She Talks 2

A Labrador Retriever tale-redux

2011-01-30T13:49:00.006-05:00

First posted 12/08

These are my sister's dogs. I've chosen not to show you their faces, this being a public blog and all. :)

In an earlier post I said she talks to her dogs as if they were human. Well, she does and it works.

Case in point: Last summer she was having her house painted. The painter squatted by his tools to put something back and the chocolate lab, the younger more energetic, the "I never stop moving from one thing to another all day long, nope, nope, nope never stop moving" chocolate lab, came rushing up behind him, grabbed the red bandanna handkerchief from his back pocket and in a flash took off up the hill and into the woods.
My sister screamed, "Lilly, bring that back!" Nothing. She yelled again, "Lilly bring that back!" Nothing. The painter continued painting and about fifteen minutes later Brady, the older, wiser, "I wish that kid would leave things alone and why do I always have to pick up after her" yellow lab, came sauntering down the hill with the red bandanna in his mouth and dropped it at the painter's feet.

Seriously.

The Best Gift of All - Redux

2011-01-30T13:45:00.002-05:00

First posted 12/08

So, it's the night before the night before Christmas. Our adult children are home from NYC and Champaign, Ill. We just finished dinner and soon we'll light a fire in the fireplace and get out Trivial Pursuit, the Pop Culture DVD edition. It's the quiet time before the rush of relatives and food and gift exchange begins tomorrow.

And, it's time for the last gift idea. Here it is.
Listen
Yes, it's listen.

Set aside one hour, grab a can of tea, or an Amaryllis in a crock, snap on your pedometer and walk to someone's home in your neighborhood, preferably a senior citizen. Sit down with them and ask then how they are doing. Comment on something nice you see around their home, and then ........ask them what their Christmas's were like when they were young. Stop talking and just......listen.

Let them talk, let them reminisce, let them walk down memory lane. Be a good listener, encourage them to tell you about their life. Say, things like, "And then what happened? or "Really, you did that, tell me more." Be an active listener, ask for details, for thoughts, "What were you thinking when that happened?" "How did that make you feel?' "What was it like when you were
18 or 25 or 30?"
Listen

This could be the greatest gift of all for someone this year. Take the time to listen and you might not only give the greatest gift, you will probably get the greatest gift too. :)

Merry Christmas to all!

This Little Guy - Redux

2011-01-30T13:32:00.001-05:00

First posted 11/08

...would jump for hours in his swing from the time he was nine months old.

Is it any wonder he became this guy....

And then this guy...

And then this guy...

And then this guy...

And then this guy (on the right) NCAC Decathlon Champs

And finally, this coach (second from right) with his assistant coach (left) and his three National Champions.

Big East Outdoor Track and Field Championships - redux

2011-01-30T13:28:00.002-05:00

First posted 5/08

If you think this generation of kids are just a bunch of couch-slouching, video game-playing, text-messaging, Internet-surfing slugs, go to the Big East Track and Field Indoor or Outdoor Championships sometime.

Funny Kids - Redux

2011-01-30T13:24:00.002-05:00

First posted 10/07
Art Linkletter was right. For those who never heard that name, Art Linkletter had what one might call the first reality show. In the 50's he hosted a show called, "Kids Say the Darndest Things" He'd have a half dozen three, four and five year olds sitting side-by-side on kindergarten chairs on a slightly raised platform. Then he'd walk down the row and ask each one ordinary questions and listen (without interrupting them) to their answers. That was it. That was the show. Such a simple idea, such great results. The show was a hit because there was no script and no network censors. What the kids said got on the air. Most of the time it was a outrageously funny. Occasionally there were embarrassing moments, or poignant, tear-jerking moments, but all this added to the success of the show. Millions tuned in each week just to see what those little sweethearts would say next. Their parents, I'm sure were holding their collective breath backstage as Linkletter talked with each one.

I've been teaching for 20+ years and kids indeed say the darndest things no matter how old they are. I wish I had written down all the funny things kids have said in my presence so I could write a book. Here are just two that I'm thinking about today.

For a few of those 20 years I taught the English class in the alternative school, housed in our high school. These students are a very eclectic bunch and although they have a myriad of social issues and are prone to extreme attention-seeking behaviors, they are smart, fascinating and often very funny.
Once, right in the middle of a very serious discussion of Greek Mythology one boy came to me and said quietly, "Mrs. E., Matt shaved off his eyebrows. Look at him over there, no eyebrows."
This was completely out of the blue, we were discussing the epic hero and his reoccurring role in literature. For whatever reason, Jack felt the need to tell me about Matt's eyebrows at that moment.
So I whispered, "Jack, it's not nice to talk about other students in the room. Matt may have been born like that."
Jack replied, "No way, Mrs. E. He had `em yesterday!"
____________________________________

Often I see my students in the neighborhood where I live. It's always good to run into them and I try to remember something nice about them that happened while they were in my class and comment on it.
One time I was in the checkout line at the grocery store and the boy packing my groceries was a former alternative school student I had a few years before. He was a challenge then but by the looks of him in his white shirt, black pants and grocery store name badge he seemed to have gotten his act together. I began racing through my brain to get something nice to say to him. When nothing immediately came I resorted to the generic.
With a smile I said, "Hi Mark, my goodness you've gotten older and even better looking."
He smiled and with a knowing nod (or smirk?) said, "So have you, Mrs. E. :):)

Summer School in the 'Boro 1971 - redux

2011-01-30T13:19:00.004-05:00

First posted 6/08

One three-hour class a day. The rest of the time... watermelon seed spitting Olympics and beer. I'm in there somewhere, along with Buffy, Cyndee, Walt, Jan, the Ewing twins, Bradley, the Narc, Minotis and of course, Whale.

Snow Day - redux

2011-01-30T13:12:00.000-05:00

First posted 1/09

A while ago I wrote about how much I love September and going back to school.

Kids, bands, football, fall colors, dry air. I love it all.

But, going back to school after winter break? Not so much. It's altogether different. It's cold or wet or rainy or snowy or all of the above in Western Pennsylvania in January. There are a handful of sunny days but the norm is overcast and dreary. And when the alarm goes off at 4:45AM, there's nothing good about that in the winter.

A hot cup of tea starts my cold dark mornings, followed by a trip on *slippy, bending, hilly roads, and ending with a pile of research papers and mid-term exams waiting for me when I arrive at my desk.

The only light at the end of this depressing tunnel is the possibility of a SNOW DAY! I love snow days! One good snow day and everything stops, the universe shifts and for twenty-four hours the dark depressing routine of the winter day lifts. One good snow day is all I need to get me through a winter. Two snow days and it's Christmas break again for a short while. More than two though and there's talk of make-up days in June. People start snapping at each other.

Yes, one good snow day is enough.

It usually starts like this. The day before a snow day someone hears a weather report and whispers of, "Did you hear about the storm moving in?" circulate around the building.

Timing is everything for a snow day. If it starts snowing too soon, 9PM ish, then the plows and salt trucks have time to get the roads cleared by the next morning. Not good. If it starts snowing too late, say 5AM then the roads aren't bad enough for the buses and everyone can get to school before it gets icy, deep and dangerous. The plows can clear the roads while school is in session and be ready to take students home safely. Not good.

The best time for the snow to start falling is 2AM, with a light dusting, escalating to a dense downward flow, (as opposed to that blowing in all directions stuff that never accumulates at all) and continuing with a hard, non-stop deluge of small but powerful little flakes with no end in sight. It should be very cold and there should be a good four to five inches on the ground so that by 5AM when a decision has to be made, administrators calling the bus garage will get the news that the roads are simply too dangerous to transport students! Hurray!

Back in the day before computers, emails and texts, the phone chain would be started. Oh....the phone chain. You gotta love the phone chain. A ringing phone at 5AM in the winter could only mean one thing in a teacher's home. Roll over and go back to sleep. But, not before stumbling around the house in the dark looking for your phone chain to call the next person on it. Heaven forbid someone breaks the chain and another teacher doesn't get the call and makes the treacherous drive to school only to find it dark and empty.

But, a snow day is the best. An unexpected, completely necessary, day off. A day to do anything or nothing. A day to thank the lucky stars you are a teacher.

*slippy = Pittsburghese for slippery

Rosie's Theater Kids - Redux

2011-01-30T13:05:00.002-05:00

First posted 8/07

NOTE: I love watching talented kids on stage and I was very fortunate to be in the audience for the performance written about in this article by Roger Friedman of FOX News.
I stood applauding with the rest of the audience for the standing O at the end of the show with my heart in my throat.
Just think what might have become of these kids if Rosie hadn't stepped in to help them.

ROSIE'S BROADWAY KIDS
Roger Friedman- FOX NEWS

With all the feuds and public debates over “The View” and Donald Trump, we tend to forget about Rosie O’Donnell’s amazing work in charity and education.
If you’re in New York City on Friday at 3 p.m., you can see some of the results. That’s when her Broadway Kids program puts on a performance at the 42nd Street Studios of “This Joint Is Jumpin’,” a musicial revue that I caught on Thursday in dress rehearsal.
Dubbed “a collection of pieces inspired by the Harlem Renaissance,” this show is simply remarkable and a little breathtaking.
“Joint” features a cadre of kids ages 8 to 14 who put on a show more real and less “stagey” than “High School Musical.”
Rosie’s team — including Lori Klinger, Thecla Harris and Stanley Wayne Mathis, among others — has turned a bunch of underprivileged kids into the city’s most talented group of younger-age actors.
And this is just the beginning. In November, O’Donnell will unveil the Maravel Arts Center just west of the theater district. It’s named for Rosie’s teacher, Pat Maravel, and they’ve already raised over $5 million since O’Donnell bought the building and gutted it. Donations are still being accepted. The building will be dedicated in November at a gala. I’m told Paul Simon may be one of the big surprise talents.
Meanwhile, Rosie’s got her hands full with a group of kids not unlike The Little Rascals. I don’t want to name names, because so many of these kids could be snatched up by casting directors if they’re seen — and we don’t want to see them get jaded too fast!
But watch out for Daniel Estrella, who seems to be channeling the spirit of the late, wonderful Gregory Hines. And Kirra Silver could be Audra MacDonald’s missing “child.”
They say that several of the kids have already gotten into the “Fame” High School for Performing Arts just based on their work here. Bravo!
And here’s a little trivia: After the show, Rosie and pals, along with her remarkably cool 12-year-old son, Parker, stopped next door and stood in a long line at the Cold Stone Creamery in Times Square to get cones. Everyone told Rosie to move up front, but she had a ball just waiting her turn.

Three Months Off - Redux

2011-01-30T13:03:00.000-05:00

First posted 7/07
NOTE: The idea for this piece came from an email chain letter I received about eight years ago. This is my version of that chain letter and I assure you all of the events here are true and happened to me during my teaching career.

Last winter it happened again. While having lunch with friends I mentioned grading a mountain of papers and tests over the weekend. In unison like a Greek chorus, they said, “Yeah, but you get three months off.” The chorus continued as they reminded me of Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter break.
Yes, I get a summer vacation, but not exactly three months. And yes, I get a few more days off at Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter than they do. But, can I please tell you what I, and thousands like me, do for ten and a half months of the year?
I teach high school English and Journalism. I’m Head of the English department and sponsor of the school paper. (And, please put your red pens down now, there will be mistakes, I'm sure.) I’m a member of the Student Assistance Team that identifies, refers and counsels high-risk students. High risk is concerns about drugs, alcohol, depression, anger, eating disorders, phobias, gender identification, isolation and mental health issues to name a few. I’m in charge of the English department’s curriculum review process and yearly budget and I've served on the Library Evaluation Committee. I’m on the Middle States Evaluation team that prepares all aspects of our school for scrutiny by other educators across the state.
I’ve been sophomore class sponsor, junior class sponsor, forensics coach and play director. I absolutely love my job and I love all my students. I’m lucky to work in a school district with supportive administrators and a staff who feels the same as I do. I wake up everyday looking forward to nine periods of excitement. Each day is different and there’s never a dull moment. My students are smart and funny, passionate and challenging, and they keep me on my toes. They are my own little Alzheimer's prevention corps forcing me to use my brain to keep those electrical charges zapping across miles of synapses.
But, on a normal day, in a normal week, here’s what I do. This is all true. Pat Conroy and Stephen King couldn’t make up this stuff.
I arrive at 6:15 AM for a parent conference carrying the 150 essays and tests I spent four hours grading the night before. I review daily lessons for two general English classes, two honors English classes, and two Journalism classes while I make 100 copies of eleven handouts, and on the way back to the English office break up a scuffle in the hall wondering if I should get my latex gloves in case there's blood. I make sure my computer grade book is up to date by entering four classes of quiz grades so I can export for weekly sports eligibility, and fill out three Individual Education Plans (IEPs) for identified students, updating the Learning Support department on their mainstreamed students in my classes. I'll email or call three parents and leave messages that will be deleted when their kids come home and discover the English teacher’s voice on the answering machine or email address on the computer. I'll finish writing two college recommendations and figure out a way to teach the end of Romeo and Juliet without mentioning the word suicide.
I'll meet with the editors of the school paper, the students organizing the clothing drive for the homeless, the Junior Class officers and on the way to the English office have a chat with a student about her college entrance essay. I'll practice random acts of kindness, and try to figure out a way to make adverb clauses fun. I'll check out the girls' the lav for smokers or cell phone use and talk to the student wearing the “Big Johnson” t-shirt about violating the dress code.
Over the years I've called the office about the exploding furnace and geyser in room 40, the creative, anatomically correct, yet borderline pornographic pictures drawn on the lockers in the Juniors' hall, the "I can see my breath" arctic frost in room 218, the Sahara Desert heat in room 37, and the hundreds of live crickets in the girls’ restroom - don’t ask.
Just before I leave the office for first period I'll make a mental plan for a department meeting after school focusing on the new state standards for public education, send the day's lesson to my student in the detention room, send three weeks of lessons to my student receiving home bound instruction, make a note to remind students about field trip money, yearbook deadline, class ring orders, senior picture schedules, musical auditions, prom tickets, eye exams, sports physicals, the test tomorrow, homework tonight, and inform a starting lineman on the football team he will be ineligible for tonight’s game if he doesn't finish writing his Shakespearean sonnet. As I walk into my first period class I'll send a student to get the custodian to remove the dead mouse from the overhead light.
In my classroom I’m to maintain a warm and caring environment, be a paragon of virtue and a positive role model. No second chances for me if I get caught driving under the influence, having an affair, or dealing drugs. No signing bonus, no overtime, no stock options, no profit sharing, no travel allowance, no company car, no expense accounts or business lunches. I do, however, have a free pass to all athletic events, band and choral concerts, musicals, class plays, and graduations, which I am expected to attend.
During the day, I’m to check for signs of abuse, depression, drugs, and eating disorders, and to be on the lookout for weapons, bombs, harassment or antisocial behavior. If I fail to report any of these behaviors I could be arrested. I’m to instill in my students a love of learning, a desire to excel, a zest for life, positive self-esteem and respect for the law. I’m to prepare them for the 21st century but teach with a “back to basics” philosophy. I’m to add to my certification every five years with at least thirty credits in my field at my own expense and update the English curriculum on my own time. As a member of the Student Assistance Team I must continue my education on the drug culture and language, awareness of troubled teens, and laws pertaining to both. I must be computer literate keeping one step ahead of the young “Bill Gates” in my classes, integrating technology into my lessons, and checking all web-sites for offensive material. All my grades must be updated daily on my computer grade book so parents can check their child's grade from their computer at home making sure all homework has been turned in and there's an A on all tests. If something is amiss, I'll get an email or call immediately. Summers are spent taking classes, attending workshops on adolescent behavior and reviewing, updating and revising the curriculum.
And you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love this stuff and I’m not alone. Thousands of other teachers do this and more everyday, some with a starting salary just above the poverty level.
I’m not holding a scalpel over someone’s heart, or guiding jumbo jets onto a runway, or researching a cure for AIDS, or negotiating world peace. But, one of my students may do one of these things someday. Don’t you want them taught by someone who is well-rested?

Bad Country and Flying Mattresses Redux

2011-01-09T00:36:00.000-05:00

First posted 9/10

My children seemed to have grown up too fast and suddenly I'm left with plenty of time to reflect on their childhood. A little Super 8 movie plays 24-7 in my brain about those years. Other little Super 8 movies play too, mostly my fantasy camp ones, where I can be whoever I want to be. :) But, the kids' movie is real and I can't manipulate that one.

Often I think about the things I could have done better and the times I blew it. I always hope they forget about those times and remember the good stuff. Right now two things that were not planned but created good memories have been dancing around in my head. One was Bad Country and the other was Mattress Trips.

We built our house in a big field on the edge of a wooded area. We cut down trees and moved dirt to carve out a space for our home. We left the field and the wooded areas that we didn't need for the house, alone.

In the wooded area and field we mowed what started out to be a path but the riding mower took on a mind of its own and with twists and turns the path became a labyrinth. We kept it mowed that way for many years and as the field grew the paths disappeared from view from the house. They were still there, but invisible to a cautious parent watching from the kitchen window.

The labyrinth came to be called, "Bad Country" for the same reason a blanket becomes a Bop, a pacifier becomes a Nuk and Grandfather becomes Pop-pop. Nobody remembers why or when the name was born, but Bad Country it was. Bad County became the natural playground for an imaginative boy and girl. Finding unusual plants and little animals plus holes formed by the underground springs kept the little boy's attention for many afternoons. A tiny shallow pond where it was easy to find minnows and snakes and gems in the water sat close by.

The mattress took flight on rainy days when the boy and girl were quite small. With nothing else to do before nap time but read a story, I began to invent an adventure that started right in the house.

The three of us would climb on the king sized mattress just as the roof opened up to reveal the vast blue sky. The mattress would lift from the frame and up we'd go high above the house floating safely toward the east coast and Atlantic Ocean. We'd be able to peak over the side and watch the ground pass beneath us as we soared down the coast naming each state as we passed over it, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and finally to Florida and beyond until we found our special island.

The flying mattress would land softly on the sand and we'd live on our island for as long as we wanted. Plenty of fresh fruit and easily caught fish plus fire wood and matches I'd always conveniently have in my pocket, helped us survive.

We'd play until our hair grew long and curly, and our jeans and t-shirts, torn and bleached white from the salt water and hot sun, were mere shreds of cloth covering our skin. I told them we'd be brown as toast as we built sand castles and collected shells.

Soon it would be time to climb on the mattress for the trip home and up we'd go again floating gently back up the coast, into the top of our house and gently down on the bed frame again.

They loved these stories and they began adding their own details to the trips. It was fun while it lasted, but you know kids, they make a habit of growing up, darn them, and Bad Country and Flying Mattress are now distant memories of good times.

Comfort Food Redux

2011-01-09T00:32:00.002-05:00

First posted 9/09

I made this bread today after work. It's the best bread I've ever tasted and it was so easy. I've included the website where I found the recipe.

The Pioneer Woman

I took the picture this afternoon right after the bread came out of the oven, with no special settings on my camera. Just a Nikon Coolpix point and shoot. It was around 4 pm. But doesn't this look almost spiritual? It's been a rough couple of days here and you want to hear something funny? I found the recipe on The Pioneer Woman's site, but it was really from this site:

This is Reverb.

And you know what this guy does besides cook? He preaches. Yep, he's a preacher. :) He was visiting The Pioneer Woman's lodge when he made the bread.

Thanks, Reverb! :)

She Gets It Redux

2011-01-09T00:29:00.000-05:00

First posted 10/09

It was a big day for Mrs. Obama in Pittsburgh, playing international hostess for an all female cast of 21 G20 spouses, taking them to the Andy Warhol Museum for lunch and a tour and a performance at the Pittsburgh Creative and Performing Arts School. In her remarks, Mrs. Obama talked about the power of the arts as a uniting force that transcends different languages and cultures.

"You don't need to be a Van Gogh to paint a picture, or a Maya Angelou to write a poem," Mrs. Obama said. "You don't need a Grammy or an Oscar or an Emmy to make your work on the cultural life of your community or your country a valuable one. And to people who might not speak a single word of the same language, who might not have a single shared experience, might still be drawn together when their hearts are lifted by the notes of a song, or their souls are stirred by a vision on a canvas.''
Lynn Sweet PoliticsDaily.com

A Cautionary Tale - A Sad Ending Redux

2011-01-09T00:24:00.002-05:00

First posted 5/10

If you have preteens or teenagers, go here and read the story of a mother and son: http://mamapundit.com/

But, be warned, it's not easy to read. The mom's writing is honest, poignant and gut-wretching. You can't turn away...

Role Reversal - Redux

2011-01-09T00:22:00.000-05:00

First posted 10/09

About 27 years ago when my daughter was four and I was teaching Lamaze classes I would be invited to speak to nursing school classes when they went through their ObGyn rotation. Since her brother was in first grade, I would take my daughter with me to the gig. I would put her at a desk or table somewhere near me or in the back of the room with a coloring book and some crayons while I spoke. She never interrupted, or fussed and was content for the hour or so I had to work.

Fast forward to today. My flight arrived in NYC around 11 a.m. and I went directly to her office in Manhattan. We traveled to an elementary school to watch Rosie's Broadway Kids' teaching artists in action. RBKids organization sends professional musicians and dancers into under privileged schools in Manhattan and teaches song, dance and movement to 5th graders for a semester. Those little 5th graders sang and danced their way through 45 minutes of Shrek's, Let Your Freak Flag Fly.

Oh my goodness, I was in heaven. Kids on stage (and on a track) do that to me. I told Thecla, the instructor, "If you know anyone who needs cheering up, send these kids to them." My daughter and I left the school singing the song and laughing about the cute things the kids did.

We stopped for a quick lunch at "Five Napkin Burger" (we had salads:) and then went back to her office since there was still part of her work day left.

So what am I doing now as she finishes up her work day...sitting at a desk nearby hers, coloring. :) Ha! Not really coloring, but writing.

Is this how life is supposed to work?

Mother's Day 2010

2011-01-09T00:16:00.000-05:00

Matt, Ben and me!

2010-10-03T17:10:00.000-04:00

First posted 9/09

That's Matt Damon, Ben Affleck and me! :)

Wait. What?

Ah-huh that's right, I made a movie with those boys.

Okay "made" is a little exaggeration...I was an extra in a movie starring Matt and Ben.

One time the fantasy camp in my mind became a reality when I answered an ad in the paper for "extras" in a movie being filmed in Pittsburgh. The movie starred Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, who I've loved ever since they won the Oscar for writing Good Will Hunting and took their MOMs to the Academy Awards that year. What sweet boys, their moms raised them right.

Anyway, I saw the ad and called the number. I left a message at the beep and they called back. Yes, they could use me and would I be at the Pittsburgh Airport at 4 AM with three different outfits?

Would I? Heck, I'd go a day early and sit in the parking lot all night if they asked.

On the big day I arrived on time only to see about 100 extras had arrived before me. Man, some people will do anything for an extra role. Things immediately got better though when they gave me a secret badge I was to wear on the inside of my jacket that said, BEAR CLAW, the secret code word for the movie title and all those associated with it.

Suddenly I felt like I was in high school sitting at the cool kids' table.

My (extra) part was as a passenger arriving in the airport after deplaning. I was in a group of thirty or so who came into the airport as if we had just gotten off a plane. A minuscule part for sure but I put my heart and soul into it. :) I had my raincoat (with my secret badge) over my arm and my carry-on (with the three outfits they told me to bring) over my shoulder. A huge mistake, I would later learn.

Matt and Ben were seated in the waiting area doing their scene in front of us as we all walked past them and out of the shot. I got a good look at them. As a matter of fact, I had to force myself to stay in the scene and not stare. :) They reminded me of all my son's friends. Just normal guys.

A young girl who played my daughter met me and we were to greet each other like mother and daughter and continue walking out of the shot. Out of the shot...I love saying that.

Easy enough...I got it on the first try...a mom getting off a plane being met by her daughter. How hard was that? Not much of a stretch for me. This acting stuff....piece o'cake!

But wait! The director, Kevin Smith don'tcha know, wanted to do it again. So back behind the wall we went, all thirty of us. There was a make-up guy with some make-up brushes who touched some noses with them until someone said, "ACTION!"

Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action! Action!

Geez, looeeze, how many times did we have to do this? By 4pm my arms were aching, my shoulder was stiff and I was sweating. My nose was shiny and nobody cared. Silly me, I thought I was so cool with my "mom" look. Once I had been filmed in one shot with the coat and carry on, I couldn't change the look all day.

In the middle of the shoot, Gwyneth Paltrow came to see Ben, they were dating.....shooting stopped....they kissed and kissed and kissed....in the middle of the airport. We waited and they kissed.

Finally, after the kissing stopped, we finished the scene and the boys disappeared. We had been told not to speak to them while they were working and I was hoping for a chance to say hello, and maybe a picture, but they were gone. I was just as happy, I had wilted and felt awful.

So, that's my story. When the movie came out two years later, where was I in it? Sadly, on the cutting room floor. The actual scene we took all day to shoot lasted about five minutes in the movie and only about fifteen of the thirty of us were actually on film.

Still, it was exciting and fun. I made minimum wage with five hours of overtime, and got a free breakfast and lunch. I had to take a day off without pay, but it was definitely worth it. It made a great story to tell my students, my friends, my family, my hair stylist, my UPS guy, strangers in the grocery story, anyone who would listen.

And, I still have my BEAR CLAW badge ... eleven years later. :)

True story - Redux

2010-10-01T19:42:00.000-04:00

First posted 06/08

The little boy in this picture is my Dad. The man is my Grandfather. The animal he's playing with is..........a bear. A few years ago I wrote a story about this family saga. Here is a portion of that story.

My Grandfather found an orphan bear cub in Canada while on a fishing trip with his two buddies. My father must have told us this story a hundred times. His Dad was due home from a fishing trip and .........

After dinner on the 4th day just as dusk was turning into dark, I heard the sound of crunching gravel and knew the Buick was coming down the road. I ran down the steps of the apartment, smacked my hands on the screen door and jumped onto the front stoop. I was just in time to see all three men untangle themselves from the front seat of the car. Mother wiped her hands on her apron as she walked from across the street and Ruthie, my sister, exploded out of the door behind her when she heard the men arriving.
I could tell something was different as I walked towards the car and saw all three men climbing out of the front seat. The car had a back seat and a rumble seat where they stored their bags and coolers of fish. Why hadn't one of them been in the back seat?
Smiling, I ran towards Dad, because I had missed him badly and I was hoping I could carry a pickerel or two into the kitchen. Uncharacteristically he held out his hand and told me to stop.
"Billy,” he said firmly, "Stand back, we have a bear in the rumble seat."
It was as if an invisible wall erected itself around the car. Mother, Ruthie and I stopped dead in our tracks, shock frozen on our faces, each of our brains trying to decide what it was we just heard Dad say.
Mother finally broke the silence. "Ray Marshall,” she said deliberately, “if you have a bear in that rumble seat you can just turn this car around and drive back to Canada.” I heard Mother's words but when I looked at her, I saw that her mouth was barely moving. She was talking slowly and precisely through her firmly clenched jaw.
My mother was a big woman and when she was mad, she would gather herself upright so that her full height and weight became massive. She was that way now and as I looked down at her side, I saw that, as she was slowly talking, she was pushing Ruthie under her arm and behind her back. Why hadn't she bothered to push me behind her back, I wondered?
It was a fleeting thought. My attention was quickly drawn back to Dad and his two friends. Dad was not about to be told what to do in front of them. It was one thing to nod in agreement at the dinner table but quite another to acquiesce in front of the men. Danny and Paul were looking at their feet nervously kicking stones while the silence and locked eyes between Mother and Dad seemed to last forever and probably would have had not a muffled adolescent growl penetrated the night. The moment was shattered and all eyes turned to the rumble seat. Dad, Danny, and Paul gathered around the handle of the hatch and with slow deliberate movements, Dad lifted it.....

My Dad would go on to tell us that his Dad kept the bear in the basement for almost one year, bringing it out once a day for a walk and fresh air. They fed it scraps from the table each night and hauled buckets of waste out each day.
My Grandfather owned one of the first gas stations west of the Mississippi River and on Sundays he'd put on a leather football helmet and he'd put a leash and a muzzle on the bear. Then, in the parking lot of the gas station he'd have a boxing match with the bear. It was quite a show and my Grandmother would sell pop and beer from the little convenience store they also owned across the street.
Finally, when it got too big they gave it to a little traveling circus. The bear died shortly after that.

The Allegory of the Cookie - Redux

2010-10-01T19:13:00.000-04:00

First posted 04/08

In Plato's Allegory of the Cave, Plato likens people untutored in the Theory of Forms to prisoners chained in a cave, unable to turn their heads. All they can see is the wall of the cave. Behind them burns a fire. Between the fire and the prisoners there is a parapet, along which puppeteers can walk. The puppeteers, who are behind the prisoners, hold up puppets that cast shadows on the wall of the cave. The prisoners are unable to see these puppets, the real objects, that pass behind them. What the prisoners see and hear are shadows and echoes cast by objects that they do not see. Such prisoners would mistake appearance for reality.
Got that?
In Allegory of the Cookie, what appeared to be a good chocolate chip cookie all these years was really you mistaking appearance for reality. The reality is, this recipe I'm about to demonstrate for you is the best chocolate chip cookie ever.
It's true.
Whenever I make these people say, "This is the best chocolate chip cookie ever".
Really.
They do.
They say that.

So let's get this party started...

First, the usual suspects.

Now, the first secret ingredient.

Then the butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, baking soda and flour.

Next, Nestle's Toll House Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips and......

The second secret ingredient, Nestle's White Chocolate Chips!

Then the baking......

And finally, the eating. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Try these and your reality will never be the same.

Best Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe Ever

4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 cups butter, softened
1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
2 (3.4 ounce) packages instant vanilla pudding mix
4 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
*4 cups semisweet chocolate chips
*4 cups white chocolate chips
2 cups chopped walnuts (optional)
This recipe makes about 6 dozen cookies.

*I always put equal amounts of chocolate and white chocolate chips in the recipe.

DIRECTIONS
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Sift together the flour and baking soda, set aside.
In a large bowl, cream together the butter, brown sugar, and white sugar. Beat in the instant pudding mix until blended. Stir in the eggs and vanilla. Blend in the flour mixture. Finally, stir in the chocolate chips and nuts. Drop cookies by rounded spoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheets.
Bake for 10 to 12 minutes in the preheated oven. Edges should be golden brown.

The Garden Chair - Redux

2010-10-01T19:07:00.001-04:00

First posted 05/07

I made this garden chair last month. With the help of a friend we actually made three. They are simple to make and I'll tell you how we made ours. We kicked out the seats of the old chairs we found in my friend's garage. We cleaned them and very haphazardly spray painted them white. We sanded some of the white off here and there because...actually I don't know why we sanded. I guess we were making them look older and more worn. This is why it was so fun, there are no rules for making a garden chair.

Anyway, then we made a well with screen material from the hardware store fastening it with a staple gun. We put some Spanish moss around the edges to hide all the staple gun mistakes and we put some hot glue around to seat to hold the Spanish moss in place. Then we lined the well with sphagnum moss, filled it with potting soil and then planted our favorite summer flowers.
Viola, a garden chair!

We had a ball making three and we took one to another friend's house and put it in her garden. She wasn't home. She was at her father's funeral and we thought the chair would be a nice remembrance of him for her.

When I finished my chair and placed it in my garden something happened. It looked beautiful sitting quietly on the edge of my garden and as I stepped back from it to get a different perspective it immediately became Patti's chair.

Patti, a dear sweet cousin, died at age 50 of Ovarian cancer on February 8, 2007. She was beautiful, quietly graceful, extremely bright and a joy to be around.

The Marshall Girls - Redux

2010-09-30T11:41:00.003-04:00

First posted 08/08

The only sibling I have is my sister. She’s two and a half years older than me and she's beautiful, strong and smart. We are similar because we were raised in the same home, but we were vastly different as teenagers and young adults. Her life’s journey has had more twists and turns than mine. I’ve had a simpler journey with small bends, gradual curves, and a few slow rough road ahead signs here and there.

She’s adventurous, earthy, and a dog person. She camps, hikes and white water rafts; she once rode on the back of her boyfriend’s motorcycle from Pennsylvania to Montana and back. She can go without make-up for weeks, and she can travel without her blow dryer. I put on make-up to walk to the end of the driveway for the mail.

She talks to her dogs like she’s talking to a child. “Stay out of the family room, I just ran the sweeper in there.” “No, you can’t ride in the back seat of the car.” And she had her Minister present when she buried one of her beloved dogs.

When she vacations she goes to places with seminars and lectures on things like Women’s Health Issues, Democrats in the White House, and Global Warming. She stays in B&Bs where everyone shops at Whole Foods markets and makes meals together. I go on vacation where the sand is white, the water is blue, and dinner is placed on the table in front of me. My seminars are Broadway shows.

She has her undergrad degree in business and her graduate degree in counseling. She's the Human Resource director for a big company. For a while she was a music major and she plays the Steinway Baby Grand in her living room beautifully. I can play both parts of the Chopsticks duet at the same time and Heart and Soul.

We resemble each other, although I'm the tall one now. I married my college sweetheart while I was still in college and we had two children in the first five years of our marriage. She was single for longer than those five years establishing her career and riding motorcycles.

While I was having babies and she was working and having fun we didn't talk much. Months would go by when we hardly spoke, not because we were fighting, but because there wasn't much to say. Our lives were different, being pulled in different directions and it was hard to find some common ground on which to start a conversation.

Then she married and had a child. She called me from the hospital the night my niece was born. I answered the phone and heard gulps and whimpers on the other end. Finally she whispered, “What am I supposed to do now?”

We began talking a lot again and where there was once a rent in the cloth of our sisterhood, we began weaving the fabric of our lives together again.

For many years after her divorce she was a single mom raising my beautiful niece, who is now a college grad, independent and employed, with a sense of humor that makes me laugh so hard, I snort.

My sister and I grew much closer as our children grew up. She met a wonderful man and married again and settled into a good routine.

Our parents were getting older and our father developed Alzheimer’s. He had begun to show signs of the disease before they retired and moved to Boca Raton, Florida. After five years in Boca it was clear to us that they both needed some help. So, they moved back to PA and it was my sister who moved all the furniture out of her dining room so that they could live with her on her first floor and not have to climb stairs. After a few months they moved into an apartment near us both and we visited them daily.

Mom’s health was declining as she cared for Dad and after about a year at home, Mom couldn't care for Dad by herself so we placed him in nice facility within walking distance of Mom's apartment. As good as it was, it wasn't home for him and he'd spend his nights calling out our Mom’s name. He didn't really know Mom or me and my sister by then but occasionally a small window would open in his memory for just a few minutes. The last thing he said to me was, "Do you have enough gas in your car?"

After only six months there, he died. Three weeks later Mom was admitted to Intensive Care for ailments she kept hidden from us while she cared for Dad. We followed her there and since the grief from losing our Dad was still practically palpable, we stayed in the waiting room of the ICU clinging to our surviving parent. We'd watch the clock for our 15 minute visit three times a day and we'd remind the nurses to tell her we were near. We didn't want her to feel alone or abandoned. We camped out in that waiting room for five days, never going home. Our spouses would bring us necessities and the caring staff brought us pillows and blankets each night which we spread on the waiting room furniture to sleep.

Fifty-six days after Dad died, Mom died.

So, there we were ... The Marshall girls ... orphans.

If there was ever a bonding moment for us, having both parents die within fifty-six days of each other, was it. That, and sleeping in a hospital waiting room for 5 days.

Suddenly we were a team ... the same ... joined together by birth and the untimely deaths of our parents. The similarities that seemed to have been hiding for many years rose to the surface smothering the differences and like glue, joined us to face the rest of our lives together.

My big sister and I walked through two funerals arm in arm lifting each other up and holding on to each other when we’d succumb to the enormity of it all.

While settling the estate we saw each other three or four days a week. We’d meet with the attorneys then go out for coffee together. It was during these coffee trips that we began to re-tell the stories of our childhood and we refreshed each other's memory of those years. The many snapshots I had in my brain of events of our youth were sharpened and drawn into focus as I listened to my sister re-tell them.

-The time we called country western star Gene Autry long distance in California. He was my sister’s hero (when she was ten) and because I was the little sister I made the call at her insistence.
-The time Mom made us write letters to Trisha and Julie Nixon because she learned we were about the same age as the President daughters.
-The time in Canada when she and I and a few friends were allowed to take the fishing boat out by ourselves for the first time and we accidentally let our Dad’s prized rod and reel slip into the lake.
-I reminded her of the day of her break-up with the love of her life...the same day I got the lead in the senior class play, two equally momentous occasions. I didn't tell her my news because she was suffering so in the aftermath of the lost love. That night at a football game she found me with my friends. She pulled me from the group and put her arms around me and asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

These endless hours of talking went on and on and on as we worked through our grief together. That waiting room saga and those coffee chats were the best times of my life with my sister.

Now in our 50s, we make a point to have breakfast together once a month at least. And email is great. We're never out of touch. We’re still very different, she’s got two dogs at the moment and I’m planning my next beach vacation.

She’s been going to a gym regularly for years and I go sporadically. But, this morning she took me on a tour of her new gym and tomorrow I’ll sign up so I can spend some more time with her. I don't know what I'd do without her.

In the Blink of an Eye a brother and sister grow up - Redux

2010-09-30T11:34:00.000-04:00

First posted 04/08

1978
1982
1984
2006
2007
2008

In the blink of an eye.

Fear of Flying - Redux

2010-09-30T11:29:00.001-04:00

First posted 07/07

I don't like to fly, but I have two children; one lives in the midwest and one lives on the east coast, and since I live between them, I have no choice. I must overcome my fear of flying if I want to see my kids.

So, I fly. But each time I do, something happens that makes me very anxious. It's always nothing, but I make it into something in my mind, so that by the time I get on the plane I'm out of control with fear. I never show it, though. If you saw me get on a plane you'd think I was just an ordinary person doing what thousands of ordinary people do everyday. But inside, my heart is pounding and I'm a mess.

Here's what happened the last time I went to see my daughter.
I arrived two hours early for my 7AM flight, just like the Department of Homeland Security has advised us to do. Around 6:45 the gate person announced the flight would be delayed for two hours due to mechanical difficulties. I hate it when they tell me that. When they say mechanical difficulties I immediately begin to imagine an engine falling off because an under-paid and over-worked mechanic didn't tighten one screw. Or, the door latch isn't working properly and the door will explode open when we reach cruising altitude immediately sucking out anything and anyone not properly secured.

Of course in my smart mind, I'm hoping it's a broken wheel on the beverage cart, or the toilet is clogged, but it's never that easy in my irrational mind, which takes on a life of it's own, and I can't control the thoughts that form there.

About an hour later we're told the plane actually hasn't even arrived yet because the difficulties happened at another city and our delay would now be another hour. Great, another hour for my mind to imagine all sorts of disasters due to mechanical difficulties. Finally the plane did arrive and unfortunately since I was facing the window, I caught a quick glimpse of it, two propellers and all. Then there was another one hour delay for the "part" to arrive and be installed...food cart wheel, I'm hoping.

At 11AM the gate person said we could board the plane. With all the serious worrying I was doing, I hadn't noticed there were only about 20 people sitting around me waiting to get on my plane. When we boarded, we left the waiting area, walked down the enclosed boarding ramp and out onto the tarmac! I hate it when I have to board a plane that way. I hate to see the plane from the outside. If I only see the inside I can pretend I'm on a bus, but when I've seen it from the outside, two propellers and all, there's no chance of erasing that image from my irrational mind. I reached the stairway of the plane and saw that one propeller was being held in place by a bungee cord attached to the railing of the stairs to the plane. Doesn't that sound sort of crude to you? I mean, come on people, we're in the 21st century here, surely they have ways to keep propellers still with something more high-tech than a bungee cord? Were they afraid it would begin spinning on its own and take off, my mind wondered? See? These are the kinds of thoughts I can't control.

Anyway, I got on the very small plane and found my seat, directly across from the flight attendant. This was a good sign, I thought. I always look to the crew when I panic. They continue to be busy and nonchalant during each bump or strange sound. The flight attendant did the usual "in the case of an emergency" talk and then turned to me and the person sitting across from me and said, "You two are in the emergency seats and will be able to help me if I need you, right?" I didn't realize I was assigned that seat and would never have volunteered for it. I didn't want to make a fuss, because we had waited four hours just to get on the plane, so I kept quiet. We both nodded yes we would help, but my irrational mind was thinking, ah-huh, when hell freezes over.

Anyway, here's the big finish. All our seat belts were properly secured (the bungees were off and the propellers were spinning about two feet from my head outside my window) and we began taxiing down the runway.

It's about here in all my flights when I shut my eyes and pretend to be at peace. Ha! I'm really counting to 300 because I've found that's the number when the take off feeling is over and the plane begins to level off. It was a bumpy take off and I opened one eye to get that visual image of the cool, calm and collected flight attendant so I could get this plane and me off the ground without having a complete breakdown.

But what did I see? I was knee to knee with her (small plane, remember?) and saw that she had grabbed the sides of her seat with both hands. Her eyes were so tightly closed that her face was crunched up and she appeared to be praying! Yeah, praying! Okay sure, she probably wasn't praying and we made it to LaGuardia just fine, but I practically had to fly the plane myself (in my mind, but it's almost the same) because clearly I wasn't getting any help from the flight attendant who never left her seat or looked up from the book she was reading, except when she got on the intercom to tell us she wouldn't be leaving her seat to serve us anything due to the turbulence expected for the entire trip. Amen and Amen.

California or Bust - Redux

2010-09-30T11:27:00.000-04:00

First posted 07/07

I watched Keith Olberman's editorial on July 3 and was moved to respond with an email to the show filled with BRAVOS as he called for Bush and Cheney to resign. It's not a horrible thing, if the president resigns. What's horrible is 3,586 young men and women dying in this senseless war with more casualties each day.
I remember exactly where I was when Richard Nixon resigned, Reno, Nevada, August 9, 1974. My husband and I were on a month-long odyssey across the US in a renovated GMC van...from sea to shining sea. Practically newlyweds, we were on an adventure to find ourselves, define ourselves, and see the country. We lived in the back of the van with two sleeping bags, a regulation footlocker purchased at the Army Navy Surplus store for our clothes, a Coleman stove and cooler, a three foot tall canteen for water, and various pillows, blankets, first aid kits, books, magazines, maps and a 35 mm Minolta camera.
We left our apartment in Pittsburgh on August 1 and headed west with no particular path in mind...California or bust and back. Listening to the top hits of the 60's and early 70's on the radio, we motored through the Badlands of North Dakota, Mr. Rushmore, the Black Hills of Wyoming and Flagg Ranch; the Big Horn National Forest, the Rocky Mountains, Shoshone National Park and Yellowstone, where we witnessed the force of Old Faithful as it exploded from the ground, felt the heat of natural steaming pools bubbling like a pot on the stove among the giant evergreens, and stood in quiet acquiesence as a bear ambled across the road a mere 50 feet in front of us.
In Salt Lake City and Temple Square on a warm, clear Tuesday evening we listened to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir rehearse, a sublime moment to remember, and we swam, but mostly floated in the Great Salt Lake the next day. We were part of a cable car accident on Fisherman's Wharf and drove down Big Sur to Los Angeles with the majesty of the Pacific Ocean as our guide.
We visited Disneyland and Hollywood, and camped in Victorville, CA. In Las Vegas we saw a young Bill Cosby and The (original) Temptations. We hiked around the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam in 115 degree heat. We took the Cog Railroad up to Pike's Peak, where it was a chilly 45 degrees and visited the Garden of the Gods outside of Grand Junction, Colorado. We were in awe as we toured the Air Force Academy and Royal Gorge. We paid the most for gas on Big Sur at 75 cents/gallon, but 45 cents/gallon was the norm.
Dinners at the campgrounds were a wide variety of spam and cheese sandwiches, or canned chili on hot dogs, or just hot dogs, or burgers, fried potatoes and onions, chocolate pudding, nectarines, peaches and 7-Up. Once, Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae's were dinner and twice we treated ourselves to a night in a hotel and gourmet meal.
The best nights were at the campgrounds when we'd swim under the stars of the western sky where millions of twinkling orbs filled the galaxy and felt so close you could put a name on each and every one. Or, if it was too cold to swim, we'd get cozy, snuggling in our sleeping bags and play gin rummy.
Occasionally we'd hear snippets of news but mostly our radio was tuned to local farm reports or top 20 tunes. No Satellite or Sirius radio, no Internet, no email, no IM or cell phones, and no Paris Hiltons.
When I think back on this trip, Nixon's resignation is not the first, second or even the third thing that comes to my mind. I knew it was a big deal and I'm sure for a few moments as we learned the news we wondered what was about to happen. But, I remember thinking that the country could get back on course with the business at hand and not be distracted by the stubborn, elitist attitude of those in charge.

Tangerine Tea and Gumdrops Redux

2010-09-27T10:42:00.001-04:00

First posted 01/09

I've been in the teaching business for 20+ years and I've seen plenty of funny things, sad things, poignant things, and you know, just........ things.

Due to this vast experience, I'm good at quickly assessing a situation and acting appropriately without ticking off anybody. I'm smooth like that.

But today I guess I just wasn't on my game. While walking through the halls during my free period I noticed a student sitting on the floor outside a classroom. His hoodie covered most of his face and the rest of his head was buried in his knees he had pulled up to his chest and wrapped his arms around.

I always stop to talk to students who seem to be in places they shouldn't be, because you just never know what's up with kids these days.

Our conversation went like this:

Me: Hey, are you okay?
Him: (Slowly looking up from under the hoodie.) Yeah
Me: Do you need anything?
Him: Nope
Me: How about a glass of water...(and in a moment of insanity or stupidity, I said) or a cup of tea?
Him: (Thinking for a micro second) Yeah, a cup of tea would be nice.
Me: Okay

I'm into the Republic of Tea this winter and it just so happened that I brought a few tea bags of my new favorite flavor, tangerine, to school. So, I went to the English department office kitchen and made this kid a cup of tangerine tea.

It was at this moment that my fantasy-camp mind started charging up and I began thinking, who knows, maybe my cup of tea will be the life-changing event for this kid and someday he'll remember what I did for him and thank me on national TV.

Don't judge me...okay? I can't stop the fantasy camp once it gets going.

Anyway, as I made the tea I noticed a dish of gumdrops on the counter, dry and hard and leftover from the holidays, but who cared? This poor kid clearly needed a pick-me-up.

I thought I'll just take a few for him. He seemed like he was having a bad day...and you know, in my mind, the gumdrops would be the icing on the cake. In twenty years he would definitely want to name a building after me.

So out to the hall I went, all pleased with myself and served this kid tangerine tea and gumdrops to make his day a little brighter. 'Cause there's nothing like sugar to put the "bright" in a kid's day.

Please hold your applause until the very end.

I went back to my desk in the English office intent on tackling the mid-terms and mountain of papers I had to grade. Five minutes passed and suddenly the office door flew open and a fellow English teacher with my tea and my gumdrops in his hand literally stomped past me and into the kitchen. He threw the gumdrops in the garbage and tossed the tea in the sink.

Intuitive person that I am, I asked:

Me: Mr. X are you okay? What's wrong?
Mr. X: (Talking between clenched teeth) I threw a kid out of class for totally unacceptable behavior and told him to sit on the floor in the hall for a while. Then some teacher came by and gave him gumdrops and tea!!
Me: (With my best wide-eyed, concerned look thinking, it was TANGERINE tea) Really? Oh gee, Hmmm...

I lowered my head, put pencil to paper as fast as I could and started grading papers with a fury the likes of which I've never done before.

A punch of air filled the office as the door slammed shut.

The Driveway Redux

2010-09-27T10:31:00.002-04:00

First posted 06/06

Our driveway is 625 feet long from the front door to the road we live on. That’s the equivalent two football fields. It’s not paved, but it’s covered every other year with 20 tons of coarse limestone and fine gravel that’s painstakingly spread from the back of an enormous tractor trailer truck.

The gravel has to be replaced because over the course of a year or two, it disappears. I don’t know where it goes, but for the past 25 years, about 250 tons of gravel has been spread on it, yet it’s still just one long driveway with a layer of gravel.

I don’t begrudge one single piece of disappearing gravel because that driveway represents the comings and goings of our life. The last leg of our newborn son Mike’s journey home from the hospital was on the driveway. The guests to the christening party, birthday parties, holidays and sleepovers came down the driveway to our house. From the stroller, to the little red wagon, to the tricycle, to the training wheels on the big bike, the driveway was a playground, a basketball court, a soccer arena, and a safe place for a little boy to discover the wonders of nature.

With every trip down the driveway I’m reminded of these times of new beginnings and first steps. The first trip down the driveway with Mike for kindergarten found me gripping his hand as hard as he was gripping mine. The driveway led him to the huge yellow bus and exciting experiences that lay ahead for him in school. Each new school year brought a level of independence to Mike’s walk down the driveway-from holding my hand, to tolerating my accompaniment, and finally, to solo trips while I watched from the front steps.

From that vantage point I had a bird’s eye view of a blossoming athlete and outdoorsman. The walk to the bus became the jog to the bus and then, the sprint to the bus. In elementary school, no trip to the bus was complete without a stop at the creek that flowed under the bridge halfway down the driveway to check for nests, birds’ eggs, paw prints or feathers.

Soon, we were buying tents, camping gear and flashlights so Mike could explore these outdoor wonders at night. Then, hiking gear and mountain bikes were added to the mix and summer camps in the mountains replaced lifeguarding at local pool. The driver’s license brought a new independence, and suddenly, the driveway became the first leg of many eventful journeys past the bus stop. The gravel was my friend, as the crunching sound at midnight told me he was home and safe from a camping trip, football game, or a night out with friends.

College came all too suddenly and once again Mike was on his way down the driveway to yet another adventure. We were with him that time as the van inched it’s way over the gravel, filled to capacity with gym bags, athletic shoes, extra long sheets, lamps, towels, and of course, camping and hiking gear. We paused for just a moment as Mike took a long look at the creek and then continued on, looking straight ahead, watching the road through tear filled eyes.

Four years passed quickly, and the Environmental Science degree and desk job followed in short succession. A new Jeep clipped up and down the driveway. The Jeep was perfect for camping and hiking gear on weekends and was a respectable vehicle for the workweek. But, it wasn’t long before Mike explained to us that the desk job was not for him, and frankly, we were not surprised. He yearned to be outdoors and had applied for a job as a track and field coach at a small Division III college in California. He was hired sight unseen and was to be in California within a week. A flurry of activities followed, culminating on the driveway at sunrise the following Monday. The Jeep was replaced with a used Cherokee, and a trailer hitch pulled the Uhaul filled with Mike’s worldly possessions.

The driveway and the world awaited him as we gave him last minute advice. I handed him a small package with instructions to open it later and hugged him too hard. With a hug, a handshake and a pat on the back from his Dad, he was off. We watched as the Cherokee crept down the driveway and, we were not surprised to see the red glow of the break lights come on over the creek… the Cherokee paused for just a few seconds and then picked up speed as it rolled up the driveway, past the bus stop and out of sight.
The package? Homemade chocolate chip cookies, a turkey feather, and a GPS compass…so Mike can always find his way to the driveway and home.

Mouse in the House - Redux

2010-09-27T10:27:00.000-04:00

First posted 10/07

About six years ago we had a deluge of mice in our house over a twelve hour period. I think it was because we were having our windows replaced and something was stirred up, a nest perhaps, or the window spaces were empty for long periods of time during the day as the installers prepped and then set the new windows in place. We live in the woods where there are lots of critters and we do our best to keep everyone in their natural habitat. But, for whatever reason there were mice on this particular fall day...lots of them. And by lots, I mean any number greater than zero.

I saw the first one while I was getting ready for work at 5 AM when it ran in front of me into the closet. I yelled a few bad words because I'm not a screaming, helpless, jump on a chair, kinda gal. I say bad words, stomp my feet and say more bad words, until I get somebody’s attention and a discussion begins on how we will get rid of the rodent. It usually goes like this:

Me: THERE’S A %$#$@ MOUSE IN THE HOUSE! GET the &%$#ing thing OUTTA HERE NOW!
Him: Okay! I'm on it! Where are the traps? Do we have traps? Where’s the peanut butter? What did you do with my gloves? Did you put them in this drawer? Oh! Here’s the receipt I’ve been looking for from my new watch. I hope it's not too late for the rebate. And scotch tape! I needed scotch tape yesterday. Did we always keep it here? And look, the menu from the pizza place I like. Do you want to get a pizza tonight for dinner?
Me: HEY! The mouse?
Him: Oh yeah.

That evening we set one trap in the bathroom to catch the little shit (LS) and went to bed. Peanut butter is our favorite bait but since someone's allergic, I set all the traps. This one was set and put in its place on the floor near where the LS had disappeared earlier that day. We got into bed, turned out the lights and settled in for the night.

All was quiet for about 5 minutes and then.......SNAP!
SNAP?
Did we hear SNAP?
We leaped from the bed, turned on the light and ...HOORAY!...SUCCESS!...we got him...the mouse...in the trap (I'll spare you the details.)...in less than five minutes! WE were heroes! WE did it! WE caught and destroyed the intruder; our home was safe and free of mice. No more furry things scurrying across the floor squeezing into spaces no wider than the space between the tines on a fork.
We did a little dead-mouse-happy-dance and basked for a moment in our superiority over the rodent world.
The trap with mouse was placed in a paper sack, the sack was carted down two flights of stairs to the garage, tossed in the garbage and the problem was solved. Bravo us!

But, just in case, I baited another trap with peanut butter, he set it on the bathroom floor and we went to bed. (Just to be sure.)
Lights off, covers on ... silence...then...
SNAP!
What?
Another SNAP?!
Well, okay then, we got the other one! Good for us, we out-smarted them both. They thought they'd lose only one comrade, but we got them both. Yeah, we're good. We did another little happy dance.
Mouse was placed in a paper sack; the sack was carted down two flights of stairs to the garage, tossed in the garbage and the problem-was-solved. End-of-story.

But, just in case, I baited another trap, he set it on the bathroom floor and we went to bed. Lights off, covers on....silence...drifting off to sleep and......SNAP! Oh... well...hmmmm...another mouse.
That's good.
Okay, there were three and we got them all.
Me: (from bed under the covers) “Good job Honey,"
Him: Thanks.
No dancing.
Mouse was placed in a paper sack; the sack was carted down two flights of stairs to the garage, tossed in the garbage and the problem-was-solved. Case closed.

But, just to be on the safe side, he baited (with gloves on) another trap set it on the bathroom floor and came to bed. Silence....holding our breath we tried to go to sleep ... until ... another ... snap.
Sh@#$%, Da$%#$, S^%-%$-B^%$#!!!. Lights back on...dead mouse, big freakin' deal. In the sack, two flights of stairs down to the garage, in the garbage.
This wasn't fun anymore. Our house was de-moused enough now. I just wanted to get some sleep! I wanted to sleep without the trap-snap-garage crap. I had used up all my bad words.

But, three more times that night we heard the SNAP! and there were three more trips to the garage until finally all was quiet and we fell asleep.
In the garbage the next morning were seven paper sacks, with seven sprung traps, holding seven dead mice. Quite an eventful night.