Monday, November 05, 2007
World War III
My husband occasionally mentions retirement.
This is his 30th year as a high school teacher, so he is eligible for the gold watch.
He’s not the type to sit around whittling in a rocking chair should he choose the big “R” - he has a lot of talents and interests, so I know he will find something to do.
I can tell you one thing that will NOT happen. We will not start a business together.
About a month ago, we started painting the interior of the house.
Frankly, I feel like I was tricked into this.
I hate to paint. I don’t like the smell. I don’t like the back-breaking positions you must adopt in order to reach those odd spots. I cannot paint perfectly – I spend way too much time trying to reach perfection only to fall short. Who needs that?
When the Ump declared that we must have freshly painted walls, he said that HE was going to paint the woodwork and we would pay our next door neighbor to do the walls.
I was OK with that. It didn’t happen that way.
The Ump did start painting the woodwork. He spent hours after work painting the windows and baseboards and doors and chair railing and I started to feel like I should help. I really tried to stuff that feeling down, but it kept rearing its ugly head again and again and I gave in.
In all fairness, he did not ask me to help. But he slapped a paint brush in my hand before I finished offering my assistance.
And thus began World War III.
In my opinion the problem rested squarely on the shoulders of the Ump. As a coach, teacher and umpire for the aforementioned 30 years, he has certain mannerisms that serve him well as coach, teacher and umpire.
Unfortunately, I am neither athlete nor student. I am fond of having people use the words “please” and “thank you.” I have a very hard time accepting criticism that seems to be offered before I really get a chance to do my job. I can’t stand being “bossed around.”
Argh!
The Ump: “You don’t need that much paint on your roller.”
Me: “Yes, I do.”
The Ump: “Make sure you roll it on in the same direction.”
Me: “It can’t make a difference – you won’t be able to tell once it dries. AND, if you paid attention, you would see that I only deviated from the path ONCE.”
The Ump: “Well don’t do it again.”
Me: “I have an idea.”
The Ump: “Don’t do anything weird.”
Me: “Like painting the wall outlets?”
The Ump: “I think that looks good.”
Me: “I think it looks dumb.”
The Ump: “Well, I like it.”
Me: “And it’s all about you – right? “
The Ump: “mumble-mumble-mumble.”
Me: “What did you say?”
The Ump: “Nothing. Don’t put so much paint on your roller.”
Me: “If you do not leave me alone, I am going to tell you where I am about to put my roller.”
And so we have marched like Grant and Lee (I was Lee) through the bathroom, laundry room, kitchen and dining room, our feuding and fussing blending with the paint fumes.
On Sunday, we did the front foyer and finally a peace accord was reached.
How, you might ask?
I worked at the top of the stairs and he worked at the bottom.
Proximity has a lot to do with the skirmishes.
The rooms do look beautiful. I will take credit for choosing the colors, but I guess I have to give credit where it is due when it comes to painting. I just don’t have to say it out loud or write it here, do I?
We have the den and the bedroom to do before this project winds down. I anticipate at the end we will be satisfied with our new colors and with the fact that we will have saved a bunch of money doing this job ourselves.
Hopefully, we will both still be living here then.
Monday, August 13, 2007
A moment under the stars
I had one of “those” moments last night at the music festival in Orkney Springs.
We went to hear the Blind Boys of Alabama – a gospel group that has been singing together for more than 60 years. I guess since they truly were “boys.”
Their type of gospel is infused with the original DNA from which soul, rock n’ roll and jazz all sprang. They sang spirituals, familiar hymns and even modern gospel written by Ben Harper.
The song that triggered my “moment” was Amazing Grace.
The music started, familiar strains of an eerie song.
Olivia leaned back and said, “Is that what I think it is?”
I looked at the Ump and said “That’s House of the Rising Sun, isn’t it?”
And it was. There was no mistaking those very familiar opening chords of the song recorded in 1964 by The Animals - the first folk rock tune to top the charts.
But when the Blind Boys started singing it was not about an infamous place in New Orleans. They sang Amazing Grace to the tune of the folk song.
It was glorious. They may be blind old men now, but their voices are magnificent – seasoned and rich. In an industry that glorifies youth, the Blind Boys are diamonds forged by years; wine aged to perfection. Food for the soul.
If you have ever been to the music festival, you know the setup. Some people pay more to sit in the pavilion, but I think the majority of the people who attend sit out on the lawn, under the night sky.
I was watching the sky carefully because the Perseid meteor shower was going on. I will never forget the year that we were there on the peak night of the shower and watched the shooting stars while we listened to the Fairfax Symphony play Beethoven.
So, the moment I had was this overwhelming feeling of understanding the lyrics to “Amazing Grace” and the irony of listening to a group of blind men singing about being able to see.
The starlight sky above. The incredible voices and music. The feeling of being a small part of the galaxy, but not feeling insignificant because of that amazing grace.
The Ump, Olivia and her fiancé, Webb were there. All of us were swaying and moving to the infectious music. Olivia and Webb just became engaged and the concert was kind of our celebration of their fantastic news. (Sept. 6, 2008 is the big day!)
Our family will grow by one when Webb joins it. The Ump and I are delighted. He is a good young man. Hard-working and serious, but fun-loving and joyful. That fresh, just-engaged love surrounded them like a halo – I could see it even though there was little light around us.
This “moment” was enhanced by the beauty of the night, the promise of the future and the weathered voices wizened extreme faith and years of living. “We’re going to sing until God calls us home,” lead singer Jimmy Carter said. “Yes, that’s what we are going to do.”
I have always appreciated the work of people who seem to be called to do what they do – teachers, artists, policemen. The Blind Boys definitely fit in that category.
On the way home I was quiet for a change, pondering the evening and the music that knocked on my heart.
It’s going to be a big year for the Rinker family. Hopefully O and W will let me continue to update you along the way.
I am sure there are going to be many more “moments.”
We went to hear the Blind Boys of Alabama – a gospel group that has been singing together for more than 60 years. I guess since they truly were “boys.”
Their type of gospel is infused with the original DNA from which soul, rock n’ roll and jazz all sprang. They sang spirituals, familiar hymns and even modern gospel written by Ben Harper.
The song that triggered my “moment” was Amazing Grace.
The music started, familiar strains of an eerie song.
Olivia leaned back and said, “Is that what I think it is?”
I looked at the Ump and said “That’s House of the Rising Sun, isn’t it?”
And it was. There was no mistaking those very familiar opening chords of the song recorded in 1964 by The Animals - the first folk rock tune to top the charts.
But when the Blind Boys started singing it was not about an infamous place in New Orleans. They sang Amazing Grace to the tune of the folk song.
It was glorious. They may be blind old men now, but their voices are magnificent – seasoned and rich. In an industry that glorifies youth, the Blind Boys are diamonds forged by years; wine aged to perfection. Food for the soul.
If you have ever been to the music festival, you know the setup. Some people pay more to sit in the pavilion, but I think the majority of the people who attend sit out on the lawn, under the night sky.
I was watching the sky carefully because the Perseid meteor shower was going on. I will never forget the year that we were there on the peak night of the shower and watched the shooting stars while we listened to the Fairfax Symphony play Beethoven.
So, the moment I had was this overwhelming feeling of understanding the lyrics to “Amazing Grace” and the irony of listening to a group of blind men singing about being able to see.
The starlight sky above. The incredible voices and music. The feeling of being a small part of the galaxy, but not feeling insignificant because of that amazing grace.
The Ump, Olivia and her fiancé, Webb were there. All of us were swaying and moving to the infectious music. Olivia and Webb just became engaged and the concert was kind of our celebration of their fantastic news. (Sept. 6, 2008 is the big day!)
Our family will grow by one when Webb joins it. The Ump and I are delighted. He is a good young man. Hard-working and serious, but fun-loving and joyful. That fresh, just-engaged love surrounded them like a halo – I could see it even though there was little light around us.
This “moment” was enhanced by the beauty of the night, the promise of the future and the weathered voices wizened extreme faith and years of living. “We’re going to sing until God calls us home,” lead singer Jimmy Carter said. “Yes, that’s what we are going to do.”
I have always appreciated the work of people who seem to be called to do what they do – teachers, artists, policemen. The Blind Boys definitely fit in that category.
On the way home I was quiet for a change, pondering the evening and the music that knocked on my heart.
It’s going to be a big year for the Rinker family. Hopefully O and W will let me continue to update you along the way.
I am sure there are going to be many more “moments.”
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Snapping beans
As I pull the tender plants from ground, I can see long, slender green beans waving back and forth, signaling their readiness for harvest.
The Ump is umping today. Some kind of special softball tournament in Harrisonburg. It is a beautiful day. Spring must be jealous that Summer has a day like this one up her sleeve. No humidity. Just plenty of sunshine and enough of a breeze to keep the gnats guessing.
I take my colander full of beans to the picnic table to snap them.
Peanut, Brownie and Major have all assumed positions around me that afford the most shade. I sit in full sunlight, but with my back to the sun so I can see what I am doing.
Snapping beans is a wonderful Southern tradition. And while today is a solitary snapfest, beans were a wonderful part of the ritual of preparing the family meal when I was a kid.
I watch my fingers work the beans and memory kicks in and I see my grandmother’s hands. She had knuckles swollen by arthritis, but her fingernails were always nicely shaped and usually painted with a clear or pale pink polish.
I can hear her laughing. Her laugh was light, airy, though her voice was more of a contralto.
Summer Sunday lunches at Grandmother’s house were a great tradition. Our favorite meal was pot roast cooked with potatoes, carrots and onions. We always had hot rolls and a relish tray with thick, sweet tomatoes and raw onions because the adults all liked raw onions on top of their green beans.
We usually had apple sauce and jelly; both poured into delicate glass bowls and placed on the dining room table wherever there was a spot. There was an established plate, bowl and serving fork or spoon for every item. With the entire family present, the little dining room at her house (which also sported a corner cabinet, china cupboard and a secretary’s desk) was filled.
There was no air-conditioning at her house. At least not when we were young. But the dining room window was open and she always had the screen door open in the kitchen to let out the heat from the stove.
I can see Grandmom standing in the kitchen doorway, an apron protecting her Sunday clothes – she was always the last to be seated. When Grandmom sat down, Dad would say the blessing and the ceremony of passing the food around would begin.
I’ve got the beans on the stove now and I slipped a little streaked meat in though I know I shouldn’t. But I have to. And it smells like Grandmom’s house in Parklin Heights.
It was 10 years ago today that Grandmom died. I watched her struggle for her last breaths. Mom, Aunt Ruthie, Aunt Jean and I were standing around her hospital bed. I remember thinking how odd it was that she was here this minute and gone the next. 9:01 p.m. I think. At 9 she was alive and at 9:01 she wasn’t.
She never met the Ump. I know she would have loved him. In my mind, I can see her patting his arm and with a twinkle in her eye asking him about working on the farm with Marty.
And she never saw Gracilyn who is her only great-grandchild. She would have been amazed by that little girl, but I think she would have been even more pleased by the wonderful father that my brother has become.
I just opened the bean pot to make sure the water wasn’t boiling off and steam quickly clouded my glasses. How many times did I see Grandmom wipe steam from her glasses?
I wiped away the steam, but my face is still wet. Tears. Not those strong, sobbing longing tears anymore. They are bittersweet tears. Tender tears full of memories that spill from my eyes and race to my heart.
Grandmom’s picture is in my kitchen on shelf right beside the sink. It’s a great picture of her. She’s smiling and she’s wearing one of her sweaters around her shoulders and there’s a brooch at the neck of her blouse.
She was a classy lady. Very smart – the queen of crosswords. I used to call her when I got stuck on a difficult word, especially if it was arcane.
I decided to put some new potatoes in with the beans since the Ump hasn’t gotten home yet. He likes that.
Nodding to Grandmom, I tell her the potatoes are going in the pot too.
I wash my hands and pick up the picture and wipe the dust out of the edges of the frame.
So much has happened in 10 years. But so much more happened in the 35 she was with me or I was with her.
Some of the memories are cloudy, but she is here. When I work a crossword puzzle or watch the little blue birds playing house in the bushes. Or when I snap beans.
The Ump is umping today. Some kind of special softball tournament in Harrisonburg. It is a beautiful day. Spring must be jealous that Summer has a day like this one up her sleeve. No humidity. Just plenty of sunshine and enough of a breeze to keep the gnats guessing.
I take my colander full of beans to the picnic table to snap them.
Peanut, Brownie and Major have all assumed positions around me that afford the most shade. I sit in full sunlight, but with my back to the sun so I can see what I am doing.
Snapping beans is a wonderful Southern tradition. And while today is a solitary snapfest, beans were a wonderful part of the ritual of preparing the family meal when I was a kid.
I watch my fingers work the beans and memory kicks in and I see my grandmother’s hands. She had knuckles swollen by arthritis, but her fingernails were always nicely shaped and usually painted with a clear or pale pink polish.
I can hear her laughing. Her laugh was light, airy, though her voice was more of a contralto.
Summer Sunday lunches at Grandmother’s house were a great tradition. Our favorite meal was pot roast cooked with potatoes, carrots and onions. We always had hot rolls and a relish tray with thick, sweet tomatoes and raw onions because the adults all liked raw onions on top of their green beans.
We usually had apple sauce and jelly; both poured into delicate glass bowls and placed on the dining room table wherever there was a spot. There was an established plate, bowl and serving fork or spoon for every item. With the entire family present, the little dining room at her house (which also sported a corner cabinet, china cupboard and a secretary’s desk) was filled.
There was no air-conditioning at her house. At least not when we were young. But the dining room window was open and she always had the screen door open in the kitchen to let out the heat from the stove.
I can see Grandmom standing in the kitchen doorway, an apron protecting her Sunday clothes – she was always the last to be seated. When Grandmom sat down, Dad would say the blessing and the ceremony of passing the food around would begin.
I’ve got the beans on the stove now and I slipped a little streaked meat in though I know I shouldn’t. But I have to. And it smells like Grandmom’s house in Parklin Heights.
It was 10 years ago today that Grandmom died. I watched her struggle for her last breaths. Mom, Aunt Ruthie, Aunt Jean and I were standing around her hospital bed. I remember thinking how odd it was that she was here this minute and gone the next. 9:01 p.m. I think. At 9 she was alive and at 9:01 she wasn’t.
She never met the Ump. I know she would have loved him. In my mind, I can see her patting his arm and with a twinkle in her eye asking him about working on the farm with Marty.
And she never saw Gracilyn who is her only great-grandchild. She would have been amazed by that little girl, but I think she would have been even more pleased by the wonderful father that my brother has become.
I just opened the bean pot to make sure the water wasn’t boiling off and steam quickly clouded my glasses. How many times did I see Grandmom wipe steam from her glasses?
I wiped away the steam, but my face is still wet. Tears. Not those strong, sobbing longing tears anymore. They are bittersweet tears. Tender tears full of memories that spill from my eyes and race to my heart.
Grandmom’s picture is in my kitchen on shelf right beside the sink. It’s a great picture of her. She’s smiling and she’s wearing one of her sweaters around her shoulders and there’s a brooch at the neck of her blouse.
She was a classy lady. Very smart – the queen of crosswords. I used to call her when I got stuck on a difficult word, especially if it was arcane.
I decided to put some new potatoes in with the beans since the Ump hasn’t gotten home yet. He likes that.
Nodding to Grandmom, I tell her the potatoes are going in the pot too.
I wash my hands and pick up the picture and wipe the dust out of the edges of the frame.
So much has happened in 10 years. But so much more happened in the 35 she was with me or I was with her.
Some of the memories are cloudy, but she is here. When I work a crossword puzzle or watch the little blue birds playing house in the bushes. Or when I snap beans.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Leaves of three, now let me see....
It started as a couple of red bumps on the tender underside of my right forearm.
The dots multiplied and started connecting – a constellation of angry comets streaking up my arm.
From bumps to blisters, the galaxy grew and spread.
Two words describe it best.
Poison ivy.
I don’t usually “take poison,” as the old-timers say. My brother would break out if someone said the words to him. He’s had it just about every place imaginable.
The Ump, too.
But not me.
Until now, that is.
Shouldn’t there be some benefits from getting older? I still get acne occasionally. Pimples should not be a mid-aged affliction.
Middle age brings a slew of its own problems. Aches and pains in places that never hurt before. Vision that has you adjusting your newspaper like the slide on a trombone.
Gray hair. White hair. Hair sprouting where there was no hair before.
If all things were fair, middle age should offer some benefits. Like – if you have never had poison ivy before, you should not start getting it when you are 45.
Initially I thought perhaps I had picked a bad weed in the flower beds or the vegetable garden out back. I used to be one of those weed-as-you-go people, marching through the yard looking for leafy intruders. No more of that!
As the infection spread and grew, the Ump put two and two together and confessed.
There is a saying about poison ivy: Leaves of three, let them be. Or leaves of three, beware of me. Or leaves of three, don’t touch me. You get the picture.
I am rewriting that saying to conform to my problem.
“Boots from the farm can bring you harm.”
The Ump had spent several days working in fence rows on the farm. He came home in the evenings talking about how he had gotten into some “poison” and he probably would break out at any moment.
That did not happen.
However, he did break one of his boot laces and asked me to buy him some new ones.
When I was telling my mother this story, she broke in before I even got to the punch line and said “Why didn’t you let him lace up his own boots?”
Maybe that is the difference between someone who has been married nearly 50 years and someone who has not been married six.
The Ump was at a game. The boots were on the porch. I picked them up and pulled the laces out of both boots and put the new laces in – making sure that I came in contact with just as much poison ivy oil as possible, I guess.
Now, in addition to enduring the maddening itching, I get to hear everyone’s poison ivy story. Next door neighbor Danny had it so bad that he spent three days in bed wearing nothing but a white sheet. (Too much information.) Bleach was his recommendation.
A friend at a local campsite told me she had some lye soap made by the Mennonites that would do the trick. I didn’t ask if what made it potent was the lye or the religion of its makers.
The checker in Wal-Mart suggested that I coat it in clear nail polish. Uh, no.
I have learned several interesting poison ivy facts.
When the blisters burst, it’s just water that leaks out – not more poison. You can keep getting reinfected by handling the same clothes or boots, but not from your own rash.
Urushiol is the name of the evil oil. If you suspect you have come in contact with poison ivy, wash your hands or whatever in cool water. No soap because soap actually can spread the urushiol. And warm water opens your pores to the poison.
A drop of urushiol the size of the head of pin is enough to make 500 people break out – that is how potent the stuff is.
Armed with knowledge, anti-itch crème and Caladryl (the clear kind that doesn’t turn my arm pink), I am trying to be as patient as possible and just wait it out. I now have a patch on my jaw and lip and neck, on my upper arm and leg.
The result of this experience is that I look at every weed with suspicion. I don’t know when I will feel comfortable snatching one out of the flower beds again.
Oh, and the Ump’s farm boots sleep on the porch.
The dots multiplied and started connecting – a constellation of angry comets streaking up my arm.
From bumps to blisters, the galaxy grew and spread.
Two words describe it best.
Poison ivy.
I don’t usually “take poison,” as the old-timers say. My brother would break out if someone said the words to him. He’s had it just about every place imaginable.
The Ump, too.
But not me.
Until now, that is.
Shouldn’t there be some benefits from getting older? I still get acne occasionally. Pimples should not be a mid-aged affliction.
Middle age brings a slew of its own problems. Aches and pains in places that never hurt before. Vision that has you adjusting your newspaper like the slide on a trombone.
Gray hair. White hair. Hair sprouting where there was no hair before.
If all things were fair, middle age should offer some benefits. Like – if you have never had poison ivy before, you should not start getting it when you are 45.
Initially I thought perhaps I had picked a bad weed in the flower beds or the vegetable garden out back. I used to be one of those weed-as-you-go people, marching through the yard looking for leafy intruders. No more of that!
As the infection spread and grew, the Ump put two and two together and confessed.
There is a saying about poison ivy: Leaves of three, let them be. Or leaves of three, beware of me. Or leaves of three, don’t touch me. You get the picture.
I am rewriting that saying to conform to my problem.
“Boots from the farm can bring you harm.”
The Ump had spent several days working in fence rows on the farm. He came home in the evenings talking about how he had gotten into some “poison” and he probably would break out at any moment.
That did not happen.
However, he did break one of his boot laces and asked me to buy him some new ones.
When I was telling my mother this story, she broke in before I even got to the punch line and said “Why didn’t you let him lace up his own boots?”
Maybe that is the difference between someone who has been married nearly 50 years and someone who has not been married six.
The Ump was at a game. The boots were on the porch. I picked them up and pulled the laces out of both boots and put the new laces in – making sure that I came in contact with just as much poison ivy oil as possible, I guess.
Now, in addition to enduring the maddening itching, I get to hear everyone’s poison ivy story. Next door neighbor Danny had it so bad that he spent three days in bed wearing nothing but a white sheet. (Too much information.) Bleach was his recommendation.
A friend at a local campsite told me she had some lye soap made by the Mennonites that would do the trick. I didn’t ask if what made it potent was the lye or the religion of its makers.
The checker in Wal-Mart suggested that I coat it in clear nail polish. Uh, no.
I have learned several interesting poison ivy facts.
When the blisters burst, it’s just water that leaks out – not more poison. You can keep getting reinfected by handling the same clothes or boots, but not from your own rash.
Urushiol is the name of the evil oil. If you suspect you have come in contact with poison ivy, wash your hands or whatever in cool water. No soap because soap actually can spread the urushiol. And warm water opens your pores to the poison.
A drop of urushiol the size of the head of pin is enough to make 500 people break out – that is how potent the stuff is.
Armed with knowledge, anti-itch crème and Caladryl (the clear kind that doesn’t turn my arm pink), I am trying to be as patient as possible and just wait it out. I now have a patch on my jaw and lip and neck, on my upper arm and leg.
The result of this experience is that I look at every weed with suspicion. I don’t know when I will feel comfortable snatching one out of the flower beds again.
Oh, and the Ump’s farm boots sleep on the porch.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Random thoughts
The moon is gold tonight. It’s not quite full. Someone took a sliver of cheese for a snack.
The air is heavy. Cloying. Thick with the scent of honeysuckle and roses.
The dry weather must suit rose bushes because blossoms cascade like wedding bouquets twined with green leaves and the wild honeysuckle.
Pink petals adorn the fresh-cut grass beneath the tallest of the rose bushes.
It reminds me of when my brother and I were kids and we would have snowball fights in the spring with the round blooms off the snowball bush. Our snowball bush had white blooms. If you waited until the blossoms were older the shower of flowers was much more dramatic during the snowball battle. But I was a kid and waiting was not really an option. On the other hand, the young flowers stayed together longer and you could reuse the snowballs.
Hard to believe tomorrow is June 1.
Sometimes, if I close my eyes and shut out the sounds around me, I can remember what it felt like to be a child anticipating the last day of school.
The last week of school was wonderful. If there was time left at the end of class, teachers would break their strict regimen and do fun stuff. If you looked at them real close, you could almost see the real person inside the teacher.
Remember how weird it was to run into your teacher in the grocery store and see them in jeans?
When the Ump talks about his students I try to imagine what it would be like to be in his class. I think I would be one of those kids that he would make him shake his head. Math always intrigued me, but it eluded me as well. My brain always took the wrong road.
Those last days of school were magical. And then there was summer. Three months off.
In a conversation the other day I recalled that when we were young my brother and I spent the entire summer outside. On our bikes. In the yard. We came in for lunch and dinner.
There were no video games. We had no VCR or computer. Heck, we only had one TV and I don’t recall watching anything except Days of Our Lives if it was on when I came in to have lunch.
If you played outside until dark, then it was pretty much time to go to bed when you came inside.
I just looked at the moon again. I think it is a full moon. The sliver was replaced. Probably a passing cloud.
Even though I live in the heart of town, I can hear the steady rush of cars and trucks on the Interstate. Noise as continuous, but not nearly as soothing, as ocean waves.
Major just came in to see what I am doing and licked me on the leg, then butted my typing hand with his head. I rubbed his forehead and scratched behind his ears and he went away satisfied. Dogs are so easy to please.
I think it’s time for bed. The Ump had a game tonight and will be in a little late. Hope his classes are behaving well tomorrow because he may be a grumpy Ump who’s had too little sleep.
Good night, friends.
The air is heavy. Cloying. Thick with the scent of honeysuckle and roses.
The dry weather must suit rose bushes because blossoms cascade like wedding bouquets twined with green leaves and the wild honeysuckle.
Pink petals adorn the fresh-cut grass beneath the tallest of the rose bushes.
It reminds me of when my brother and I were kids and we would have snowball fights in the spring with the round blooms off the snowball bush. Our snowball bush had white blooms. If you waited until the blossoms were older the shower of flowers was much more dramatic during the snowball battle. But I was a kid and waiting was not really an option. On the other hand, the young flowers stayed together longer and you could reuse the snowballs.
Hard to believe tomorrow is June 1.
Sometimes, if I close my eyes and shut out the sounds around me, I can remember what it felt like to be a child anticipating the last day of school.
The last week of school was wonderful. If there was time left at the end of class, teachers would break their strict regimen and do fun stuff. If you looked at them real close, you could almost see the real person inside the teacher.
Remember how weird it was to run into your teacher in the grocery store and see them in jeans?
When the Ump talks about his students I try to imagine what it would be like to be in his class. I think I would be one of those kids that he would make him shake his head. Math always intrigued me, but it eluded me as well. My brain always took the wrong road.
Those last days of school were magical. And then there was summer. Three months off.
In a conversation the other day I recalled that when we were young my brother and I spent the entire summer outside. On our bikes. In the yard. We came in for lunch and dinner.
There were no video games. We had no VCR or computer. Heck, we only had one TV and I don’t recall watching anything except Days of Our Lives if it was on when I came in to have lunch.
If you played outside until dark, then it was pretty much time to go to bed when you came inside.
I just looked at the moon again. I think it is a full moon. The sliver was replaced. Probably a passing cloud.
Even though I live in the heart of town, I can hear the steady rush of cars and trucks on the Interstate. Noise as continuous, but not nearly as soothing, as ocean waves.
Major just came in to see what I am doing and licked me on the leg, then butted my typing hand with his head. I rubbed his forehead and scratched behind his ears and he went away satisfied. Dogs are so easy to please.
I think it’s time for bed. The Ump had a game tonight and will be in a little late. Hope his classes are behaving well tomorrow because he may be a grumpy Ump who’s had too little sleep.
Good night, friends.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Surprise, surprise, surprise.
I officially surrender.
It is virtually impossible to surprise the Ump. Some of you probably remember my failed attempt for a surprise 50th birthday party last year. Months of carefully planning and misdirection ended on a solo trip over to Luray to umpire a game when all the disparate pieces fell together for him.
For his 51st birthday there would be no surprise party, but Olivia (O) and Webb (W) came up for the weekend and his parents planned to join us on Sunday for a nice birthday meal.
He, of course, asked for nothing. I take that back. He wanted a new $15 spray bottle so he could kill weeds. Seriously.
I am my mother’s daughter when it comes to birthdays. In my family, we celebrated your birthday whether you wanted a celebration or not. My Dad is more like the Ump. He’ll take a good meal, but he’s not into all the fuss and festivities. In nearly 50 years with my mother, Dad has learned to tolerate the rituals and rewards of a birthday party – something I hope the Ump picks up on that way before we hit the 50th anniversary (which would make me 90 and him 95 and not too likely to be in any shape for real surprises.)
I bought his plastic spray thingy, but just could not accept that as his only birthday present.
Saturday morning arrived and I still had not decided what to do. Then it came to me. Gas grill!
We’ve been talking about getting one, but just couldn’t seem to make the commitment.
I drove over to Lowe’s and spent about an hour going over all the options with the sales guy who (as a gas griller himself) helped me define the Ump’s grilling personality.
Honestly, I did not care much about the details. One non-negotiable item was the grill must come pre-assembled.
I recently alluded to a “rest-of-the-story” event that involved a seven-foot-tall set of bookshelves that we assembled. We have had bigger skirmishes when doing household chores together, but there definitely were a few tense moments as we put together a shelf that I bought for our office/den/gunroom/exercise room. I just can’t make up my mind what to call it. In my defense, I was looking more at the price and less at the dimensions. I was thinking that it was closer to four feet tall. In all fairness, the packaging should have been in feet instead of inches. I mean, 84 inches doesn’t sound that tall, does it?
So. Pre-assembled was the recipe to success for this little birthday surprise.
The problem is that I have changed vehicles and there was no way an assembled gas grill with side burner was going in the Dodge Charger. Lowe’s offered to deliver, but it would cost $65 to go from Lowe’s to Court Street. I would never be able to justify that to the Ump.
This is where the story becomes complicated.
I bought and paid for the grill and told the guy I would be back to pick it up later.
It was 11 a.m. The Ump was going to leave after noon to go to a softball game in Harrisonburg. O and W and I were going to drive down to Harrisonburg later so we could watch him play and then we were all going out to The Outback for dinner.
In the meantime, I had a hair appointment at 1 p.m. that I simply could not miss.
So, I recruited O and W. Once the Ump left, they were to take his truck (his umpire partner picked him up for the game) and retrieve the grill while I was in Strasburg getting my hair cut.
On this Saturday, of course, there was a prom at Handley and one other semi-local school and bunches of girls were in the shop for up-dos. So I ended up getting out of there just in time to run home and pack O and W into the car and head to Harrisonburg.
As we were getting ready to leave, O says “Was the grill supposed to be assembled.”
If my life was being drawn by a cartoonist, my head would have swiveled around and my eyes would have popped out. Then my whole head would have exploded when she said they gave her a grill-in-a-box.
I got on the telephone, waded through the endless voice messages until I finally got a representative and the proceeded to explain the problem. Eventually, I got on the phone with the sales rep who assured me that if I brought the box back, we could get the assembled grill.
But how would I get the box back to the store? We had to go to Harrisonburg.
Danny!
There are probably days when Danny regrets living next door to me. I do not hesitate to beg for help if the Ump is not around. Danny is a very handy person. On this particular Saturday, he was innocently polishing his truck when I camp huffing and puffing up to him after leaping from my yard to his.
I explained the situation and told him the keys were in the Ump’s truck and to just take that to retrieve the grill. We would be back much later.
We missed the ballgame (it was unusually short), but we did have a good time in Harrisonburg and a nice dinner. O and I even managed to talk the Ump into doing some shopping. On the drive home, I silently congratulated myself on pulling off what looked to be an impossible feat.
As we pulled into the driveway, I there was one small thing I forgot to tell Danny. The grill was supposed to be a surprise.
The first thing the Ump said as we rolled down the driveway was “Who moved the truck?”
The truck was backed into the carport and you could see that the back window on the topper was open. “What’s the top doing open?”
I struggled to find a lie that would somehow cover it all, but nothing came to me.
Then the final straw when the Ump said: “What’s that propane tank doing on the carport?”
In the cartoon of my life Cartoon Cindy would have burst through the roof of the car, shot into the sky and exploded in a large, loud pyrotechnic display that would have culminated in my ashes raining down from the heavens and setting his HUA hat on fire. (Harrisonburg Umpire Association).
I am not giving up on surprise. However, I think I will take a short break and try again later. Like when he’s 60.
It is virtually impossible to surprise the Ump. Some of you probably remember my failed attempt for a surprise 50th birthday party last year. Months of carefully planning and misdirection ended on a solo trip over to Luray to umpire a game when all the disparate pieces fell together for him.
For his 51st birthday there would be no surprise party, but Olivia (O) and Webb (W) came up for the weekend and his parents planned to join us on Sunday for a nice birthday meal.
He, of course, asked for nothing. I take that back. He wanted a new $15 spray bottle so he could kill weeds. Seriously.
I am my mother’s daughter when it comes to birthdays. In my family, we celebrated your birthday whether you wanted a celebration or not. My Dad is more like the Ump. He’ll take a good meal, but he’s not into all the fuss and festivities. In nearly 50 years with my mother, Dad has learned to tolerate the rituals and rewards of a birthday party – something I hope the Ump picks up on that way before we hit the 50th anniversary (which would make me 90 and him 95 and not too likely to be in any shape for real surprises.)
I bought his plastic spray thingy, but just could not accept that as his only birthday present.
Saturday morning arrived and I still had not decided what to do. Then it came to me. Gas grill!
We’ve been talking about getting one, but just couldn’t seem to make the commitment.
I drove over to Lowe’s and spent about an hour going over all the options with the sales guy who (as a gas griller himself) helped me define the Ump’s grilling personality.
Honestly, I did not care much about the details. One non-negotiable item was the grill must come pre-assembled.
I recently alluded to a “rest-of-the-story” event that involved a seven-foot-tall set of bookshelves that we assembled. We have had bigger skirmishes when doing household chores together, but there definitely were a few tense moments as we put together a shelf that I bought for our office/den/gunroom/exercise room. I just can’t make up my mind what to call it. In my defense, I was looking more at the price and less at the dimensions. I was thinking that it was closer to four feet tall. In all fairness, the packaging should have been in feet instead of inches. I mean, 84 inches doesn’t sound that tall, does it?
So. Pre-assembled was the recipe to success for this little birthday surprise.
The problem is that I have changed vehicles and there was no way an assembled gas grill with side burner was going in the Dodge Charger. Lowe’s offered to deliver, but it would cost $65 to go from Lowe’s to Court Street. I would never be able to justify that to the Ump.
This is where the story becomes complicated.
I bought and paid for the grill and told the guy I would be back to pick it up later.
It was 11 a.m. The Ump was going to leave after noon to go to a softball game in Harrisonburg. O and W and I were going to drive down to Harrisonburg later so we could watch him play and then we were all going out to The Outback for dinner.
In the meantime, I had a hair appointment at 1 p.m. that I simply could not miss.
So, I recruited O and W. Once the Ump left, they were to take his truck (his umpire partner picked him up for the game) and retrieve the grill while I was in Strasburg getting my hair cut.
On this Saturday, of course, there was a prom at Handley and one other semi-local school and bunches of girls were in the shop for up-dos. So I ended up getting out of there just in time to run home and pack O and W into the car and head to Harrisonburg.
As we were getting ready to leave, O says “Was the grill supposed to be assembled.”
If my life was being drawn by a cartoonist, my head would have swiveled around and my eyes would have popped out. Then my whole head would have exploded when she said they gave her a grill-in-a-box.
I got on the telephone, waded through the endless voice messages until I finally got a representative and the proceeded to explain the problem. Eventually, I got on the phone with the sales rep who assured me that if I brought the box back, we could get the assembled grill.
But how would I get the box back to the store? We had to go to Harrisonburg.
Danny!
There are probably days when Danny regrets living next door to me. I do not hesitate to beg for help if the Ump is not around. Danny is a very handy person. On this particular Saturday, he was innocently polishing his truck when I camp huffing and puffing up to him after leaping from my yard to his.
I explained the situation and told him the keys were in the Ump’s truck and to just take that to retrieve the grill. We would be back much later.
We missed the ballgame (it was unusually short), but we did have a good time in Harrisonburg and a nice dinner. O and I even managed to talk the Ump into doing some shopping. On the drive home, I silently congratulated myself on pulling off what looked to be an impossible feat.
As we pulled into the driveway, I there was one small thing I forgot to tell Danny. The grill was supposed to be a surprise.
The first thing the Ump said as we rolled down the driveway was “Who moved the truck?”
The truck was backed into the carport and you could see that the back window on the topper was open. “What’s the top doing open?”
I struggled to find a lie that would somehow cover it all, but nothing came to me.
Then the final straw when the Ump said: “What’s that propane tank doing on the carport?”
In the cartoon of my life Cartoon Cindy would have burst through the roof of the car, shot into the sky and exploded in a large, loud pyrotechnic display that would have culminated in my ashes raining down from the heavens and setting his HUA hat on fire. (Harrisonburg Umpire Association).
I am not giving up on surprise. However, I think I will take a short break and try again later. Like when he’s 60.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Let's go Hokies
In my living room right now, I can hear the news announcer reading the names of the people slaughtered at Virginia Tech on Monday.
High school valedictorians, a Holocaust survivor, freshman from Centreville, a senior from Vienna, the list is still not complete tonight, Tuesday night.
In my comfortable home, it still seems awful. It makes my skin crawl to think of such abject disregard for human life. What has happened to a mind that allows it to unhinge and rage in random violence?
When Olivia called Monday I already knew that she was OK. Her dad had called earlier in the day - as soon as it became evident that something terrible happened in Blacksburg.
But it felt good to hear her voice and to know that she was not working from the Blacksburg office that day. She was in Pulaski.
When I hung up it occurred to me that many parents thought their kids were safe on the rolling grounds of Virginia Tech. Their worst fears were bad grades as a result of too much partying. It never entered their minds that a killer would come to their child's classroom and snuff out his or her life as if he had the right to do it.
Like others, I tuned into the convocation on Tuesday. I listened while I worked. I wondered, 'What do you say to a country of broken hearts?'
It turned out that poetry was the cure.
After speeches by the president of the university, the governor, President Bush and other religious leaders and university staff, the organizers of the event wisely let Nikki Giovanni wrap things up. Giovanni, a noted poet and English professor at Virgina Tech, came to the stage, a petite black woman with close-cropped blonde hair wearing a mannish suit and loose tie. On her lapel sparkled the word Hokie.
Truthfully, I have never been so proud to be a writer. Her words. Her powerful, well-chosen words touched the pain, gave it a voice and acknowledged it. And then she told the owners of that powerful emotion not to let it drown out who they are.
Giovanni stood powerfully despite her size, telling the students, parents, faculty that they would survive this dark night of the soul. Herself a breast cancer survivor, Giovanni told the audience that they -not the tragedy - would prevail.
I am honored to repeat her words:
_______________________
"We are Virginia Tech.
"We are sad today and we will be sad for quite awhile. We are not moving on, we are embracing our mourning. We are Virginia Tech.
"We are strong enough to know when to cry and sad enough to know we must laugh again. We are Virginia Tech.
"We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did not deserve it but neither does a child in Africa dying of AIDS, but neither do the invisible children walking the night to avoid being captured by a rogue army. Neither does the baby elephant watching his community be devastated for ivory; neither does the Appalachian infant killed in the middle of the night in his crib in the home his father built with his own hands being run over by a boulder because the land was destabilized. No one deserves a tragedy. We are Virginia Tech.
"The Hokie Nation embraces our own with open heart and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. We are strong and brave and innocent and unafraid. We are better than we think, not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imagination and the possibility. We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears, through all this sadness. We are the Hokies.
"We will prevail, we will prevail. We are Virginia Tech. "
____________________
I hope you had the opportunity to hear her speak these words because her fierceness, her boldness filled the hearts of those gathered and in the cheers following her speech the familiar words from sporting events started sporadically at first and then grew to a thundering crescendo. "Let's go Hokies!" "Let's go Hokies!"
It could have been a scene from a movie. One day it probably will be. But today it was real. It was authentic. It was spontaneous. It was magnificent.
Yes, let's go Hokies. Let's live despite these deaths. Let's go Hokies. Let's live lives that honor those taken from us. Let's go Hokies. Let's keep this tragic day from defining your lives, your university.
In these healing days, all Americans - even Wahoos and Tarheels - are Hokies.
Let's go Hokies.
You - and we - will prevail.
High school valedictorians, a Holocaust survivor, freshman from Centreville, a senior from Vienna, the list is still not complete tonight, Tuesday night.
In my comfortable home, it still seems awful. It makes my skin crawl to think of such abject disregard for human life. What has happened to a mind that allows it to unhinge and rage in random violence?
When Olivia called Monday I already knew that she was OK. Her dad had called earlier in the day - as soon as it became evident that something terrible happened in Blacksburg.
But it felt good to hear her voice and to know that she was not working from the Blacksburg office that day. She was in Pulaski.
When I hung up it occurred to me that many parents thought their kids were safe on the rolling grounds of Virginia Tech. Their worst fears were bad grades as a result of too much partying. It never entered their minds that a killer would come to their child's classroom and snuff out his or her life as if he had the right to do it.
Like others, I tuned into the convocation on Tuesday. I listened while I worked. I wondered, 'What do you say to a country of broken hearts?'
It turned out that poetry was the cure.
After speeches by the president of the university, the governor, President Bush and other religious leaders and university staff, the organizers of the event wisely let Nikki Giovanni wrap things up. Giovanni, a noted poet and English professor at Virgina Tech, came to the stage, a petite black woman with close-cropped blonde hair wearing a mannish suit and loose tie. On her lapel sparkled the word Hokie.
Truthfully, I have never been so proud to be a writer. Her words. Her powerful, well-chosen words touched the pain, gave it a voice and acknowledged it. And then she told the owners of that powerful emotion not to let it drown out who they are.
Giovanni stood powerfully despite her size, telling the students, parents, faculty that they would survive this dark night of the soul. Herself a breast cancer survivor, Giovanni told the audience that they -not the tragedy - would prevail.
I am honored to repeat her words:
_______________________
"We are Virginia Tech.
"We are sad today and we will be sad for quite awhile. We are not moving on, we are embracing our mourning. We are Virginia Tech.
"We are strong enough to know when to cry and sad enough to know we must laugh again. We are Virginia Tech.
"We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did not deserve it but neither does a child in Africa dying of AIDS, but neither do the invisible children walking the night to avoid being captured by a rogue army. Neither does the baby elephant watching his community be devastated for ivory; neither does the Appalachian infant killed in the middle of the night in his crib in the home his father built with his own hands being run over by a boulder because the land was destabilized. No one deserves a tragedy. We are Virginia Tech.
"The Hokie Nation embraces our own with open heart and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. We are strong and brave and innocent and unafraid. We are better than we think, not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imagination and the possibility. We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears, through all this sadness. We are the Hokies.
"We will prevail, we will prevail. We are Virginia Tech. "
____________________
I hope you had the opportunity to hear her speak these words because her fierceness, her boldness filled the hearts of those gathered and in the cheers following her speech the familiar words from sporting events started sporadically at first and then grew to a thundering crescendo. "Let's go Hokies!" "Let's go Hokies!"
It could have been a scene from a movie. One day it probably will be. But today it was real. It was authentic. It was spontaneous. It was magnificent.
Yes, let's go Hokies. Let's live despite these deaths. Let's go Hokies. Let's live lives that honor those taken from us. Let's go Hokies. Let's keep this tragic day from defining your lives, your university.
In these healing days, all Americans - even Wahoos and Tarheels - are Hokies.
Let's go Hokies.
You - and we - will prevail.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Temper, temper
So I made this deal with myself.
“Self,” I said – because when I talk to myself I seldom call myself Cindy. “Self, we are going through a bit of a tough stretch. We need an attitude adjustment. Maybe a motto would do the trick.
Since I fancy that I have a wry sense of humor, Self suggested: “Non illegitimi carborundum” or “don’t let the bastards get you down.”
With motto in place, I made it through Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday with relative ease. As it turns out, it’s not the bastards I need to worry about the most.
On Thursday, I wanted to get to work by 7 a.m. because I had an 8:30 meeting for which I was not really prepared.
My routine is to get up before the Ump, let the dogs out, prepare their food (which usually entails reheating or cooking a little something to top off their dry dog food), take a shower, get the Ump up and into the shower, fix his breakfast, lay out his clothes, get dressed, clean up breakfast dishes, give the dogs a good-bye Milk Bone and hit the road.
The Ump usually leaves when I am getting dressed.
On this particular day I had not slept well the night before, so I was a little grouchy and foggy-brained.
Of course, the Ump got up out of sequence and got into the shower before me which always throws me off. As I was taking Peanut’s food to him (he eats in our bedroom away from the big dogs), the Ump opened the bathroom door and said “What am I wearing today?” in a cheery tone which immediately made my hackles rise.
I pushed down the sarcasm gurgling in my throat and grabbed his pants and shirt, socks and handkerchief along with his belt and threw the ensemble on the bed. I headed for the shower to soak my head.
It’s not like he makes me choose his clothes. I started doing that as soon as we were married. His students called him Mr. Wrinkle. I couldn’t have that!
I blew my hair as dry as I could, threw on my own clothes and headed for the door. No time for breakfast, but I did throw a can of Diet Dr. Pepper in my purse for later consumption.
With my arms full, I headed for the door. For some reason my husband, as he was munching on the breakfast sandwich I made him, looked out the French doors and noticed that his windshield was covered with frost. “Would you roll the truck back into the driveway and turn on the defroster?” he said.
I know my mouth dropped open when I turned to look at him. “You forgot to take your medicine,” he said innocently, ignoring the flush of red burning across my face. I slammed my folder down on the counter, dropped my purse on the floor and swallowed my morning pills without any water.
I grabbed everything and stomped off to my car, throwing my stuff inside and starting it up. Then I headed for his truck. It was very cold that morning after an evening of weird snowfall. I could not get the door of the truck open. It was frozen stuck.
In my frame of mind - if I had not been running around trying to get to work early - I would have probably used a blow torch before I went back into the house to tell him that I couldn’t get into the truck.
Having already indulged in a spurt of temper, I reined it back in and told him he would have to get his truck started by himself and I got in my car and took off, gravels spurting from my tires as I sped down the driveway.
The clock read 6:54. At 6:59, I pulled into parking lot at the office. It was another five minutes before I was able to enter the building, however, because when I reached over to get my purse, I discovered a puddle of something on the seat that seemed to be coming from my purse.
When I indulged the devil on my shoulder and let my temper flare, a pen in my purse apparently speared the can of Diet Dr. Pepper, loosing its liquid throughout my beloved Brighton bag.
All I could do was turn it upside down and catch the soggy items as they rained out onto the lot. I gathered it up, went inside and stopped by the restroom to get a handful of paper towel. Once at my desk I dried off the purse (which actually fared rather well) and then started drying off the soaked stuff.
Other than the crippling blow to my pride, there was a fatality. Apparently Diet Dr. Pepper’s lack of sugar does not make it any less lethal to a cell phone. I dried it off and let it sit on my desk for awhile before trying to start it. When I pressed the button it shivered on vibrate, made a strange noise, took a picture of the other chair my cube and croaked.
I took a deep breath and sent the Ump an email telling him what happened when I let my temper get the best of me. He sent me back a very nice email instructing me to take a deep breath and relax. He’s been telling me that a lot lately.
So, armed with a motto and breathing therapy, I made it through Friday and had a good weekend - until Sunday when the Ump and I joined forces to assembly a 6-foot bookshelf. This odyssey nearly sent us to marriage counseling – but that is another story.
Until then remember: Non illegitimi carborundum.
“Self,” I said – because when I talk to myself I seldom call myself Cindy. “Self, we are going through a bit of a tough stretch. We need an attitude adjustment. Maybe a motto would do the trick.
Since I fancy that I have a wry sense of humor, Self suggested: “Non illegitimi carborundum” or “don’t let the bastards get you down.”
With motto in place, I made it through Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday with relative ease. As it turns out, it’s not the bastards I need to worry about the most.
On Thursday, I wanted to get to work by 7 a.m. because I had an 8:30 meeting for which I was not really prepared.
My routine is to get up before the Ump, let the dogs out, prepare their food (which usually entails reheating or cooking a little something to top off their dry dog food), take a shower, get the Ump up and into the shower, fix his breakfast, lay out his clothes, get dressed, clean up breakfast dishes, give the dogs a good-bye Milk Bone and hit the road.
The Ump usually leaves when I am getting dressed.
On this particular day I had not slept well the night before, so I was a little grouchy and foggy-brained.
Of course, the Ump got up out of sequence and got into the shower before me which always throws me off. As I was taking Peanut’s food to him (he eats in our bedroom away from the big dogs), the Ump opened the bathroom door and said “What am I wearing today?” in a cheery tone which immediately made my hackles rise.
I pushed down the sarcasm gurgling in my throat and grabbed his pants and shirt, socks and handkerchief along with his belt and threw the ensemble on the bed. I headed for the shower to soak my head.
It’s not like he makes me choose his clothes. I started doing that as soon as we were married. His students called him Mr. Wrinkle. I couldn’t have that!
I blew my hair as dry as I could, threw on my own clothes and headed for the door. No time for breakfast, but I did throw a can of Diet Dr. Pepper in my purse for later consumption.
With my arms full, I headed for the door. For some reason my husband, as he was munching on the breakfast sandwich I made him, looked out the French doors and noticed that his windshield was covered with frost. “Would you roll the truck back into the driveway and turn on the defroster?” he said.
I know my mouth dropped open when I turned to look at him. “You forgot to take your medicine,” he said innocently, ignoring the flush of red burning across my face. I slammed my folder down on the counter, dropped my purse on the floor and swallowed my morning pills without any water.
I grabbed everything and stomped off to my car, throwing my stuff inside and starting it up. Then I headed for his truck. It was very cold that morning after an evening of weird snowfall. I could not get the door of the truck open. It was frozen stuck.
In my frame of mind - if I had not been running around trying to get to work early - I would have probably used a blow torch before I went back into the house to tell him that I couldn’t get into the truck.
Having already indulged in a spurt of temper, I reined it back in and told him he would have to get his truck started by himself and I got in my car and took off, gravels spurting from my tires as I sped down the driveway.
The clock read 6:54. At 6:59, I pulled into parking lot at the office. It was another five minutes before I was able to enter the building, however, because when I reached over to get my purse, I discovered a puddle of something on the seat that seemed to be coming from my purse.
When I indulged the devil on my shoulder and let my temper flare, a pen in my purse apparently speared the can of Diet Dr. Pepper, loosing its liquid throughout my beloved Brighton bag.
All I could do was turn it upside down and catch the soggy items as they rained out onto the lot. I gathered it up, went inside and stopped by the restroom to get a handful of paper towel. Once at my desk I dried off the purse (which actually fared rather well) and then started drying off the soaked stuff.
Other than the crippling blow to my pride, there was a fatality. Apparently Diet Dr. Pepper’s lack of sugar does not make it any less lethal to a cell phone. I dried it off and let it sit on my desk for awhile before trying to start it. When I pressed the button it shivered on vibrate, made a strange noise, took a picture of the other chair my cube and croaked.
I took a deep breath and sent the Ump an email telling him what happened when I let my temper get the best of me. He sent me back a very nice email instructing me to take a deep breath and relax. He’s been telling me that a lot lately.
So, armed with a motto and breathing therapy, I made it through Friday and had a good weekend - until Sunday when the Ump and I joined forces to assembly a 6-foot bookshelf. This odyssey nearly sent us to marriage counseling – but that is another story.
Until then remember: Non illegitimi carborundum.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Not an eclipse, a gallant
I was driving to work one day last week feeling particularly small.
Not my ego, mind you, though it has taken a significant blow during recent weeks and probably could use a shot or two of helium.
No, I’m referring to my step-daughter’s car which I was driving. She has a Mitsubishi Gallant. It is actually a very nice car. Attractive and peppy (much like Olivia), the Gray Ghost is a nice ride.
I feel small because the Gray Ghost is a low riding vehicle. I felt like I was sliding along on the street. It seemed as if I was eyeball to hubcap with the parade of SUVs and trucks on the road.
Most of you know that my Pacifica is my baby. The Countess (she is quite regal) is spacious. I could start a Victory Garden in the way-back (you know, the area behind the second row of seats).
The Countess has three rows of seats and loads of extras including five airbags. She is the queen of all the vehicles I have ever owned. My record is VW Beetle, Ford Escort Station Wagon, Chevrolet Corsica, Geo Tracker, Chevy Blazer, Jeep Cherokee, Jeep Liberty and the Pacifica.
The Blazer belonged to my Dad. When I bought it off him, he bought the Tracker from me and kept it for awhile. My cousin drove it for awhile and then the Ump and I bought it back from Dad for Olivia.
It was as safe as riding in a Coke can. It had a leather convertible top which meant that it was even more vulnerable to the elements and thieves than most cars. But it was such a fun little car to zip around in. It was perfect for sunny summer days that weren’t too hot.
I thought it looked a bit like a roller coaster car that jumped the track. O and her friends called it the roller skate.
We both survived driving probably the most dangerous car on the highway since the AMC Gremlin. I can’t imagine how it would have fared in one of the crash test dummy tests. Even the dummies probably would have refused to get in.
Oh yeah, back to driving to work feeling like a kid in a pedal car. O had my car because we had to do a little work on her car. I was listening to NPR like I always do in the mornings, but it was one of those mornings where the story was just not something I was interested in. So many of their stories are fascinating, but now and then they explore some part of the world I just don’t care to visit.
So I decided to see what O had in her car’s CD player.
She is 24, by the way, so you might think it would be Justin Timberlake or Kenny Chesney – someone with a current CD playing on the radio.
The music that swirled out of her stereo, however, was a one-way ticket to memory lane for me. Boogie Wonderland, September Song, Do the Hustle, Hooked on Beethoven, one after the other came the songs that were popular in my last year of high school and while I was in college. Some of them were probably playing on the radio when I was 24.
It was great. I enjoyed that CD for days.
And it really did not surprise me. O’s musical tastes range from classical to hip hop, Judy Garland to George Strait. I’m not sure there is a genre she just plain doesn’t like.
In that respect we are very much alike. My music collection goes from Mozart to Matchbox 20 to Manilow. She and I both enjoy reading pointless magazines like People and Us and we are natural peacemakers and concessionists who take the long road to avoid conflict.
The Ump and I got married in September, about a month after O went away to college so we got to know each other in bits and pieces as she came home on weekends and holidays and summers.
We were just talking about those early days and how there were a few rough spots (nothing Maury Povich would be interested in) but we had to learn about each other and come up with our own family dynamic.
On Saturday, the Ump and I drove to Roanoke for the great car exchange. One big difference between the two cars became evident on that trip as the wind battered bullied us down the interstate. O said the Countess didn’t budge.
Since we were meeting midway, I called my parents and my Aunt Ruthie to meet us at The Roanoker for an early dinner. O brought her boyfriend W (Webb, I don’t call him W yet. And I only refer to Olivia as O in print – like when we email - not in person.)
That dinner was the happiest thing that has happened to me in months. I’ve really weathered some storms lately and am feeling a little worse for the wear.
That hour and a half was simply precious. I was surrounded by people I love so dearly. O calls my parents Pop and OG (Other Grandmother) and they think she is the sweetest girl. Webb and my dad and the Ump talked sports like old friends. Just listening to my mom and Aunt Ruthie talk feels like home to me because the two of them have been so close all of my life.
No homemade dessert could have been as sweet as that gathering. Not that we could have eaten anything more after our dinners and O gave up sweets for Lent.
I hated to leave, but all good things seem to come to quick ends. Riding in the Countess on the way home, my phone rang. It was Mom. “Call Olivia and tell her you can see the lunar eclipse now.”
I called Olivia. She and Webb were in one of the malls.
I hung up and sat back in my seat and listened to the Eagles singing on the radio and watched the eclipse slowly fade and return the moon to her proper wattage.
And I thought about the crappy things that have happened recently. And I thought about how blessed I am to have such loving family and friends who keep me going - even when bad stuff seems to eclipse the good.
It is not always Boogie Wonderland, but it’s all good.
Not my ego, mind you, though it has taken a significant blow during recent weeks and probably could use a shot or two of helium.
No, I’m referring to my step-daughter’s car which I was driving. She has a Mitsubishi Gallant. It is actually a very nice car. Attractive and peppy (much like Olivia), the Gray Ghost is a nice ride.
I feel small because the Gray Ghost is a low riding vehicle. I felt like I was sliding along on the street. It seemed as if I was eyeball to hubcap with the parade of SUVs and trucks on the road.
Most of you know that my Pacifica is my baby. The Countess (she is quite regal) is spacious. I could start a Victory Garden in the way-back (you know, the area behind the second row of seats).
The Countess has three rows of seats and loads of extras including five airbags. She is the queen of all the vehicles I have ever owned. My record is VW Beetle, Ford Escort Station Wagon, Chevrolet Corsica, Geo Tracker, Chevy Blazer, Jeep Cherokee, Jeep Liberty and the Pacifica.
The Blazer belonged to my Dad. When I bought it off him, he bought the Tracker from me and kept it for awhile. My cousin drove it for awhile and then the Ump and I bought it back from Dad for Olivia.
It was as safe as riding in a Coke can. It had a leather convertible top which meant that it was even more vulnerable to the elements and thieves than most cars. But it was such a fun little car to zip around in. It was perfect for sunny summer days that weren’t too hot.
I thought it looked a bit like a roller coaster car that jumped the track. O and her friends called it the roller skate.
We both survived driving probably the most dangerous car on the highway since the AMC Gremlin. I can’t imagine how it would have fared in one of the crash test dummy tests. Even the dummies probably would have refused to get in.
Oh yeah, back to driving to work feeling like a kid in a pedal car. O had my car because we had to do a little work on her car. I was listening to NPR like I always do in the mornings, but it was one of those mornings where the story was just not something I was interested in. So many of their stories are fascinating, but now and then they explore some part of the world I just don’t care to visit.
So I decided to see what O had in her car’s CD player.
She is 24, by the way, so you might think it would be Justin Timberlake or Kenny Chesney – someone with a current CD playing on the radio.
The music that swirled out of her stereo, however, was a one-way ticket to memory lane for me. Boogie Wonderland, September Song, Do the Hustle, Hooked on Beethoven, one after the other came the songs that were popular in my last year of high school and while I was in college. Some of them were probably playing on the radio when I was 24.
It was great. I enjoyed that CD for days.
And it really did not surprise me. O’s musical tastes range from classical to hip hop, Judy Garland to George Strait. I’m not sure there is a genre she just plain doesn’t like.
In that respect we are very much alike. My music collection goes from Mozart to Matchbox 20 to Manilow. She and I both enjoy reading pointless magazines like People and Us and we are natural peacemakers and concessionists who take the long road to avoid conflict.
The Ump and I got married in September, about a month after O went away to college so we got to know each other in bits and pieces as she came home on weekends and holidays and summers.
We were just talking about those early days and how there were a few rough spots (nothing Maury Povich would be interested in) but we had to learn about each other and come up with our own family dynamic.
On Saturday, the Ump and I drove to Roanoke for the great car exchange. One big difference between the two cars became evident on that trip as the wind battered bullied us down the interstate. O said the Countess didn’t budge.
Since we were meeting midway, I called my parents and my Aunt Ruthie to meet us at The Roanoker for an early dinner. O brought her boyfriend W (Webb, I don’t call him W yet. And I only refer to Olivia as O in print – like when we email - not in person.)
That dinner was the happiest thing that has happened to me in months. I’ve really weathered some storms lately and am feeling a little worse for the wear.
That hour and a half was simply precious. I was surrounded by people I love so dearly. O calls my parents Pop and OG (Other Grandmother) and they think she is the sweetest girl. Webb and my dad and the Ump talked sports like old friends. Just listening to my mom and Aunt Ruthie talk feels like home to me because the two of them have been so close all of my life.
No homemade dessert could have been as sweet as that gathering. Not that we could have eaten anything more after our dinners and O gave up sweets for Lent.
I hated to leave, but all good things seem to come to quick ends. Riding in the Countess on the way home, my phone rang. It was Mom. “Call Olivia and tell her you can see the lunar eclipse now.”
I called Olivia. She and Webb were in one of the malls.
I hung up and sat back in my seat and listened to the Eagles singing on the radio and watched the eclipse slowly fade and return the moon to her proper wattage.
And I thought about the crappy things that have happened recently. And I thought about how blessed I am to have such loving family and friends who keep me going - even when bad stuff seems to eclipse the good.
It is not always Boogie Wonderland, but it’s all good.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Conch shell in the driveway
I was dreaming that I was at the beach. In the Tobo. That was the name of the house my family rented at Litchfield Beach below Myrtle Beach when I was a kid.
It was a cool place. Oceanfront. I can’t remember how many people went. My dad’s brother and sister and their families. Some other people. My grandmom went once.
One of my favorite memories from there had to do with Dad’s sister, Aunt Ann. She combed the beaches looking for seashells like she was being paid to collect them. Her main desire was to find a conch shell and she was simply having no luck.
One afternoon, I was walking down the driveway to the Tobo and I saw a pretty rock. I bent down and scraped the dirt off and it kept getting bigger and bigger. It was a pink conch shell. Nearly perfect. Right there in the driveway.
The phone rang.
I swam out of the beach dream and grabbed the phone, still not clear about why I was not at the beach.
“Is Kenny there?”
I squinted at the clock. 4:02 a.m. I wanted to say, “If he’s not here, I’d like to know where he is.”
I handed the phone over to him.
Because there had been predictions of foul weather before we went to bed, I wasn’t surprised that the phone rang in the wee hours. One of the Umps many jobs is that when it snows he goes to work for the Virginia Department of Transportation driving one of those big trucks you see on the highways and byways after a storm.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He struggled into his clothes, trying to wake up. I struggled to make coffee with one eye open. I made him a sandwich to go with the coffee and he was gone.
Snow was pouring from the sky. Flakes seemed to be sliding down invisible slides of ice, they jetted by so quickly.
I thought about staying up, doing some work on the computer.
Instead, I turned off the lights and headed back to bed in the dark. I snuggled back into the still warm sheets and called for Peanut who was curled up at the foot of the bed. “Come here, little dog,” I said softly. He got up, stretched like a cat, and waded through the comforter, eventually coming to rest on the Ump’s pillow.
“Good dog,” I said and drifted back to sleep.
My dreams did not lead me back to the beach. I twisted and turned a bit, eventually turning on the television and setting the timer. Sometimes that works. Keeps my mind from being fully alert. It worked.
Until 7 a.m. when Olivia called. She came home over the weekend and was staying down at her Mimi’s house.
“I know ya’ll aren’t up yet, but did you know it’s snowing?”
I told her that indeed I did know it was snowing and that her dad had already mounted his orange steed and headed to I-81.
“What do you think I should do?” she asked.
When we parted company on Saturday, we decided Olivia would take my car back to Radford because hers needed some work done. We knew that we might get some freezing rain. We really weren’t prepared for eight inches of heavy, wet snow.
I told her that her dad would find out what the roads were like and we would make the decision around midday.
I hung up and got up. No going back to sleep this time.
I ended up spending the entire day alone. Olivia did eventually leave about 3 p.m., but I only saw her for a few minutes before she took off.
It was kinda like finding that shell in the driveway. I had so many things to get accomplished on Sunday. Web site updates and newsletters to compose and write. I needed some quality time at the keyboard. A normal Sunday, however, would have been filled with other things to do and I wouldn’t have gotten these things accomplished.
At first I was fussing because I was stranded at the house.
Then I realized that I actually found a conch shell in the driveway.
It was a cool place. Oceanfront. I can’t remember how many people went. My dad’s brother and sister and their families. Some other people. My grandmom went once.
One of my favorite memories from there had to do with Dad’s sister, Aunt Ann. She combed the beaches looking for seashells like she was being paid to collect them. Her main desire was to find a conch shell and she was simply having no luck.
One afternoon, I was walking down the driveway to the Tobo and I saw a pretty rock. I bent down and scraped the dirt off and it kept getting bigger and bigger. It was a pink conch shell. Nearly perfect. Right there in the driveway.
The phone rang.
I swam out of the beach dream and grabbed the phone, still not clear about why I was not at the beach.
“Is Kenny there?”
I squinted at the clock. 4:02 a.m. I wanted to say, “If he’s not here, I’d like to know where he is.”
I handed the phone over to him.
Because there had been predictions of foul weather before we went to bed, I wasn’t surprised that the phone rang in the wee hours. One of the Umps many jobs is that when it snows he goes to work for the Virginia Department of Transportation driving one of those big trucks you see on the highways and byways after a storm.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He struggled into his clothes, trying to wake up. I struggled to make coffee with one eye open. I made him a sandwich to go with the coffee and he was gone.
Snow was pouring from the sky. Flakes seemed to be sliding down invisible slides of ice, they jetted by so quickly.
I thought about staying up, doing some work on the computer.
Instead, I turned off the lights and headed back to bed in the dark. I snuggled back into the still warm sheets and called for Peanut who was curled up at the foot of the bed. “Come here, little dog,” I said softly. He got up, stretched like a cat, and waded through the comforter, eventually coming to rest on the Ump’s pillow.
“Good dog,” I said and drifted back to sleep.
My dreams did not lead me back to the beach. I twisted and turned a bit, eventually turning on the television and setting the timer. Sometimes that works. Keeps my mind from being fully alert. It worked.
Until 7 a.m. when Olivia called. She came home over the weekend and was staying down at her Mimi’s house.
“I know ya’ll aren’t up yet, but did you know it’s snowing?”
I told her that indeed I did know it was snowing and that her dad had already mounted his orange steed and headed to I-81.
“What do you think I should do?” she asked.
When we parted company on Saturday, we decided Olivia would take my car back to Radford because hers needed some work done. We knew that we might get some freezing rain. We really weren’t prepared for eight inches of heavy, wet snow.
I told her that her dad would find out what the roads were like and we would make the decision around midday.
I hung up and got up. No going back to sleep this time.
I ended up spending the entire day alone. Olivia did eventually leave about 3 p.m., but I only saw her for a few minutes before she took off.
It was kinda like finding that shell in the driveway. I had so many things to get accomplished on Sunday. Web site updates and newsletters to compose and write. I needed some quality time at the keyboard. A normal Sunday, however, would have been filled with other things to do and I wouldn’t have gotten these things accomplished.
At first I was fussing because I was stranded at the house.
Then I realized that I actually found a conch shell in the driveway.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Lengthy lapse
It’s been awhile since I have written and I must apologize for that.
Not only to you, gentle reader, but also to myself. When writers stop writing, something is wrong in their world. It is like the marathon runner not running every day or the quilter who lays aside her needle.
None of these actions are life-threatening. But they are signs that something is not right. Maybe the marathoner has a lame foot or the quilter’s finger is sore.
For me, it’s a mishmash of reasons. The last piece I wrote was about my good dog, Tip.
And, frankly, I am still not over his death.
The days are just as they were before. Sun and moon. Breakfast and dinner. But there are three dogs in my house instead of four. Three bowls for food. Three treats to distribute.
I don’t mean to be maudlin. It’s not like Tiny Tim’s crutch in the corner for me. Some sentimental kind of grief. It hurts. And some days it hurts so much I just don’t want to do anything. Not even write.
And he was just a damn dog.
I feel that is what people would say if I talk about my grief. If I talk about the emptiness. The sadness. I am sure there would be some measure of sympathy, but after a month I think most expect me to be over it.
This is not an area where the Ump does well. I’ve tried talking about it with him… He listens, but he doesn’t know what to say. My emotions are big. Texas big. And his are more like Delaware or Rhode Island.
So I have been trying to think of a way to dive back into writing. I fancy that some folks might miss my weekly missive. Ann, anyway.
And then, this week, I got an email from Rick. It was a short, short email. “I had to put Dasher to sleep yesterday.”
Rick is one of those guys who is all in. When he is your friend, he is your friend good, bad or ugly. His dog, Dasher, was diagnosed with all kinds of problems, including diabetes, and Rick was there every step of the way. He injected that dog with insulin. He picked her up when her backend wasn’t moving. He worried about her.
I haven’t been able to reach him to tell him how sorry I am he was put in the position to have to make this decision – to feel like you are playing God with the life of a good dog. I hate that I know what that feels like, but I do.
His one line email loosened something inside me. I think I forgot that writing is the way in and the way out. It is my marvelous tool for digging into my mind and it is also the machete that chops away the strangling emotions.
So, I am not exactly back. But I will be.
Don’t let go of me too easily.
I need you too.
Not only to you, gentle reader, but also to myself. When writers stop writing, something is wrong in their world. It is like the marathon runner not running every day or the quilter who lays aside her needle.
None of these actions are life-threatening. But they are signs that something is not right. Maybe the marathoner has a lame foot or the quilter’s finger is sore.
For me, it’s a mishmash of reasons. The last piece I wrote was about my good dog, Tip.
And, frankly, I am still not over his death.
The days are just as they were before. Sun and moon. Breakfast and dinner. But there are three dogs in my house instead of four. Three bowls for food. Three treats to distribute.
I don’t mean to be maudlin. It’s not like Tiny Tim’s crutch in the corner for me. Some sentimental kind of grief. It hurts. And some days it hurts so much I just don’t want to do anything. Not even write.
And he was just a damn dog.
I feel that is what people would say if I talk about my grief. If I talk about the emptiness. The sadness. I am sure there would be some measure of sympathy, but after a month I think most expect me to be over it.
This is not an area where the Ump does well. I’ve tried talking about it with him… He listens, but he doesn’t know what to say. My emotions are big. Texas big. And his are more like Delaware or Rhode Island.
So I have been trying to think of a way to dive back into writing. I fancy that some folks might miss my weekly missive. Ann, anyway.
And then, this week, I got an email from Rick. It was a short, short email. “I had to put Dasher to sleep yesterday.”
Rick is one of those guys who is all in. When he is your friend, he is your friend good, bad or ugly. His dog, Dasher, was diagnosed with all kinds of problems, including diabetes, and Rick was there every step of the way. He injected that dog with insulin. He picked her up when her backend wasn’t moving. He worried about her.
I haven’t been able to reach him to tell him how sorry I am he was put in the position to have to make this decision – to feel like you are playing God with the life of a good dog. I hate that I know what that feels like, but I do.
His one line email loosened something inside me. I think I forgot that writing is the way in and the way out. It is my marvelous tool for digging into my mind and it is also the machete that chops away the strangling emotions.
So, I am not exactly back. But I will be.
Don’t let go of me too easily.
I need you too.
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