Crocs

Remember when I made this Admission and declared my love of (fake) Crocs?

Well, my sister Hipee heard my cry of love and devotion. She decided that I needed Crocs for Christmas. Real Crocs.

I can't recall when a gift has pleased me more.

She gave me a stylish bright blue pair, with flamingo buttons
and a comfy brown pair with, for goodness sakes, a flannel lining.


I have been wearing Crocs every day since they arrived.

I love them.

Me and Crocs: BFF

The blue ones even match my What Not to Wear jacket.

(And yes, I know they still resemble clown shoes, but I'm good with that.)

Butt Exercises with Hipee

One side effect of sharing all my little stories and memories is that some members of my family have started to give me story ideas. The only problem with this is that the suggestions are their stories and memories rather than mine.

I initially started sharing my stories as a way to record them for my adult children and for my sister Hipee to get a laugh. I haven't written anything in an attempt to write an autobiography. In fact, during a recent 4th of July visit to my parent's house, my daughter saw a trophy or plaque or something of mine from high school. She asked her grandma what it was and was shocked to hear that I won a national speech competition.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
I shrugged. "That was a long time ago."

Obviously we can see that I may not be the most qualified person to become the family historian. Beyond the fact that I'm decidedly not a writer (any book written by me would get scathing reviews from me), I have really just written about what I've wanted to write about - little snippets of my childhood here and there.

But one story suggestion simply will not die. I'm not in it. In fact, I have no part of it beyond knowing the exercise they were doing. This story belongs to Hipee and PB alone. (If they correct me I will edit this.)

My youngest brother, PB (pretty boy), was visiting our sister, Hipee (high powered executive). She was out of college and working at the time. I think he was spending the weekend with her. He must have been in about 4th grade. I have no idea what they had planned for the weekend. Let's assume they had pizza and were watching movies one night and then ran around the city, maybe went to a mall, the next day. What I do know is that sometime during this visit it was exercise time. PB, even a considerate house guest as a child, followed the exercise routine along with Hipee.

I haven't a clue what Hipee's exercise regime would have included. Not a clue. It would have been around 1983, so Jane Fonda VHS tapes were out. What I do know is that Hipee did butt exercises. In one of these butt exercises she sat on the floor and "walked" across it on her butt. It involved a sort of rolling motion as well as clenching and relaxing your butt cheeks. I don't think it is a recommended firming exercise any more. I don't even know if it was back then, but there you have it: Hipee and PB walked across the floor on their butts.

PB still laughs about doing butt exercises with Hipee. This is one of the stories he wanted me to write about. I think the questions this memory raises are more interesting than the actual story - questions like: Why would PB want me to write about him doing butt exercises with Hipee? Does he think they helped tone and firm his butt? Does he still do the walking butt exercise? Does Hipee? Where did Hipee learn about the walking butt exercise? Will this post increase my link-to-porn-sites spammer?
I'm sure I can and will think of more questions.

Kinkling

Some of you may recall the story I told about my sister Hipee and I tinkling. Well.... During a recent visit with Hipee she reminded me that although we were tinkling, we called it kinkling. (Some things are better forgotten, eh?) Anyway, I've revised the Tinkling story to call it Kinkling.

Hipee’s Bankee

Lots of children have favorite things that they love and from which they are comforted. Security objects may be a blanket, stuffed animal, or pacifier. Just Me loved a yellow flannel baby blanket with a print of roses on it. She also had several much loved stuffed animals, like Mary the bear and Junior the cat. Wonder Boy also had a baby blanket that he preferred, although he didn’t have the same long term attachment to his as Just Me did for her yellow blanket. I recall PB loved a blue blanket as much as Just Me loved her yellow blanket. They both loved their respective blankets until they were in shreds and there were only little scraps of them left. As previously discussed, Whiy feel in love with MY blanket with the blue roses, but between a 7 yr old and a baby, the baby wins the blanket. Hipee, however, fell in love with the strangest comfort object.

We called it her “bankee” but there was nothing blanket-like about it. She’s going to object to this story, but, sweetie, the facts are the facts, no matter how sad or odd. We all know that Hipee fell in love with and was comforted by a clump of unraveled carpet. Yup. She’d unravel a wad of carpet, hold it up against her cheek, and sucked her thumb. (She was a thumb sucker too.) I can still clearly picture her sucking her thumb, clutching her scratchy carpet yarn, rubbing it on her cheek and working it in her little hands. If she lost a wad of her bankee, she could always go unravel more.

But she didn’t just rub it on her cheek. She also rubbed it under her nose. Sometimes she’d grab clumps of her hair and rub that and her bankee under her nose while sucking her thumb. She must have been sniffing it, although I can’t imagine it smelled good. Perhaps it was the texture that appealed to her. I know it had a lot of texture. It was scratchy, at least partially, because it was unraveled from a carpet and had bits of backing that came off with it. Perhaps it was a combination of scratchy and smooth. After all, she also grabbed her hair and rubbed it on her cheek and under her nose.

As I recall, Whiy and PB were both thumb suckers too, along with holding their blankets. Now some experts say that comfort objects stand for mother - the comfort object reminds the child of their mother. In this respect, I understand the thumb sucking as being comforting, but the unraveled carpet yarn is still mystifying. It was not soft like a blanket. If it reminded Hipee of our mom, it means Hipee felt our mother was a bit rough and scratchy but somewhat soft. Whoa – the psychologically implications there are interesting.

I’m not even sure how Hipee first found unraveled carpet yarn, started collecting it, or knew where to get it. Once she discovered her supply source, she knew where to get her bankee if she lost the current clump of carpet. Furthermore, we moved at least three times during her prolonged blankee stage, so she had to be sharp, stay alert, and know where to get a new supply if needed.

I don’t remember when Hipee finally gave up the clump of carpet blankee. I do know that when we were both in college I ran across this carpet that was unraveling at my school. I harvested a clump to give to Hipee as a gift. She was not amused.

Going Postal

Hipee called me the other day while she was at the post office. I could hear all the post office noise in the background. It reminded me of how much I used to be scared of the post office. Really. This was long before the term “going postal” entered the lexicon and people had a reason to be cautious around postal workers. I’m not sure exactly why I didn’t like post offices. There was never a bad experience at one; I just blindly loathed them all with an equal intensity.

The fear came out when I was old enough to be sent running into places on errands by my mother. She’d send us into all sorts of stores or businesses to do things like drop off a utility payment, pick up groceries… or get stamps. Once we were driving, it was worse. She’d send Hipee and me off on errands. We’d go to the grocery store with her list and a signed, blank check. (You could do that in a small town back in those days.) I can remember us looking at her list, seeing a word that looked like a swear word, giggling over it, and then puzzling out what mom could have wanted that looked like _____ but was surely something else.

Running to the store or doing other errands for mom was annoying, but not like running into the post office. She knew I hated it. She knew I couldn’t explain why I hated the post office. Maybe it was the lobby, or the lines, or…? I have no explanation. I just know I hated the place and really had to gird my loins, so to speak, to go inside and do my business. If it was even remotely possible, I’d argue that Hipee should be the one to go in, or even Whiy.

Now that I’ve been in so many different post offices across the country, the fear is gone. There might be a wee little remnant of it stored in some dark corner of my mind. It tries to peek out when the lines are too long, there is only one employee helping customers, and I have multiple things to mail. Maybe when younger I had some sort of foresight and could sense that some of the employees had the capacity to go postal. I do know that going paperless is very attractive to me. I am also a huge fan of the Forever stamps. When I have to go to the post office today, I load up on those babies.

Kinkling

Hipee, you knew this story would be coming. I know you’ve probably dreaded it and will deny it, but sweetie pie, there are too many witnesses still alive and it’s time to tell the next generation. Hipee and I kinkled as children. Not only did we kinkle, but we did it together.

For some odd reason mom tried to teach me to say I had to tinkle when I had to pee. So, instead of saying I had to use the bathroom, or the restroom, or pee, I said I had to tinkle, only I said it as kinkle. That is odd enough and a good example of why you should not give cute names to normal bodily functions. Even the numbering system of #1 or #2 is better than kinkling/tinkling. I don’t know if ED tinkled or not. It would be even more disturbing if he also said he had to tinkle. (Note: ask ED if he tinkled/kinkled as a child.)

But the story of kinkling gets better. Hipee is 2 years younger than me, so I was all potty trained and kinkling before her. By the time she was ready for potty training, I did it. I potty trained Hipee. I went in to kinkle and she followed me. Then she kinkled too. We were kinkling buddies. I had to go, Hipee followed. We kinkled. One went, the other went. Every time.

I don’t know when it stopped. Obviously we went on our own at school, but when we were together, we kinkled together. And we still said “kinkle” even though at this point we knew #1 and pee and other words for tinkling/kinkling. We may have finally stopped the kinkling buddy system when I was about 10. I know… a little slow on the uptake, weren’t we?

At about age 10, or maybe 9, I clearly remember running into the house to kinkle and Hipee following me, ‘cus, you know, that’s how we rolled. When I went to kinkle, Hipee followed. Dad was in the hall as I went charging past him into the bathroom, Hipee hard on my heels.

“Good Grief! Do you always have to go into the bathroom together!” grumbled Dad.

Hmmm… Did we?
Certainly there were times we could and did kinkle alone. There was no hard rule that Hipee had to follow me into the bathroom. Yes, she had always done so since she first started kinkling. It was our standard MO. But did we have to go together? Well, no. We were both perfectly capable of kinkling all on our own. It was an epiphany. We could do solo kinkling at home.

Now if we could just eliminate this urge to call it kinkling.

Those Stories

You know how families have stories that they tell for years and years? You know - those stories that you can never escape from… until everyone who knows them dies? I have previously shared several involving Hipee, concerning her fashion sense and the fact that she’s lucky to be alive. Well, now is the time to share some more of those stories!

(For those of you new to my family, Hipee is my sister, the high powered executive. ED is our older brother, El Dictator. Whiy is our little sister, who was whiney, and PB is Pretty Boy, our youngest brother. The Snack King is my husband, Wonder Boy our son, Just Me our daughter, and Movie Dude our nephew.)

ED dumped me out of the stroller when I was a baby. I don’t know where our mom was or why he, as a two year old, was allowed to push me in the stroller. I should probably interrogate mom to discover exactly why ED was pushing the stroller. It seems almost inevitable that he would dump me out of it. As far as I know I wasn’t hurt physically, but this occurrence also seemed to set the tone of our relationship right from the start. ED would try to control me (or eliminate me) and I would find ways to defy him (although as a baby all I did was cry.) I’m sure, after hearing about this misdeed for years, ED wished his evil plan had worked.

I danced on a TV show. Yup. Could I dance? Nope. It happened on some local children’s show. Some of you will remember these shows, where, between showing cartoons, the host talked to groups of kids who were visiting the TV studio. I think I was there with my Bluebird troop. (Before you could fly up to be a Campfire Girl, you were a Bluebird.) The host was talking to the group of girls I was with and apparently when he asked if anyone could dance, I said I could. Other girls in the troop had had dance lessons and could actually dance. I didn’t have a clue. He asked to see me dance and I got down from the stands and just hopped around, kicking up my legs. I have no memory of this at all but I have had to listen to the story for many, many years. I hate this story.

Hipee ate ED’s bug collection. That’s the story. The facts are simple: she was there, the bugs were missing, and the pins holding them down carefully put back in the Styrofoam. From that point on, the story is Hipee ate ED’s bug collection. She despises this story. She claims that there is no proof. She was also, subsequently, accused of smashing ED’s ant eggs that were carefully placed on top of his dresser, but I know for a fact that she didn’t do that.

Whiy stole my blanket with the blue roses. It’s really my mom’s fault. This is how it went down. Whiy was a baby. Mom was behind in laundry and needed a blanket for Whiy’s crib. She “borrowed” my favorite blanket - the world’s most beautiful blanket with the blue roses on it. She said she was just borrowing it for that night. I loved that blanket. I was reluctant to see it leave my bed and go to Whiy’s crib, to be peed on. Well, Whiy, the little creep, immediately decided she loved my blanket too. Guess who had to give up their beautiful blanket with the blue roses to an unwanted little sister? Yeah. I’m still bitter. Sisters stink, sometimes literally.

PB really was a pretty baby. He was a pretty toddler. He was one of those kids who, even though he was definitely dressed in boy’s clothes, people always thought he was a girl. I can remember Hipee getting pretty angry on more than one occasion, yelling back at people, “He’s a BOY!” I’ve got pictures of him in some pink footed pajamas, hand-me-downs from Whiy, and he looks like a very pretty little girl with short hair. You know what, just between us, for a very hairy man in his late 30’s he’s still kind of pretty. Recently, when picking him up after knee surgery, I had to help him get his socks and shoes on. (Not the first time I’ve done this, although it has been several years.) I’ll tell you exactly what I told him: “You have really pretty feet!” And he does, especially compared to my husband, the Snack King, who has big, ugly feet that are scarred up from a motorcycle accident in his youth. (The Snack King also has a bad back that acts up now and then so I’ve put socks and shoes on his feet before too.)

This is fun, isn’t it? Let’s tell some more stories.

Speaking of brothers trying to eliminate younger sisters, a two year old Wonder Boy threw a C cell battery at Just Me’s head when she was a baby. She was just sitting there, spitting up in her carrier, and “Wham!” a battery came flying through the air. The Snack King about had a heart attack over that one. He probably knew what Wonder Boy was thinking. I guess older brother’s always try to eliminate their younger sisters, because the Snack King once dug a deep pit in his back yard, filled it with water, and then tried to get one of his younger sisters to “wade” through it.

Just Me was a vertical baby. We had to keep her in a vertical position for two reasons. (1) She did not like being horizontal and (2) she was a spit-up baby. That girl just bubbled. Sometimes it was more throw-up than spit-up. We used towels with her more than baby blankets, to ease the clean up. I went through about six months of my life so covered with spit-up or throw-up on a daily basis that I no longer noticed the smell. I just mopped up what I could and went on with my day. I’m so glad she grew out of that stage. It was quite unattractive.

The Movie Dude was one of the chubbiest babies you’ve ever seen. We baby sat him when he was a baby. I have pictures of him I can’t wait to show his girl friend some day. In one he is getting a bath in my kitchen sink. He is sitting in the sink, with a big smile on his face, filling it up with all of his cute baby rolls of fat. I have another picture of him lying on the floor on his tummy. Wonder Boy and Just Me had lined up toy dinosaurs all around his head, in a semi-circle, just out of his reach. He’s just lying there, see-sawing on his belly, smiling. He was such a good natured, happy baby. You know, he’s still like that today.

Downtown

My sister Hipee, the high powered executive, was born in 1961. Petula Clark’s Downtown was released in 1964 and hit number one on the charts in the USA in January of 1965. It was Hipee’s favorite song as a child. It had to be the music because the lyrics themselves would have had no meaning for a young child as far as I can tell.

Let’s look at some of the lyrics:

“When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go – downtown”

“When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry seems to help, I know – downtown”

“Don't hang around and let your problems surround you, there are movie shows – downtown”

“Just listen to the rhythm of a gentle bossa nova…”

“The lights are much brighter there, you can forget all your troubles; forget all your cares…”

What troubles? What cares? What problems? Hipee couldn’t drive and was never alone - unless she wandered off. Her only worries would be wondering where her bankee was or perhaps getting into trouble for talking during naptime at kindergarten. The only movies she’d be watching were released by Disney or nature movies shown at Dad’s Seratoma club family movie night. And let’s face it, she didn’t even know what a bossa nova was, let alone how to dance it. Her love of Downtown is unfathomable.

But the most amazing thing about her love of Downtown is that her funny, kind, generous, loving husband also loved Downtown as a child. That two such people could find each other is extraordinary.

May Hipee’s husband rest in peace. And may the Lord continue to hold Hipee in the palm of His hand, wiping away all her tears.

ED’s Snow Fort

We’ve had a lot of snow across the USA this winter. Now, thankfully, since I’m not really a great fan of snow any more, it has now melted where we are currently living, but whenever there is a large snowfall I fondly remember my brother ED’s (short for El Dictator), huge, two story snow fort. This would have been in the late 1960’s. We had heavy snowfalls that year and lived in an area of the country where it stayed cold so ED had the raw materials available to make the snow fort of his dreams.

ED was a big boy. I think I’ve mentioned that, but it needs to be repeated. He was big and he was strong. Once the snow started falling, ED was ready to start the snow fort building. Hipee (my sister, the high powered executive) and I were among his willing little slaves, or , er, helpers. My best friend Scott helped too. I think his older brother, Mark, may have also enlisted in the labor force. As the snowfall piled up, we kept building. ED worked hard on that fort. Every available second he had, he was building. (If he wasn’t building, he was making money shoveling people’s driveways.) The rest of us were not quite as dedicated, even though we did help and we did reap the benefits of having a huge snow fort in our front yard.

The fort started out modestly and then grew from there. Dad stopped us from using the house or camper as a support for it at one point, which slowed us down temporarily as we changed that section to a free standing wall. Soon ED’s snow fort filled up one whole side of the front yard. ED would diligently throw water on it every night so it soon had a nice, thick, protective coating of ice. In the end it had two levels. There were slides from the top that could be used to enter into the lower levels. There were tunnels to crawl through. There were several ice rooms. ED had one large, main chamber that had openings to throw snow balls out of, filled up with piles of snowballs. Scott and I had a smaller little snow room we considered our territory. Although, if necessary, we could both throw a mean snowball, we were more likely to play games based on stories from our imagination than purposefully engaging in a snow ball fight.

There were several major snow ball fights that winter; most of them were against some kids who lived on another street. They were enemies of ED’s. Having been the recipient of a snowball thrown by ED, I knew he could cause major pain if he hit you. It was always better to be on ED’s team rather than with the opposition. Even better, in my opinion, was to become scarce and avoid the snowball fights all together. If you were conscripted into the fight, it was preferable to be the support team, the ones who made the snowballs for the main fighting force to throw.

I wasn’t involved in the fight - the fight that had somebody’s mother angrily calling up our mother. Apparently her son was hit with a snowball thrown by ED on his cheek, which now had a bloody raw spot and was turning black and blue. Her son was crying. She accused ED of putting rocks in the snowballs. She was very mad. This made our mom very mad – at us. I don’t recall what the punishment was, but I imagine it wasn’t light.

I don’t think ED actually did put rocks in his snowballs. I mean, come on, it was a winter with a record snowfall. Where exactly would we be finding/mining these rocks? I will concede that ED may have had some chunks of ice mixed up in his snow balls. Furthermore, he was strong and could throw very accurately. In any event, if your gang starts a war with someone who has a two story snow fort and you come into his territory, with a sled full of snowballs, to fight him, then maybe, just maybe, mommy’s best little boy isn’t quite as innocent as he would have you believe. I am sorry the boy was hurt but not that sorry. He should have known that you just don’t mess with ED.

Vacations

Lori, Hipee, and ED, with fish

(Notice my gameshow model stance; Hipee is half hidden behind the fish)

My childhood seemed to be filled with a lot of camping vacations. Camping was usually in a tent. Occasionally it was in a cabin, of sorts. Vacations were never luxurious. I imagine all of our vacations were much more work than fun for my mom. She probably always needed a vacation from the vacation. And, although we got away from home, we never really did all the fun touristy things other people seemed to do on their vacations.

Often we were taking vacations to fish. I never go fishing as an adult. I never even think about it. We also seemed to eat a lot of fried fish when I was a child. I’m not even sure how much I like fish anymore, to be honest. Oh, I like certain fish, like salmon and fresh tuna, but almost any other fish is on the menu because it was on sale and the rest of my family enjoys fish. I always bake our fish. I never fry fish. I just can’t take fried fish any more.

We went to a lake by the Black Hills of South Dakota several times when I was young. Now if you are picturing a lake surrounded by woods or actually in the picturesque Black Hills, think again. This lake was located in the sand hills near the Nebraska and South Dakota border. Picture an open prairie with low, rolling hills, a few scrub cedar trees (very few), lots of brown, dry grasses – that was where the lake was located. There were also some cottonwood trees by the water and some dead tree trunks submerged in the water. It was not a cool, picturesque lake retreat. It was hot, dry, sandy, and dirty.

I remember bits and pieces of our trips there. I know my dad and brother went fishing every day. I know we stayed in a cabin, but it was really more like a shack. I remember a marina bar/restaurant where we’d go to occasionally get a soda during the day. I seem to recall that they allowed my Dad to use a freezer, or had freezer space for all his cleaned fish. The goal was for him to get his daily limit of fish while on vacation. It seems like it was more of a hunting/gathering expedition than a vacation, but that was the way it went at my house.

One day my dad caught a big snapping turtle – and I mean big. The shell must have been eighteen inches across. As we were all looking at it, carefully staying away from the jaws, a man came up and offered my dad what was a large sum of money in those days to buy it. Dad sold it. I guess the guy was going to eat it. We didn’t eat turtle. We just liked to look at them. Did I mention that we did eat lots of fish, always fried?

While there were also many other little camping vacations, the other one I remember was when we were camping by a canal. It was, of course, another fishing expedition. I remember this particular spot not so much because it was a more lush and verdant area. I remember it because of the total freak-out. See, there was a little stream my sister Hipee and I were playing in near the tent. The stream had a small, cement spillway for easy crossing. The stream itself was shallow, so it wasn’t a problem to cross, or play in. The problem was after we were done playing in the stream. We discovered we had leeches on us. (Cue in high-pitched girlish screams here.) Yes, leeches. You know in the movie Stand by Me, when the boys get leeches on them? Yeah. Leeches like that only not down our pants, just on our legs. Even so, that was bad enough.

We also had to do a tick-check every day. I don’t know about you, but somewhere where you have to do a tick-check on everyone at least a couple times a day, if not more often, no longer sounds like a very appealing vacation spot to me. Maybe one tick check after one day in the outdoors, but the thought of a vacation composed of mandatory tick checks several times a day just sort of sets my teeth on edge now. At the time it seemed normal.

Dad, ED, Hipee, me, and an Uncle.

Hipee is behind the fish, half hidden, again. Notice her open shirt and both hands holding up her shorts. I'm the one, hands on hips and stomach out.

Since ED and I were looking off to the right, something must have been going down over there

I’m not too interested in camping any more. Although I’m not opposed to doing dirty jobs and like to be outside, gardening if possible, I also like to bathe regularly and have indoor plumbing with privacy. I prefer a bed over a sleeping bag in a tent. I like my pillows. I like air conditioning and refrigerators. Even when my family had a small camper it just wasn’t the same as my own bed. In fact, that old camper was more uncomfortable than a tent, as far as sleeping went, because it stayed so darn hot, even at night. Perhaps I’d be comfortable in one of those nice, new, big campers that are more like a home on wheels, but that wasn’t an option when I was young and I’m just not interested now.

Of course, we all know how I feel about ticks and leeches. Today I’m still not too thrilled when I have to pick ticks off the dogs - or me. And I would imagine people would be less accepting of a fifty year old woman screaming over a leech and doing the get-it-off-me dance.

(The photo's are from photocopies of water damaged prints. Why, yes, they are pictures of us posing with dead things.)

Blast from the Past

My mother recently came across a note I left at my parent's home when I was in college and had stopped in there during the day - apparently to do laundry. She asked that I share this with Hipee (my sister the high powered executive) but I thought I would share it with all of you at the same time:

(Last Name)'s:

I have just a small list of things that could use some improvement around here:

1. Please teach the small white attack dog to not intimidate members of your immediate family. (Have you ever tried to carry a basket of dirty clothes and outrun a dog?)

2. I think it would be appropriate to clean the breakfast things off the table. (When you're chasing a small white attack dog through the house it is a gruesome sight to run into.)

3. Towels in a bathroom would be a wise touch. (Have you ever taken a shower and had to run through the house naked - excluding Mom Last Name - trying to find a towel?)

4. Toilet paper would also cut down on some of the unexpected and unwanted surprises around here. (This goes without explanation - especially when trying to wash clothes.)

5. For a final note, I don't think the bathroom sink is the place to leave 30 pairs of underwear soaking. (It is a good thing to have clean underwear but I think it would be more appropriate to soak that many pairs in a washer or at least a large tub. It is quite the eye sore for a guest to spy.)

Well I hope now that you can remedy these situations before I visit again.

Lori

- The small white attack dog was a sweet, friendly little dog that maybe weighed 10 lbs soaking wet.

- The disclaimer that exempted our Mom from the running naked through the house question was because Mom had a habit of taking a bath and then yelling "Nobody Look!" as she ran the 4 steps from the bathroom to the bedroom. True. We all sort of got used to it. And yes, she always had a towel wrapped around her.

- Mom had apparently wanted to make it clear that there were only 3 pairs of underwear soaking in the sink. She has actually written above my "30 pairs" that there were "really only 3".

I-don't-know-how-to-love-him badminton

Since I can’t sing this game must have been Hipee’s idea. There is no conceivable universe where my old-enough-to-know-better self would be saying, “Let’s play ‘bad mitten’ and sing.” This is one of those occurrences where common sense and caution tells you to deny it ever happened but I can’t because there were witnesses.

What we did was exactly what it sounds like. We played badminton while singing “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” from Jesus Christ Superstar.

What was wrong with us?

“Your serve.”

“I iiii… don't know how to- umph - love him. What to do, how to…”

“… moooooove him. Ive been CHANGED, yessss really….”

“…changed. In these paststttttt few days, when I've seen myself..."

“I seem – that was out! My serve - like someone else. – hurumph…”

“I don't know- owwweh- how to take this. I don't …”

“…see why he moves me. –umph- He's a man. He's just…”

“… a man. Annnnnnd I've had so many men before…”

“In very –eryyyyy- many ways, He's just one more.”

“Should I bring him - your serve - dowwwnnn?"

"Should I scream – mmmuph- and shout?"

"Should I speak of – ffffffve - love, Let my feelings…”

“… out? I never –errrrrr- thought I'd come to this. “

“What's it all about? –umph - Don't you think it'ssssss…”

“…sssss rather funny, I iiiiii should be in this positionnnnnnn.”

“I'm the one- uunnnn- “

“Out, my serve - who's always beennnnn ssso calm…”

“… so coolllllllll, nooooo lover's fool, running…”

“… every –eeeeeee- show. He scares me so.”

“I never thought – umph - I'd come to thisssssss.”

“What's it all aboutttttt? Yet, if he said he…”

“… loved me, I'd be lost – osttttt- . I'd be frightened. “

“I couldn't cope – eehhht - just couldn't cope. I'd turn…”

“… my head. I'd –ddddd - back away. I wouldn't want to…”

“… know- oooooooo. He scares me so.

“I want him soooooooo. –“

“I love him soooooooo”

“Want to go again?”

Us, Holding up or Posing by Dead Things

There are many pictures of all five of us siblings and at this point even several grandchildren all posing for pictures by dead things. We may or may not be holding or helping to hold some dead things up. Although this sounds potentially very creepy, the dead things were usually fish, fowl, or had fur. Our father (or grandfather to some subjects) is the perpetrator. I am not sure why, exactly, it was necessary to take pictures of our children or us by these dead things. I somehow suspect that while desiring a visual documentation or record of the hunt, it was and still is more acceptable for Dad to do so by morphing it into a family picture at the same time. It makes for many family pictures that will never be enlarged and proudly displayed in the living room.

The obvious problem with all of these photos is the subject matter. Pictures of loved ones are good; pictures of them with dead game, not so much. You can see why this would be the case. Let’s look at a hypothetical conversation of me sharing family photos with my children:

“Here’s an old photo of Grandpa, Uncle ED, Aunt Hipee, and you with dead geese all laid out on the ground in front of you. Why are guys always by some dead animal? And you always look so happy about it, too.”

“Well, Grandpa wanted a picture… you know Grandpa.”

"I still remember when we'd hear that Grandpa was out hunting and would be coming over sometime with a dead turkey for us to pose by. It was like he's stop by with his dead turkey, Wonder Boy and I would go and pose by it with him, and you would take the picture, forever immortalizing the deceased turkey's remains. Then Grandpa would leave as quickly as he came, with his dead turkey in tow . . . Man! Is that Aunt Hipee holding up a dead duck? Goodness. “

“Yes. Hipee wasn’t too whippy back in those days.”

“You all look demented, like all of you need help."

“It was the sixties.”

“"I thought that the sixties were supposed to be fun, carefree lighthearted times - who's that?"

“That’s my uncle, your Grandpa’s twin. He passed away before you were born.”

“ . . . why are you all standing underneath a bunch of dead fish?"

"It must have been a good day of fishing and Grandpa needed a record of it. We are all happy and smiling. Look at this one.”

"Oh, goodness, bunnies! Why bunnies!? Why does Grandpa look so happy about it?"

“Grandpa is no fan of rabbits. They eat his garden. Obviously he’s never read Watership Down or Peter Rabbit and felt any empathy for the bunnies.”

"I think a little part of me just died. Is there any group pictures of you guys without the theme of death and decay?"

“Not too many.”

"I bet that was fun for you."

“Well, you know, he’s a good grandpa. He just has that one little problem. You enjoyed going out hiking with him, looking for turkey sign.”

"Yeah. I remember the one time we went hiking, and I had been at the back, following Wonder Boy and Grandpa. One of grandpa's footsteps had uncovered a deer's ribcage. I called everyone over. It was fascinating. Grandpa took off the head and when we got back, he made it talk to you."

“Yes, I remember that very clearly. Try as I might, it would be hard to forget.”

“Whoah, look at those froggies! They're all dead.”

"Grandpa wanted us to try frog legs."

“I thought you grew up living in cities? You people were all kinda going natural there, weren't you? Were you some kind of early survivalists?”

“No, well, sort of. We always lived in cities, but Grandpa grew up on a farm and his family was very poor. You had to get game for your family to eat. He just never forgot that and he enjoys being outdoors. Look, at least we never ate raccoon, possum or squirrel… at least not to my knowledge.”

"The pictures were just kind of a bonus then, weren't they?"

“No… yes… I think grandpa wants to record the good day and so he takes pictures of what he caught along with those he loves.”

“Why isn’t Grandma in any of these pictures?”

“Someone had to hold the camera and I imagine she was quick to volunteer.”

"You were never in the pictures with dead turkeys with Wonder Boy and I. You wouldn’t join us, even when I asked."

“Yes. I had already had a lifetime of turkey pictures. It was your turn. Be thankful you’re older now and can offer to be the camera person.”

I know for a fact that my Dad recently had a picture taken with his fishing buddies – and a whole bunch of fish. He was planning to take it along to the various retired-men-who-go-for-coffee-time places he frequents.

skunk

Duuude!

(What my daughter, Just me,exclaimed when she encountered an angry skunk while out walking one of the dogs. )

What Little Girls Are Made Of...

Sugar and spice and everything nice, right? Ed would disagree. I think Ed would have liked to be an only child, or the youngest in the family. He didn’t particularly enjoy being the oldest brother of three younger sisters, or at least the older brother of Hipee and me. ED is almost 15 years older than our youngest brother, Pretty Boy, so by the time he came along, ED was ready to go.

ED normally kept his room very clean and organized. While I am now considered to be a very neat and clean adult, I wasn’t as a child. Hipee wasn’t either. Our shared room was usually a mess until we were forced to clean it up. ED’s room was a paragon of organization. He had a place for everything and everything in its place. This meant that we always knew where ED would keep his stuff, like the chocolate bars he hide in the bottom drawer on the right-hand side of his desk.

Yes, we stole chocolate from ED. I stole chocolate from ED. Shamelessly. I was the worst. He would buy chocolate, and put it in the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, without any security concerns or stealth involved. What was ED thinking? This would be another clue that although ED wasn’t dumb, he wasn’t an Einstein either. I mean, come on… Chocolate candy bars left in the same drawer every time with two younger sisters in the house who were known chocolate thieves. Everyone knows that stashes of chocolate need a hiding place.

Today I still “hide” the chocolate but everyone in my family knows where it is hidden. I’m good with that now. Sometimes they can help me find it if I've forgotten the hiding place. Actually the best hiding place is in plain sight. I had a large bag of peanut MM’s sitting right out in the center of the pantry and no one touched them for months. I finally had to set them out on the kitchen counter in order to get people to see them and eat them. This was done when we were loading a moving truck with help from friends and I needed to either clean up what was left in the pantry or pack it.

But poor ED just never quite got the idea that you might need to hide your chocolate, or switch around where you put it, especially with sisters in the house. A youngest child could get away with this behavior, but the status of the oldest in the family is much more of a dog eat dog position and ED needed a reality check. I tried to help give him a clue that he should hide his candy bars, but, alas, he just never got it. He could yell all he wanted about sister’s invading his room and violating his stuff, but at the end of the day his chocolate was still gone and his sisters had no money to replace it.

Never fear though, ED was eventually compensated for his loss. Several years ago Hipee and I bought enough candy bars to fill up a medium-sized box and gave them to ED for Christmas. He was very pleased. We don’t know if ED hid the candy bars from his wife. We do know that after he opened the gift, he kept that box in sight at all times, didn’t offer anyone anything in it, and whisked it out and into his locked truck ASAP. ED may have learned a lesson after all.

Graveyard

In the different areas of the country I have lived in as a child and adult, children have always played special games of tag under various names. The children always think that everyone knows their game of tag by the name they have given it. For us, for a time while living in Omaha, Nebraska, that game of tag was called Graveyard.

Graveyard was always played at night during the summer. It required running around our house, starting and ending in the light at the front of the house. The person who was “it” would be in the unlit, dark backyard, lurking, waiting to tag the kids running around the house. This would be the graveyard part of our game. Once tagged you would have to sit on the back step, under the swing set, or whatever area we had designated as the graveyard.

This was a noisy game. Knowing from walking my dogs how deadly quiet my current neighborhood is at night, I wonder why the neighbors put up with Graveyard. Of course, many of them would have had kids participating, but this was a late night game that could not start before 9:30 and normally closer to 10. It “had” to be played during the summer and in the dark. We would have been allowed to play it for at least half an hour. Running around in the dark almost guarantees screaming will be involved. I have a feeling that if my husband, the Snack King, and I decided to whoop it up now and make as much noise as we did back then, we’d get the police called on us for disturbing the peace.

Graveyard was also a game that was ripe for participants to incur injuries. Honestly, a game that requires children to run around a house in the dark almost screams “Be prepared for pain. You will trip and fall, or crash into someone else.” Even now my sister, Hipee (high powered executive) recalls it as being a fun game, as do I. But then I also remember crashing into people and tripping.

Now my brother, ED (El Dictator), was often “it”. I think ED enjoyed running up tagging people and scaring them in the dark. Much like Killer Tricycles, being it during Graveyard put ED in a position of power and control, only this time it was over many neighborhood kids. I seem to recall ED enjoyed doing some pretty vigorous tagging too – more of a smack-down time. Perhaps this is what made Graveyard a fun, daring game because we were really afraid of ED catching and painfully tagging us.

I don’t know if our younger siblings, sister Whiy (whiny) and later PB (pretty boy) ever really experienced a vigorous, serious game of tag played with many people. Of course, by the time they would have been ready to learn Graveyard, we were older. Additionally, in the neighborhood we were living in at that time there definitely would have been complaints over the late night noise.

I guess we could still try to introduce Graveyard to them at some family reunion, but I don’t know how that would work out. For the game to be fun we’d need a lot of participants. Everyone would have to play. I know the much younger PB, along with all our children, could run circles around the rest of us. And although Hipee and I might give it a go and do our best, Whiy would likely try to beg out of the game. Of course, ED’s getting old now and we could probably all relatively easily escape his clutches. Unless someone yells, “Coffee!” or “Peanut butter balls!” I don’t think he even runs anymore. It sort of makes playing Graveyard pointless, once the thrill of victory and agony of defeat have been eliminated…. Unless, of course, we were holding the coffee or peanut butter balls and ED had to chase us to get them. Hmmmm… thinking, thinking….

Nest building

It was a giant work of art, a true thing of beauty that was intricately constructed out of natural materials. There were really only two problems with it. First, it was a giant bird’s nest of the likes you’ve only imagined, and second it was built on a neighbor’s patio - a neighbor who had moved out and was trying to sell their house.

I don’t know who first thought of it, but one summer my best friend, Scott, and I decided to build a bird’s nest. It was going to be a giant bird’s nest constructed out of mud, grass, clay, sticks, leaves, and any other natural materials we could find. When trying to find the perfect spot to construct our bird’s nest, we decided the best place, the most private, secluded site would be the patio of the house next door. It had a nice thick hedge all around the back yard for privacy. The house was empty, for sale, and quiet. In short, it was an ideal location.

This was before Sesame Street, so it’s not like we were thinking about Big Bird. If anything we would have been thinking a robin, at first, and then maybe an eagle, just because, or perhaps, eventually some prehistoric bird. I know the size of the nest to begin with was quite modest, the size of a normal bird's nest, only much sturdier and heavier because of all the mud and clay we used. Then Scott and I got busy and that nest building project took on a life of it’s own. It sort of helped us see how other big construction projects may have started with just an idea to build something nice, like a pyramid shaped marker for example, and then suddenly became a huge undertaking that required slave labor.

There were no slaves around, unless we talked younger siblings into helping, and we really only trusted each other with our top-secret bird’s nest project. This meant that we had to rely on each other for the construction. The thing is that we were both hard workers and very diligent and industrious. While we kept tirelessly working on it, that bird’s nest kept growing and growing. Eventually it was large enough that we could sit in it, if we wanted to. It was magnificent. It was a superb feat of construction and imagination. We were very proud of our accomplishment.

Just like many things that are truly so good and great that you can’t keep them a secret, our top-secret bird’s nest project was discovered. I wish I could tell you that it was found by a naturalist, or art gallery owner, or Marlin Perkins and the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom film crew, but, alas, we had to get discovered by a realtor, a realtor who was not amused or in awe of our great summer art project. No, this was a realtor who wanted the mess cleaned up right away. This was a realtor with a hose and a shovel and an attitude.

Before we could even confess that we had made the huge, gigantic bird’s nest, it was no more. I wish someone had tried to find out whose nest it was and asked if we wanted pictures taken of it before it’s demise, but I don’t think that thought crossed anyone’s mind. Great artists are often misunderstood. The cursed realtor cleaned it up, and at least a month’s worth of work was gone, hauled away in several large garbage cans, I would imagine, depriving the world of something that was truly unique and grand.

4th of July

While most people in my family love the 4th of July, I’ll have to admit it isn’t my favorite holiday. I like the parades, picnics, homemade ice cream, and family gatherings held to celebrate Independence Day, but I can do without the fireworks. Unfortunately going without fireworks was only an option during the years we lived in Nevada and they were illegal and scary due to the fire danger. Basically, it feels like everyone that I’m related to is a pyromaniac.

My Dad is a pyro going way back to his childhood. Even though they were dirt poor, he and his twin brother would save up their very hard to come by money all year so they could send away for fireworks. When we were young he always managed to find the money for fireworks. It’s safe to say that the fireworks are what make the 4th a great holiday for Dad.

This meant that my childhood was filled with explosions on every 4th. While I did okay and enjoyed, for brief periods, lighting the little firecrackers, smoke bombs, and snakes during the day, I disliked the big booms and sparks that happened at night. I enjoy the pretty colors in the large displays, but that enjoyment was always bittersweet since the big booms always accompanied them. I hated and despised sparklers. Still do. Who in their right mind wants to hold a piece of metal that you light in order to experience it throwing stinging sparks off onto your arm and hand while you have to be careful holding it because now it is burning hot metal? In my mind the new sparklers are still just as evil and dangerous.


My son, Wonder Boy, carries on the tradition. For awhile we lived out in the country on an acreage in a state that allowed fireworks for a week before the fourth. There were far fewer restrictions for rural areas. Wonder Boy would spend the whole week lighting off fireworks. He grudgingly took time off to see family, and then went right back to fireworks as soon as he possibly could. Wonder Boy invented a smoke bomb cannon, where he used a firecracker to shoot a smoke bomb through a piece of pipe. This was one of his more tame inventions.

During this time we lived near my parents. My dad, Grandpa, would be out with Wonder Boy for at least one whole day, lighting off fireworks and blowing things up. The summer before we moved to Nevada there was a drought. It was very dry. I warned Wonder Boy and Dad to be careful, try to stay on the gravel drive with their fireworks, and keep the hoses ready. Imagine my shock when I looked out the front window and saw a big black patch of grass. Wonder Boy and Grandpa had moved on to exploding things in the backyard. They had left something burning and I had a smoldering patch of grass, slowly burning, in my front yard. I manned the hose and, after it was out, yelled at both of them. They sheepishly took the abuse and promised to be more careful.

Hipee likes watching fireworks. I don’t know how keen she is on lighting them. This could be due to her firecracker accident. We all laughed uproariously when it happened, but really, the poor girl hurt herself. The accident happened when we were all standing on the street curb in front of our house in a city. We were lighting off little firecrackers and throwing them into the street to explode. We all had our own punks, a slow burning stick used for lighting firework fuses. Hipee was excited, hopping around, lighting and throwing firecrackers. Then she lit her firecracker but threw the punk. The firecracker blew up in her hand. She cried. We laughed at her. Mom yelled at us and took care of Hipee’s hurt hand. (Even then… lucky to be alive.)

I spent the last 4th happily alone, walking the dogs and protecting them from the fireworks going off in the neighborhood. It seemed like the cop across the street was competing with the guy 2 doors up, who was competing with the neighbors across the street from them. Our street was very noisy. The dogs and I were all understandably nervous with the number of explosions surrounding the house. They did their business quickly, much to all our relief, when we went out. This 4th will be spent the same way, but with an added twist. While the rest of my family heads off for fireworks fun with extended family, I’ll be having a root canal. The long weekend will be spent recovering, reading, walking dogs, consoling dogs during the big booms, and making several batches of soup.

Hometowns

As a child the concept of a “hometown” was lost on me. My family moved around way too much for it to make sense. It’s an idea that is also lost on my children. My son, Wonder Boy, said the other day that on campus when people talk about their hometown he just can’t grasp the concept of how people can be so devoted to one place. I’d have to say I agree with him.

Years ago, when my family moved to a new city and we were visiting churches, I had a particular Sunday school teacher ask me “Where is your hometown?” I didn’t understand the question. I thought she meant to ask my birthplace, so I answered with the name of the city where I was born. It was that “hometown” label that threw me since at that point I had already lived in four other cities. Certainly, from my point of view, she should have asked where I lived, which was in the city where the church was located.

Of course, always moving did mean we were often the new kids. I really never found it to be a problem at school (until we moved to the small town where I went to high school.) Often it was being the new kid at whatever church we decided to attend that caused the most problems. You’d think that wouldn’t be the case, but there it is. For example a Bible was given to all 6th graders from one church. In mine they spelled my last name wrong. That was a wee bit hurtful. In the Bible I can see my correction inked in boldly. Sometimes I felt like the church kids were the cruelest kids. Sometimes it was because they were jealous that we had lived other places. Since my husband also experienced this as a child moving from Southern California to the upper Midwest, we have always been hypersensitive to how our kids feel and are treated in a church. Just because it’s good for the adults doesn’t mean the kids just need to adjust.

Now my mother (who has a hometown) has always said that the town we were living in when I graduated from high school would consider themselves my hometown. I refuse to allow those people to claim me since I don’t particularly like them. (See the information on my last reunion.) Living in that town was never a good idea. It was even bad when, married, we moved back to the area with our kids. Now they have bad memories of that same town.

A certain national news anchor used to call this same town his hometown although apparently he had also moved around and lived in even smaller, less impressive places. As far as I can tell, as his career was progressing he had to claim it or some place worse. When I was in high school the town was all abuzz because he was going to have a news crew come film at the high school and the town would be mentioned on a national program. The sad truth was that in the nationally televised program he made fun of the town and it’s people. He no longer wanted to be reminded of the roots he once claimed. I think now that he’s older he has made his peace with it.

Just Me, my daughter, thinks that sometimes when people have been born and always lived in one place it can potentially make them rather ethnocentric and narrow minded. They also usually think that where they live is the greatest place upon the face of the planet. As a family when we discuss our moving around we always have viewed it as a positive. I think it has made us more open to seeing different customs and cultural influences and as a result has made us more accepting of different people. It’s also help us notice some of the odd little local or regional words and word usage. For example “spaghetti” as in “bring spaghetti for a spaghetti dinner” means bring any kind of pasta in one area. A “tavern” is a sloppy joe in another. (In a church cookbook from that area the humor I find in the title of the recipe “taverns for 50” is lost on them.)

My current town is not where I’ll be living for much longer. We simple rented a house in this rather centrally located place to give us time to decide where we want to buy a house. It’s an OK place to live. The neighborhood is safe and there are plenty of places to walk the dogs. It has very hard water though, and the yard isn’t fenced so we have to always walk the dogs. I know I don’t want to buy a house in this town. I’d rather either move into a city or out in the country. I guess I’m easy to please in some ways.

I’m not entirely sure if our footloose attitude is healthy or not. Certainly I would say we are grounded. We know who we are and what we believe. We also tend to see positives and negatives in every place we’ve live. In some ways moving to different cities as a family, along with homeschooling, has kept us tight as a family. It’s also very likely encouraged us to view wherever we are living as a specimen - something to observe and dissect but not necessarily embrace whole-heartedly.