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.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Mind Over Matter
It's been a couple weeks since I took you down Memory Lane. Memory Lane is lovely in the fall.
Some of my favorite camping trips took place not in the summer but in the fall. There is not a lot that rivals the sights and smells of a forest in autumn. There was also something kind of wonderful about leaving school on Friday and going on a mini-vacation. That drew a much firmer dividing line between the school/work week and the weekend than just not going to school/work did.
Hikes and bike rides in the fall were longer and more frequent than they were in the summer, when the temperature was sometimes even oppressive in the forest. While a campfire is always a good thing, it just seems even better when you need the fire and a sweatshirt and a blanket and perhaps someone to snuggle with to keep yourself warm.
Yep. I sure do love a crisp, cool evening around a warm crackling fire under a clear starry sky.
What I loved a little less, however, was leaving the fire to sleep in the camper. I had a warm heavy sleeping bag, but it still always felt awfully cold. Sometimes I was tired enough to not care, but more often than not I used it as an excuse for a night cap. One last whine before bed.
My parents’ camper had a heater, but my dad was loathe to light it. I’m not sure if it was difficult to get to it, or if the gas it burned was expensive, or if there was some other reason I just never came up with, but I AM sure that he didn’t like to do it.
Yet I asked almost every night.
One night he surprised me.
“Sure, I’ll light it for you.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
I felt warmer just having the reassurance in place that it was being dealt with.
Sometime in the night I got warm enough to kick my socks off.
The next morning it was revealed that he had indeed NOT lit the heater, and had instead just run his fingers over some grates and made some noises to placate me.
I’d slept that night cocooned in the warmth of a comfortable lie.
Nice.
Some of my favorite camping trips took place not in the summer but in the fall. There is not a lot that rivals the sights and smells of a forest in autumn. There was also something kind of wonderful about leaving school on Friday and going on a mini-vacation. That drew a much firmer dividing line between the school/work week and the weekend than just not going to school/work did.
Hikes and bike rides in the fall were longer and more frequent than they were in the summer, when the temperature was sometimes even oppressive in the forest. While a campfire is always a good thing, it just seems even better when you need the fire and a sweatshirt and a blanket and perhaps someone to snuggle with to keep yourself warm.
Yep. I sure do love a crisp, cool evening around a warm crackling fire under a clear starry sky.
What I loved a little less, however, was leaving the fire to sleep in the camper. I had a warm heavy sleeping bag, but it still always felt awfully cold. Sometimes I was tired enough to not care, but more often than not I used it as an excuse for a night cap. One last whine before bed.
My parents’ camper had a heater, but my dad was loathe to light it. I’m not sure if it was difficult to get to it, or if the gas it burned was expensive, or if there was some other reason I just never came up with, but I AM sure that he didn’t like to do it.
Yet I asked almost every night.
One night he surprised me.
“Sure, I’ll light it for you.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
I felt warmer just having the reassurance in place that it was being dealt with.
Sometime in the night I got warm enough to kick my socks off.
The next morning it was revealed that he had indeed NOT lit the heater, and had instead just run his fingers over some grates and made some noises to placate me.
I’d slept that night cocooned in the warmth of a comfortable lie.
Nice.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Boob Man
It's Thursday - time to trip down Memory Lane (or - given today's title - Mammary Lane. Oh, I slay me, I really do.)
It is always disillusioning when children realize that their parents are sexual beings. I imagine some folks come upon this realization slowly and gently. Some folks deny it well into adulthood. I was not afforded that particular luxury.
My moment came one Christmas when we were having a rare indoor get-together with our camping friends. We roasted hot dogs and mountain pies over the fire in the basement fireplace to try to replicate as closely as possible the camping experience. I remember someone had taken a shot at making homemade root beer and I’d wanted very much to like it, but I didn’t. And I remember there were gifts.
Not a lot of gifts, it wasn’t a huge thing, wasn’t a big part of the party.
But there were gifts.
And my dad got one.
One that it seemed everyone but me thought was wildly suited to him.
This was during the era when everyone and their mother was taking ceramics classes. They would buy greenware and paint it and glaze it and – I wasn’t completely solid on all of the particulars. My mother and I had never jumped on that bandwagon. But we were in a minority. We still certainly had our share of lighted Christmas trees. I had a cheerleader with big eyes painted in my school colors. My sister had a basketball player from the same line. Praying hands? Check. Easter eggs? Please. People loved giving away their ceramic creations as much as they liked making them.
And our hostess had made a gift for my dad.
It was a carefully rendered boob mug.
She had clearly worked diligently to establish a realistic skin tone. I don’t like to ruminate too long on her amazing attention to detail.
It sure did look like a boob.
Do I really have to tell you that the recipient of said mug was to drink through the nipple?
I thought it was funny.
A little bit funny.
Kind of funny.
Vaguely amusing.
The adults thought it was hysterical.
And then they all started talking about what a great gift this was for a boob man like my dad.
My DADDY was a BOOB MAN?
I felt homemade root beer churning up the hot dogs and mountain pies as they all tried to work their way back up.
It wasn’t even a little bit funny anymore. Now it was the most vulgar thing I’d ever seen. And my favorite store at the time was Spencer Gifts. Just to give you some perspective.
Suddenly I experienced a sharp, vivid memory from the past summer. We had gone to the beach. When we picked up our pictures from the drugstore, my mom had a loudly whispered confrontation with my father that hadn’t made sense at the time, but now became utterly clear,
She had asked Dad to take a picture of her, my sister and I with the ocean behind us. And he did. But when the film was developed, the foreground of that picture was dominated by a young woman sunbathing with her bikini straps undone. Very small and very much in the background was my mom, my sister and I, smiling and waving.
We are very lucky to have digital technology in this day and age, that’s all I’m saying.
And mugs without nipples.
It is always disillusioning when children realize that their parents are sexual beings. I imagine some folks come upon this realization slowly and gently. Some folks deny it well into adulthood. I was not afforded that particular luxury.
My moment came one Christmas when we were having a rare indoor get-together with our camping friends. We roasted hot dogs and mountain pies over the fire in the basement fireplace to try to replicate as closely as possible the camping experience. I remember someone had taken a shot at making homemade root beer and I’d wanted very much to like it, but I didn’t. And I remember there were gifts.
Not a lot of gifts, it wasn’t a huge thing, wasn’t a big part of the party.
But there were gifts.
And my dad got one.
One that it seemed everyone but me thought was wildly suited to him.
This was during the era when everyone and their mother was taking ceramics classes. They would buy greenware and paint it and glaze it and – I wasn’t completely solid on all of the particulars. My mother and I had never jumped on that bandwagon. But we were in a minority. We still certainly had our share of lighted Christmas trees. I had a cheerleader with big eyes painted in my school colors. My sister had a basketball player from the same line. Praying hands? Check. Easter eggs? Please. People loved giving away their ceramic creations as much as they liked making them.
And our hostess had made a gift for my dad.
It was a carefully rendered boob mug.
She had clearly worked diligently to establish a realistic skin tone. I don’t like to ruminate too long on her amazing attention to detail.
It sure did look like a boob.
Do I really have to tell you that the recipient of said mug was to drink through the nipple?
I thought it was funny.
A little bit funny.
Kind of funny.
Vaguely amusing.
The adults thought it was hysterical.
And then they all started talking about what a great gift this was for a boob man like my dad.
My DADDY was a BOOB MAN?
I felt homemade root beer churning up the hot dogs and mountain pies as they all tried to work their way back up.
It wasn’t even a little bit funny anymore. Now it was the most vulgar thing I’d ever seen. And my favorite store at the time was Spencer Gifts. Just to give you some perspective.
Suddenly I experienced a sharp, vivid memory from the past summer. We had gone to the beach. When we picked up our pictures from the drugstore, my mom had a loudly whispered confrontation with my father that hadn’t made sense at the time, but now became utterly clear,
She had asked Dad to take a picture of her, my sister and I with the ocean behind us. And he did. But when the film was developed, the foreground of that picture was dominated by a young woman sunbathing with her bikini straps undone. Very small and very much in the background was my mom, my sister and I, smiling and waving.
We are very lucky to have digital technology in this day and age, that’s all I’m saying.
And mugs without nipples.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Smoke 'Em If You've Got 'Em
This Thursday's Trip down Memory Lane is in honor of all of my friends who have been talking on their blogs and on Facebook about their children getting their driver's licenses. Also, it's SORT OF about birthdays. The big 1-6, to be exact. My birthday is Tuesday. I figure this is pretty close. I may do another birthday trip down Memory Lane next week. I'm one of those that doesn't reckon a birthday needs to really be confined to a single day...
Most kids approaching their sixteenth birthday are ready to drive. I was ready to be more independent. I was ready to be more mobile. But I was not ready to drive. My parents took the Driver’s Ed program at the school very seriously. Most kids took Driver’s Ed for the insurance break. I took it to learn to drive.
The first time I slid behind the wheel of a car, it was the Driver’s Ed car. The instructor handed me the keys and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got.” I asked him what exactly I was supposed to do with the keys. He rolled down the windows and lit a Camel.
After that, he always gave me the last turn at the wheel. He always rolled down the windows and lit a Camel as I approached the driver’s seat.
There were a total of three students in the car. The other two drove on the main drags, such as they were, of our town. My turn usually began when we were pretty close to the school parking lot. I won’t swear to it, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that despite his title, the Driver’s Ed instructor had never actually taught anyone to drive from scratch before.
A non-smoker myself with non-smoking parents, I was pretty sure he was going to have lung cancer before I had a driver’s license. I felt just a little bit guilty about that.
I pleaded with my parents to take me out to practice. I didn’t much like feeling like I was in remedial Driver’s Ed. Dad gave in once or twice, but he didn’t like it. He was probably afraid that if he rode with me too much HE’D need to take up smoking, too.
Eventually I got it, of course. I’d like to say it all just clicked, but it was a much more gradual process than that. I would still rather be in the passenger’s seat than the driver’s seat, given a choice. Not long after I got my license, a boyfriend said, “Wanna learn to drive a stick?”
I walked to the nearest convenience store and bought him a pack of Camels.
Most kids approaching their sixteenth birthday are ready to drive. I was ready to be more independent. I was ready to be more mobile. But I was not ready to drive. My parents took the Driver’s Ed program at the school very seriously. Most kids took Driver’s Ed for the insurance break. I took it to learn to drive.
The first time I slid behind the wheel of a car, it was the Driver’s Ed car. The instructor handed me the keys and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got.” I asked him what exactly I was supposed to do with the keys. He rolled down the windows and lit a Camel.
After that, he always gave me the last turn at the wheel. He always rolled down the windows and lit a Camel as I approached the driver’s seat.
There were a total of three students in the car. The other two drove on the main drags, such as they were, of our town. My turn usually began when we were pretty close to the school parking lot. I won’t swear to it, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that despite his title, the Driver’s Ed instructor had never actually taught anyone to drive from scratch before.
A non-smoker myself with non-smoking parents, I was pretty sure he was going to have lung cancer before I had a driver’s license. I felt just a little bit guilty about that.
I pleaded with my parents to take me out to practice. I didn’t much like feeling like I was in remedial Driver’s Ed. Dad gave in once or twice, but he didn’t like it. He was probably afraid that if he rode with me too much HE’D need to take up smoking, too.
Eventually I got it, of course. I’d like to say it all just clicked, but it was a much more gradual process than that. I would still rather be in the passenger’s seat than the driver’s seat, given a choice. Not long after I got my license, a boyfriend said, “Wanna learn to drive a stick?”
I walked to the nearest convenience store and bought him a pack of Camels.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Mother Nature Can Be Like That
This Thursday's Trip down Memory Lane takes us back to one of my favorite eras. The era in which I rocked a bikini. Booya.
One summer, we planned to spend three weeks at the beach. I was very excited about this. This was gonna be my year. It was the first year I really filled out my bikini in any sort of respectable way, and my intent was to take full advantage of that.
The first week it was pretty rainy and overcast. Not perfect beach weather. No worries. It was the first week and we still had two more to go. We’d just do indoor things. Shopping, game rooms, movies. Restaurants. We generally spread these things out over the course of a vacation, but Mother Nature can be a little controlling like that.
Near the end of that first rainy week we went out for seafood. My parents aren’t particularly fond of seafood, but it’s my favorite, so they always took us out for some at least once when we were by the shore. The seafood, in other words, was a sort of rare treat. For me.
A few hours later I didn’t feel so well.
“You just ate too much.”
A few hours later still I had sweats and chills and unmentionable – indescribable things were going on in my belly. If I’d eaten too much that would no longer be a problem, as I was pretty sure there was nothing left in my stomach after a couple hours on the little camper porta-potty with a bucket between my knees.
My parents exchanged worried looks.
This was not a child who had over-indulged.
This was a child who needed to go to the ER.
I’m not sure what I looked like just then – I couldn’t lift my head from the bucket long enough to see myself in the mirror – but I could see what my parents looked like. And they didn’t look good.
I’m sure it will come as no great surprise to anyone that the diagnosis was food poisoning. Or that the prescription was hydration. And time.
Mother Nature can be a little nasty like that.
Week two of our beach vacation opened with bright sunshine. It found me too weak to squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush independently. My mother stayed with me that first day, while everyone else suited up and headed for the beach. The next day she was still willing to stay, but doing so was sort of tinged with martyrdom. The third day brought a little full-out resentment. The fourth, one of the other parents we were camping with offered to stay with me. She wanted to clean her camper anyway, so didn’t really want to go to the beach. It would be no trouble. Really.
I’m not sure, but I think my mom may have kissed her full on the lips. If she didn’t, I bet she wanted to.
The next day I made it to the beach. I was still a little weak, but no worries. We still had a few more days.
The very next day I got my period.
And my awesome new UNWORN bikini was white.
You have got to be kidding me with this.
Mother Nature can be a real bitch like that.
One summer, we planned to spend three weeks at the beach. I was very excited about this. This was gonna be my year. It was the first year I really filled out my bikini in any sort of respectable way, and my intent was to take full advantage of that.
The first week it was pretty rainy and overcast. Not perfect beach weather. No worries. It was the first week and we still had two more to go. We’d just do indoor things. Shopping, game rooms, movies. Restaurants. We generally spread these things out over the course of a vacation, but Mother Nature can be a little controlling like that.
Near the end of that first rainy week we went out for seafood. My parents aren’t particularly fond of seafood, but it’s my favorite, so they always took us out for some at least once when we were by the shore. The seafood, in other words, was a sort of rare treat. For me.
A few hours later I didn’t feel so well.
“You just ate too much.”
A few hours later still I had sweats and chills and unmentionable – indescribable things were going on in my belly. If I’d eaten too much that would no longer be a problem, as I was pretty sure there was nothing left in my stomach after a couple hours on the little camper porta-potty with a bucket between my knees.
My parents exchanged worried looks.
This was not a child who had over-indulged.
This was a child who needed to go to the ER.
I’m not sure what I looked like just then – I couldn’t lift my head from the bucket long enough to see myself in the mirror – but I could see what my parents looked like. And they didn’t look good.
I’m sure it will come as no great surprise to anyone that the diagnosis was food poisoning. Or that the prescription was hydration. And time.
Mother Nature can be a little nasty like that.
Week two of our beach vacation opened with bright sunshine. It found me too weak to squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush independently. My mother stayed with me that first day, while everyone else suited up and headed for the beach. The next day she was still willing to stay, but doing so was sort of tinged with martyrdom. The third day brought a little full-out resentment. The fourth, one of the other parents we were camping with offered to stay with me. She wanted to clean her camper anyway, so didn’t really want to go to the beach. It would be no trouble. Really.
I’m not sure, but I think my mom may have kissed her full on the lips. If she didn’t, I bet she wanted to.
The next day I made it to the beach. I was still a little weak, but no worries. We still had a few more days.
The very next day I got my period.
And my awesome new UNWORN bikini was white.
You have got to be kidding me with this.
Mother Nature can be a real bitch like that.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
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:
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.
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
"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.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
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.
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.
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..."
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!!!
Year after year my parents sighed and stuck firmly to their guns.
Pedro had guns. Well, fireworks, anyway. Just sayin'.
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
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.
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.
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.
How much further to the beach?
Are we close?
How close?
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.
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!
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?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 20, 2009
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.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Happiest Place on Earth
I'm going to continue giving you little stories on Thursdays until you tell me to stop. I'm trying to think of a clever little name for my story Thursdays, but I'm drawing a blank. If anyone thinks of anything, they would have my sincere appreciation! Here's another one my mom isn't aware of! I think 30 odd years later she can handle it, though. I think the statue of limitations is up. She can't ground me anymore, anyway...
I first visited Disney World in the spring of 1978, just a few years after it opened, with my marching band. This trip marked both my first flight in an airplane and my first stay in a hotel. We were camping folk, there had never been a need. I dutifully made my bed every morning, to the great amusement of my more worldly roommates.
I'm quite certain that it goes without saying that I was extremely excited. It probably also goes without saying that 'extremely excited' is understating it a bit.
Young? Check. Cute? Check. Uncharacteristically free from parental supervision? Check. This was a recipe for bliss. Just add The Mouse and enjoy liberally.
All the candy bars, magazines and light bulbs (yes, light bulbs) I'd sold to finance this trip were finally paying off. I was in Florida. In April. With my best friends. In the almost brand spankin' new self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.
There was no downside.
We explored Frontierland, Adventureland, Fantasyland and Tomorrowland thoroughly, as a pack of squeaky squealy teenaged girls. We expected wonder at every turn and we were usually not disappointed. We laughed until our sides ached, developing and nurturing inside jokes that continued to insure a giggle months after we'd returned home.
We marched in the afternoon parade and, as a part of this endeavor, were treated to a peak at backstage Disney. *shudder* We never spoke much of that. We saw characters without their heads on. They were, for the most part, excessively pimpled teenagers. It was like watching Jim Henson speak for Kermit. You know he's there, but you don't want to think about it. Very disillusioning. I shall speak of it no more.
Later that year, over the summer months, our family took another trip to Disney World with family friends. Now, having been there myself only months before, I considered myself sort of an expert on all things Disney. I didn't mind sharing my expertise. I'm a giver like that. I spent a lot of time assuring my travel companions that they needn't worry, I'd show them around. I had, if I haven't made it quite clear, a sort of inflated sense of self-importance about the whole affair.
The night before we were to head to Disney we were staying at a beach not far away. I snuck out of the camper once everyone was asleep to go to a bar. I was nearly sixteen and the drinking age in Florida at the time was eighteen. It was no problem at all to pass. It was a great bar on a pier right over the ocean. I don't remember the name of it, but I do remember that their claim to fame was their Bahama Mama. Drink three of 'em and you could write whatever you wanted on the wall. They made a damn fine Bahama Mama, I must say. At least by the standards set forth by my almost sixteen year old palate. I think I wrote something to that effect on the wall when I earned my turn with the Sharpie.
I returned to camp and no-one was the wiser.
That's not entirely true.
Dave knew.
Dave was the eldest of our friends' kids - which still put him at two years younger than me. Dave was not adverse to a little blackmail among friends.
Now anyone who's downed a couple few delicious fruity rum drinks in the course of an evening knows that the evening spent drinking them is WAY more fun than the morning spent recovering from them.
The families' plan was to be on the road early early so that we'd be at Disney when the gates opened. Not a huge problem for anyone but the drivers, since we were traveling in campers. Since the drivers had NOT snuck out to drink rum with boys the night before, it was not a problem at all.
MY problems began, as you can imagine, when I woke up. Looking good, feeling good. Dave whispered in my ear at the next rest stop, "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone."
"And in return?"
"You wound me! I don't want anything in return! I just want you to spend the day with me at Disney. Show me the sights..."
"That's it?"
"Ride the rides with me..."
"I don't feel much like..."
"I sure would be sad if you didn't ride the rides with me. I can only hope I wouldn't let any information slip in my saddened state."
He had me by the short ones, kids. What choice did I have but to say yes?
We got to the park and developed a buddy system of sorts. My sister and Dave's sister would be buddies. Me, Dave, and his younger sister, Cass, would be buddies. Safety rules were discussed, tickets were distributed, meet up times were scheduled.
Being the senior member of my little group, as well as a self-proclaimed Disney expert, I assumed I'd be leading our little expedition. "I thought we'd start with..."
"Teacups" interrupted Dave.
"TEAcups?" I said, my eyes narrowing behind my dark shades and attempting to burn holes straight through him.
Cass started chanting, "Tea Cups! Tea Cups!" Dave joined in. Now this was just flat out playing dirty and he knew it. Cass was seven years my junior and I adored her. I could deny her nothing. Dave was not unaware of this fact. Teacups it would be.
Guess who took control of the wheel that controls the spinning in the teacups?
That was just the beginning of the price of Dave's silence.
He did what he could to torture the poor, stupid, know-it-all, hungover teen he held firmly under his thumb. But as a clear testament to the well-earned "Happiest Place on Earth" moniker, it was still a pretty darn good day.
Suck it, Dave.
Teacups indeed.
I first visited Disney World in the spring of 1978, just a few years after it opened, with my marching band. This trip marked both my first flight in an airplane and my first stay in a hotel. We were camping folk, there had never been a need. I dutifully made my bed every morning, to the great amusement of my more worldly roommates.
I'm quite certain that it goes without saying that I was extremely excited. It probably also goes without saying that 'extremely excited' is understating it a bit.
Young? Check. Cute? Check. Uncharacteristically free from parental supervision? Check. This was a recipe for bliss. Just add The Mouse and enjoy liberally.
All the candy bars, magazines and light bulbs (yes, light bulbs) I'd sold to finance this trip were finally paying off. I was in Florida. In April. With my best friends. In the almost brand spankin' new self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.
There was no downside.
We explored Frontierland, Adventureland, Fantasyland and Tomorrowland thoroughly, as a pack of squeaky squealy teenaged girls. We expected wonder at every turn and we were usually not disappointed. We laughed until our sides ached, developing and nurturing inside jokes that continued to insure a giggle months after we'd returned home.
We marched in the afternoon parade and, as a part of this endeavor, were treated to a peak at backstage Disney. *shudder* We never spoke much of that. We saw characters without their heads on. They were, for the most part, excessively pimpled teenagers. It was like watching Jim Henson speak for Kermit. You know he's there, but you don't want to think about it. Very disillusioning. I shall speak of it no more.
Later that year, over the summer months, our family took another trip to Disney World with family friends. Now, having been there myself only months before, I considered myself sort of an expert on all things Disney. I didn't mind sharing my expertise. I'm a giver like that. I spent a lot of time assuring my travel companions that they needn't worry, I'd show them around. I had, if I haven't made it quite clear, a sort of inflated sense of self-importance about the whole affair.
The night before we were to head to Disney we were staying at a beach not far away. I snuck out of the camper once everyone was asleep to go to a bar. I was nearly sixteen and the drinking age in Florida at the time was eighteen. It was no problem at all to pass. It was a great bar on a pier right over the ocean. I don't remember the name of it, but I do remember that their claim to fame was their Bahama Mama. Drink three of 'em and you could write whatever you wanted on the wall. They made a damn fine Bahama Mama, I must say. At least by the standards set forth by my almost sixteen year old palate. I think I wrote something to that effect on the wall when I earned my turn with the Sharpie.
I returned to camp and no-one was the wiser.
That's not entirely true.
Dave knew.
Dave was the eldest of our friends' kids - which still put him at two years younger than me. Dave was not adverse to a little blackmail among friends.
Now anyone who's downed a couple few delicious fruity rum drinks in the course of an evening knows that the evening spent drinking them is WAY more fun than the morning spent recovering from them.
The families' plan was to be on the road early early so that we'd be at Disney when the gates opened. Not a huge problem for anyone but the drivers, since we were traveling in campers. Since the drivers had NOT snuck out to drink rum with boys the night before, it was not a problem at all.
MY problems began, as you can imagine, when I woke up. Looking good, feeling good. Dave whispered in my ear at the next rest stop, "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone."
"And in return?"
"You wound me! I don't want anything in return! I just want you to spend the day with me at Disney. Show me the sights..."
"That's it?"
"Ride the rides with me..."
"I don't feel much like..."
"I sure would be sad if you didn't ride the rides with me. I can only hope I wouldn't let any information slip in my saddened state."
He had me by the short ones, kids. What choice did I have but to say yes?
We got to the park and developed a buddy system of sorts. My sister and Dave's sister would be buddies. Me, Dave, and his younger sister, Cass, would be buddies. Safety rules were discussed, tickets were distributed, meet up times were scheduled.
Being the senior member of my little group, as well as a self-proclaimed Disney expert, I assumed I'd be leading our little expedition. "I thought we'd start with..."
"Teacups" interrupted Dave.
"TEAcups?" I said, my eyes narrowing behind my dark shades and attempting to burn holes straight through him.
Cass started chanting, "Tea Cups! Tea Cups!" Dave joined in. Now this was just flat out playing dirty and he knew it. Cass was seven years my junior and I adored her. I could deny her nothing. Dave was not unaware of this fact. Teacups it would be.
Guess who took control of the wheel that controls the spinning in the teacups?
That was just the beginning of the price of Dave's silence.
He did what he could to torture the poor, stupid, know-it-all, hungover teen he held firmly under his thumb. But as a clear testament to the well-earned "Happiest Place on Earth" moniker, it was still a pretty darn good day.
Suck it, Dave.
Teacups indeed.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Jackalopes and Indian Frank
Last Thursday I gave you a story about my youthful travels. You said you wanted more, so here's another. A few years older, but still painfully naive...
As I recall, Frank was a boy with dirty blonde ringlets that fell well past his shoulders. He wore, through our brief acquaintance, what my friend Ellin always referred to as a dirtbag hat; leather or suede with a wide, loose brim. He spoke softly and confidently. I thought he was beautiful. I thought lots of boys were beautiful, so it wasn't a particularly grand compliment.
I met Frank while camping with our family and some friends in South Dakota. South Dakota, as you're probably aware, is home to Mt. Rushmore. Which I thought was kind of overrated. But I was fifteen that summer and pronouncing things overrated, bourgeois or simply dull was sort of my job. And I was good at it.
To my way of thinking, the best thing about Mt. Rushmore was the souvenir T-shirt that pictured the four presidents carved into a mountain and read: Even the Nicest People Get Stoned. Mom didn't think that was as appropriate for a young teen as I thought it was. Back at band camp that August, I would've been a rockstar in that ringer T. Not appropriate. Whatever. Appropriate is overrated.
South Dakota, like many of the more rustic regions of the United States, is also heavily populated by jackalopes. If you're too citified to be aware (or if you've never eaten in a large chain steakhouse), a jackalope is a hybrid between a jackrabbit and an antelope. It looks for all the world like an everyday rabbit, but with a lovely little set of antlers. They were quite ubiquitous, as evidenced by the vast availability of specimens that taxidermists had carefully preserved in various natural poses and were selling in every gift shop. Mounted heads of the unfortunate horned bunnies were pretty readily available as well.
I believed in them utterly.
Why should I not?
I'd seen proof.
Who would go to such vast lengths to perpetrate a hoax? I couldn't grok the motivation behind it.
So it was in this place - this land of stoned presidents and jackalopes - that I met Frank and his golden curls.
Frank was an Indian.
A Native American.
I know this because he told me.
I couldn't think of a reason a slightly older teenaged boy might lie to a slightly younger teenaged girl who was hoping to catch a glimpse of a jackalope in it's natural habitat before heading back to her suburban home.
No reason at all.
Nope.
Not a one.
I listened to his tales about his life and his people in wide-eyed wonder, fascinated. I asked him questions and he provided quick answers for every one of them.
He was dreamy.
And so exotic.
I believed every word he said like it was the gospel itself.
Naive? Well - um - yeah.
Stupid? I wouldn't be so quick with that call. I got to spend several evenings in the company of a beautiful blonde Native American with bountiful curls and a million stories.
How many people get to say THAT?
As I recall, Frank was a boy with dirty blonde ringlets that fell well past his shoulders. He wore, through our brief acquaintance, what my friend Ellin always referred to as a dirtbag hat; leather or suede with a wide, loose brim. He spoke softly and confidently. I thought he was beautiful. I thought lots of boys were beautiful, so it wasn't a particularly grand compliment.
I met Frank while camping with our family and some friends in South Dakota. South Dakota, as you're probably aware, is home to Mt. Rushmore. Which I thought was kind of overrated. But I was fifteen that summer and pronouncing things overrated, bourgeois or simply dull was sort of my job. And I was good at it.
To my way of thinking, the best thing about Mt. Rushmore was the souvenir T-shirt that pictured the four presidents carved into a mountain and read: Even the Nicest People Get Stoned. Mom didn't think that was as appropriate for a young teen as I thought it was. Back at band camp that August, I would've been a rockstar in that ringer T. Not appropriate. Whatever. Appropriate is overrated.
South Dakota, like many of the more rustic regions of the United States, is also heavily populated by jackalopes. If you're too citified to be aware (or if you've never eaten in a large chain steakhouse), a jackalope is a hybrid between a jackrabbit and an antelope. It looks for all the world like an everyday rabbit, but with a lovely little set of antlers. They were quite ubiquitous, as evidenced by the vast availability of specimens that taxidermists had carefully preserved in various natural poses and were selling in every gift shop. Mounted heads of the unfortunate horned bunnies were pretty readily available as well.
I believed in them utterly.
Why should I not?
I'd seen proof.
Who would go to such vast lengths to perpetrate a hoax? I couldn't grok the motivation behind it.
So it was in this place - this land of stoned presidents and jackalopes - that I met Frank and his golden curls.
Frank was an Indian.
A Native American.
I know this because he told me.
I couldn't think of a reason a slightly older teenaged boy might lie to a slightly younger teenaged girl who was hoping to catch a glimpse of a jackalope in it's natural habitat before heading back to her suburban home.
No reason at all.
Nope.
Not a one.
I listened to his tales about his life and his people in wide-eyed wonder, fascinated. I asked him questions and he provided quick answers for every one of them.
He was dreamy.
And so exotic.
I believed every word he said like it was the gospel itself.
Naive? Well - um - yeah.
Stupid? I wouldn't be so quick with that call. I got to spend several evenings in the company of a beautiful blonde Native American with bountiful curls and a million stories.
How many people get to say THAT?
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