Labor Day--Literally
Everything about our first daughter was a surprise. After numerous miscarriages and fertility treatments in my first marriage, I had been told that I was unable to have children. So when Dwight and I fell in love and married, we talked about the possibility of adopting. American adoption agencies require that you must be under a certain age and married a certain number of years before applying for adoption, criteria we couldn't meet, so we researched other agencies and decided on an agency that facilitated adoptions from Central America. We filled out all the required paperwork and completed the home study, and were placed on the list to receive an infant from Paraguay.
Then, shortly before our first wedding anniversary, I discovered I was pregnant. First surprise. We were thrilled, but I had been pregnant before and miscarried, so we were very, very cautiously optimistic. I was still under the care of my fertility specialist (who was also surprised, needless to say) so I had lots of tests, bedrest, and sonograms, and miraculously everything seemed to be progressing normally.
Almost 20 weeks through my pregnancy to the day, I felt my baby move for the first time. I had never gotten that far before so I was ecstatic. Actual proof of the baby! Then, that very same day, the phone rang and it was our case worker from the adoption agency. She informed us that they had a baby for us, and we needed to make plans to travel to Paraguay for two weeks to complete the adoption process. Second surprise.
We never told the adoption agency I was pregnant because we were too scared to believe I could actually carry my own baby to term. Now we were faced with an unbelievable situation--I was pregnant with one child, and we could actually adopt a second child. Of course we wanted both. We cried, and prayed, and talked to my doctor, who told us that I absolutely should not travel, given the potential risk and my pregnancy history. With a heavy heart, we called the case worker and told her no. It helped to think that she was able to place the baby in another home and make another couple's dreams come true.
My baby was due right around Halloween, which pleased me because my birthday is October 30 and I couldn't think of a better birthday present than a baby of my own. We started prenatal classes in late August, and our class had a good mix of parents-to-be, some young, some our age.
Labor Day weekend arrived and we were planning on working on the nursery. On that Saturday morning, September 3, we were sleeping late until a sudden pain in my abdomen woke me up. I went to the bathroom and whoosh, my water broke. I immediately began having contractions. We were dumbfounded--this couldn't be happening--I still had two more months to go! We hadn't even covered Braxton-Hicks contractions in class yet, and here I was having real contractions! Dwight rushed me to the hospital and I said, "I'm in labor and you have to stop this--my baby isn't due until the end of October!" That's when we found out that once your water is broken, you really can't stop contractions.
Third surprise. The baby was coming and coming NOW. I was so early that the baby hadn't dropped or turned into place, so they prepped me for an emergency cesarean section and put me to sleep. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery room, crying because I was afraid I had lost the baby. A sweet nurse came up to my head and comforted me. "Mrs. Crisson?" she said. "Do you know what you had? A baby girl!" She showed me a Polaroid picture of our baby, tiny, scrawny, red, and crying. She was crying! I knew if she was strong enough to cry, she would be all right.
Rachel Megan Crisson weighed 3 lbs, 6 oz, and she was perfectly fine. She stayed in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit at UAB's University Hospital until she weighed 4 lbs, and then she came home with us.
And for that, we will be forever thankful.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Ozark Sunsets
Dwight, Rachel & I were on vacation in the Ozarks last week, and it is so hard to come back to reality after being away! My oldest and dearest friend, Chandra, and her family invited us to share their time at a wonderful resort outside Branson called Big Cedar Lodge. It is similar to a timeshare and they reserve a couple of weeks there each year. We were fortunate to be able to go with them about five years ago, and this was the first time since then that we were able to coordinate our schedules to go back.
Big Cedar, billed as "the Ozark's premier wilderness resort," was the brainchild of two Missouri businessmen, Jude Simmons and Frisco railroad executive Harry Worman, who began the development in the 1920s. It didn't really take off until Bass Pro Shop founder Johnny Morris purchased the property in 1987 and officially established Big Cedar Lodge. Nestled in the mountains surrounding sparkling Table Rock Lake, the development boasts a classic hunting-lodge decor, with moose & deer heads, stonework, wood carvings and decorative iron work in every cabin, lodge and restaurant.
It was a fun-filled week. We played on the man-made beach at Bent Hook Marina; we floated in huge inner tubes in the Lazy River, and swam in Devil's Pool and the Swimmin' Hole; we fished; we played shuffleboard (my first time ever) and putt-putt in the mouth of a gigantic plaster fish; we visited a sing-along campfire and took pictures of the waterfall by the covered bridge.
One night we all drove into Branson to go to Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede, a red-white-and-blue extravaganza with singing, fancy horseback riding and and huge meal that you eat completely with your fingers, including roast chicken, corn on the cob, potato wedges & a biscuit. It was very messy and the kids loved it. Then another night both of our families, kids and grandkids included, spent the evening enjoying the "Singing Cowboy" Clay Self at the family-friendly Buzzard Bar. This guy was a hoot. Not only could he play guitar & sing country songs with the best of them, he also told the funniest, corniest jokes. Like this one: "Why do rock stars name their kids such weird names? Take Frank Zappa for example--he named his kids Dweezil & Moon Unit. If he had had another kid, he should've named him Bug." Ha!
It was at the bar that night that I ordered my first Ozark Sunset, a potent concoction made with strawberries, ice cream, amaretto and rum. Delicious. I watched many Ozark sunsets during that week, and I drank several more Ozark Sunsets, too. That became the symbol of everything I enjoyed during our wonderful vacation.
Cheers!
Dwight, Rachel & I were on vacation in the Ozarks last week, and it is so hard to come back to reality after being away! My oldest and dearest friend, Chandra, and her family invited us to share their time at a wonderful resort outside Branson called Big Cedar Lodge. It is similar to a timeshare and they reserve a couple of weeks there each year. We were fortunate to be able to go with them about five years ago, and this was the first time since then that we were able to coordinate our schedules to go back.
Big Cedar, billed as "the Ozark's premier wilderness resort," was the brainchild of two Missouri businessmen, Jude Simmons and Frisco railroad executive Harry Worman, who began the development in the 1920s. It didn't really take off until Bass Pro Shop founder Johnny Morris purchased the property in 1987 and officially established Big Cedar Lodge. Nestled in the mountains surrounding sparkling Table Rock Lake, the development boasts a classic hunting-lodge decor, with moose & deer heads, stonework, wood carvings and decorative iron work in every cabin, lodge and restaurant.
It was a fun-filled week. We played on the man-made beach at Bent Hook Marina; we floated in huge inner tubes in the Lazy River, and swam in Devil's Pool and the Swimmin' Hole; we fished; we played shuffleboard (my first time ever) and putt-putt in the mouth of a gigantic plaster fish; we visited a sing-along campfire and took pictures of the waterfall by the covered bridge.
One night we all drove into Branson to go to Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede, a red-white-and-blue extravaganza with singing, fancy horseback riding and and huge meal that you eat completely with your fingers, including roast chicken, corn on the cob, potato wedges & a biscuit. It was very messy and the kids loved it. Then another night both of our families, kids and grandkids included, spent the evening enjoying the "Singing Cowboy" Clay Self at the family-friendly Buzzard Bar. This guy was a hoot. Not only could he play guitar & sing country songs with the best of them, he also told the funniest, corniest jokes. Like this one: "Why do rock stars name their kids such weird names? Take Frank Zappa for example--he named his kids Dweezil & Moon Unit. If he had had another kid, he should've named him Bug." Ha!
It was at the bar that night that I ordered my first Ozark Sunset, a potent concoction made with strawberries, ice cream, amaretto and rum. Delicious. I watched many Ozark sunsets during that week, and I drank several more Ozark Sunsets, too. That became the symbol of everything I enjoyed during our wonderful vacation.
Cheers!
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Manning the Polls
Tuesday was voting day and my first time to serve as a poll clerk. My friend Sylvia recommended me to work with her, and the pay was pretty good for one day's work. We had to report for duty at the polling place, a retirement community, at 6:15 that morning, and the voting began at 7 a.m. and ran through 7 p.m. that night.
This was a runoff election so we didn't expect the turnout to be high, but we were happy to see a steady stream of voters throughout the day. Since this polling place was in a retirement community, we saw lots of seniors, and I saw every kind of walker and cane in every color you can imagine. Some of the seniors had difficulties seeing the names on the ballot we we had to read them for them. I've reached the point in my life where I have to carry reading glasses with me, too, so I was able to share my readers with some of the voters ."I have macular degeneration and I can't read well anymore," one fellow said. My dad suffered with that too, so I completely understood. Other voters broke my heart; some were so bent over with osteoporosis that they couldn't reach the voting stand, and one sweet lady was suffering with dementia and didn't quite understand what she was supposed to do. Thankfully one of the other residents came along to escort her back to her room.
The majority of the voters were fine, of course, and Sylvia and I kept up a lively conversation with everyone during the day. The voting machines jammed several times, from people inadvertently trying to vote for two candidates for the same position or inserting a completely blank ballot by mistake, and the machine would beep-beep-beep incessantly until a technician remedied the problem. A sheriff and a voting official came by late in the afternoon to check on us, and another kind soul brought us a box of Krispy Kreme donuts--the resulting sugar rush helped us get through the last hour of voting. At 6 p.m. a singing group came to entertain the residents in the common area outside our room, so the last few participants voted while listening to the strains of "I'll Be Seeing You." We finally closed down at 7 p.m, and we took down all the Vote Here signs, accumulated the ballots and ran the official printouts from the voting machines.
Before we opened the doors that morning we had to recite a pledge. Here is part: "As a qualified and registered voter of the county, I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully and honestly discharge my duties as poll clerk; that I will not cause any unnecessary delay in voting; and that I will not disclose to any person how any voter has voted." I have voted in many elections over my life, but as I listened to those words, it was the first time in a long time that I have really thought about the privilege of voting and the importance of exercising that right.
Tuesday was voting day and my first time to serve as a poll clerk. My friend Sylvia recommended me to work with her, and the pay was pretty good for one day's work. We had to report for duty at the polling place, a retirement community, at 6:15 that morning, and the voting began at 7 a.m. and ran through 7 p.m. that night.
This was a runoff election so we didn't expect the turnout to be high, but we were happy to see a steady stream of voters throughout the day. Since this polling place was in a retirement community, we saw lots of seniors, and I saw every kind of walker and cane in every color you can imagine. Some of the seniors had difficulties seeing the names on the ballot we we had to read them for them. I've reached the point in my life where I have to carry reading glasses with me, too, so I was able to share my readers with some of the voters ."I have macular degeneration and I can't read well anymore," one fellow said. My dad suffered with that too, so I completely understood. Other voters broke my heart; some were so bent over with osteoporosis that they couldn't reach the voting stand, and one sweet lady was suffering with dementia and didn't quite understand what she was supposed to do. Thankfully one of the other residents came along to escort her back to her room.
The majority of the voters were fine, of course, and Sylvia and I kept up a lively conversation with everyone during the day. The voting machines jammed several times, from people inadvertently trying to vote for two candidates for the same position or inserting a completely blank ballot by mistake, and the machine would beep-beep-beep incessantly until a technician remedied the problem. A sheriff and a voting official came by late in the afternoon to check on us, and another kind soul brought us a box of Krispy Kreme donuts--the resulting sugar rush helped us get through the last hour of voting. At 6 p.m. a singing group came to entertain the residents in the common area outside our room, so the last few participants voted while listening to the strains of "I'll Be Seeing You." We finally closed down at 7 p.m, and we took down all the Vote Here signs, accumulated the ballots and ran the official printouts from the voting machines.
Before we opened the doors that morning we had to recite a pledge. Here is part: "As a qualified and registered voter of the county, I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully and honestly discharge my duties as poll clerk; that I will not cause any unnecessary delay in voting; and that I will not disclose to any person how any voter has voted." I have voted in many elections over my life, but as I listened to those words, it was the first time in a long time that I have really thought about the privilege of voting and the importance of exercising that right.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Homemade Ice Cream and other Independence Day Memories
I can never think about the 4th of July without thinking of my father. Actually, I can't think of many holidays without thinking of him, because holidays with my family always involve lots of good food, and my father loved to eat as much as my mother loved to cook for him.
Dad's birthday was last Sunday, June 29--he would've been 91 years old. For his birthday every year he would request his favorite, a German Chocolate cake. The only real German Chocolate cake is made from scratch. Some bakeries (that will remain nameless) try to sell a German Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, but that is not a real German Chocolate cake. The real thing is made by measuring sugar and flour and melting German Chocolate squares, and covering the cake with a topping made of evaporated milk, flaked coconut, and pecans. It is labor-intensive but so worth it. Delicious!
Five days after his birthday, we would gather again to celebrate the 4th of July. That usually meant grilled hot dogs & hamburgers, potato salad, baked beans, and my Dad's other favorite--homemade ice cream. My mother would cook a rich custard of eggs, vanilla flavoring and other ingredients, pour it in the freezer, and we would gather on the back patio to take turns cranking the ice cream freezer and pouring rock salt on the ice as we cranked. Eventually we bought an electric freezer, but I have many fond memories of the old-fashioned hand crank freezer we used for many years. Gradually it would be harder and harder to turn the crank until my Dad would announce that the ice cream was done, and as he pulled the paddle out of the ice cream, we would all fight over who would get to lick the paddle first. There is nothing as good as enjoying a big bowl of homemade ice cream as you watch the fireworks on the 4th of July.
We lost Dad 10 years ago but my memories of celebrating with him--the heartfelt prayers he would say as he blessed every meal, his patriotism, his love for his family and his love for good food--remain fresh. I will think of him tomorrow, and be thankful for all our many blessings, as we celebrate Independence Day. I wish everyone a wonderful holiday!
I can never think about the 4th of July without thinking of my father. Actually, I can't think of many holidays without thinking of him, because holidays with my family always involve lots of good food, and my father loved to eat as much as my mother loved to cook for him.
Dad's birthday was last Sunday, June 29--he would've been 91 years old. For his birthday every year he would request his favorite, a German Chocolate cake. The only real German Chocolate cake is made from scratch. Some bakeries (that will remain nameless) try to sell a German Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, but that is not a real German Chocolate cake. The real thing is made by measuring sugar and flour and melting German Chocolate squares, and covering the cake with a topping made of evaporated milk, flaked coconut, and pecans. It is labor-intensive but so worth it. Delicious!
Five days after his birthday, we would gather again to celebrate the 4th of July. That usually meant grilled hot dogs & hamburgers, potato salad, baked beans, and my Dad's other favorite--homemade ice cream. My mother would cook a rich custard of eggs, vanilla flavoring and other ingredients, pour it in the freezer, and we would gather on the back patio to take turns cranking the ice cream freezer and pouring rock salt on the ice as we cranked. Eventually we bought an electric freezer, but I have many fond memories of the old-fashioned hand crank freezer we used for many years. Gradually it would be harder and harder to turn the crank until my Dad would announce that the ice cream was done, and as he pulled the paddle out of the ice cream, we would all fight over who would get to lick the paddle first. There is nothing as good as enjoying a big bowl of homemade ice cream as you watch the fireworks on the 4th of July.
We lost Dad 10 years ago but my memories of celebrating with him--the heartfelt prayers he would say as he blessed every meal, his patriotism, his love for his family and his love for good food--remain fresh. I will think of him tomorrow, and be thankful for all our many blessings, as we celebrate Independence Day. I wish everyone a wonderful holiday!
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Behind the Scenes at Antiques Roadshow in Birmingham
We are huge Antiques Roadshow fans, so we were thrilled to discover the hugely popular PBS series was returning to Birmingham for the first time in 15 years to tape episodes for their upcoming season. Approximately 15,000 people requested tickets to the show, but only 3,000 pairs of tickets were awarded, and we weren't among them. However, we were lucky enough to get the next best thing--we were recruited as volunteers. After attending a brief training session Friday night, we showed up at the BJCC at 6:30 a.m. Saturday morning wearing our official gray Antiques Roadshow polo shirt and Volunteer lanyard and went to work. I noted with irony that the gray shirt matched the gray hair of most of the volunteers, but hey, old folks like antiques!
The center of the Civic Center was a huge circle where all the appraisers examined the treasures and filmed the most interesting items. It was divided into sections: Quad 1 was Furniture, Metalworks, Decorative Arts & Militaria; Quad 2 was Folk Art, Clocks, Pottery & Porcelain, and Jewelry; Quad 3 was Toys, Collectibles, Musical Instruments & Books; Quad 4 was Paintings, Prints, & Ancient Arts. Dwight worked at the head of Quad 1; he wore a headset and relayed information from the appraisers to the producers when they wanted to film someone. Dozens of other workers helped direct people to the correct lines and provide crowd control. The appraisers aren't paid; they pay their own expenses for the chance to be filmed and to place a sign in their business saying "As Seen on Antiques Roadshow."
My job was to work the Feedback Booth, where another volunteer and I obtained signed release forms from anyone who wanted to go on camera and talk about their Roadshow experience. Our booth was a huge draw; everyone wanted their shot at two minutes of fame, whether they found out their antique was valuable or basically worthless.
The scene was exactly what you might imagine, with thousands of people waiting in seemingly endless lines. Imagine a queue line at Disney World on steroids. People wandered through carrying everything from stained glass lamps, cradles, uniforms, dolls, tables, baskets, figurines, china, and paintings--lots of paintings. And lots of guns. Every gun was thoroughly checked to insure it was safe and free of ammunition, but I still jumped a little when a man came to my table with a rifle with a huge bayonet on top. Policemen roamed the premises all day, offering to escort people to their cars if they brought something very valuable.
People traveled from all over the South as they tried their best to impress appraisers and producers with their treasures. Almost everyone I talked to was nice, polite, excited to be there and eager to show off what they brought. I saw some very ugly paintings, very pretty jewelry, and very unusual china pieces, and I just smiled and accepted the release form from everyone without comment, as I was instructed. I was most impressed when one woman showed me a half-dozen original signed Andy Warhol sketches of shoes and little fairies. They were appraised at $20,000, and she brought them in a plain manilla folder. "I guess I'll frame them now," she said. You think?
About noon, host Mark Wahlberg appeared, and a set of cameramen followed him as he worked the crowd like a pro, shaking hands, posing for selfies, and signing autographs for the Roadshow groupies, women who actually follow them from city to city. I had a chance to speak with him and he was very friendly; I found out later that he actually lived here for a year, attended Pell City High School, and is a Crimson Tide fan. I also met Pete Prunkl, one of the writers from the Antiques Roadshow Insider, the monthly magazine distributed by the show, and he was very encouraging and even gave me his business card.
The last ticket was stamped at 6 p.m. and by that time my voice was completely gone; I must've talked with over 3,000 people. Volunteers were allowed to have two items appraised at the end of the day, so we finally had our turn at the appraiser's table. Dwight took my grandfather's Meerschaum pipe and silver matchsafe, a tiny case about the size of a lighter that he carried in WWI to keep his matches from getting wet. We were disappointed to learn that smoking memorabilia is taboo and very devalued, so it wasn't appraised very highly. I took my great grandmother's cameo pin and cameo ring, and two sets of beautiful costume jewelry my grandmother wore, and they were all valued for about $100 each. They are worth much more in sentimental value, of course.
Of the 100 or so participants who get taped at each location, only about ten actually make it onto an episode, and of the thousands of people who visited the Feedback Booth, only about six make each episode. They will make three episodes from the Birmingham visit to air when the new season begins. We watch Antiques Roadshow almost every Monday night--I can't wait until next January!
We are huge Antiques Roadshow fans, so we were thrilled to discover the hugely popular PBS series was returning to Birmingham for the first time in 15 years to tape episodes for their upcoming season. Approximately 15,000 people requested tickets to the show, but only 3,000 pairs of tickets were awarded, and we weren't among them. However, we were lucky enough to get the next best thing--we were recruited as volunteers. After attending a brief training session Friday night, we showed up at the BJCC at 6:30 a.m. Saturday morning wearing our official gray Antiques Roadshow polo shirt and Volunteer lanyard and went to work. I noted with irony that the gray shirt matched the gray hair of most of the volunteers, but hey, old folks like antiques!
The center of the Civic Center was a huge circle where all the appraisers examined the treasures and filmed the most interesting items. It was divided into sections: Quad 1 was Furniture, Metalworks, Decorative Arts & Militaria; Quad 2 was Folk Art, Clocks, Pottery & Porcelain, and Jewelry; Quad 3 was Toys, Collectibles, Musical Instruments & Books; Quad 4 was Paintings, Prints, & Ancient Arts. Dwight worked at the head of Quad 1; he wore a headset and relayed information from the appraisers to the producers when they wanted to film someone. Dozens of other workers helped direct people to the correct lines and provide crowd control. The appraisers aren't paid; they pay their own expenses for the chance to be filmed and to place a sign in their business saying "As Seen on Antiques Roadshow."
My job was to work the Feedback Booth, where another volunteer and I obtained signed release forms from anyone who wanted to go on camera and talk about their Roadshow experience. Our booth was a huge draw; everyone wanted their shot at two minutes of fame, whether they found out their antique was valuable or basically worthless.
The scene was exactly what you might imagine, with thousands of people waiting in seemingly endless lines. Imagine a queue line at Disney World on steroids. People wandered through carrying everything from stained glass lamps, cradles, uniforms, dolls, tables, baskets, figurines, china, and paintings--lots of paintings. And lots of guns. Every gun was thoroughly checked to insure it was safe and free of ammunition, but I still jumped a little when a man came to my table with a rifle with a huge bayonet on top. Policemen roamed the premises all day, offering to escort people to their cars if they brought something very valuable.
People traveled from all over the South as they tried their best to impress appraisers and producers with their treasures. Almost everyone I talked to was nice, polite, excited to be there and eager to show off what they brought. I saw some very ugly paintings, very pretty jewelry, and very unusual china pieces, and I just smiled and accepted the release form from everyone without comment, as I was instructed. I was most impressed when one woman showed me a half-dozen original signed Andy Warhol sketches of shoes and little fairies. They were appraised at $20,000, and she brought them in a plain manilla folder. "I guess I'll frame them now," she said. You think?
About noon, host Mark Wahlberg appeared, and a set of cameramen followed him as he worked the crowd like a pro, shaking hands, posing for selfies, and signing autographs for the Roadshow groupies, women who actually follow them from city to city. I had a chance to speak with him and he was very friendly; I found out later that he actually lived here for a year, attended Pell City High School, and is a Crimson Tide fan. I also met Pete Prunkl, one of the writers from the Antiques Roadshow Insider, the monthly magazine distributed by the show, and he was very encouraging and even gave me his business card.
The last ticket was stamped at 6 p.m. and by that time my voice was completely gone; I must've talked with over 3,000 people. Volunteers were allowed to have two items appraised at the end of the day, so we finally had our turn at the appraiser's table. Dwight took my grandfather's Meerschaum pipe and silver matchsafe, a tiny case about the size of a lighter that he carried in WWI to keep his matches from getting wet. We were disappointed to learn that smoking memorabilia is taboo and very devalued, so it wasn't appraised very highly. I took my great grandmother's cameo pin and cameo ring, and two sets of beautiful costume jewelry my grandmother wore, and they were all valued for about $100 each. They are worth much more in sentimental value, of course.
Of the 100 or so participants who get taped at each location, only about ten actually make it onto an episode, and of the thousands of people who visited the Feedback Booth, only about six make each episode. They will make three episodes from the Birmingham visit to air when the new season begins. We watch Antiques Roadshow almost every Monday night--I can't wait until next January!
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Summer Fun, Museum Style
I have had a variety of jobs over my life in addition to being a writer. When I'm standing in a long line at the bank, I think back to what it was like to be a bank teller on payday Friday. At Christmastime I always feel a pang of sympathy for overworked gift wrappers, because my very first job was a holiday gift wrapper at a men's wear store. June & July bring memories of what it was like to work at the McWane Center, where I survived two very busy summers. The science center is a very popular destination during those months, when thousands of children take advantage of long summer days to visit. My duties included teaching summer day camps, writing McWane's Volunteer Newsletter, and manning the Touch Tank and the High Cycle.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the High Cycle, it is high-wire bicycle attached to a cable stretched across McWane’s grand atrium. Riders must be at least 45” tall and weigh less than 225 lbs. to ride, and there was no age limit—all you need is a willingness to hop on and enjoy the adventure. After you are securely strapped on the bicycle, you pedal backward out of the loading platform until you are suspended 20 feet in mid-air across the lobby. A 210-lb counterweight underneath the bicycle ensures that you always keep your balance; if you want, you can stop in the middle of the cable and slowly shift your weight from side to side causing the bicycle to rock. The swaying is offset by the counterweight, which will straighten you up, bringing you right back to the center.
The High Cycle brought a little bit of an adrenaline rush to everyone.After working that ride for so long, I would try to try to predict who would enjoy the ride and who wouldn’t. Every day I saw surprises. The teenagers loved it, of course, but some of the smallest, youngest children were absolutely determined to ride; I watched those kids stand on their toes and fluff up their hair in an effort to make themselves “big enough” to meet the height requirement.
Kids would run up in big groups, many boasting to their friends about how fast they were going to pedal and how far they were going to sway on the cable. Some were completely confident, pedaling out and back with swift assurance. Other riders were a little timid at first, pedaling very slowly, but eventually a big smile would creep across their faces; they would relax, wave excitedly to their friends, and pose for cell phone pictures.
Of course, the ride wasn’t just for children and teens; adults loved it too. Sometimes it took a little coaxing, but many times after watching their children ride, the mother or father would ask to ride, too. One of my favorite moments happened when a charming gray-haired grandfather, looking dapper in khakis, a sport coat and navy-striped tie, walked up with his three young grandchildren and asked if they could ride. The grandchildren peered down at the lobby below and decided they didn’t want to, but to their complete surprise he said, “I do!” I strapped him in and he pedaled out as his grandchildren watched, open-mouthed. He stopped in the middle of the wire and shifted his weight, swaying from side to side, with his navy tie swinging to and fro. “Be careful Grandpa!” piped up his youngest granddaughter. He grinned broadly and said, “You don’t have anything to worry about--this is great!” When he got off the bicycle, I saw his grandchildren look at him in awe, seeing him in entirely new light.
If you are looking for a fun place to take your children or grandchildren this summer and decide to visit the McWane Center, give the High Cycle a try. It is guaranteed to be an experience you will never forget.
I have had a variety of jobs over my life in addition to being a writer. When I'm standing in a long line at the bank, I think back to what it was like to be a bank teller on payday Friday. At Christmastime I always feel a pang of sympathy for overworked gift wrappers, because my very first job was a holiday gift wrapper at a men's wear store. June & July bring memories of what it was like to work at the McWane Center, where I survived two very busy summers. The science center is a very popular destination during those months, when thousands of children take advantage of long summer days to visit. My duties included teaching summer day camps, writing McWane's Volunteer Newsletter, and manning the Touch Tank and the High Cycle.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the High Cycle, it is high-wire bicycle attached to a cable stretched across McWane’s grand atrium. Riders must be at least 45” tall and weigh less than 225 lbs. to ride, and there was no age limit—all you need is a willingness to hop on and enjoy the adventure. After you are securely strapped on the bicycle, you pedal backward out of the loading platform until you are suspended 20 feet in mid-air across the lobby. A 210-lb counterweight underneath the bicycle ensures that you always keep your balance; if you want, you can stop in the middle of the cable and slowly shift your weight from side to side causing the bicycle to rock. The swaying is offset by the counterweight, which will straighten you up, bringing you right back to the center.
The High Cycle brought a little bit of an adrenaline rush to everyone.After working that ride for so long, I would try to try to predict who would enjoy the ride and who wouldn’t. Every day I saw surprises. The teenagers loved it, of course, but some of the smallest, youngest children were absolutely determined to ride; I watched those kids stand on their toes and fluff up their hair in an effort to make themselves “big enough” to meet the height requirement.
Kids would run up in big groups, many boasting to their friends about how fast they were going to pedal and how far they were going to sway on the cable. Some were completely confident, pedaling out and back with swift assurance. Other riders were a little timid at first, pedaling very slowly, but eventually a big smile would creep across their faces; they would relax, wave excitedly to their friends, and pose for cell phone pictures.
Of course, the ride wasn’t just for children and teens; adults loved it too. Sometimes it took a little coaxing, but many times after watching their children ride, the mother or father would ask to ride, too. One of my favorite moments happened when a charming gray-haired grandfather, looking dapper in khakis, a sport coat and navy-striped tie, walked up with his three young grandchildren and asked if they could ride. The grandchildren peered down at the lobby below and decided they didn’t want to, but to their complete surprise he said, “I do!” I strapped him in and he pedaled out as his grandchildren watched, open-mouthed. He stopped in the middle of the wire and shifted his weight, swaying from side to side, with his navy tie swinging to and fro. “Be careful Grandpa!” piped up his youngest granddaughter. He grinned broadly and said, “You don’t have anything to worry about--this is great!” When he got off the bicycle, I saw his grandchildren look at him in awe, seeing him in entirely new light.
If you are looking for a fun place to take your children or grandchildren this summer and decide to visit the McWane Center, give the High Cycle a try. It is guaranteed to be an experience you will never forget.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Confessions of a Sentimental Packrat
My mission for this summer is to clean out our attic. I am a sentimental packrat (translation: I save everything) so this is an extremely difficult task.
Compounding this problem is the fact that we have lived for almost 20 years in a house with a huge, walk-in attic. If you haven't moved in 20 years, you have no real reason to force you to clean out. It is so easy to box stuff up and place it on the shelves in the attic while telling yourself, I will go through this stuff later. This attitude results in boxes full of family pictures; our daughters' school work & art projects; clothes we no longer wear but don't want to give away because we "may wear them again someday" or even worse, "they may come back in style someday;" bedspreads and curtains from room changes that we "may use again someday;" baby clothes and other paraphernalia that we will pass down to our grandchildren, etc.
I come by my packrat tendencies naturally because my mother was a sentimental packrat too. When she and my father finally downsized to a garden home, I became the recipient of boxes and boxes of their stuff, too. "Give it to Dana--as the oldest child, she remembers this stuff and will want to keep it." Then my great aunt and my mother-in-law passed away and our family gave us their stuff too. Remember, we had all that room in our attic.
You see where this is going. Eventually even the largest attic fills up. The more boxes you add, the larger the excuse not to go through them. There are so many boxes now that I had no idea where to start, but finally I realized that I could procrastinate no longer, the attic was about to explode. The time to purge is now.
So far, I have spent two whole days going through hundreds of old letters and cards that I had stuffed in various shoe boxes over the years. My father loved to grab a yellow legal pad and dash off a quick letter to me. He's been gone over 10 years now, and reading letters in his distinctive handwriting is almost like speaking to him again. I can hear his voice through his letters and it fills my heart even as it aches.
The first one I found, in a yellowed envelope with a 10-cent stamp postmarked August 20, 1974, sent to me shortly after I began my freshman year at the University of Alabama, says in part:
Dear Dana,
I have been thinking about you every few minutes all day. With you not here it seems like something is missing all the time. I wonder if I will always feel this way. Let us know everything that happens--when your new roommate gets there, when you get an extra lock on your door, about your classes and your books. Be careful, sweet thing. I love you too much not to worry.
Love,
Daddy
I can tell you one thing, Daddy. With you not here it seems like something is missing all the time too. And I know I will always feel this way.
All of a sudden I'm proud to be a sentimental packrat. Who knows what treasures I may uncover next?
My mission for this summer is to clean out our attic. I am a sentimental packrat (translation: I save everything) so this is an extremely difficult task.
Compounding this problem is the fact that we have lived for almost 20 years in a house with a huge, walk-in attic. If you haven't moved in 20 years, you have no real reason to force you to clean out. It is so easy to box stuff up and place it on the shelves in the attic while telling yourself, I will go through this stuff later. This attitude results in boxes full of family pictures; our daughters' school work & art projects; clothes we no longer wear but don't want to give away because we "may wear them again someday" or even worse, "they may come back in style someday;" bedspreads and curtains from room changes that we "may use again someday;" baby clothes and other paraphernalia that we will pass down to our grandchildren, etc.
I come by my packrat tendencies naturally because my mother was a sentimental packrat too. When she and my father finally downsized to a garden home, I became the recipient of boxes and boxes of their stuff, too. "Give it to Dana--as the oldest child, she remembers this stuff and will want to keep it." Then my great aunt and my mother-in-law passed away and our family gave us their stuff too. Remember, we had all that room in our attic.
You see where this is going. Eventually even the largest attic fills up. The more boxes you add, the larger the excuse not to go through them. There are so many boxes now that I had no idea where to start, but finally I realized that I could procrastinate no longer, the attic was about to explode. The time to purge is now.
So far, I have spent two whole days going through hundreds of old letters and cards that I had stuffed in various shoe boxes over the years. My father loved to grab a yellow legal pad and dash off a quick letter to me. He's been gone over 10 years now, and reading letters in his distinctive handwriting is almost like speaking to him again. I can hear his voice through his letters and it fills my heart even as it aches.
The first one I found, in a yellowed envelope with a 10-cent stamp postmarked August 20, 1974, sent to me shortly after I began my freshman year at the University of Alabama, says in part:
Dear Dana,
I have been thinking about you every few minutes all day. With you not here it seems like something is missing all the time. I wonder if I will always feel this way. Let us know everything that happens--when your new roommate gets there, when you get an extra lock on your door, about your classes and your books. Be careful, sweet thing. I love you too much not to worry.
Love,
Daddy
I can tell you one thing, Daddy. With you not here it seems like something is missing all the time too. And I know I will always feel this way.
All of a sudden I'm proud to be a sentimental packrat. Who knows what treasures I may uncover next?
Friday, May 23, 2014
Happy 27th Anniversary
I know--27 isn't a milestone year, one that ends in 0 like 10 or 20, but ever since we reached our 25th anniversary it seems like we should celebrate every anniversary like it was a milestone.
Two years ago we celebrated our 25th in a big way. On our actual anniversary date Dwight had two dozen roses delivered to me at my office. He also ordered a beautiful chocolate cake from Edgar's decorated with "Happy 25th Anniversary" in yellow icing, since he knows I have a huge sweet tooth and love chocolate (he does too). We invited a group of our closest buddies to meet us for drinks at Dwight's favorite watering hole, Pablo's, only to discover they were closed for renovations that night. Quick change of venue to Yankee Pizzeria and the celebration continued.
Then two weeks later we gave each other our real anniversary present--a trip to Las Vegas. As hard as it may be to believe, neither of us had ever been to there, so we walked around like the rest of the tourists, gawking at the spectacle that is Vegas. We knew we were in a whole 'nother world when we stepped off the plane at the Vegas airport and saw a terminal full of slot machines. And in the elevator in our hotel, The Tropicana, I pushed "M" for "Main Floor" and got the Mezzanine. No "G" for "Ground Floor"? Finally someone told us "C" for "Casino" would get us to the main floor. Nope, Toto, we weren't in Kansas anymore.
A trip to Las Vegas is a little like a trip around the world. New York New York Casino was across the street, complete with a Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, and a huge roller coaster swooping in and out of the building; the MGM Grand was next door, with their huge golden lion at the entrance. We rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris Casino, oohed and aahed over the Grecian statues in Caesar's Palace, and spent one evening at Fremont Street, the original Vegas, where we saw a 61-pound lump of gold, the largest nugget ever found, at The Golden Nugget.We ate, drank (a lot), played slots, saw shows, watched the ever-changing fountains at The Bellagio, and generally had a great time. Where else can you have your picture made with a beautiful Vegas showgirl on one street corner and then pose with Iron Man, Elvis, Elmo or Barney the dinosaur on the same block? There is a metaphor for the marriage experience in there somewhere, I just know it.
Last year and this year, our anniversary went back to normal: anniversary cards and a nice dinner out. But it's important to celebrate the fact that we have made it through another year. We have been together through numerous jobs, three different houses, several different vehicles and umpteen lost/broken/upgraded cell phones; we have fought and made up, and raised two beautiful daughters; we are still relatively healthy, relatively sane, and we still love each other.
Twenty-five-plus years and counting. Not too bad.
I know--27 isn't a milestone year, one that ends in 0 like 10 or 20, but ever since we reached our 25th anniversary it seems like we should celebrate every anniversary like it was a milestone.
Two years ago we celebrated our 25th in a big way. On our actual anniversary date Dwight had two dozen roses delivered to me at my office. He also ordered a beautiful chocolate cake from Edgar's decorated with "Happy 25th Anniversary" in yellow icing, since he knows I have a huge sweet tooth and love chocolate (he does too). We invited a group of our closest buddies to meet us for drinks at Dwight's favorite watering hole, Pablo's, only to discover they were closed for renovations that night. Quick change of venue to Yankee Pizzeria and the celebration continued.
Then two weeks later we gave each other our real anniversary present--a trip to Las Vegas. As hard as it may be to believe, neither of us had ever been to there, so we walked around like the rest of the tourists, gawking at the spectacle that is Vegas. We knew we were in a whole 'nother world when we stepped off the plane at the Vegas airport and saw a terminal full of slot machines. And in the elevator in our hotel, The Tropicana, I pushed "M" for "Main Floor" and got the Mezzanine. No "G" for "Ground Floor"? Finally someone told us "C" for "Casino" would get us to the main floor. Nope, Toto, we weren't in Kansas anymore.
A trip to Las Vegas is a little like a trip around the world. New York New York Casino was across the street, complete with a Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, and a huge roller coaster swooping in and out of the building; the MGM Grand was next door, with their huge golden lion at the entrance. We rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris Casino, oohed and aahed over the Grecian statues in Caesar's Palace, and spent one evening at Fremont Street, the original Vegas, where we saw a 61-pound lump of gold, the largest nugget ever found, at The Golden Nugget.We ate, drank (a lot), played slots, saw shows, watched the ever-changing fountains at The Bellagio, and generally had a great time. Where else can you have your picture made with a beautiful Vegas showgirl on one street corner and then pose with Iron Man, Elvis, Elmo or Barney the dinosaur on the same block? There is a metaphor for the marriage experience in there somewhere, I just know it.
Last year and this year, our anniversary went back to normal: anniversary cards and a nice dinner out. But it's important to celebrate the fact that we have made it through another year. We have been together through numerous jobs, three different houses, several different vehicles and umpteen lost/broken/upgraded cell phones; we have fought and made up, and raised two beautiful daughters; we are still relatively healthy, relatively sane, and we still love each other.
Twenty-five-plus years and counting. Not too bad.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Coppertone Memories
Most of my favorite childhood memories are centered around trips with my family. We didn’t take big, expensive vacations—we didn’t need to. Getting away from the daily routine of school and work, seeing new places, eating out and just being together was all we needed.
I was born in Birmingham and grew up in Homewood, but then my family moved to Huntsville when I was 10, right in the middle of the Space Race. Redstone Arsenal was actively building and testing rockets at the time, and I remember coming home from school each afternoon and hearing the sounds of sonic booms from my back yard. Since Huntsville was fairly close to the Tennessee state line, Rock City Gardens in Chattanooga was a favorite quick trip. To pass the time in the car, my younger brother and sister and I would count the bright red “See Rock City” signs painted on barns along the way. Once we arrived, we loved to wriggle through Fat Man’s Squeeze, bounce on the Swinging Bridge, and when we reached the top of the mountain, we would put a quarter in the slot of the mounted binoculars to try to “See Seven States.” (We never could.)
Each summer we would load up our car and head to Pensacola Beach for a few days, usually staying in one of those little motels where the door to each room was painted a different color. My aunt & uncle lived there so we also got to play with our cousins on this trip. My dad & I would look for shells, and the younger kids would try to build the world’s most amazing sand castle. My mother, slathered with Coppertone, would work on her suntan, since those were the days before we knew the sun was harmful. To this day I can’t open a bottle of Coppertone and smell that distinctive scent without thinking of my mother.
My husband & I have two daughters now and our youngest, Christina, has moved to Pensacola. Last weekend, we picked up our oldest daughter Rachel and drove to Pensacola so the four of us could spend Mother’s Day weekend together. We walked along the beach, visited with my cousins, played putt-putt (a beach tradition), ate amazing Shrimp & Grits a Ya Ya at The Fish House and tremendous steaks and hamburgers at the famous McGuire’s. It was a really nice weekend.
I was reminded again that it doesn’t matter whether you take an exotic trip to a far-away destination or a low-key vacation at the lake—what really matters is spending time together as a family. Enjoy!
Most of my favorite childhood memories are centered around trips with my family. We didn’t take big, expensive vacations—we didn’t need to. Getting away from the daily routine of school and work, seeing new places, eating out and just being together was all we needed.
I was born in Birmingham and grew up in Homewood, but then my family moved to Huntsville when I was 10, right in the middle of the Space Race. Redstone Arsenal was actively building and testing rockets at the time, and I remember coming home from school each afternoon and hearing the sounds of sonic booms from my back yard. Since Huntsville was fairly close to the Tennessee state line, Rock City Gardens in Chattanooga was a favorite quick trip. To pass the time in the car, my younger brother and sister and I would count the bright red “See Rock City” signs painted on barns along the way. Once we arrived, we loved to wriggle through Fat Man’s Squeeze, bounce on the Swinging Bridge, and when we reached the top of the mountain, we would put a quarter in the slot of the mounted binoculars to try to “See Seven States.” (We never could.)
Each summer we would load up our car and head to Pensacola Beach for a few days, usually staying in one of those little motels where the door to each room was painted a different color. My aunt & uncle lived there so we also got to play with our cousins on this trip. My dad & I would look for shells, and the younger kids would try to build the world’s most amazing sand castle. My mother, slathered with Coppertone, would work on her suntan, since those were the days before we knew the sun was harmful. To this day I can’t open a bottle of Coppertone and smell that distinctive scent without thinking of my mother.
My husband & I have two daughters now and our youngest, Christina, has moved to Pensacola. Last weekend, we picked up our oldest daughter Rachel and drove to Pensacola so the four of us could spend Mother’s Day weekend together. We walked along the beach, visited with my cousins, played putt-putt (a beach tradition), ate amazing Shrimp & Grits a Ya Ya at The Fish House and tremendous steaks and hamburgers at the famous McGuire’s. It was a really nice weekend.
I was reminded again that it doesn’t matter whether you take an exotic trip to a far-away destination or a low-key vacation at the lake—what really matters is spending time together as a family. Enjoy!
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Men and Boxes
Last night I had dinner with a dear friend and fellow writer. The first hour or so we discussed the ins and outs of the writing world in Birmingham, which I found extremely helpful since I have been out of the loop for the last several years working as a secretary/legal assistant while we were sending our daughters through college.
Our conversation eventually drifted away from work and settled on our families. We are both married, have grown daughters, and are trying to care for elderly parents who live several hours away. We are the classic “sandwich generation,” sharing the trials and tribulations of juggling so many balls at once. It seems our minds are going a hundred miles a minute: for work, we are making calls to schedule an interview for our next story assignment, working to finish our current assignment or complete edits/revisions, and jotting down ideas to pitch to different editors; but since we also work at home, we are tossing the next load of clothes into the wash and trying to figure out what to make for dinner. Then, we get calls from our daughters—“My car is making this funny noise-what should I do?” and our mothers—“I’m not sure this new medicine is working properly,” etc.
Most nights I can’t wait for my husband to come home from work to talk about all these matters. I usually have at least five or six things I want to take care of, and I will rattle them off in rapid succession; at the end Dwight will stare at me with a blank expression on his face. My friend said her husband reacts much the same way. We want feedback and they are silent, which can be really frustrating.
“It’s because men can only open one box at a time,” she said. What?
Her newly married daughter attended a pre-marriage counseling session at a nearby church, and the counselor said that the brain is filled with a number of “boxes” where we compartmentalize issues. Women will open numerous boxes at a time and go back and forth, addressing many different concerns at once. Men, however, do not function that way. “A man will open one box, complete the task, put that box back, and then take another box out. They never have more than one box open at a time,” she explained. “They also have a box labeled Nothing, so when you ask them what they are thinking about and they say nothing, they are absolutely telling the truth.” We both laughed.
At last--an explanation of one of the mysteries of the male species! Although it really didn't solve anything, at least I understand it a little better. Who knew?
Last night I had dinner with a dear friend and fellow writer. The first hour or so we discussed the ins and outs of the writing world in Birmingham, which I found extremely helpful since I have been out of the loop for the last several years working as a secretary/legal assistant while we were sending our daughters through college.
Our conversation eventually drifted away from work and settled on our families. We are both married, have grown daughters, and are trying to care for elderly parents who live several hours away. We are the classic “sandwich generation,” sharing the trials and tribulations of juggling so many balls at once. It seems our minds are going a hundred miles a minute: for work, we are making calls to schedule an interview for our next story assignment, working to finish our current assignment or complete edits/revisions, and jotting down ideas to pitch to different editors; but since we also work at home, we are tossing the next load of clothes into the wash and trying to figure out what to make for dinner. Then, we get calls from our daughters—“My car is making this funny noise-what should I do?” and our mothers—“I’m not sure this new medicine is working properly,” etc.
Most nights I can’t wait for my husband to come home from work to talk about all these matters. I usually have at least five or six things I want to take care of, and I will rattle them off in rapid succession; at the end Dwight will stare at me with a blank expression on his face. My friend said her husband reacts much the same way. We want feedback and they are silent, which can be really frustrating.
“It’s because men can only open one box at a time,” she said. What?
Her newly married daughter attended a pre-marriage counseling session at a nearby church, and the counselor said that the brain is filled with a number of “boxes” where we compartmentalize issues. Women will open numerous boxes at a time and go back and forth, addressing many different concerns at once. Men, however, do not function that way. “A man will open one box, complete the task, put that box back, and then take another box out. They never have more than one box open at a time,” she explained. “They also have a box labeled Nothing, so when you ask them what they are thinking about and they say nothing, they are absolutely telling the truth.” We both laughed.
At last--an explanation of one of the mysteries of the male species! Although it really didn't solve anything, at least I understand it a little better. Who knew?
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Weathering the Storm with a Cat at My Side
We are a family of cat lovers. Dogs are perfectly fine for other people, but I am drawn to the beauty, independence and inscrutability of felines. I have been the proud owner of many cats, and they have enriched my life with their distinct and fascinating personalities.
My very first cat was Penny, a black domestic short hair with white paws that my parents gave me when I was about six years old. My next cat, a Siamese named Fluffy but always called Kitty, lived with me for at least 10 years, throughout my Junior High and High School days. When I married and moved out at the age of 19 (way too young, but that’s a story for another post), Kitty disappeared from my parent’s house. To this day I don’t know if someone took her or she wandered off looking for me and never returned.
Sugar lived with me for the longest amount of time. She was a beautiful solid white cat with the sweetest disposition; she loved me and only me. When I divorced I took her with me to my new apartment, and Sugar kept herself occupied by thoroughly inspecting every man I dated. They all lost. She hissed and spit and generally made a pest of herself until they got the message. When I brought Dwight, my second and forever husband (27 years now and counting) to my apartment, she jumped in his lap and started purring. She knew he was the one for me long before I realized it. Sugar was a very smart cat.
We kept Sugar until she was about twelve and we had our first daughter, Rachel, who was born two months premature and had a variety of health concerns in her early years. Living in a cat-hair-filled home was not the best environment for Rachel, so we found a loving family with a farm who was willing to adopt Sugar, and I reluctantly told her goodbye.
We had our second daughter, Christina, three years later and lived the next six years or so without a cat in the family. When they became old enough to start whining about wanting a pet, I suddenly realized how much I missed the sweet companionship of a cat. So the girls and I went to the local shelter and came home with a darling calico kitten that Christina named Callie.
Callie grew up with our daughters. Christina dressed her in baby bonnets and pushed her in her doll stroller; Rachel, a born artist, took hundreds of photos of Callie and drew her picture for many art projects. We all loved her dearly. Callie hated storms, however; at the first hint of rain she would run downstairs and hide behind the washing machine, cowering through the thunder and lightning. Jerry Tracey and James Spann could’ve put her on the payroll and done away with all their expensive storm predicting equipment. We always knew when the danger had passed, because then and only then would Callie emerge from her hiding place.
Callie was on my mind last night as Dwight and I spent most of last night in our basement, apprehensive and worried, watching weather alerts on television and listening to the eerie sound of tornado sirens. Callie passed away several years ago and our new cat, Muffin, a Maine Coon-tortoiseshell mix, doesn’t possess her predecessor’s storm-predicting abilities. Muffin is unbelievably calm about storms; it is mind-boggling, actually. She slept peacefully at my side throughout the long siren-filled night, and I awoke to a calm day and the reassuring sound of Muffin purring in my ear.
I am thankful for many things this morning; that the storm has passed, that my friends and loved ones are safe, and that I have a sweet kitty to keep me company as I start a new day.
We are a family of cat lovers. Dogs are perfectly fine for other people, but I am drawn to the beauty, independence and inscrutability of felines. I have been the proud owner of many cats, and they have enriched my life with their distinct and fascinating personalities.
My very first cat was Penny, a black domestic short hair with white paws that my parents gave me when I was about six years old. My next cat, a Siamese named Fluffy but always called Kitty, lived with me for at least 10 years, throughout my Junior High and High School days. When I married and moved out at the age of 19 (way too young, but that’s a story for another post), Kitty disappeared from my parent’s house. To this day I don’t know if someone took her or she wandered off looking for me and never returned.
Sugar lived with me for the longest amount of time. She was a beautiful solid white cat with the sweetest disposition; she loved me and only me. When I divorced I took her with me to my new apartment, and Sugar kept herself occupied by thoroughly inspecting every man I dated. They all lost. She hissed and spit and generally made a pest of herself until they got the message. When I brought Dwight, my second and forever husband (27 years now and counting) to my apartment, she jumped in his lap and started purring. She knew he was the one for me long before I realized it. Sugar was a very smart cat.
We kept Sugar until she was about twelve and we had our first daughter, Rachel, who was born two months premature and had a variety of health concerns in her early years. Living in a cat-hair-filled home was not the best environment for Rachel, so we found a loving family with a farm who was willing to adopt Sugar, and I reluctantly told her goodbye.
We had our second daughter, Christina, three years later and lived the next six years or so without a cat in the family. When they became old enough to start whining about wanting a pet, I suddenly realized how much I missed the sweet companionship of a cat. So the girls and I went to the local shelter and came home with a darling calico kitten that Christina named Callie.
Callie grew up with our daughters. Christina dressed her in baby bonnets and pushed her in her doll stroller; Rachel, a born artist, took hundreds of photos of Callie and drew her picture for many art projects. We all loved her dearly. Callie hated storms, however; at the first hint of rain she would run downstairs and hide behind the washing machine, cowering through the thunder and lightning. Jerry Tracey and James Spann could’ve put her on the payroll and done away with all their expensive storm predicting equipment. We always knew when the danger had passed, because then and only then would Callie emerge from her hiding place.
Callie was on my mind last night as Dwight and I spent most of last night in our basement, apprehensive and worried, watching weather alerts on television and listening to the eerie sound of tornado sirens. Callie passed away several years ago and our new cat, Muffin, a Maine Coon-tortoiseshell mix, doesn’t possess her predecessor’s storm-predicting abilities. Muffin is unbelievably calm about storms; it is mind-boggling, actually. She slept peacefully at my side throughout the long siren-filled night, and I awoke to a calm day and the reassuring sound of Muffin purring in my ear.
I am thankful for many things this morning; that the storm has passed, that my friends and loved ones are safe, and that I have a sweet kitty to keep me company as I start a new day.
Monday, April 21, 2014
When I was a young girl, I was constantly writing. I started with one of those pale pink books with a tiny lock and key on the side, inscribed with "My Diary"on the front in fancy script. Once I tired of that, I began scribbling on everything--note pads, my mother's grocery lists--you name it.
Then, when I started high school, my Freshman English teacher announced that we were required to keep a journal a part of our grade. "You need to buy a spiral notebook dedicated solely to this assignment," she told us, "and you must write at least one paragraph every day. I will give you 15 minutes at the beginning of every class period to write."
At first we all balked; what could we write about? Or more specifically, what could we write about that we wanted our teacher to read? My first entries were stilted and self-conscious, written just to fulfill the class assignment: "Today I was late to math class because I couldn't get my locker combination to work," or "We got out of class for a pep rally today. I sure hope we win the game tonight."
Gradually, however, I loosened up and began to write about whatever was on my mind at the time. I got used to coming into class and writing every morning, and at the end of that year, I had a chronicle of the ups and downs of my Freshman year. Plus, I got an "A" in the class.
My Sophomore English teacher didn't require we keep a journal so I got out of the habit of writing daily. After a few months I realized I missed it, so I bought a spiral notebook all on my own and began writing at home. I didn't write every night, but at least three times a week I would pull out that notebook a scribble away, just for me. A habit was born.
I was a teenager then; now I am in my fifties and I am still scribbling away in notebooks. Over the years friends have given me fancier journals, with illustrations or inspirational quotes at the top of each page, but I like the utilitarianism of a plain spiral notebook. I have a huge box in my closet filled to the brim with journals, my entire life in enclosed in a series of spiral notebooks. Now I am going to share some of it with you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)