Cruisin at the DQ
Mechele's recommended Music Links
Dating and Romance
Sam AJ Pillay
My Computer and My Kids
Why can’t I get a social security number for Elvira? She’s obnoxious, generous, loving, spiteful, and down right exasperating at times. This defines my children as well. So, again I ask why can’t I get a social security number for my computer? It makes sense because she expensive, I don’t think that the $3600-dollars we’re allotted per year will cover her total expense. She uses electricity, the phone, and she has the ability to stop me from controlling her. She is the worst teenager, okay, maybe not the worst, but a close second in my existence.
I opened up Microsoft Word today only to find that it has a new, and added disgruntlement. Ever time I want to close a document Elvira tries to debug the document. Debug my rear, it’s only a written document. My dad, bless his heart, is now in his late 70’s and his computer runs on the Windows XP program, which is forever more intelligent than my Window’s 98-SE. We call it the Window’s sucks edition and it is truly a migratory program compared to the one that my parents possess.
Here’s the way it lays out; my parents waited to late in life to buy a computer and there is a reason. There were no computers that could be installed in a home when I was young, and it is because they were humongous beast that required too much space to be a simple home computer. Now, as grown and aging adults we’re learning to use the computer for the first time. My little friend, Kristina, and to some degree I agree, said that anyone who couldn’t use a computer didn’t need to go near one. Hm, if you can use a VCR properly, then the computer isn’t a big deal; however, I can use a computer and can’t program my VCR. Sad as it is, the VCR, still messes with me and if I didn’t know better, I would think that my VCR came from the Gateway factory as well.
We’re discussing renting a DVD/VHS recorder, and only because our son lives with us. We have nearly 600-video tapes and would like to be able to make a bit more room on the shelves, entertainment centers, and a bookshelf. How marvelous the thought of placing my Compton’s on this shelf is, is hard to relate to others who have not seen the space encompassed by the videos. It’s understood that while I am helping my parents learn to use their computer, only my son could program a DVD/VHS recorder. I’m lost when it comes down to such simple items and frightened of things that possess more smarts than I’m capable of acquiring. Parents teach children, children teach parents, and suddenly you realize why you’re the generation caught betwixt and between. We’re not smart enough to be our parents and too stupid to be our kids. Se la vie, or whatever; tomorrow is another day.
We’re Expecting Baby
I’m not pregnant and would ask to be shot in the head if I were. Our youngest daughter, Wendy, is expecting a baby this month. She is due to deliver on the 26th, and we’re getting excited. Her mother-in-law, Janey Smith, is going to be a grand grandmother. Janey is constantly shopping for new things for the baby, and is so excited that I know when the baby gets here; she will do as we have done before her, and spoil the child. After all, that’s what grandparents are meant to do.
I’m sitting in my computer room, which will shortly be computer room/nursery, wondering which of the things that are in the room are disposable. You would have to understand that my house is full of pack rats - people who are afraid to throw anything out. It’s an instinct that developed because several years ago, our home burned down and we lost almost everything. What we didn’t lose, some ill-thinking moron stole. Now, with the new baby on the way, I’m wondering how much of this stuff I can dispose of without retribution.
Babies have to have a clean environment to grow and become nurtured in, and our home is settled for the fully-grown and gone crowd. We’re not the neatest family on Earth; in fact, we don’t rank in the top ten. Here’s the situation, we have baskets of clothing that we don’t wear, but no one knows what to throw out and what to keep. We have tons of paper - copied from the Internet - that no one knows what is important or what was a lark. We have dollhouses, books, and a set of pillows that has been around forever only because Zack, our first grandchild, likes to sleep on them.
We’re ill at ease with our surroundings and our surroundings are ill at ease with us. It’s a two way street that has many answers and no solutions. I don’t want this, he doesn’t want that, and we all, don’t want to make decisions pertaining to the décor of the computer room, but we must.
Mike, our youngest son, has his room. Wendy and Jeff have their room, but it is too small for the baby’s crib, and that leaves the computer room, which is just large enough for a crib if we deep-six the junk. Billy and I have given up having a room because we fall asleep in front of the telie every night. We purchased a futon a few months ago, and fall asleep quite comfortably while watching one or another programs. Somehow, it seemed redundant to have a bedroom that never so any usage, so the computer inherited our room and now, has to accommodate an infant’s crib.
So now, the computer desk has to stay or Elvira - our evil computer - doesn’t have a place on which to reside. The filing cabinet is lethal and therefore must have a corner in which to reside. Our clothes, what we know that we wear, hang in the closet. Personally, I feel that clothing that hasn’t been worn this decade, should be tossed; however, we’ve decided to have a garage sale. Anyone, out there, who wants a complete 90’s wardrobe for a few pence, is welcome to mine. I have several pairs of size 1-jeans that I can no longer wear due to my expanding horizon that could be yours. The skirts and jackets I will opt to keep, who knows when they will come in handy?
Whatever happens, we are expecting a baby in the next few days. I asked my husband today, “Um… honey, how do we get used to the sound of a baby crying when the worst that we have dealt with in the last four years is raging hormones?”
His answer, “We’ll manage. We always do.”
He’s right, Granny will manage because she always has, and he will either work through the noise or sleep through the noise because that is the license that is handed to the “Papaw.” Not that I mind, because if you were to ask my grandkids whom they wish to be with, they’ll always answer, “Granny.”
Everyone knows that a wedding day never goes off without a hitch, and our day for Wendy, was no different.
My husband went to the store, early in the morning to get cigarettes and gas, and he got the cigarettes but he forgot the gas. Pottsboro is approximately 8-miles from Sherman, so Wendy and I made it to decorate the church, and back with the tank almost empty.
Janice, a dear friend of Janey -- Jeff's mom -- helped bring everything together, and thank the lord, we would have been in big trouble without her.
We went home about 2pm, and got our baths, did our hair, and started back to Pottsboro when I got us lost. In the middle of nowhere, and no idea which road to take; I headed towards one of two water towers.
Idid find the main drag into Pottsboro, but it made us another half hour late.
We got to the church and everyone began to dress in a smallish bathroom. I got my clothes on, and went into the church, where we were to wait for the ushers to escort us to our seats.
Tristan comes through the other door, in a huff -- it's about 5 til 7 by now -- and she tells us that Wendy has forgotten Loretta's shoes. We began discussing who could lend Loretta their shoes, when it was decided that Wendy's dress was long enough to cover her feet. My youngest daughter, Wendy, walked down the isle barefoot and beautiful.
Our granddaughter, Kyla, stole the show as she waved at her mother from the wedding stage. Of course, Eddy ran a close second, as supporting actor, when he continued to wink at me throughout the ceremony. I still get extremely tickled ever time I see the wedding video.
Top Left picture:
Kristina (fixing Wendy's hair ---she is one of our adopted girls), Wendy (sitting patiently), Danielle (the little blonde), and me (straddling the make up case).
Bottom Left picture:
Wendy sitting, the girl in the blue is Christy, me in the red dress -- sneezing from the hair spray...LOL, the girl in the background -- standing in front of the potty stall is Misty, and the girl to the very right is Loretta (another of our adopted kids).
Top Right picture:
Kristina, Wendy and me before the miracles of make up.....LOL...or clothes...LOL
Bottom Right picture
Kristina, Wendy, Loretta, and Danielle (she's one of our adopteds too, and we call her Barbie...LOL)
Top Left picture:
My mom, Tristan, and my dad.
Bottom Left picture:
The Wedding party -- from left to right:Kristina, Loretta, Tristan, Wendy, Jeff, Danny Smith (Jeff's dad), Jacob (our not so good little Jewish friend...LOL..He tries, God bless him, it's just that kosher thing that gets him everytime), and Zack at the right end.
From Left to right: Mike (our youngest son), Billy Jack (my hubby), Me, Wendy, Jeff, Janey Smith (Jeff's mom), Danny, and Chris Smith (Jeff's brother).
Bottom Right picture:
My mom, and Shari Deanne (our oldest daughter).
Top Left Picture:
Danielle, Wendy, Kristina, and Loretta
Bottom Left Picture:
Jacob, and Jeff
Top Right picture:
Wendy, Kristina, Me, Danielle, and Loretta
Bottom Right Picture:
Me, Danielle stooped down, Jamie --another of our adopted kids, Wendy, and I think Misty -- Misty and Cristy are two girls that Wendy and Loretta know from Grayson County College.
Top right picture:
From left to right: Mike, Cristen (Billy's wife and Kyla's mom), Shari Deanne (our oldest girl in the blue shirt), Kyla (our granddaughter and the flower girl for the occassion), Billy Jack (my hubby), Eddy (our grandson, Billy, Jr. (the tall guy behind Wendy), Wendy, Jeff, Me (Arggg in the red dress), Zack (our oldest grandson), Tristan (Zack's mom, and Eddy's stepmom in the blue), James (The short guy with the big belt buckle -- he's Tristan's hubby -- isn't he cute?), behind James is my mom...LOL...and to her left, is my dad.
Bottom right picture
Shari Deanne, Kyla, Cristen, Eddy, Billy, Jr., Zack, and Tristan.
Top Left picture
Shari Deanne, Kyla, Cristen, and Billy, Jr.
Bottom Left picture
Is the same, but this time my mom and dad switched places....don't know how that happened.
The Empty Nest Syndrome
There are within the realms of psychiatric medicine syndromes that most of us don’t want to have on our plate; however, the Empty Nest Syndrome is one that I’ve longed to possess. The very idea of having one’s house to themselves without noise, no interruptions in writing, and no pitter-patter of little feet is so enticing that one cannot turn their minds from it. Don’t take this wrong I love my children but I’ve raised my children and they are, the two youngest, 20 and 22, and it’s time they became independent adults.
Yesterday, October 3, 2002, I found freedom because my children moved out. Ah, at long last, the Empty Nest and how quiet it is without the arguing voices of two post-adult children. Mind you, I didn’t have to chew up their food and then regurgitate it so that they might be fed. I didn’t have to shove them off a branch and watch as they flailed through the air heading toward the ground pate-first. I sat in silence yesterday evening thinking that it had been decades since I last heard “nothing.” Not one “Mom, make him give me back my CD,” or “Shut up, you don’t know what I’m going through!”
Just silence as far as the ear could hear. I swear, I could almost hear the harp strings of angels playing a Rokmonanoff - concerto, and the sweetness of flowers, springtime, anything but arguing under my roof. There was no noise. Nothing to indicate that in a few minutes my life would go from writer to referee. Ha, referee what a joke. Refereeing my two children, not that there weren’t others - aka. their brothers and sisters - is more in the order of standing between them hoping that they don’t throw punches and asking them to take the noise down a notch or two.
We’re predominantly Irish, and with this in mind, you need to know that Irish people become very vocal whilst discussing issues particularly, within the family. Add to this the fact that my children are part Native American - that adds to the Irish sensationalisms - so that swords may be drawn when arguing gets out of hand. My husband and I, have on occasion, suggested that Mike and Wendy take it outside. Of course, this measure spared household furnishings as they are prone to throwing objects at one another. Typically, I’m stating facts tongue-in-cheek.
My husband and I are handling the Empty Nest Syndrome quite well, I think. We played Dominoes last night, and for the 6th and 7th time in 24-years, I beat him … LOL … You have no idea how good it felt to beat the master of the bones at his game. I realized that concentration was a major factor in winning at a game that I have played for two decades, but the fact remained that I had silence on my side.
I’ve had selective hearing for 3-decades; however, that won’t shut out the noise of a really ticked kid whose mouth is going at warp speed as they explain what a sibling did wrong. I have found myself asking, “What did you say? Were you talking to me? Who did what?”
It’s a sad fact that parents get too old to deal with some things that life has to offer, and begin to separate their thoughts into small portions of peaceful moments. I used to find little pieces of my brain that hadn’t been affected by child-bearing, or child-rearing in order to seek solace from the day’s task. Today, I’m thinking, 'is it real?' Can the silence be true? Is this my life? “Hello, I like the Empty Nest. I like the silence. Does that make me a bad Mom?”
Yesterday, I was pleased to read a piece on Ritro.com, written by a young Australian friend, about people with disabilities. She did an excellent job in her writing of the piece. Her name is Rebecca Noy, and she is a delight to all of us who have the privilege of knowing her.
In her article, she talked of friends who were physically or mentally challenged, and how normal they were to her. The truth is that we are all born with some qualities, which diminish or challenge us. She brought up, in her article, the question of how do you treat a handicapped person? The answer, in my mind, is that you should treat them as they treat you. It never ceases to amaze me that people who are born mentally challenged, seem to be much happier individuals than the so-called normal individuals. People, born with physical challenges, seem to have more gusto and strength than the so-called normal people. To me, the word normal/average, is a misnomer. There is no grading scale for such things.
An example of this is: The average American owns two cars, his/her home, and has 2.5 children.
Another example of this is: The above average person has an IQ of between 116 and 132.
The average American may very well own his own home, have two cars, and 2.5-children -- though I do question how anyone can have half a child - but this description does not fit my home, family, or vehicles. Am I less than or more than average, because we have 7-children, 3-vehicles, and don’t own the house in which we live. My IQ is 132, does that make me above average, more intelligent, and less likely to commit the indiscretion of stupidity. On that count, I must admit, that I’m an just as likely to do something stupid as the next fellow along life’s path.
My friend, Mechele, whom most of our readers know to be an extremely smart individual, makes my IQ look like duck soup. I’m constantly teasing her to send me some brain matter, as I’m lacking. Brain matter, physical appearance, and possessions are the basis by which the average/normal person are judged. The truth is that most of us don’t look like Barbie and Ken, and lord knows her house has wholes in it that wouldn’t allow for privacy.
For me, in my judgment of friends, I check the following categories:
1: Are they moral human beings?
2: Can they be trusted in my home without supervision?
3: Will they judge me by the possessions, or appearance of my home?
4: Do they have a sense of humor?
5: Do they carry the makings of drugs or bombs own their person?
I can assure you that when I meet a person; their appearance is not a consideration. I don’t notice whether they are physically or mentally challenged, and I hope that the person that I am, is someone that they can appreciate as well.
Several years ago, while collecting my son from school, I stood in the hall with many other parents, holding my nephew, Geddy’s hand. Another parent, the Barbie type, asked why Geddy wore glasses at such a young age? I said, “Because he has to have protective glasses,” and was willing to drop the subject there, assuming that she had enough sense to reason why a child would have to have protective glasses.
But, no, she asked, “Why does he have to have protective glasses.”
I answered, “Because he has to be careful not to damage his eye.”
Once again, she asked, “Why?”
By this time, I was getting somewhat miffed at her, and answered, “He only has one eye, so he has to have the glasses to protect that eye.”
At hearing this, she started backing away from the minute figure of my nephew, as though her eye would fall out from being so near him. I honestly, thought that she would begin to run down the hall, at any moment. It was one of those circumstances in which one gets the urge to yell, “Run lady, your eye is falling out!”
My nephew, Geddy, far from being handicapped/challenged, is one of the most amusing, creative, and courageous young men that anyone would have the privilege to meet. I got extremely tickled at the kid, one afternoon as we sat talking about the progress that has been made in medical prosthesis. I said, “You know, one of these days maybe they will be able to give you an eye that will have super power capabilities.”
He in turn suggested, “Hey that would be cool, then I could see through the neighbor’s walls.”
He’s such a cut up, and I love him dearly. He is far from handicapped/challenged, because he sees better with one eye than most people do with two. I doubt seriously that Geddy would ever ask anyone if they had a handicap/challenge, because his parents have raised him the way we raise children. Wendy, my sister and his mother, refused to allow him to think of himself as different, and the truth, he isn’t.
The rules for challenged individuals are the same for all individuals, but it is best to remember that the whole human race is challenged in some way or another, it might be visual or with in the structure that we call a body and mind, but handicapped applies to all. Moreover, be kind to those around you, because the handicap/challenge club is one that we all can join at any moment in our lives. I’m certain that people who are burned, hurt in such a fashion as to loose a limb, or any number of accidents that can befall the frail body of a human, never considered themselves different.
This morning, in the New York Times, I read that it is fashionable for older women to marry younger men. So what, it’s also fashionable to wear low cut jeans, but I’m just not into that airy feeling down my backside.
While it may be fashionable to marry a younger man, is it also fashionable to have to raise one’s mate? I think of things that my son does, and wonder how I would feel about a mate who thought it was cool to burn rubber on the highway. While he is out burning rubber, you are trying to find the best deal on a set of tires.
He wants a new faster car and you think the heap in the drive is great because there are no monthly payments. And, why do they want the latest fastest car? According to my son, it’s because that is what gets the girls. My son and his friends call them a “G-Ride” roughly translated it means a “Good Ride.”
Older women, in general, buy clothing that is comfortable, but younger men want their pants to fall to their knees. If my husband walked around with his underwear showing, I would assume he forgot to zip up after using the facilities. But, my son and his friends wear their pants two-sizes too large.
My son is 22-year olds and will be deaf by the time he is my age because he thinks bassing is cool. I can’t stand to be behind one of the vehicles that has their music bassed to the point that it bounces down the highway, much less to be married to a man that likes such things in his car.
My son may wake up and decide that he isn’t going to work, and my husband would have to be in the hospital to keep him from going to work. My son threatens to quit his job when he’s put on night shift, and my husband doesn’t care what shift he is working. The difference between a male of 53-years and one of 22-years, is more than age, it’s mentality.
My husband defines his days of youth as the time when he could work a 16-hour shift, party all night, sleep a couple of hours and then get up and work another 16-hour shift. My son couldn’t work a 16-hour shift because he thinks 8-hours is unreasonable. If he worked 16-hours, that would be the last his employer would see of him for a week.
We have four sons, none of whom are bad boys, but they are boys. The oldest son is 33-years old, and perhaps some women would view him as a man. However, I am his Mom and he is a boy. Our older sons are not as irresponsible as the youngest; in fact, they are very responsible but they are sons. My mate in life was someone's son and I’m sure she felt as I do that fashion isn’t everything. While it may be fashionable to marry younger men, I’m just trying to survive raising one. It has occurred to me that with his personality traits, he would do well to marry an older woman who wanted to take care of him. Lord knows, if there is a woman who wants a young man that spins his tires, won’t be able to hear in the near future, doesn’t like to work and is hotheaded, I have just the young man for her.
Enjoy the Innocent Years
Enjoy your children while they’re small. I repeat, “Enjoy! They’re small, they’re innocent, and they’re without the need of constant communication with their peers!”
Our website, SIF, has been in direct competition with the phone line. Let me explain. The telephone company -- who will remain nameless though I feel it would be nice to see them face my wrath -- talked my daughter into using “DSL.” I, of course, have my own explanation of these initials, but it is not the stuff of prime time use. Simplified, it is supposed to split the phone line so that you may use your computer and phone simultaneously, and probably will do so if the phone company sends an Ethernet card with the set up. And if, there is DSL available in the area where you live. To put it bluntly, phone companies want the money and service availability will be at their discretion. We don’t have the set up available in our area, and after 10-months of arguing with them they sent another DSL unit, instead of removing it from our service.
So here is the gist of the problem, every time the phone rings the Internet shuts off. My daughter, the youngest who still lives at home, is in love. The innocence is gone! The phone rings for her at 10:00am, and my son’s calls come earlier than that. This continues throughout the day until 11:30pm when there is a respite. I’m old. I fall asleep after a meal; it’s an eyelid problem. My small window of opportunity comes between the hours of 3:00am and 8:30pm … okay further explanation needed here.
Although your 20-year old is in love, and your 22-year old swears he will marry the girl, they need the use of the computer for their own Internet conversations. Parents, and I’m no exception, don’t like the late night phone calls, so they disguise these by using the phone line anyway. AOL, MSN, and YAHOO come fairly, or unfairly equipped with free messenger service. Since, and we are very computer oriented, we have all three messengers there are limitless ways for these kids to talk. Excuse me chat. My kids, not only have strong oral muscles, but also are developing typing skills and finger dexterity. I've come to the point of viewing my computer as an enemy. There is but one person in this house that Elvira --the computer -- argues with, and it’s me.
I crank the ole girl up, skeptically mind you, only to have her ask for a password. A word and many computer techies know this, which is easily bypassed by hitting the cancel button. A thing, I might add, that Wendy made sure of when we got Elvira. I too, hit the cancel button, why bother with proper boot procedure, she won’t care. Now, are you ready? I crank up AOL, hoping that it’s a good time to do so, and the thing wants me to do more. What more does she want? It’s 3am for gosh sakes, I’m doing the best I know how. She whines, she spits, she sputters, and gives me this message, “Your modem could not detect a dial tone.”
“Okay!” My modem is a fruit loop, but it generally knows when there is a dial tone. The reason for this message lies within the phone. It wasn’t hung up after the last phone call. We have three different types of phones; a wall mounted, an old cordless, and a new cordless that coincidentally stays lost because it is so small. It was the last of three causing the problem. No one hit the “end” button.
Next problem, Braums opens at 6:00am, and some goofy person has lost their keys, not shown up, or cannot figure out how to reboot the computer system when it fails. My husband is an assistant manager and my son a crew leader for Braums, so this happens frequently. If the picture is still unclear, imagine that --all else failing -- the school system in their infinite wisdom has let all the kids out for the summer, because it’s summer in the states. There is nothing, I repeat, “nothing” that will keep a teenage female off the telephone line, and time is not a factor.
This afternoon, because all had been quite for almost an hour, at 5:00pm I signed on to the Internet. By 5:15pm, I had been knocked into cyberspace twice. I signed off. Next, it was 6-something, again twice in the lost world. SIF --our main site -- is updated through SmartFTP, which is an ingenious enough program, but lacks the ability to edit without uploading and deleting.
Grown people are at the mercy of their grown children, while young parents have a say in what goes on around their house. Enjoy the innocence it is too short, and when love comes into the picture give up … hope for the day when their children will torture them with a phone line that some well thinking phone company has made a mess of during the process of making life all-the-easier.
How to Move a Family?
You can move a heart to tears and a mountain to the sea but it's almost impossible to get a family to move anywhere in a decent amount of time. The move we made was just across town; thank goodness it was not across the country. If we have to move to one or the other of the ocean side states, we will need several years and a lot of understanding.
The first hurdle was to get enough boxes for Wendy’s room. The problem with 19-year old females is that they save everything. Notes from school friends, boxes from God knows where, and any small or large item that they have come to acquire over the years. While packing and unpacking, we realized that Wendy’s room required the most time and patients. Her boxes nearly filled the living room of the new house. I don’t know where all that stuff was stored before, but it was mentioned that she wasn’t using her closet because it was full of things. Non-distinct things, as it were.
The next hurdle was the kitchen and bathroom. At some point the toilet paper was at the house that had no water connected, as yet, while the water was on and no toilet paper at the old house. We debated on which kitchen items should go and which should remain until the very last moment. One morning I noticed that we had coffee, we had a coffee maker and no coffee filters; however, paper towels will substitute but those were elsewhere, or lost. I believe the paper towel issue in our house has become mute since we never seem to have any though we buy them constantly. They might have appeared to be a good substitute for toilet paper, who knows?
Our bedroom, where the computer was located, was impossible. When to unhook her and how to package her for the best possible trip and then it happened, she didn’t won’t to work when re-hooked in the new house. Ah, but that’s off the subject of the bedroom. I’m sorry; my mind tends to wander when thinking of Elvira (the name that we gave the vixen computer).
The bedroom was small and couldn’t have contained all that stuff, or could it? It did. One dollhouse, one desk, one bed, and a million clothes seem to have found their way to our bedroom. Anyone interested in used clothing may contact me; I believe I have enough to clothe a nation. How many pairs of shoes were in there, I couldn’t begin to guess? The amount of dust, puzzle pieces, and pieces of dollhouse trim that were beneath the bed was completely disgusting. Do people really move their beds to clean beneath them? I don’t, and it was to my surprise that after two years of not having done so, the bed didn’t need a frame the dust alone would have held the mattress several feet off the floor. Actually, I’m joking. But seriously, one should pull the bed out occasionally to vacuum. Note to self: “Donna clean under the bed, those small swoops you make with the vacuum handle held low, just won’t get the job done!”
There are few things that I dislike with the same venomous disdain as house cleaning. That’s enough said on that subject.
Having gotten all the boxes and all the furniture to the new house, no one wanted to put anything in the right place. Everything was in the living room of the house, and it had become impossible to walk around the boxes, furniture, etc. The first day that Billy had been off in a week, he and I managed to make some sense of things.
The cable gets hooked up sometime this next week. The phone, well, let’s say an act of God would have been easier to pull off. The water is on and my son, who’s good with mechanical things, got the water heater lit. The funniest part of the whole affair was that my husband and I had no idea there wasn't a gas pilot on the heating unit, so we spent two days here, with the heat off and freezing to death while moving.
There is no written rule that requires parents to know everything about electrical and gas appliances, though there should be. Ignorance may be the only thing that keeps most people sane when raising children. What I know is that spigots mean water and should be used for washing things. Wall outlets mean electricity, and any object small enough to go in the openings should be kept out of the reach of small children. Gas, well shoot I’m scared to death of the stuff, but it has proven to be safe for several decades when used properly. The idea of proper use is that we don’t get too near the gas and it will be fine.
We’ve offered the cat the opportunity to go outdoors, and he has politely refused. My son says there is a rather large gray cat in the neighborhood, which may figure into the scenario.
While the dog decided that we were too busy to notice, she ate from the tackle box. My husband is still angry over the lose of his favorite fishing lure. The kids in our house are not alone in their wish to try unusual piercings but the dog does it without the aid of anesthetics. It’s hard to imagine a beast with less intelligence than our dog surviving the birth canal.
The end to this amazing, amusing, and confusing move has been that we did indeed get all the things that were at the old house into the new house, and didn’t miss one item. I believe we may have brought a bit of dust with us, but it would have been lonely sitting there all by itself wondering where the bed went?
Our cat has settled in well though he had doubts about the whole affair as he sat in the window of the third story looking most forlorn and wondering where his bed had gone? His bed is also our bed, and his favorite sleeping space is on my left leg.
One morning, while getting everything ready, I stayed up until 5a.m. The next day the cat wandered about the house looking at me as though I had made him miss his sleep. His face said, “Look at what you’ve done to me.”
The next time we move, it’s going to be a U-haul affair. God bless my second oldest son for having helped his dad get the heavy stuff down the stairs. Thanks kids, we did it.
The Sonic Boom
It was fun being a kid in the 60's because there wasn't much that we had to know. We didn't have to know what our parents did to make a living. We didn't have to know that asbestos was bad for you. We didn't have to know that climbing trees was not environmentally friendly. Most important, we didn't have to know what the speed of sound was we heard it as the jets passed above our heads.
You still see the jet stream left by a large passenger plane, but you don't get that same heady feeling that was there in the 60's. The jaw rattling, toe thumping, and window-crashing bang that made you look skyward. It was, to say the least, a real head rush.
Kids, in those days, ran behind the DDT fogging truck gulping up the poisons emitted oblivious to the idea that it caused cancer. All we knew of pain and danger was when the truck stopped suddenly and the foggy blackness was too full to see the rear bumper.
Asbestos, we laughed in the face of asbestos, and it didn't hurt that we had no idea the stuff was in the ceiling, put there to keep out the cold. But, the real thrill was when you leaned on the back of the heating grates--behind the rows of pews placed appropriately in the hall--lingering a moment too long. Charring the skin and removing any future hairs that might like to grow on your arms. Danger meant nothing to a child of the 60's.
Climbing trees and hanging by the knees with your head pointed toward the ground was a real hoot. How long a kid could hang there, swinging limply in the breeze and risking neck injury was the determining factor in character assessment. If you didn't break your neck, and if your blood could achieve the return to your feet, you were the king of the mountain. Another somewhat dangerous game but not for a kid of the 60's.
What were our parents thinking, and what did they do for a living? My Mom was a stay-at-home Mom, I think, though she said that she was a decorator. That meant that we had plants growing where no respectable plant would take root. We had mirrors, pictures, and place mats, but what exactly a decorator did was a mystery to me. My Dad was an excavator and estimator for C. W. Stafford Construction. To a kid, whatever that was, meant food on the table and a warm bed to sleep in at night. An excavator/estimator got up every morning, had fried eggs, and went off to work in a truck supplied by the company, past that we didn't need to know anything.
There were other things that we didn't need to know, such as, "Mom what is sex?"
"Something that only married people do." She would answer and that was all we needed to know, the rest we pretty much figured out on our own.
"Mom why is smoking bad for you?"
"Because the doctors say it is." She would answer and that was all we needed to know, the rest we pretty much figured out on our own.
"Mom why can't I wear a bikini?"
"Because you don't have anything to hold up the top." She answered.
"Does that mean that I can wear a bikini when I have something to hold up the top?"
"Will cross that bridge when we get to it." She would answer. But, you know what? I still don't know where that bridge is and I don't know what crossing a bridge has to do with anything.
I miss those days. Today, my kids know what you do for a
living, how much money you make and when the paycheck arrives.
Since I didn't know what my Dad did for a living, it was highly
unlikely I could plan my needs around paydays. DDT and Asbestos
are gone but it was such fun racking a leg bone on the bumper.
I would love to hang upside down in a tree, but I can't climb a
tree, much less get in that position. I would love to say that
I accomplished the growth necessary to fill out a bikini top,
but alas, it never happened. I did wear one, and it didn't fall
off, but I'm certain there were the few who wondered why that
boy was wearing a girl's swim suit. Most of all, I miss that
rattling excitement of the sonic boom, because I have to see
the jet stream to even know that a jet has passed overhead. If
the windows rattle now, it's a tornado, an earthquake, or Mom
©Donna F. Wilson
Edited by: Mechele R. Dillard
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