Hair Bands

Concert season is upon us.

I love concert season.

I love sitting outside listening to music. I love sitting inside listening to music, too - but just like everything tastes better at a picnic, everything sounds better outside. That statement is probably wildly acoustically inaccurate and my musician friends will be down my throat about it, but I think you know what I mean. It's a whole - thing.

Yep, I love concert season. But I hate the price-gouging and the monopoly the evil Ticketmaster empire holds. When our family of four decides to get tickets for a show, we know we'll essentially be paying for a fifth ticket in service charges. I don't begrudge them their right to make a buck - they do provide a service - but it has gotten really out of hand. You're going to charge me for the convenience of printing my tickets out on my own computer? Really?

And then the prices of the shows themselves.

Yesterday a friend complained that she'd wanted to take her son to see Eric Clapton and Roger Daltrey (OMG, I KNOW! Right???) but that the ticket price (pre- service charges and convenience fees) was $200. I thought my love for Roger Daltrey knew no bounds. Turns out I was wrong. I don't know where the boundary is, exactly, but it is well before the $200 mark - $800 for my family - before service charges! For that kind of change, I want Roger Daltrey to brush my hair while Eric Clapton gives me a pedicure. (Looks dreamily off into the distance... Roger Daltrey (looking exactly like he looked in Tommy when he went through the mirror) is brushing my hair with his shirt off and...)

Whooo! Back to reality!

A reality where I don't have $200 to plunk down for a show.

That same night - last night - the Scorpions were slated to appear in my town on their farewell tour. I didn't have tickets to that, either, because my daughter had an orchestra concert last night - and also because we can only budget so much money for concerts in 'the season' and that one didn't make the cut. Lead singer from the Scorps was put on bedrest - their appearance was canceled. Cinderella - who were scheduled to be the warm-up band - decided to do the show anyway. They were here - why not? They knew, however, that the ticketholders hadn't plunked down their money to see them, so THEY DID THE SHOW FOR FREE. How patently awesome is that?

I know - comparing Clapton/Daltrey to Cinderella is like comparing apples to tigers - also, it might border on the blasphemous. But come on! They did. The show. For free. They did the show so that disappointed fans would be less disappointed. I was so impressed with them - with that. If we hadn't had another gig to attend, we would've been there for sure - buying T-shirts and showing our support.

(Looks dreamily off into the distance... Tom Keifer (looking exactly the way he looked on the cover of Night Songs) is teasing my hair...)

Eat the Rich

In case you're new here and haven't figured it out based on the title of the blog, I love Aerosmith. My love is pure and true and undaunted by criticism, general or specific. The Bad Boys from Boston rock my world and the Toxic Twins have had featured roles in a dream or two (sometimes even when I was asleep). Love. Them.

When they shared the stage with Britney Spears and N'Sync during the halftime show at Super Bowl XXXV in 2001, I cringed. I didn't approve - I knew it was a joke - I hated it and what it did to their reputation - but I still loved them.

(a long clip which, curiously, does not appall me nearly as much as it did when it originally aired)

When they sold their music and images to Guitar Hero, I knew it was kind of a sell-out, but I also figured it would get their music out there for a whole new fanbase. I got it.

Guitar Hero: Aerosmith - Mama Kin - Expert

(Yeah, I gave you Mama Kin. Like I had an option...)

Aerosmith's Rockin' Roller Coaster? Well. A band's gotta make a living somehow.

Commercial for Gap? Forgiven. (If only because of how smokin' JoePerry looks in the last couple seconds of the ad.)

Well-documented in-fighting and stints in rehab? They're only human.

I've forgiven my boys a lot.

But lottery tickets? I understand this has been going on up in their neck of the woods for a while now, but my introduction came yesterday when I heard an ad for them on the radio. Thank goodness Tom was driving, because I might have put us in a ditch.

Lottery tickets? With a Dream On second chance drawing because you don't want to miss a thing? (their words, not mine - I promise) Oh, this is a new low. We're heading fast into KISS territory.

Lottery tickets. Man. (Scroll down to the bottom of this link to see the band picture. Nobody is happy about or proud of this.)

I love you guys, but DAMN you make it hard sometimes.

I think the J. Geils band expressed my feelings best:

Love stinks.

Well - that, and:

Oh no, I can't deny it - Oh yeah, I guess I gotta buy it.

Wish me luck.

Troubadors

What a perfect show.

I think I could just post their play list and it would be enough to make everyone who has reached a certain age sigh in happy reminiscence. These are the songs that become tangled up in our very existence; rendering themselves inseparable from the memories of times past. I sat next to a long-lost/new-found friend who leaned over to me at one point and whispered, eyes shining, clearly retrieving a memory she hadn't dusted off in years, "A friend wrote that lyric in my high school yearbook."

You've got to wake up every morning with a smile on your face, and show the world all the love in your heart. ~ Carole King, Beautiful

I reached over to hold my husband's hand. I reached across him with my other hand to hold my daughter's hand. I leaned my head into my friend's shoulder. Tom thought I was being a little silly, I could tell, but it was a wonderful moment.

Shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel. ~ James Taylor, Shower the People

My best friend in the middle school years and I listened to her Tapestry album so many times I'm surprised we didn't wear it out. We sang every song, word for word; note for note, over and over and over. We hadn't experienced many of the complexities of life yet, but Ms. King paved the path for us. That friend was taken from this world in a most untimely manner a few years back, making those memories even more poignant for me.

It doesn't help to know that you're so far away. ~ Carole King, So Far Away

They closed the second set, as I'd suspected they would, with You've Got a Friend. They performed it as a beautiful duet, sitting side by side, their long and loving friendship obvious in their body language. Tom and I played that song to introduce the bridal party at our wedding.

Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there - to brighten up even your darkest night. ~ Carole King, You've Got a Friend

It was an amazing show, performed on a revolving stage to make every seat in the house a good seat. Carole King is gorgeous. I don't mean gorgeous for her age (68, according to the ever reliable Wikipedia), I mean flat out gorgeous. It would be tempting to say that she seemed most comfortable seated behind the piano, because that certainly was a natural placement for her, but she seemed equally at ease strapping on a guitar for one or two songs - indulging in guitar hero poses that delighted me to my core. When she was not seated behind the piano, she owned the stage - dancing, engaging the audience, and smiling - always smiling - her beautiful, wide, easy, real smile - all in ridiculously high and skinny heels. Well, you just go on and GO, girl!

Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for, and if I make you happy I don't need to do more ~ Carole King, Natural Woman

James Taylor's voice has not changed a bit. He presents as humble, in a manner that is charming, sweet, real and - dare I say it? - sexy as hell. He looks a little older, but still younger than his 62 years (again, per Wikipedia) would indicate appropriate. But his voice? - virtually unchanged. I kept thinking that if I closed my eyes, it would be pretty easy to melt years - decades - away. I didn't, though. Not for longer than the time it took to blink. I didn't want to miss a thing.

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes; it's all right. I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore, but I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone. ~ James Taylor, You Can Close Your Eyes

I thought You've Got a Friend would be the end. When you're Carole King and James Taylor, where do you go from there? How could there be a more perfect ending for this show? They left the stage to thunderous applause and I did not anticipate an encore. Except - the house lights didn't come up. And that means...

Up on the roof we went. I was pretty emotional at this point. These two amazing and prolific talents had stirred up quite a lot of memories. I tried to subtly wipe a tear from my eye without being noticed. In doing so, my head turned slightly to the left, and there was my friend rubbing both eyes with her fists. I threw subtlety to the wind. It's highly overrated anyway. We went ahead and openly wept. It had been quite a ride.

When this old world starts getting me down, and people are just too much for me to face, I'll climb right up to the top of the stairs, and all my cares just drift right into space. ~ James Taylor, Up On The Roof

I'm not a huge fan of live albums, but I may buy this one. And I'm going to listen to it with my eyes closed.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I went to college a mere 45 minute drive from my home, so my parents visited often. My mom did my laundry. (Yes, I was one of those kids.) Once a week she would drop off the clean and pick up the dirty. Her thought process was that it was cheaper for her than giving me quarters for the laundromat. (Again, yes, one of those kids.) These visits usually involved taking me and often a roommate or friend out to lunch. During my senior year - the year I was 21 and therefore of legal drinking age - if that visit occurred on a Friday, I would ask them to drop me off after lunch not at my house, but at the bar where I knew at least a few of my friends would already be getting their happy hour on.

Happy hour, in 1983/1984 at this particular bar, meant dime a draft or dollar a (generously poured) well drink. God, I miss the 80's.

So they - my parents - the teetotalers - would pull up in front of the bar - slip me a $5 - kiss me - and say, "Don't drink." I would exit the car in my high-waisted pegged jeans and cheap pumps that matched my top with enough money in my fist to get pretty darn drunk and still leave a tip. Oh Daddy dear, you know you're still number one - but girls - they wanna have fu-un.

Flash forward to the present.

My parents came to visit my sister and I this week. While they didn't do our laundry, they did take both of our families out to eat. At some point during the meal, my sister asked if I'd be interested in going out for a beer after dinner. Guess what I said. Go on, guess. So my mother slipped us a $20 and asked if we needed a ride to the bar. Oh Mother dear, we're not the fortunate ones - but girls (still) just wanna have fu-un.

Now $20 wasn't enough to get us drunk, or even decently buzzed. But it was enough.

And they played a lot of good 80's music.

Just Shoveling the - um - Snow

When I was pregnant with Lea, Tom and I were newlyweds renting a home in South Jersey. I was on bed rest due to pre-eclampsia. I was bored. It was a lonely winter. Friends and family called or stopped in when they could, but their lives were going on. We lived a couple miles down an old country road. We were isolated. When Tom left for work every morning, I would start counting the hours until he'd return. When he did come home, of course, he had to cook and do laundry and clean - he didn't really have the time or energy to socialize with me. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was isolated and starved for human contact. Many of my attempts at interaction began with, "Today on Ricki Lake..." Yep. It was a lonely winter.

During that winter, we were hit with a big snow storm - the likes of which South Jersey hadn't seen in decades, if John Bathke, local anchorman extraordinaire, was to be believed. Tom was at work while Days of Our Lives was continually being interrupted with reports of the incoming inclement weather. I was secretly pleased. Not, you know, that m'stories were being interrupted - that part sucked - but that it looked like we were going to be snowed in.

I envisioned a long weekend curled up next to my honey - drinking hot chocolate, talking, maybe playing some cards - candles lit in case of a power outage, blankets wrapped around us to fend off the cold - it would be romantic. I entertained this fantasy while I watched the first tentative flakes begin to fall. There was no wind, so they fell straight down, sparkling as they landed and stuck to the already cold ground. It was beautiful. I couldn't wait for Tom to get home and share it with me. This was going to be great - a last shot at being a couple before the baby arrived.

By the time he got home, a few inches had already accumulated. He did not seem to be as excited about the prospect of being snowed in as I was. He threw together a quick dinner, then immediately donned snow gear and headed out with a spade - because we didn't have a snow shovel. (This was the first winter either of us had lived anywhere but in an apartment where snow removal was part of the contract - it hadn't occurred to us.)

We had a long circular gravel driveway.

The snow continued to fall as he shoveled. As the sun set, he came in the house and collapsed, prone on the floor, exhausted. The snow continued to fall. It was the weekend, so I figured the romantic portion of the snowstorm would begin the next day. I was mistaken. The next morning, he got up, had a cup of coffee, and headed straight back outside with the shovel. He would come in for breaks from time to time - to thaw his fingers or to grab something warm to eat or drink - then he'd head right back outside. The snow was relentless, but so was my man. He was gonna beat this mutha.

The next day I begged him to let it be. He was sore and tired and grumpy. But he went right back out in it. Part of his reasoning was that he was going to need to get out Monday morning for work and that would be much easier if he kept up with it.

"Much harder if you break your back."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Monday morning, of course, our little country road still hadn't been plowed. Our driveway was clear, but it was as far as he was gonna get. This was before the days when telecommuting was an option, so he was left with no choice but to call in, explain his situation, and let them know that he'd be there as soon as the plow hit our street.

It could've been a lovely weekend.

It was not.

That was fourteen years ago. Things change. Things stay the same.

We're under a couple few inches of snow now. Tom worked from home the last two days. The kids have been home from school. Once again, it was a perfectly lovely snow - white and fluffy and sparkling. Removing even a flake of it didn't occur to one of the four of us. Because we were huddled together under blankets around the fire drinking hot chocolate and playing cards? Hardly. Everyone is doing their own thing in the four corners of the house. It's the only way we can stay off of each others nerves. Plus, our fireplace has been out of commission for two years. People are particularly staying clear of me, because when the sky matches the landscape, and both are white, I tend to turn into the Wicked Bitch of the Midwest.

Shoveling seems futile.

Everything seems futile.

Most of my neighbors seem to be in agreement.

Most, but not one. She was shoveling when I went to bed last night at 10:30 and she was shoveling when I woke up this morning at 6:00. When the whole neighborhood is quiet - as it tends to be at those two times - it is extraordinarily loud and annoying; her diligence a judgment on our laziness. Last night I told Tom it sounded like someone playing drums - no - someone LEARNING to play drums. She is working my last nerve and I'm about to set my Flying Monkeys loose on her. I don't know where she thinks she's going anyway - our street has not been plowed.

Now would it kill somebody to bring me some damn hot chocolate?

I'm working on another novel this winter, and I thought I'd share a representative exerpt:

All work and no play makes Tammy a dull girl.

Something like seventy days till Spring. I can do this...

You Never Forget Your First

I bought myself a present yesterday. I do that all the time on the rare occasion when I feel like I really deserve one. What did I do yesterday to merit a present, you ask? Well, I completed my fifth day of NaNoWriMo and that officially marked more words of fiction than I've ever put to paper before. (I know, right? Cheers! *clink*) It's weird - I'm not particularly proud of what I've written and I'm not even sure if any amount of post-November editing will make me so, but I AM very proud of the fact that I've been disciplined and dedicated enough to do it every day - even when the results weren't exactly (or even close to) what I wanted them to be.

I didn't want to talk about that, though.

I wanted to talk about my present.

I bought myself the CD 'Dreamboat Annie' by Heart. (no small thanks to Mary RC for getting that ball rolling with her post about doing their freaking hair and makeup and throwing me into possibly frightening squealy fangirl overload mode in her comments. Sorry Mary. Maybe sometime I'll tell you how I REALLY feel...) Now this was special, because this was the first album I bought with my own money. And I haven't had it in any other format until yesterday. Oh - for my younger readers - albums were these big flat round black things - bigger than a dinner plate - and we played them on record players, one side then the other. The artwork on them was sometimes amazing and often iconic. They were and are delicious. But that's not what I wanted to talk about, either.

I listened to the CD in the car yesterday and was amazed that I still knew every word to every song. The low notes she sings are still too high for me, but that didn't stop me from singing along to every note. I was alone in the car, no one's ears had to bear the offense. Oh! That was you next to me at that stop light? Well - whatever... Momma was just getting her groove on and you were probably just jealous. Love me like music, and I'll be your song...

Which brings me (quite smoothly, if I say so m'self) to the lyrics. How pretty is that one, by the way? I nearly wept this morning, listening to 'How Deep it Goes'.

Somebody turned on the dirty blues, well I know -
you don't like the blues 'cause the words are always the same
and they kind of remind you...

Somebody turned the blues on me,
well, I don't like the blues -
'cause I can't see through the tears that come,
and make it hard to find you...

Good gravy, kids. That moves me as much now as it did when I was fifteen. And that's exactly how old I felt, listening to it. I was instantly transported to my parents living room, playing albums on their hi-fi and singing every word as if it mattered. I could feel my parents carpeting under my belly as I read every lyric from the album cover and commited them to something deeper than memory. I almost expected my dad to say, "Time to call it quits, Tam, we've got to head to school"

"Just one more song..."

"I'll sing you a song - we have to go." (And for those of you who actually knew both my dad and I at that time - here's an extra little treat for you - he generally sang me Billy Joel's "Big Shot". Sometimes he danced. You're welcome for that visual)

I remember thinking the song 'Magic Man' might have been written about the boy I was seeing, because I truly HAD never seen eyes so blue... I thought about him this morning - listening to that CD - for the first time in over thirty years...

I remember hiking in the Canadian Rockies and drinking from a stream and hearing the lyric 'the time that you drank that water like wine, so sweet and so fine...' in my head and I was transported back to THAT moment this morning, too. I could almost taste that water - infinitely sweeter and more refreshing than any I'd ever tasted before or since.

My children were fighting in the car this morning and I turned up the volume on 'White Lightning and Wine' - mostly just to drown them out - and they not only stopped fighting but decided it would be a great song for their band to cover. Music hath charms...

I suppose I should get back to my NaNoWriMo project. How else am I gonna convince myself I deserve 'Seals and Croft's Greatest Hits' or Carole King's 'Tapestry' or Billy Joel's anything before 'The Nylon Curtain'?

Write on.

Leave it Alone

When I visited my parents a couple weeks ago, I snapped a picture of a pile of leaves on the side of the street, waiting for leaf pick up. It's a very ordinary thing, and I wouldn't have bothered to photograph it at all except that I knew it was something my children had never seen. Here in the stupid suburbs we used to have to rake everything up and put it in bags by the curb awaiting pick up. Bags designed to look like pumpkins and ghosts were very popular. Who doesn't want to decorate their yard with festive trash bags? (And let's not even get started on taking a substance as biodegradable as leaves and tying them up tightly in a plastic bag. Ahem.) This year, we are not even given that option and have to find a way to dispose of "all yard waste" ourselves. It's time to start composting, but that's a digression I'm not gonna take today...

Because I'd rather talk about those piles of leaves.

As a kid I remember loving walking through them. I loved the way they smelled and I loved the way they resisted just a little bit as I kicked them up. I loved the way they fell back down - unpredictably predictable. The final destination was always the ground, but if they weren't wet, they would float and drift and sometimes even dance before returning to their place on the street. I loved the way it sounded when they started to dry and produced an audible whoosh as I walked through them, breaking the crisp stillness of an autumn day.

I was always cautioned, though, to not kick with abandon - because something could be hidden under the leaves. I was never told exactly WHAT to look out for - just that SOMETHING might be there. It was easy for a young girl's imagination to run wild. Someone might stash TREASURE under those leaves was a common theme on the way home from the bus stop in the bright afternoon in the company of friends. We would carefully kick at every pile, just to make sure. As the street lights came on, more grisly things were imagined lurking in those piles. Crazed injured animals. Murderous fiends who would grab your ankles. Zombies waiting for the last vestiges of daylight to disappear before beginning their nightly quest for brains.

When I learned to drive, I was cautioned once again not to drive through the piles of leaves. Idiots who thrive on schadenfreude could stash cinder blocks there, ruining your tires or worse. Kids could be playing in the leaves. Zombies - well, no. My parents didn't warn me about zombies. Still, though, better safe than sorry. What if you started to run over one but instead of killing it, just pissed it off? What if THAT happened, huh? Somewhere along the line, I took all of those warnings and imaginary scenarios and convinced myself that there were - or at least COULD be - babies in the leaf piles. That did the trick. I have NEVER driven through a pile of leaves because - sure - there's probably NOT a baby in it, but what if there WAS? How would I feel THEN?

Welcome to my world of fear and irrational paranoia. It's unnerving here sometimes, but the colors are pretty.

And for the love of all things holy, if you live in a community that still has leaf pick up, DON'T DRIVE THROUGH THE LEAVES!

Thank you.

The Sarge

My dad has gone by a few nicknames in his day. His name is Sheldon. I reckon when your name is Sheldon and folks bless you with a nickname you sort of do your best to make it stick.

His first and most lasting nickname was Tut (with Tutta being a common variation). He earned this one as a young boy and at 80 I still think more people call him Tut than Shel. He is Uncle Tutta to all of my cousins. Tut, apparently, came about because, as the eighth of nine children and the youngest boy, some of his siblings believed he was treated like a young king. This always amused me, because his youth coincided with the Great Depression. He and his eight siblings lived in a small two bedroom house on a hill with their parents. His parents shared a room, his five sisters shared a room, and the four brothers shared one bed in the attic. Oranges for Christmas and glad of it, the whole nine yards. When he told me stories of his youth I failed to see anything kingly about it. His older siblings perceived it differently. It’s all about perspective. And Sheldon became Tut.

Now Tut may have been first. And it may have had the most staying power. But Dad had another nickname in my camping youth. He was known, among our camping friends and family, as The Sarge.

The Sarge was born in the woods on a hiking trail.

The exact location is unimportant.

The Sarge transcended geography.

The Sarge thought five year old little girls should be able to make five, six, even seven mile hikes with nothing but a canteen of water for sustenance (and they’d have to carry those themselves). Rest breaks were for the weak. If it was a destination hike – hiking to a waterfall or some other manner of scenic vista, a brief break was permitted for photographing and appreciating the scene. Photography, of course, was contingent upon us carrying our own cameras. We couldn’t linger long enough to make us soft, though.

My mother would remind him, upon embarking upon one of these hikes, that my sister and I were LITTLE. He would assure her very matter-of-factly: “They’ll be fine.”

And we were.

If we got tired and asked for a break, he’d assure us that we could take one when we got around the next bend. We never seemed to get around that bend.

And we never whined.

We were fine.

The Sarge said so.

Because of The Sarge’s refusal to treat us like delicate pink things we were able to witness so much beauty that many never see. As a matter of fact, a recent conversation with my parents as well as the recent PBS series on our National Parks revealed that many of the places we hiked and climbed to are now off-limits to tourists. (I’m pretty sure that wasn’t our fault.)

Years later, when my sister and I were in our teens, The Sarge decided he wanted to walk a few miles down the beach to check out another campground. I eagerly said I wanted to go. A walking tan is way more even than a lying tan and walking a couple miles in the sand was like a free pedicure. Chafing? Wasn’t in my personal lexicon at that time.

The friends we were with weren’t so sure. Their daughter was still so LITTLE. Surely she would get too tired to finish such a long walk. The Sarge teased that there would be Nutty Buddies at the other campground, and that it would be his treat. Their daughter was IN! Her parents still expressed concern.

“She’ll be fine.”

And she was.

She enjoyed that Nutty Buddy with a gusto usually reserved for an oasis in the middle of the desert. It gave her the energy she needed for the walk back.

And she never whined.

She was fine.

The Sarge said so.

Ooooooo Kids - This is a Scary One!

Portions of this post were originally posted 10-17-08, but since it had NO comments, I felt pretty safe re-posting a revised edition.

You know what I don't like? I don't like Haunted Houses. Or Haunted Hayrides. Or Haunted much of anything. Tom says I'm ridiculous. Most of you will, too, probably. My line of reasoning is this: If I were a deranged killer, these are the sort of places where I would seek employment. This would be an easy place to get away with murder. The kids are very tempted by these attractions. I won't go. I have been convinced that I'm being irrational. But I still won't go. If he wants to take them, I won't stop them. But I won't join them, either. I. Don't. Like. Haunted stuff.

My aversion to haunted house/designed to scare stuff goes way back.

When I was 10 or 11, I was a big fan of Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn. When a family vacation found us spending the night in Hannibal Missouri, the home of Mark Twain and the setting for my beloved stories, my parents had no trouble indulging me with visits to Tom Sawyer's fence, Mark Twain's homestead, and the Becky Thatcher house. They did not, however, want to take me into the Haunted House on Hill Street. I was too young, I'd be scared. My sister was 2 years younger than me. Definitely too scary. But I begged and I pleaded and I pleaded and I begged and I showed the brochures to my sister who agreed it looked like just the coolest thing ever and she joined me in the pleading and begging and my mother eventually caved. Dad didn't. He didn't approve, and he wouldn't go. If she wanted to take two small children into a walk-through haunted house, she was on her own. She looked at our sincere pleading little faces and decided she could handle it. Foolish woman! As soon as that first puff of cold air hit our ankles, my sister and I were scared too stiff to move. My mother was able to talk them into letting us come out the way we went in, but there would be no refund. My sister and I cried and my father went into "I told you so" mode and we lost a nice chunk of change. That's what she got for being a nice guy.

A year or two later, I decided it would be a good idea to read "The Exorcist". My mother did not agree. She forbid it. You will not read that book and you will not bring that book into this house. The foot had spoken. Except my 12 year old self thought I was a little smarter than the owner of the foot and I knew what was good for me better than she did. Ahem. So a battered paperback copy was sneakily transported from a friends home to their bookbag to my bookbag. And I read it cover to cover. And I didn't sleep properly for 2 weeks. My mother, for the first time in my life, locked her bedroom door. No crying to her and interrupting her sleep because I thought I knew better. Worst punishment ever.

When I was 9 - 9, folks - making my sister, if you're following along - 7! - My parents, along with my aunt and uncle and 2 cousins all loaded into my uncle's Dodge Charger and headed to the drive-in. Ok, first off, do the math, that's 4 adults and 4 kids in a Charger similar to this one. The grown-ups wanted to see Play it Again Sam. And really, what 9 year old isn't a big Woody Alan fan, eh? So, ok, not necessarily an appropriate choice, but whatever. An outing is an outing. We unloaded the lawn chairs and the kids set them up in the parking space next to the car. Can you say white trash? I thought you could. Now anyone who remembers drive-ins also remembers, no doubt, that they were always double features. On this particular night, the second film was (the not yet cult classic) Let's Scare Jessica to Death. Also, please recall, that in those days you didn't listen to the movie through your car stereo - you listened to it through little speakers that you attached to your window. Well, at a particularly scary moment in the movie, I panicked. I wanted my mom. I screamed and ran for the car. Except I was disoriented and I ran for the wrong car, knocking their speaker out of their window at a particularly tense point in the movie and causing them to scream. At this point my mother is screaming, too, because she realizes it's me causing all this ruckus. So I'm screaming, man in the car is screaming and Mom is screaming. This disruption to the movie causes all the cars around us to start blowing their horns and - well - yelling more than screaming. It was - memorable.

I just don't do well with scary.

One more story.

Fast forward to my late teens.

Where I grew up, everyone knew the legend of Becky's Grave. It was something everyone always talked about, but one night we decided it was time to pay old Becky a visit. There was a carload of us, and, yes, it's true: we'd been drinking a little. Maybe a lot. Probably a lot. We parked the car, and I'll never forget it - the radio (Or was it a cassette? Or perhaps an eight- track?) was playing Alice Cooper: Dead Babies. We left it on while we went trekking through the woods. I was starting to get a little creeped out, as one will when one is pursuing a ghost in the woods on a cool Autumn night with a couple few beers in one. Then, just as one of my friends proclaimed: "there it is!" I tripped into a little ditch. I am so completely freaked out at this point, I don't know which way is up, and as I try to pull myself to an upright position, it seems that the roots on the ground have conspired to keep me down. Why yes, this was around the time Evil Dead came out. Why do you ask?

So, yeah. I'm older and wiser now and would really rather live without the thrills. But I understand why my girls want to pursue them. Lucky for them, they have a more-than-willing dad.

Happy Halloween, (just a little bit early), ya'll.

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

I told you the love story for Valentine's Day. This story picks up practically where that one left off.

"I'm pregnant."

"Are you sure?"

"Peed on a stick..."

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to get married."

(hugging me and kissing the top of my head) "We will be the happiest family ever."

That was our romantic proposal. Jealous?

We talked about just rockin' it City Hall style given the circumstances, but my mother wouldn't hear of it. She and my father had eloped and she'd always regretted the fact that they hadn't had a wedding. I was going to have a wedding, damn it.

So we threw one together in three months. It was not a dream wedding. I realize this may be surprising to those of you who had always aspired to be 33 and pregnant when you walked down the aisle, but it's true.

My mom hired a photographer - the only one she could get at the last minute. She chose the cake (I couldn't make it to my hometown, where all of the preparations were being made). We bought a dress. It was not a lovely, feel like a princess dress. It was - what's the word I want? - tasteful, you know, given the circumstances.

Tom's aunt, who had served as a mother figure after his mother passed away, enthusiastically offered to do the flowers. Silk flowers. Oh, kids, I love fresh flowers. I try to have some in my home all the time. I can assure you that I did not want silk flowers on my wedding day, no matter what the circumstances were. Did I tell her that? No. I thanked her profusely and accepted her generous offer. I really wanted his family to like and accept me. A refusal of such an enthusiastic offer didn't seem like a step in the right direction. I didn't feel like I had much leverage, given the circumstances.

We talked to the pastor in preparation for the wedding. We stressed that we were equal partners in the relationship and that we did not want anything in our vows or in the service about a woman giving it all up to become subservient to her man. He smiled and nodded and made some notes.

Mom found a DJ who listened to every word we had to say.

The big day arrived. I spent the morning like most brides do, getting my hair done, pampering myself a little bit. Making sure the reception hall looked nice. Tom used the opportunity to peruse some of the places of historical significance in my hometown. Namely, the Johnstown Flood Museum. Yep. He spent the hours leading up to our wedding immersed in learning about the single greatest disaster my little home town had ever known. Despair. Disaster. Devastation. Now get me to the church on time!

We didn't have miles of attendants in matching dresses in my favorite color - we just had my sister and his cousin stand up for us. More, I was told, would've been inappropriate given the circumstances. The pastor devoted his entire sermon to women becoming subservient to their men. If it hadn't been for - you know - the circumstances - I may have walked out right then. Tom later confessed that he would have, too. This was not what we had agreed to agree to. But agree we did.

As our guests headed to the reception, we stuck around for pictures. Apparently when you hire your photographer at the last minute, you get what you get. We got a lot of JC Penney catalog worthy pictures of me in my tasteful dress with my silk flowers attempting to hide my thickening waistline.

"Why yes, I DO have the time..."

The popular 'newlyweds in front of the heating vent' pose.
Notice how strategically the photographer has placed the lovely bouquet. There are a whole lot of things about this picture that aren't fooling anybody...
And no, I'm not wearing a bustle and you're mean for asking.

Then we headed for the reception ourselves. I'm sure you know without me telling you that it was raining. I swear to God, if one more person had told me "rain on the bride is good luck" I probably would've greeted them with a roundhouse kick. Circumstances or not. No bride wants to be rained on. Luck, schmuck. (Chuck Norris has nothing on a pissed off/rained on pregnant bride!)

Things took a turn for the better at the reception. The food was delicious. The DJ had indeed listened to us and respected every one of our wishes. And best of all - the guest list was small. We were able to not only spend some quality time with each of our guests, but we were also able to have a good time with each other. We danced - and not only the obligatory bride and groom dances - we danced when we liked a song. And - remember? - the DJ had listened to us. We liked a lot of songs. Oh - for my Western PA readers who may be wondering - there was no money dance. My mother informed me that it would be inappropriate, you know, under the circumstances. But we had a blast. We started our married life on a very happy note indeed.

That was all fourteen years ago today.

Since then I've been to beautiful, storybook, dream weddings. I've been to elegant weddings. I've been to intimate backyard garden weddings. I've heard of insanely romantic proposals. I've seen wedding pictures that are so beautiful they make me want to weep. A couple of those marriages even lasted...

So, yeah. The proposal was lame. The wedding will not be used in any wedding planner's portfolio. The honeymoon did not exist. But the marriage? Solid as a rock. Maybe we should put the emphasis back where it ought to be. A nice wedding is, well, nice. But the happily ever after? That's the endgame, ya'll.

I think the past fourteen years have gone pretty well.

And the circumstances turned out pretty well, too.

A Purple Letter Day

Oh, man, have I been looking forward to today. But not as much as my friend Ellin has. Today, you see, is Ellin's birthday. It's a special one. Yep. Today Ellin turns 47. Now you may be scratching your head at this point and saying, "Forty is a special one. FIFTY is a special one. But forty-seven? Isn't that one that just comes and goes?" Normally you'd be right. But forty-seven is a special one for Ellin. She hated being forty-six, and as of today SHE ISN'T ANYMORE!!!


You can clearly see that Ellin is beautiful. What you can't see is that she's strong (one of the strongest women I've ever had the privilege of knowing), loyal (she's put up with my dubious antics for around thirty-five years, but I'm far from the only one she's loyal to. If Ellin loves you, she loves you. Period.), and she makes the best pizza west of the Schuykill (if my hometown readers aren't eating Ellin's pizza at least once a week, well, what the heck is YOUR deal?)

Ellin hated being forty-six because both one of her favorite aunts AND her beloved brother passed away when they were forty-six. She dreaded turning forty-six the way many of us dread changing that decade marker on our birthday cake. Forty-six wasn't a banner year for her. She's one of the best people I know, but the world sees fit to batter her around way more than her share. She gets to practice that 'strong' trait I mentioned more often that she should. It got a workout this year.

But you know what? She made it. And today she's forty-seven. Today is a new day. Today is important. Today is big.

Ellin and I have been friends since Junior High. I had my first drink with her. (yep, she's to blame) My parents were (and are) teetotalers, but Ellin's were not, so she would go through their liquor cabinet and pour out just a little bit of everything. We'd add orange juice and call it good. (it, um, wasn't) We are probably lucky to be alive. She was also the one right next to me when I went to my first concert (Nazareth, for those who haven't heard that story before. Now you're messin' with a son-of-a-bitch.) Somewhere around tenth grade we made a countdown chart to our High School graduation. That was the day we were gonna hop in a purple van and head to California. Instead, we headed to different colleges. Sometimes, in retrospect, I wish we'd done it. College would've waited a year. Many years and many adventures later we had our first daughters within six months of each other. I could tell you stories for a month, but I won't because, well, even the guilty deserve a little privacy sometimes. Of course if I told you purely fictional stories about Helen and Sammy's adventures some day...

(Don't sweat it, babe - not gonna happen)

I love Ellin.

Happy birthday, my friend. Cheers!

Have a Fine Birthday

Thursday sort of caught me by surprise this week! Here's a birthday trip down Memory Lane.

My birthday is September 1st. My maternal great-grandmother's birthday was August 31st. My cousin Scott's birthday is September 2nd and he is my age.

What I'm telling you, here, is that I never got to have a birthday celebration just for me until I was into my early teens.

When Great-Grandma was still alive, we would always have a big reunion for her birthday. Great Grandma lived less than an hour away from us, but it was like visiting a foreign world. We were small-town; she was rural. I loved playing there when I was very young. Their grounds were endless - you could just run and run and run. When I got a little older the charm sort of wore off. Most of my mother's cousins lived right around Great-Grandma. There was a sort of complex, actually, with her old farmhouse at it's hub. They were a big extended family. We were visitors there.

When they would bring out her cake with all of it's candles - 91, 92, 93 - in truth, we didn't know EXACTLY how old Great-Grandma was when she passed away, because she had attempted to erase her date of birth from her birth certificate. She was not a vain woman, by any stretch, so I'm not exactly sure what prompted this, but there it was. We knew she was well into her nineties. You'd think that at SOME point age would become a source of pride - a badge of honor - but not Great-Grandma. She never looked a day older than 88.

In any case, they'd bring out the cake and Mom would sort of push me to the front of the throng of cousins and second cousins and cousins twice removed and tell me to help Great-Grandma blow out her candles since it was my birthday, too.

This would usually result in her saying something like, "Now who's this one?"

"That's Nancy's girl, Grandma."

"What?"

"NANCY'S GIRL!"

"Oh. Nancy's girl, y'say?"

"Yes, Grandma. It's her birthday, too."

"Now what do they call her, Nancy's girl?"

"They call her Tame-y, Grandma."

Less than an hour away, but there was a whole different dialect. Believe me. Tame-y was not a nickname anyone would've come up with for me. I had cousins (all sorts of twices and removeds) out there who I called Brine and Dibbie all through my childhood and teens. When I received an invitation to Brian's wedding, I had to think for a moment. I don't know any Brian - oh! - BRINE!!! I guess I don't have to tell you there isn't a birth certificate in my family that reads 'Dibbie', either.

"Tame-y. Well she's just fine."

Just fine was about as much praise as Great-Grandma was gonna dole out. That was pretty high praise, actually.

"Tame-y, you go get you one of those pink lozenges, if you want one."

"No thank you"

"They're right over there, honey - g'won - go."

The same conversation or some reasonable facsimile thereof would occur the following year. And the year after that. I guess when you're at some indetermined place in your nineties and have 'leventy 'leven great-grandchildren it's hard to remember. When you're under ten it's considerably easier.

Then we'd go home and celebrate with my paternal relatives. You know, the side of the family with Scott. At least I KNEW everyone at this party. And they all knew me. This one was all aunts and uncles and first cousins. Most of us lived within a 5-mile radius of my dad's homestead. My dad had only ventured two blocks away. This was OUR complex.

Mom would bake cakes using ideas from her women's magazines. In the early sixties it was a very popular and clever idea to make several large cakes and then cut them into shapes and put those shapes together like puzzles to resemble things and then frost the new shape. Mom loved making those things, because people would say, "Oh, Nancy, you're so clever." Who doesn't like being told they're clever? They always said, "Happy Birthday Tammy and Scott". My name was always first, because I was the elder by twenty-four hours, and because it's always ladies first, and because my mom made the cakes.

I was very satisfied with this until I started going to school and being invited to birthday parties. Whoa. Hold up, here. People get to have parties just for themselves? They don't have to share them with nonagenarians or (gasp) boys? Well this was a fine little howdy-do. Just fine, as my great-grandma would've said.

I started lobbying for my own party in kindergarten, but didn't get one until Jr. High. I was so excited. I mean, just over the top excited. The anticipation was as delicious as the cake my mom would've made for me if I'd wanted a cake - which I DIDN'T, because cakes are for babies (How's THAT for misguided logic?) and I wanted a cool party - would have been.

When the day of the party arrived, I was too nervous and excited to eat.

I just picked at that bowl of plums my dad had left out on the counter.

As my guests started to arrive, I greeted them with the sort of glee reserved for pubescent girls unaccustomed to seeing each other in a non-school setting on a non-school day.

There was much squealing and hugging and jumping up and down.

And they brought PREsents!

I'd always gotten presents from my mom and dad, but the parties I shared with Great-Grandma and Scott were always gift-free.

Guess what excitement plus presents plus a lot of plums equals?

Did you guess?

Do you remember Jr. High math?

Excitement plus presents plus lots of plums equals a birthday girl on the hopper (as Great-Grandma would've said) while her friends party on her brand new deck.

Well that's just fine.

We All Went Down to Woodstock

In keeping with the concert theme, and in celebration of the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, a short trip down Memory Lane - this time only going back to 1994.

Forty years ago this week, when the original Woodstock was held on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel NY, I was six. Now I reckon there were indeed six year olds at Woodstock, but none of them were the children of my parents, who harbored a deep seeded fear of hippies, weirdos and freaks.

Fifteen years ago, however, when the 25th anniversary of 3 days of love and music was held, I was way older than six. And I considered hippies, weirdos and freaks to be my peeps. I was in.

Tom and I were not dating at the time, but we were friends. Really good friends. Best friends. We decided to go to Woodstock together. (mistake #1) We lived in South Jersey at the time, which is not exactly right around the corner from Saugerties NY. We decided to go on a sponsored bus trip rather than messing with the driving (mistake #2)

I bought a cheap two-man pop up tent, just big enough for us each to unroll a sleeping bag in (mistake #3 - see mistake #1) We packed as lightly as possible, knowing that we would have very little space and no shower facilities. (misfortune #1)

We were up well before the crack of dawn, waiting in the parking lot with lots of other tired but excited Boomers and X-ers.

The ride there was uneventful. We were corralled through extensive security and eventually were on the grounds and ready to find a place to set up camp. We settled on a spot, popped the tent up, unrolled our sleeping bags and set off to explore the grounds and plot our course.

Oh, we had big plans. We were gonna see it all. One stage to the next. (mistake #4) Long before the first scheduled band played it's first note we knew THAT wasn't going to happen. The stages were quite spread out and the crowd was thick. Ridiculously thick. Before the shows even started. There would be no hopping from stage to stage.

We took our blanket and walked to the main stage. We'd be sacrificing a few things we wanted to see, but it made the most sense.

The rain started before the sun went down. (misfortune #2)

The next day we set off for the main stage again, armed only with our blanket and our still quite sunny dispositions. (Sunny being a relative term, as Tom and I are both more Eeyore than Tigger.)

The weather over the course of the weekend fluctuated between rain and scorching heat. The mud was ubiquitous. (misfortune #3) But we'd secured a decent position on the lawn (high point #1) and were determined to make the most of it.

The Rollins Band performed (high point #2) and made the whole damn trip worthwhile, no lie. I'd ALMOST be willing to do it again, just for the opportunity to have another chance to see just. that. set. Oh, kids, I do love me some Henry Rollins. He makes me feel all tingly inside. (Oh, Plankton, that's the way you're supposed to feel!) He - and his music - are just so - POWERFUL. I'm trembling thinking about it.

Ahem.

There was a blanket full of teenagers spread out behind us. They provided a moment or two of amusement for us. To whit:

Overheard at Woodstock

"Who's coming on next?"

"It says Joe Cocker."

"Who's that?"

"I don't know. Some old dude."

"I think he sang the theme for 'The Wonder Years'"

~later that evening~

"I love Nine Inch Nails. I hope they play every song they've ever played. AND MORE."

(to us) "NIN is my favorite band. Could you guys just, sort of, sit down or something during their set so I can see them better? I mean, like, you can still dance around and stuff, but I really want to see them."

" God I love NIN. I can't wait, man, I can't wait."

~one half hour later~

(announcer) "Nine Inch Nails!"

(boy behind us, curled in a fetal position) ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Metallica came on after NIN. We were so tired and cramped and miserable at that point. Earlier in the day Tom had ventured out to find nourishment. It took him the better part of an hour to make his way through the crowd to the concession stand, pay a ridiculous sum of money for a lousy Dominoes pizza and a 2-liter bottle of warm Pepsi, and find his way back to our blanket. We were both, it turned out, a little bit afraid we'd never see each other again.

We watched a little bit of Metallica's set then decided we'd be able to hear them as we walked, so we'd start back to the tent. (mistake #5)

Tom and I are in agreement that the crush we got ourselves caught up in on the way back to our tent ranks in the top five scariest moments either of us have ever experienced. The crowd sort of became an entity of it's own which moved of it's own volition. (misfortune #3) We were merely carried along with it. If we had wavered or - God forbid - fallen, we would have been trampled and killed in the mud. We had no doubt about this.

Aerosmith closed that night. We were already in our tent (and shaking like leaves after the near-crushing incident) when they started. We could hear the whole set, but we couldn't see a thing. Tom figured it wouldn't matter since I'd seen them four times already on that tour alone. (mistake #6) Tom can be so silly sometimes.

The next day opened with us cranky, muddy and sore. We brushed our teeth, spit on the ground, and threw on bandannas and that completed our grooming regimens. We could barely stand ourselves, much less each other. We both wanted to go home, but since we'd come by bus we had no choice but to wait,

When we finally did make it through the muck and the mud to the bus the next morning, we left behind our tent, our blanket, and a ridiculous amount of money. The tent and blanket had soaked up so much mud that they were too heavy to reasonably carry back to the bus. (misfortune #4) The money? Oh, hell, you know where the money went. 'Twas a festival of Peace, Music, Mud and Commercialism. (mistake #7)

So the bus load of us had all survived the same ordeal. I mean - experienced the same great event. The ride home was a lot quieter than the ride there had been. When we stopped at a rest stop, I opted to stay on the bus. Tom got off the bus to use the facilities. When he returned, having been in polite company and fresh air for 5 minutes or so, he said, "You can't even imagine how bad we smell."

The weekend had been rough on our friendship. The close quarters, the mud, the near death experience - it all took it's toll. But when we got back to my apartment, there was no need for discussion. No one would need to wait for a shower. Besides, I didn't really want either of us sitting on my furniture while waiting for the other to shower. We took one together. (high point #3)

When they held the 30th anniversary concert, we watched it on our mutual TV with a toddler in my lap and a preschooler in his. Peace, music and love prevailed. We'll skip the mud and commercialism this time around, thanks.

Dancing on Railroad Tracks

Today's Thursday trip down memory lane is a little different, as we are not going to trip back to my childhood or my teens, but to my mid-twenties. A shorter trip, but sadly not by much. I am visiting relatives this week (thus the sporadic commenting - sorry!) to attend a festival in their hometown and I couldn't help reminiscing about festivals past.

Musikfest is one of my favorite festivals. I love the music and the food and the handcrafts. I love the city, full of history and warmth. I don't hate the beer. But none of those are the reasons Musikfest retains 'favorite' status among the many festivals I attend each year.

I have dated many musicians and passed time with many more. I even married one. Gave birth to a couple. But the only time I ever served as a muse was based on an afternoon at Musikfest.

It was a bright, sunny weekday in August. The air was laden with the sense of summer coming to an end and the promise of fall. We were both teachers, so we had the summer off. We spent the day at the festival. We had a couple beers - enough to dull inhibitions, but not enough to make foolish mistakes. The perfect amount.

Definitely enough to dance.

We did a mean polka at the Festplatz.

We tapped our feet and moved to some folk music at the Volksplatz.

We danced our way back to the car, twirling and swaying on the railroad tracks, fingers touching but not grasping, together but independent. It was sublime.

When I saw him the next weekend, he said he had something he wanted me to hear. He sat down behind his baby grand and started playing the most lovely melody. Delicate, intricate, free-spirited. He paused.

"It's not done yet."

"It's really pretty. What is it?"

"I think I'm going to call it Tammy Dancing on Railroad Tracks."

My hands went to my throat in a gesture that would've seemed more natural coming from the belle that I am not.

In reality, I am clumsy and awkward and prone to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I am plain of countenance and, if I'm going to be VERY generous with myself, 'sturdy' of frame.

In my mind's eye, though... in my mind's eye I am graceful and delicate and poised. I pull off a fairy-like combination of earthy and ethereal. In my mind's eye.

Apparently that's how I translate in song, too.

Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign

It's Thursday! Ready for your Trip down Memory Lane?



We've all seen the signs.

Huge signs, one every mile or so.

Florida Citrus Fruit! Free Samples! Souvenirs! The Largest Selection of _____! Discount Fireworks! Lowest Prices! 13 Foot Alligators! Live Bears! Last Chance for _______!

In my travels, the queen mother of these roadside tourist attractions has always been and will always be: South of the Border. Traveling south along route I-95 in North Carolina you see your first sign for South of the Border over 175 miles north of the attraction. You know this, of course, because each sign helpfully announces just how far you'll have to travel before you reach this most wondrous of destinations.

135 miles to South of the Border.

75 miles to South of the Border.

Only 11 more miles to South of the Border.

At the beginning, you only encounter signs every ten miles or so. As you get closer, the signs are only a mile apart. Closer yet and they seem to be right on top of one another. All of the signs feature an amazingly politically incorrect stereotype of a Mexican man named Pedro. We know this, because the text on every sign begins with, "Pedro says..."

Pedro says: Keep America green! Bring money!
Pedro says: You never sausage a place! (You're always a wiener at Pedro's)
Pedro says: Our honeymoon suites are heir conditioned!

When I was young and traveling south on route I-95 every summer en route to Myrtle Beach, the South of the Border signs were a great way to mark our progress. They were a double-edged sword for my parents, though. While they eliminated the constant barrage of "are we there yet?" (you always know where you are in Pedro's territory), they inspired instead a new litany, guaranteed to make parents long for "are we there yet?". That litany, of course, consisted of variations on a theme:

Can we stop at South of the Border?
Why can't we stop at South of the Border?
You think everything is junk! How can you know it's tacky and junky if you've never even been there?
Please?
PLEASE?
Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaepleasepleasepleaseplease!!!

Pedro says: Keep yelling, kids! (They'll stop!)

Year after year my parents sighed and stuck firmly to their guns.

Pedro had guns. Well, fireworks, anyway. Just sayin'.

Pedro says: Pedro's fireworks! Does yours?

I can't swear to this, but they may have just inserted ear plugs at the first sign alerting us that we were, indeed, approaching South of the Border.

One year, I will never know why, they caved. Not only were we going to STOP at South of the Border, but we were going to CAMP there for the night.

Oh bliss! Oh rapture unforeseen!

As we took the exit - the one right before

Pedro says: You just missed South of the Border!

I was filled with anticipation. Years of wonder were about to be satisfied. Where would I start? Pedro's Beachwear? Pedro's Arcade? Pedro's Dirty Old Man Shop? (Mom probably wouldn't like that, but she'd never know!) Oh, how is a girl to decide? Oh Pedro, you magnificent bastard! How I've longed for this moment!

As we pulled in between the legs of a giant Pedro statue, I could tell we were in for a night of pure class. There were large statues of Pedro everywhere, as well as statues of animals and various inanimate objects. There's a sombrero tower, for Pete's - er - Pedro's sake. Statues big enough to climb on. Statues you KNEW you'd look great next to in a picture.

Pedro says: Take a picture, it'll last longer

It was after dark when we pulled in and, to my distinct disappointment, many of the shops and activities were already closed. Even more disappointing were the ones that were open. I was young, and I was naive, but I still knew junk when I saw it. Miles and miles of junk.

Just like my parents had always said.

Damn! Why did they always have to be so RIGHT?

I had a taco. It was mediocre at best. Damn, damn, damn. They'd been right again.

Pedro says: Chili today, hot tamale!

You know what else they were right about? Making that stop. In future years the pleading ceased completely. We still used the signs to track our progress, but we no longer wanted to listen to anything Pedro had to say.

Stupid Pedro.

Smart parents.

Pedro says: You just missed South of the Border!

How much further to the beach?

Are we close?

How close?

Big Wheel Keeps on Turnin'

I love a good festival.

From the time I was wee, I felt their draw. If there were amusement rides and games of chance and food on a stick, I was in.

As a kid, of course, it was the rides and the food. And the ridiculously cheaply made stuffed animals. Not much cuddly about a toy stuffed with sawdust. Yet they were coveted. I saw a nice chunk of a Johnny Cash concert once from the top of a double ferris wheel. I would beg my parents to pull over if we happened to pass a little carnival in a parking lot. Sometimes they did.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

As a teen, festivals provided a great opportunity to see and be seen. Festivals became a lot less expensive when I was less interested in the rides and the food and the games. It didn't cost much to see how many boys I could get to turn their heads to check out my painter's pants and halter tops. (it's true, painter's pants were a very sexy fashion statement) Now the rides were an opportunity to sneak a smootch and the games were an opportunity to let the boys in their concert T-shirts show off their mad athletic skillz.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

I got engaged to my college sweetheart at the fair, for Pete's sake. (That was not Tom and it did not end well and that's perhaps another story for another day. If, you know, there's ever a day when I want to put my head in an oven or something.)

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

As a young adult, festivals, fairs and carnivals were an excuse to get my party on. Paying way too much for a beer I had to stand in line way too long for didn't seem like such a hardship as a young adult. I remember having my uncle drop me off at a festival once (Designate a driver, kids. Don't drink and drive.) and my cousin's husband met me at the car with a - like - 30 ounce beer in each hand. In those days, the rides were generally not pursued. I reckon the reasoning behind that is obvious.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

As parents, we get to start this cycle over again - first pushing baby buggies, then holding toddlers hands - experiencing the sights and sounds and smells through the eyes ears and noses of our little ones. (Oh, come on. SOME of the smells are good!) We put them on the kiddie rides and watch as they get older and want to ride the bigger ones. We buy them food we'd never allow them to eat at home. We allow them to win goldfish. (Oh, why in God's name do we allow them to win goldfish?)

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

We went to our first real festival of the season last night. It would seem that that ferris wheel is still spinning, because my girls were there to see and be seen. It was so familiar that it warmed the cockles of my cold dark heart while simultaneously chilling me to the bone.

I'm drawing the line at halter tops.

The Ferris wheel turns. The wheel of chance spins. Step right up, win a prize.

Talk To Ya Later

It's Thursday, so it must be time for a trip down Memory Lane...

Recently we received the records for our teen daughters phone usage during a little vacation to Florida. In two weeks, she spent 3337 minutes talking to her boyfriend and sent 1021 texts to her buddies. I tried to work up righteous anger, but I couldn't.

To do so would've been hypocritical.

To do so would've been a denial of the misspent hours of my own youth.

I, too, spent more time missing my friends than appreciating my surroundings on family vacations - particularly when they extended longer than a week (the proven measure of time that a teen girl can comfortably tolerate separation from her peeps).

In the summer of 1978 I was almost sixteen. My friends were the most important people in the world and our constantly shifting romances were the most important events.

This was the summer my parents decided to take us on a tour through the northern United States with a few jaunts into southern Canada.

This sounds like a beautiful way to pass the summer, no?

At the time, this sounded a lot like the seventh level of hell.

In 1978, of course, cell phones existed only in science fiction. Long distance calls were expensive. To hear my parents tell it, very, very, very ridiculously expensive. They were never made lightly. They were doled out carefully, like a precious commodity. Most of them were made to relatives at home to check on the house and the extended family. The purpose for these calls was assuredly more report than rapport.

Every time I would pass a wall of pay phones I would slow down and gaze at them longingly. They represented passage from this cowboy hell to the socialization I was missing and craving at home. So close and yet so far.

Then, one day, during a visit to a tourist attraction somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, I saw my opportunity. And I seized it. An available pay phone and not a parental unit in sight. There was no time to think, I needed to act quickly. I picked up the receiver and followed the instructions on the phone.

"I'd like to charge this to my home number, please."

One ring.

Two rings.

Then the voice of my friend, spanning the distance, taking me away from this stupid wilderness and reporting all the small town gossip.

My eyes rolled back in my head. It was otherworldly. I was only aware of the dulcet tones of my friend's voice and the information she was sharing.

"Tammy! Lu! Hunter!"

That was weird, Cyndi almost never used my middle...

"TAMMY! LU! HUNTER!"

Oh shiiiiiiiiit.

The spell was broken.

The middle name had been invoked.

My mother looked like a cartoon character does right before steam starts shooting from its ears.

"I gotta go..."

Sadness about the disconnect mingled with fear of retribution.

I mentioned that we were somewhere in the Rockies. We were somewhere in the CANADIAN Rockies. Making this an international call. And an international incident. If long distance calls were verboten, international calls were - well - if there's a word for how off-limits they were, I don't know it.

As we walked back to the car, the vibe I got from my parents was clear. "We will continue to feed, clothe and house you because you are our responsibility but we do not intend to like being in your presence."

I acquired my first job within a week after getting home. I paid the phone bill with my first check.

An irresponsible and immature act resulted in the first truly responsible and mature decision of my young life.

Sometimes it just works out that way.

If You Believe, They Put a Man on the Moon

Forty years ago today one small step was taken by man; one giant leap by mankind.

I was just shy of my seventh birthday and I was bored. My family was visiting my favorite aunt for a week or two. That was usually a lot of fun, but on this evening no one wanted to play with me. There was nothing good on TV. All of the adults were glued to the set, watching something boring, and they kept telling me how lucky I was to be witnessing history. I would've rather been witnessing The Brady Bunch, which hadn't aired yet but looked very promising from the promos.

So I watched - not having any idea what I was seeing.

But I saw.

One of the much older cousins - not one of my cousins, but one of theirs from the other side of the family, had recently gotten engaged. She and her honey wanted to go out and look at the moon. I tagged along, because the moon seemed to be what all the fuss was about. Recently engaged couples love gazing at the moon with a six year old in tow, it's a fact. They told me to see if I could see the flag we'd just seen them plant on TV. They told me to look really hard. When they were sure my attention was fully focused on the moon, they kissed. And it was really gross. I turned up my nose and went back into the house.

I reported that all of this was a fake, because I had looked very carefully and I had seen no evidence of any of this business on the real moon. Everyone laughed and thought that was real cute.

I left that room, too.

What a stupid day.

What an amazing day.

Laughter in the Rain

For now, I'm going to refer to my Thursday stories as Tammy's Trips Down Memory Lane. That is not set in stone, so if something magical occurs to you in a dream (yes, I'm just arrogant enough to assume that I figure into your dreams), be sure to let me know. Till then, here's today's trip:

I love to take a daily walk. On a recent summer visit to Florida, due to excessive heat, the only feasible times to do so were early in the morning or late in the evening. As a committed fan of the sunrise, I opted for mornings.

The first morning we were there, I rose before anyone else and laced up my walking shoes. It was dawn and the air was filled with potential, as it always is just before sunrise.

I took a few confident brisk steps before realizing that on this particular morning the air was filled with a very specific potential. The potential for rain. There wasn't any threat of thunder or lightning, so I shrugged and continued. While it's true that I'm sweet, I felt in no imminent danger of melting should a drop or two hit my head.

When those first tentative drops started plopping down, the house I'd just left was still in sight. Turning around would've been easy, but easy is rarely fun. It's NEVER exciting.

So I kept walking - away from my temporary abode and towards I wasn't quite sure what. Once one gets over the initial indignation of being wet where one is accustomed to being dry, it's quite invigorating. I found my smile widening with every step. I started to avoid a puddle, then changed my mind and tromped right through it, causing big splashes as I did. By this point I was giggling and seeking puddles. I tried to work up the nerve to broad jump right into one, but my new found levity hadn't extended quite that far yet. It was fun to just contemplate it. And to kick my way through the puddles.

When I arrived back, I was soaked to the skin - nie - to the bones. It was difficult to undress because the rain had produced quite an adherent between my clothes and my skin. I eventually got them all peeled off and jumped into the shower.

More water falling on my head.

I had a brief flashback to when I was a little girl. We were camping somewhere in New England and had been caught up in a similar downpour on a walk. I had dipped my toe tentatively into a puddle and looked at my mom, expecting to be reprimanded. I never in a million years expected to hear what I heard next. "Jump in it! It's fun!"

Had that devil on my shoulder actually spoken out loud? He was getting mighty bold. I started to say, "Get thee behind me, Satan!" as I'd been taught to utter when the devil on my shoulder encouraged me to do things I oughtn't, when I realized that this time, the devil sounded a lot like my mom. My mommy. Mommy would never encourage me to do something that was bad.

I looked at her again for confirmation. She nodded her encouragement and even pantomimed a little jump. My mom didn't even get her hair wet in the swimming pool, and here she was, standing in the rain encouraging me to jump in puddles. My whole world was topsy turvy and I loved it. I jumped heartily. She laughed with a heartiness that matched it.

It was just a moment, but what a moment it was.

Fast forward a few years. I was in my teens and we were at the beach with a few other families, and it was raining. All of the kids were miserable and whiny. We were tired of reading. We were tired of playing cards. We were certainly tired of each other. We were driving my mother up a tree.

"Go out and do something!"

"We can't"

"Why not?"

"It's raining!" The obvious 'duh' that followed this was expressed through several sets of simultaneously rolling eyes.

Then my mother spoke the line that continues to be her trademark in certain circles to this day: "You're looking out the wrong window."

We - the teens and tweens - had been, apparently, taking the rain too literally.

We thought we'd call her bluff. We'd just step out and get a little wet. Show her the effects of the very real rain that was falling outside of every window, as far as we could see. We walked out the door, certain she'd stop us. She shooed us along.

"Oh, what a lovely sunny day!" we exclaimed sarcastically, making quite a show of being very wet. Then it came over us, slowly, but as a group, that we were actually having fun. And when this realization fully hit, we kicked puddles. We jumped in the pool fully clothed (we were already soaked to the skin - what further harm could be done?) We splashed and played, caught up in a complete lack of adolescent pretension. Caught up in a state of pure, uncut bliss.

We - deep breath, because I never use this word but can't think of a better one because it's perfect - frolicked. Yep. We frolicked in the rain.

Hey! Just like puddle jumping, once that barrier's down, it's easy! Frolic, frolic, frolic! We frolicked the livelong day away. We were actually just a little bit sad when the sun returned.

We saw people staring at us from inside their campers, shaking their heads in disapproval.

Oh, what we knew that they didn't know.

What my mom knew that they didn't know.

When it comes to rain, as long as there's no thunder and lightning (very very frightening) I've never looked out the wrong window since.

That's My Dad

Today is my father's 80th birthday. I say that - I type that - and I know the picture it paints. My dad fits a couple of the stereotypes, I guess. I haven't been thrilled with his driving lately. He has either suffered a major hearing loss or honed selective hearing to an art form. He is not a bigot, but he is not adverse to an ethnic slur now and then - he doesn't understand what the fuss is about - he's not saying anything bad, he's just calling people what they are.

Sigh.

I don't want to talk about those things, though.

That's a generation.

That's not my dad.

I don't want to talk about the ways that he fits the stereotype of someone his age.

I don't want to talk about the Great Depression or the Korean War or any of the other things he experienced as a boy or a young man. Those things may have had a profound effect on who he became, but they are his stories to tell, not mine. Those are stories about a boy and a man, but I want to tell you stories about a dad. And he didn't become a dad until I entered the picture.

He was a teacher by trade. He was not big on long lectures, but he was very good at teaching by example. Here are some of the lessons he taught me:

On Responsibility:
We grew up camping. We stayed in National Parks more often than not. On one particular occasion, we had planned to leave one park early in the morning to head to another. This was far from an unusual event. But on this particular day, when we went to check out, it was so early that no-one was manning the booth. There was no-one to pay. We really needed to hit the road to stay on schedule.

So we did.

We drove off and saw the sights and did the activities that were planned for the day.

When we were done, instead of moving on to our next planned destination, we went back. Back to the place we'd stayed the night before to pay our debt. He probably spent three times as much on gas as the actual bill was, but he was not going to leave it outstanding and he certainly was not going to leave it unpaid.

Me? I would've written a check and slid it under the door. Or maybe I would've written a check at my next destination and mailed it off. More likely I would've waited till I got home and then sent off a check, if I remembered.

Dad? No way. He couldn't have slept with an outstanding debt. He couldn't have slept not knowing for sure if they received his payment or not.

He delivered the cash in person and apologized for taking so long (several hours!) to get it to them.

That's my dad.

On Pride:
One day Dad and I were sitting on a bench in front of a store waiting for my mom to finish shopping. An older gentleman came out of the store and joined us on the bench. The three of us sat there quietly, watching the cars go by. A new van drove past and the old fellow let out an appreciative whistle.

"That is one fine looking vehicle."

"Sure is" responded my dad.

"It sure would be great to be able to drive around in something like that."

"Sure would."

Shortly after that, the old fellow's wife came out and they crossed the parking lot together. I turned to my dad and said, "Why did you say that?"

You see, my dad had just recently purchased a van of that very same model.

"Wasn't anything to gain by it. He would've felt bad if he thought he was envying something I had. Better to let him think I'm in the same boat he is. Besides, I didn't lie. It IS a fine looking vehicle and it IS great to be able to drive around in it."

Well, heck.

He had me there.

I knew if it had been me I would have probably very excitedly pointed out that I HAD a van like that! I would've bragged on the special features and then would've probably even found something to bitch about because - while it was a nice van, it wasn't the BEST van. I would've found a way to be both prideful AND envious.

Not dad. He has no time for either of those emotions. Nothing to gain by it.

That's my dad.

On Charity:
My dad believes in helping those in need. He works tirelessly for his local food bank, so we can assume that feeding the hungry is a goal of his.

Once, on a Christmas trip to New York, we came across a woman sitting in front of the train station. She was obviously cold and did not appear to have the use of her legs. Two small children huddled next to her under a thin blanket. She was begging for money to feed them. My father stopped and took a pack of peanut butter crackers out of his back pack and handed them to her.

"Thank you sir! Thank you! God bless you sir!" she called to him as she quickly divided the crackers up among her children.

I was feeling all warm and glowy over the kindness my dad had demonstrated and was just about to tell him so when he said rather smugly, "Let's see her buy drugs with THAT!"

Cynical charity. Gotta love it. And a lesson learned. While she was asking for money, it wasn't money she needed - it was food. That was the need he met.

That's my dad.

On Being a Teacher:
Dad taught at my high school. Did I have him in class? As a matter of fact, I did. Was high school the worst three years of my life? Yeah, pretty much.

As a teacher, Dad was tough.

I talked to him about it one day when things had gone particularly badly for me. "You know people don't like you."

"I'm not here to make people like me. I'm here to teach them math. I'm never going to be voted teacher of the year by my current students. But look at this."

He took me to his desk and pulled out a worn-looking envelope. He handed it over to me. I read a testimonial from a student who 'hadn't liked him much' in high school but was so appreciative of everything he'd taught him once he got to college. I was astounded. First, that a student had bothered to write this letter; second, that maybe it all WASN'T a great big popularity contest; and third, that my father had kept this letter. That it mattered to him. It would've been easier to go for the instant accolades - easier and a lot more pleasant (for him as well as for me) - but he was going for something more lasting.

Bless his heart.

That's my dad.

On Algebra:
Once you know the formula, you just plug it in and crank it out.

That's my dad.

Happy birthday, Dad. You taught me well.