime solving medical examiner. And I thought I should take crime scene photographs. Camera phones had yet to be a thing, so it meant I would need to use a roll of film and this just didn't seem like a worthwhile endeavor. But I was torn. Taking pictures of naked Barbies left behind from a child's play arena seemed invasive somehow. However, had I done it, they might have become art photographs that garnered plenty of money. And I would have become known as that Mommy who took pictures of her little girl's toys, nefarious purposed intended. |
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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