It's probably very telling that I can't think of an answer to this question. Oh sure, I request help for a number of minor things... asking my husband for help with my car, asking a co-worker for help with a work problem that I can't seem to solve. But when it comes to the important, major things I tend to flounder and struggle along on my own until I'm way past my breaking point. I was literally at the end of my rope both times I finally broke down and went to marriage and family counselors. I was helped in the long run; but if I could only learn to take action and ask for assistance as soon as I need it rather than waiting, I might avoid a lot of misery in the meantime.
A case in point when I should have asked for help but didn't took place in December when my mother was hospitalized. Being a blind, elderly lady, she definitely needed an advocate with her in the hospital at all times. I'm the only family member living in the area, but I was balancing a full-time job, not enough time off, and a first grandchild about to be born all at the same time. Not to mention the fact that it was just a couple weeks before Christmas. I was overwhelmed, stressed out, and stretched beyond my limits. My brother and sister-in-law, both retired, were at their home up in Michigan, calling me on a daily basis and asking for updates on mom, but not once offering to come down and help. My husband was urging me to ask them for assistance, and I was considering it but never did. So what held me back? Did I think that:
a. Asking for help is a sign of weakness and I should instead be superwoman and handle everything on my own or
b. Asking for help inconveniences other people; things really aren't that bad and I should make every attempt to handle the situation rather than expecting them to go to any trouble.
Answer a just isn't me at all; I have no illusions that I'm superwoman. But I do recognize myself in answer b. I hate to trouble others, to the point of being ridiculously unfair to myself. In the case involving my mom, I'd also have to throw in the factor of past problems between me and my brother, making me more fearful of upsetting the delicate applecart between us yet again. As it turns out, he would surely have rejected my request for help. It was during the same week that he attended a long-awaited reunion with a group of 1960s activitists he admires. He never would have given up that opportunity. Had I asked and he turned me down, I would have added an extra load of anger and bitterness onto the already huge burden I was carrying at the time.
I guess in the future, for my own peace of mind, I need to go ahead and just take the risk. For my own mental health, I should ask for the help I need no matter what the situation is or who I'm asking, and let the cards fall where they may. Easy words to say; not so easy to follow through.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
"The beginning of a relationship, when just being in each other's presence is enough, no activity is necessary. We've all been there, and if you haven't been yet, your time is coming. If you're young, hang in there, if you're old, take a chance, love is worth the risk." ~ Bob Lefsetz Describe a time when you risked loving.
I doubt I’m unique when I say that my first true love was probably the riskiest. It was scary to open up and make myself vulnerable for the very first time and risky to expose myself both emotionally and physically. Uttering the three words “I love you” seemed perilous, as though I was jumping off a cliff.
I met Bob J. when I was an 18-year-old college freshman and he was a sophomore. We were together for almost two years, from 1972 to 1974. It seemed like a long time back then. He was from coal-mining country in West Virginia. His dad worked in the mines and Bob came from a hardscrabble, Italian family with seven children. Several of the boys’ names rhymed—Larry, Terry, Gary—along with Bob, Rick and Billy. Additionally, there was the doted-on baby girl of the family, Lynn. When I met her she was starting to show signs of being quite spoiled and I’ve often wondered what kind of woman she grew up to be with all those older brothers. Bob was the oldest of the brood, and he took his position as role model for his younger siblings quite seriously. The first in his family to get a scholarship and go to college, he was successful in his quest to be a good example. The next two brothers in line, Rick and Terry, followed in his exact footsteps and I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of them did as well.
Bob first approached me in the dorm cafeteria and oddly enough, I really don’t really remember our first date. I know that we saw the movie “Billy Jack” early on—we went to the movies frequently. We quickly became inseparable. Bob was a chemical engineering major and had a rigorous class schedule, so we studied together a lot, which was definitely beneficial for me. Sometimes he’d get exceptionally frustrated with a math problem or equation he was working on, and he’d suddenly get up and knock his desk chair over, or throw all the books off his desk onto the floor. It was startling, but I never saw these little fits of rage aimed at people—only at things. He loved intramural sports and played on soccer and baseball teams; he also played racketball regularly.
For some reason, Bob was a controversial figure with my family and friends and I never quite figured out why. It was mostly the males that didn’t like him. Maybe it was his intense, competitive nature when it came to sports and academics. My brother didn’t care for him from the first time they met—it was winter, and Bob picked up a snowball and heaved it at Mike. I knew that he was just trying to “break the ice” and get my brother to horse around with him like guys tend to do, but Mike thought he was being picked on. My parents definitely disliked him. Mainly because they thought we were too young for such an intense relationship; but I also knew that Bob’s long, wild, out-of-control hair probably labeled him as a “hippie” in their minds. However, Bob was an R.A. in our dorm and he had to pass a stringent selection process in order to be chosen for the job. He came across as congenial and responsible to people who got to know him.
Bob came out to visit me in Montana the summer I worked in Glacier National Park and while we were apart he wrote lots of letters, always starting them with the words, “Dear little one.” He was attentive and kind, buying me flowers and record albums, and paying lots of compliments. He and I had the same taste in music and we listened to the Moody Blues, Cat Stevens, and Gordon Lightfoot as we studied. We went to see Neil Young in concert at Cobo Hall in Detroit. Bob liked to play the guitar; I listened as he practiced playing "American Pie." I felt loved and respected and downright euphoric when I was with him. I went to West Virginia to meet his family. They lived in a tiny, no frills house, but they all seemed happy and friendly, making me feel very welcome. His Italian grandmother, speaking very broken English, embarrassed me when she asked us when we were getting married. The truth was, we had talked about marriage, agreeing to wait until we were out of college.
I took it extremely hard when Bob broke up with me during my junior year. He told me he wanted to date other girls. In hindsight, at least he had the courtesy to be honest and direct with me. Interestingly, it was a rocky break-up for both of us. He got upset when I briefly dated another guy on his floor and oddly, he even protested when I agreed to sew some patches on the jeans of another guy he knew who had just broken up with his girlfriend. Somehow, through it all, we still remained friends for quite awhile afterwards, only losing touch after I moved out to California in the summer of 1976. I found his brother Rick on Facebook and attempted to get back in touch with Bob once, but was disappointed when my attempt was rebuffed. I figure he either has a jealous wife, or he’s the type that wants to leave the past in the past. Regardless, in the treacherous waters of first love, I consider myself lucky that Bob was “the one.”
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Don't think too hard... go with the first memory that comes to mind: The word is FLASHLIGHT. 10 minutes. Write.
When I was six years old, my parents hired a contractor and began building a new house in Farmington. This would be a big change for our family, moving from the country where we lived in a converted street car on my grandparents' apple orchard to a ranch-style, brick house smack dab in the middle of suburbia. My parents kept a close eye on the construction of the house, visiting frequently to check on the progress. I remember tagging along on a few of those visits. My brother and I were excited about our new home, particularly about the fact that we would each have our own bedroom. Our mom and dad showed Mike and I where our bedrooms were located and pointed out the bathroom across the hall that would be ours as well.
One day when we visited, the foundation and framing had been completed and the plumbing and electrical was just being started. As I wandered aimlessly back to my bedroom/bathroom area, I peered curiously down the black hole in the floor where the toilet would soon be mounted. There, staring back up at me, was the eerie, creepy face of a teenage boy. It was every little girls' nightmare (probably big girls as well!), and I was so startled all I could do was gasp. As I stood there, petrified, I was temporarily blinded by a flashlight that played across my face and I could hear the sound of muffled conversation and laughter coming from the boys in the crawl space under the house.
Finally springing into action, I ran to tell my parents. I was so shaken up that I began crying after getting over the initial shock. Of course, by the time my dad took a look for himself, the boys had high-tailed it out of there. We later found out that several of the newly-constructed homes in the neighborhood had been vandalized by a group of teenagers; our house luckily never sustained any damage.
From then on, I've always been a little creeped out about windows at night, ensuring that the blinds and shades are tightly drawn. It's my biggest nightmare that, once again, a face will be peering at me from out of the inky darkness!
One day when we visited, the foundation and framing had been completed and the plumbing and electrical was just being started. As I wandered aimlessly back to my bedroom/bathroom area, I peered curiously down the black hole in the floor where the toilet would soon be mounted. There, staring back up at me, was the eerie, creepy face of a teenage boy. It was every little girls' nightmare (probably big girls as well!), and I was so startled all I could do was gasp. As I stood there, petrified, I was temporarily blinded by a flashlight that played across my face and I could hear the sound of muffled conversation and laughter coming from the boys in the crawl space under the house.
Finally springing into action, I ran to tell my parents. I was so shaken up that I began crying after getting over the initial shock. Of course, by the time my dad took a look for himself, the boys had high-tailed it out of there. We later found out that several of the newly-constructed homes in the neighborhood had been vandalized by a group of teenagers; our house luckily never sustained any damage.
From then on, I've always been a little creeped out about windows at night, ensuring that the blinds and shades are tightly drawn. It's my biggest nightmare that, once again, a face will be peering at me from out of the inky darkness!
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Write about the softest thing.
Without a doubt, the softest thing I've touched recently is baby Aubree's skin. I've noticed that when my mother holds Aubree, she feels for a bare arm or leg and a smile of delight crosses her face as she strokes her. She may not be able to see the baby's sweet face, but touching her soft skin is the next best thing. The smooth, creamy plumpness is irresistable.
How to describe its softness? Well, Aubree's skin is softer than the pastel watercolor painting that hangs on our bedroom wall and it's softer than the feathery light down jacket I received for Christmas. It's softer than the bread dough that I kneaded for 15 minutes when I got ambitious and made homemade cinnamon rolls over the holidays. It's softer than the white Wonder bread and whipped marshmallow that I used long ago in making my daughters' peanut butter sandwiches. Its softness even competes with the downy fur of Bun-bun, my daughter Julie's pet rabbit. That's saying an awful lot, because Bun-bun is incredibly velvety.
I guess if I could put my hand in a batch of spun cotton candy, minus the stickiness, it might match the softness of Aubree's skin. Or if I could hold a white, puffy Cumulus cloud in my hands, it might be just as soft. But I'll never know for sure.
I think purity and innocence must be the secret ingredients in the baby skin recipe, causing it to win the contest for the softest thing on earth.
How to describe its softness? Well, Aubree's skin is softer than the pastel watercolor painting that hangs on our bedroom wall and it's softer than the feathery light down jacket I received for Christmas. It's softer than the bread dough that I kneaded for 15 minutes when I got ambitious and made homemade cinnamon rolls over the holidays. It's softer than the white Wonder bread and whipped marshmallow that I used long ago in making my daughters' peanut butter sandwiches. Its softness even competes with the downy fur of Bun-bun, my daughter Julie's pet rabbit. That's saying an awful lot, because Bun-bun is incredibly velvety.
I guess if I could put my hand in a batch of spun cotton candy, minus the stickiness, it might match the softness of Aubree's skin. Or if I could hold a white, puffy Cumulus cloud in my hands, it might be just as soft. But I'll never know for sure.
I think purity and innocence must be the secret ingredients in the baby skin recipe, causing it to win the contest for the softest thing on earth.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Write about something you can't deny.
I can't deny that I did some foolish, risky things as a teenager and "young adult." I admit that my behavior even bordered on being downright dangerous at times. (With the possible exception of the Amish or maybe the Mennonites, most adults can probably grudgingly admit to the same!) I certainly did my share of partying a little too hard, driving when I had too much to drink, and trusting total strangers when it could have had horrible consequences.
However, when I was 18 and a freshman at Michigan State, I found myself in a bad situation that was completely beyond my control. I decided to spend my spring break in Florida and flew down to my grandparents' house in Clermont, near Orlando, where I was meeting my cousin Audrey. She was also a college freshman, attending Florida State. We'd never been all that close; having opposite personalities, we had many disagreements over the years when our families got together. But since we were both in Florida for spring break, we decided to get together and spend a couple days with our grandparents, then drive Audrey's car to Daytona Beach, where we'd stay with some friends of hers who had an apartment there.
Our plans went off without a hitch and a good time was had by all in Daytona... until it was time to leave. Audrey had hooked up with a boyfriend from college, and he talked her into driving directly back to school rather than going back to our grandparents' house. They assured me they'd give me a ride to the Daytona bus station where I could catch a bus back to Clermont. I could then get a taxi for the short ride from the bus station to the house. Simple, right? I didn't have a good feeling about this change of plans, but what could I do? They were insistent. True to form, I felt double-crossed by my cousin, just as I had so many times before when we were little.
After being dropped off at the bus station, my bad feelings were confirmed. I was informed very matter-of-factly by an unconcerned employee at the window that there was no longer a bus going to Clermont; that particular run had been discontinued several months prior. My grandparents didn't drive anymore and I certainly didn't know anybody else I could call. Those were the days before cell phones, so there was no way I could reach my cousin and tell her to turn around and get her selfish butt back to Daytona! I took a look at my dwindling funds and called a taxi service from a pay phone, fighting against a feeling of panic rising within me. Sure enough, just as I feared, the taxi ride for such a long distance was much more than I could afford.
So I did the only other thing I could think of. I summoned up my courage, walked out to the highway with my backpack slung over my shoulder, and stuck out my thumb. It wasn't long before a middle-aged traveling salesman with a friendly demeanor picked me up. He was very talkative, seemed nice, and soon put me at ease. There were just two problems. He was only going half the distance I needed to go and.... hadn't I heard about the serial killer who was murdering girls hitchhiking in the central Florida area? I knew by the concerned look on Mr. Salesman's face that he was completely serious. In the blink of an eye, my unplanned adventure had suddenly turned sinister. He even said if it weren't for the fact that he had a business meeting later in the day that he just couldn't miss, he'd gladly go out of his way to take me the entire distance. By the time we reached the town where he lived, I was terrified and could tell he genuinely felt bad and had some serious misgivings as he dropped me off.
Once again I found myself out on the highway, but this time my thumb was shaking badly as I prayed that someone nice with good intentions would take pity on me and pick me up quickly. Suddenly, a squad car came around a bend in the road. The officer pulled up slowly beside me, rolling down the passenger window and shaking his head in absolute disbelief for a full minute before asking, "Don't you know how dangerous it is out here?" At that point, the last tiny bit of courage I had in my body melted away and I began to sob. The officer told me to get in the car and asked for my ID. He told me he was checking to make sure I wasn't a runaway. With tears streaming down my face, I explained my plight. He told me that he could take me only as far as the county line, then he'd have to figure out another way to get me where I was headed.
After driving awhile, he pulled off to the shoulder and we came to a stop right in front of the sign for the next county. As we sat in silence, I noticed he was intently scrutinizing each car that passed by. Suddenly he turned on the siren and with lights flashing, he pulled out behind a full-size luxury sedan occupied by an older couple. He could tell by their license plate that they were from Clermont and apparently he figured they looked "safe." Initially perplexed at being pulled over, they listened to the officer's explanation of the situation and agreed to give me a ride to Clermont.
I have to say I was greatly relieved as I settled into their back seat.... but one more loophole reared its ugly head in my saga. During our conversation, the nice couple asked for my grandparents' names... and it turned out that the lady worked as a teller where they banked. Wouldn't it figure? She knew my grandfather well as the blind, elderly man she often waited on. Once again I panicked; I did not want my grandparents to know about the horrible situation I had been in. I swallowed all my pride and asked her to please not tell my grandfather that she had met me. He would worry himself sick over my escapade. She told me she understood and wouldn't mention a word.
We pulled into my grandparents' driveway and as luck would have it, I could see my grandmother peering out through the slats of the Venetian blinds in the livingroom. As I entered the house, she asked me in utter surprise, "What happened to Audrey and how did you happen to get a ride with the lady from the bank?" I explained that Audrey needed to go back to school sooner than she had expected. That much was true. Then I told a lie--that I had taken the bus from Daytona and when I arrived at the Clermont bus station, the "bank lady" had struck up a conversation with me and realizing she knew my grandparents, had offered me a ride to the house. The explanation seemed to satisfy her. As I sunk into an easy chair, I relaxed for the first time in many hours, relieved that my ordeal was over. And vowing never to let Audrey railroad me again!
As a postscript to my story, I did get a certain amount of revenge a few years later. Audrey came to live for a short while in Boulder, Colorado when I was there. We saw each other a few times and made arrangements to go out together one night. That same night, my roommates made plans to see the movie "Pink Flamingos," a cult flick that I also wanted to see. Hmmmm, should I spend the evening with Audrey during which she'd probably meet someone and leave me stranded, or should I go out and have fun with my roommates? I did something very uncharacteristic for me and stood Audrey up for the better offer--the same thing she had done to me several times. I'm not proud of it, and if it was anyone else I wouldn't have done it. My mother always told me that "two wrongs don't make a right." But sometimes it's awfully tempting to "give someone a taste of their own medicine!"
However, when I was 18 and a freshman at Michigan State, I found myself in a bad situation that was completely beyond my control. I decided to spend my spring break in Florida and flew down to my grandparents' house in Clermont, near Orlando, where I was meeting my cousin Audrey. She was also a college freshman, attending Florida State. We'd never been all that close; having opposite personalities, we had many disagreements over the years when our families got together. But since we were both in Florida for spring break, we decided to get together and spend a couple days with our grandparents, then drive Audrey's car to Daytona Beach, where we'd stay with some friends of hers who had an apartment there.
Our plans went off without a hitch and a good time was had by all in Daytona... until it was time to leave. Audrey had hooked up with a boyfriend from college, and he talked her into driving directly back to school rather than going back to our grandparents' house. They assured me they'd give me a ride to the Daytona bus station where I could catch a bus back to Clermont. I could then get a taxi for the short ride from the bus station to the house. Simple, right? I didn't have a good feeling about this change of plans, but what could I do? They were insistent. True to form, I felt double-crossed by my cousin, just as I had so many times before when we were little.
After being dropped off at the bus station, my bad feelings were confirmed. I was informed very matter-of-factly by an unconcerned employee at the window that there was no longer a bus going to Clermont; that particular run had been discontinued several months prior. My grandparents didn't drive anymore and I certainly didn't know anybody else I could call. Those were the days before cell phones, so there was no way I could reach my cousin and tell her to turn around and get her selfish butt back to Daytona! I took a look at my dwindling funds and called a taxi service from a pay phone, fighting against a feeling of panic rising within me. Sure enough, just as I feared, the taxi ride for such a long distance was much more than I could afford.
So I did the only other thing I could think of. I summoned up my courage, walked out to the highway with my backpack slung over my shoulder, and stuck out my thumb. It wasn't long before a middle-aged traveling salesman with a friendly demeanor picked me up. He was very talkative, seemed nice, and soon put me at ease. There were just two problems. He was only going half the distance I needed to go and.... hadn't I heard about the serial killer who was murdering girls hitchhiking in the central Florida area? I knew by the concerned look on Mr. Salesman's face that he was completely serious. In the blink of an eye, my unplanned adventure had suddenly turned sinister. He even said if it weren't for the fact that he had a business meeting later in the day that he just couldn't miss, he'd gladly go out of his way to take me the entire distance. By the time we reached the town where he lived, I was terrified and could tell he genuinely felt bad and had some serious misgivings as he dropped me off.
Once again I found myself out on the highway, but this time my thumb was shaking badly as I prayed that someone nice with good intentions would take pity on me and pick me up quickly. Suddenly, a squad car came around a bend in the road. The officer pulled up slowly beside me, rolling down the passenger window and shaking his head in absolute disbelief for a full minute before asking, "Don't you know how dangerous it is out here?" At that point, the last tiny bit of courage I had in my body melted away and I began to sob. The officer told me to get in the car and asked for my ID. He told me he was checking to make sure I wasn't a runaway. With tears streaming down my face, I explained my plight. He told me that he could take me only as far as the county line, then he'd have to figure out another way to get me where I was headed.
After driving awhile, he pulled off to the shoulder and we came to a stop right in front of the sign for the next county. As we sat in silence, I noticed he was intently scrutinizing each car that passed by. Suddenly he turned on the siren and with lights flashing, he pulled out behind a full-size luxury sedan occupied by an older couple. He could tell by their license plate that they were from Clermont and apparently he figured they looked "safe." Initially perplexed at being pulled over, they listened to the officer's explanation of the situation and agreed to give me a ride to Clermont.
I have to say I was greatly relieved as I settled into their back seat.... but one more loophole reared its ugly head in my saga. During our conversation, the nice couple asked for my grandparents' names... and it turned out that the lady worked as a teller where they banked. Wouldn't it figure? She knew my grandfather well as the blind, elderly man she often waited on. Once again I panicked; I did not want my grandparents to know about the horrible situation I had been in. I swallowed all my pride and asked her to please not tell my grandfather that she had met me. He would worry himself sick over my escapade. She told me she understood and wouldn't mention a word.
We pulled into my grandparents' driveway and as luck would have it, I could see my grandmother peering out through the slats of the Venetian blinds in the livingroom. As I entered the house, she asked me in utter surprise, "What happened to Audrey and how did you happen to get a ride with the lady from the bank?" I explained that Audrey needed to go back to school sooner than she had expected. That much was true. Then I told a lie--that I had taken the bus from Daytona and when I arrived at the Clermont bus station, the "bank lady" had struck up a conversation with me and realizing she knew my grandparents, had offered me a ride to the house. The explanation seemed to satisfy her. As I sunk into an easy chair, I relaxed for the first time in many hours, relieved that my ordeal was over. And vowing never to let Audrey railroad me again!
As a postscript to my story, I did get a certain amount of revenge a few years later. Audrey came to live for a short while in Boulder, Colorado when I was there. We saw each other a few times and made arrangements to go out together one night. That same night, my roommates made plans to see the movie "Pink Flamingos," a cult flick that I also wanted to see. Hmmmm, should I spend the evening with Audrey during which she'd probably meet someone and leave me stranded, or should I go out and have fun with my roommates? I did something very uncharacteristic for me and stood Audrey up for the better offer--the same thing she had done to me several times. I'm not proud of it, and if it was anyone else I wouldn't have done it. My mother always told me that "two wrongs don't make a right." But sometimes it's awfully tempting to "give someone a taste of their own medicine!"
Thursday, January 26, 2012
When did you know you were in trouble?
Besides spilling drinks at the table, the other thing that yanked my dad's chain when we were little was to wake him up too early on weekend mornings. He was a hard worker who rose before daybreak every weekday morning, so Saturdays and Sundays were meant for sleeping in until at least 8:00.
My brother was usually the first in the family to awaken, and on Saturday mornings he'd get up promptly at 7:00 am to watch Deputy Dawg on TV without fail, followed by Yogi Bear at 7:30. When he was too young to tell time, the rest of us were puzzled by how he seemed to have this sixth sense about knowing when the show was starting. Come to find out, he'd listen for the "warning bell" at Franklin Products, the factory behind the fence in our backyard. When that bell went off for the workers, it was a signal to Mike that Deputy Dawg would be following closely behind.
In those days we had just one small black and white TV in our house, and it was located on a rolling brass stand in the livingroom. Unfortunately, our parents' bedroom shared a wall with the livingroom. The TV was luckily on the opposite side of the room, but it was still too close for comfort. Mike knew to turn the volume low on those early weekend mornings. It wasn't too much later that I'd get up, and that's when the trouble often started.
It usually wasn't a deliberate thing--we didn't know we were getting too loud. Sure, we had our share of arguments that escalated until they incurred dad's wrath. But most of the time we wouldn't realize until it was too late that while we played, our voices had steadily increased in volume. Or we'd miss what Yogi was saying, so we'd turn up the sound just a hair, or so we thought! Our signal that trouble was on its way was the sudden thud of our dad's bare feet hitting the bedroom floor and the menacing sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the short hallway. My dad slept in boxer shorts and a sleeveless white T-shirt, and I can still picture him storming into the livingroom red-faced, pointing his finger and yelling at us to BE QUIET! He usually threw in the threat of a spanking with the warning. He had white, skinny legs with knobby knees, the type that my husband refers to as "chicken legs." The vision brings a smile now when I think about it. But back then we knew better than to utter a word, and after his "warnings" things suddenly got very quiet. For awhile, anyway.
Looking back, I was never truly afraid of my dad even though I definitely knew he'd spank us when things got out of hand. Even at that young age, I somehow understood that everyone had certain buttons that you just didn't want to push intentionally. I also knew without a doubt that he loved us. Even on Saturday mornings before 8:00 am.
My brother was usually the first in the family to awaken, and on Saturday mornings he'd get up promptly at 7:00 am to watch Deputy Dawg on TV without fail, followed by Yogi Bear at 7:30. When he was too young to tell time, the rest of us were puzzled by how he seemed to have this sixth sense about knowing when the show was starting. Come to find out, he'd listen for the "warning bell" at Franklin Products, the factory behind the fence in our backyard. When that bell went off for the workers, it was a signal to Mike that Deputy Dawg would be following closely behind.
In those days we had just one small black and white TV in our house, and it was located on a rolling brass stand in the livingroom. Unfortunately, our parents' bedroom shared a wall with the livingroom. The TV was luckily on the opposite side of the room, but it was still too close for comfort. Mike knew to turn the volume low on those early weekend mornings. It wasn't too much later that I'd get up, and that's when the trouble often started.
It usually wasn't a deliberate thing--we didn't know we were getting too loud. Sure, we had our share of arguments that escalated until they incurred dad's wrath. But most of the time we wouldn't realize until it was too late that while we played, our voices had steadily increased in volume. Or we'd miss what Yogi was saying, so we'd turn up the sound just a hair, or so we thought! Our signal that trouble was on its way was the sudden thud of our dad's bare feet hitting the bedroom floor and the menacing sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the short hallway. My dad slept in boxer shorts and a sleeveless white T-shirt, and I can still picture him storming into the livingroom red-faced, pointing his finger and yelling at us to BE QUIET! He usually threw in the threat of a spanking with the warning. He had white, skinny legs with knobby knees, the type that my husband refers to as "chicken legs." The vision brings a smile now when I think about it. But back then we knew better than to utter a word, and after his "warnings" things suddenly got very quiet. For awhile, anyway.
Looking back, I was never truly afraid of my dad even though I definitely knew he'd spank us when things got out of hand. Even at that young age, I somehow understood that everyone had certain buttons that you just didn't want to push intentionally. I also knew without a doubt that he loved us. Even on Saturday mornings before 8:00 am.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
What do you NOT collect?
I do NOT collect stuffed animals. Oh sure, if you go upstairs in my house, look around and open the closets, it may appear otherwise. But they certainly don't belong to me! In my mind, the road to hell is probably lined with stuffed animals.
My mom tells me I was scared of them as a child--something about the furriness. She put a stuffed bear in the playpen with me and watched me crawl as fast as my little legs would pemit to the opposite corner, panic-stricken and refusing to go near it. When I was about 11 years old and we redecorated my bedroom, I decided it would be cute to have a cuddly stuffed animal on my bed and added one to my Christmas wish list. My mother bought a giant, hard-bodied pink and white stuffed poodle with long, rubbery black eyelashes. Nothing remotely cuddly about that! I should have specified a teddy bear....
After I had children of my own, they predictably received stuffed animals galore as gifts. They'd play with them for approximately ten minutes tops and then they'd end up in the closets, taking up prime real estate. I once embarked on a plan to surreptitiously spirit them away, one at a time, to the trash. Of course, my very first attempt was the day my youngest daughter happened to open the garbage can. Loudly protesting, she rescued the poor thing, lovingly placing it back in her closet to be further ignored.
High up on the wall in my oldest daughter's childhood bedroom is a shelf crammed full with her collection of smaller stuffed animals. Don't let their fluffy cuteness fool you--they're annoyingly evil, collecting dust and staring with beady, soulless eyes. The closet is even worse. My daughter's husband is extra skilled at those carnival games where you toss a ring or shoot a plastic gun. When they were dating he won many enormous stuffed animals as prizes, proudly presenting them to Michelle. She'd bring them home and, despite the fact that she's married and has a residence of her own now, there they still sit in the closet. There's an oh-so-natural gigantic purple monkey; a nature-defying colossal pink gorilla; a mammoth bright red mystery animal of some sort that, try as I might, I can't seem to identify; and an enormous, buck-toothed blue rabbit, among many others. I think the rabbit must be multiplying in there when I'm not looking. I swear the pile is inching ever closer to the ceiling...
And don't even get me started on those people who cram the rear decks of their cars with hideous stuffed animal menageries! I shudder to think of it.
My mom tells me I was scared of them as a child--something about the furriness. She put a stuffed bear in the playpen with me and watched me crawl as fast as my little legs would pemit to the opposite corner, panic-stricken and refusing to go near it. When I was about 11 years old and we redecorated my bedroom, I decided it would be cute to have a cuddly stuffed animal on my bed and added one to my Christmas wish list. My mother bought a giant, hard-bodied pink and white stuffed poodle with long, rubbery black eyelashes. Nothing remotely cuddly about that! I should have specified a teddy bear....
After I had children of my own, they predictably received stuffed animals galore as gifts. They'd play with them for approximately ten minutes tops and then they'd end up in the closets, taking up prime real estate. I once embarked on a plan to surreptitiously spirit them away, one at a time, to the trash. Of course, my very first attempt was the day my youngest daughter happened to open the garbage can. Loudly protesting, she rescued the poor thing, lovingly placing it back in her closet to be further ignored.
High up on the wall in my oldest daughter's childhood bedroom is a shelf crammed full with her collection of smaller stuffed animals. Don't let their fluffy cuteness fool you--they're annoyingly evil, collecting dust and staring with beady, soulless eyes. The closet is even worse. My daughter's husband is extra skilled at those carnival games where you toss a ring or shoot a plastic gun. When they were dating he won many enormous stuffed animals as prizes, proudly presenting them to Michelle. She'd bring them home and, despite the fact that she's married and has a residence of her own now, there they still sit in the closet. There's an oh-so-natural gigantic purple monkey; a nature-defying colossal pink gorilla; a mammoth bright red mystery animal of some sort that, try as I might, I can't seem to identify; and an enormous, buck-toothed blue rabbit, among many others. I think the rabbit must be multiplying in there when I'm not looking. I swear the pile is inching ever closer to the ceiling...
And don't even get me started on those people who cram the rear decks of their cars with hideous stuffed animal menageries! I shudder to think of it.
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