Diehard Baseball Fan I Am

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Ken Burns is an American filmmaker whose work I deeply admire. His documentaries’ unique style captivates my attention, no matter what the subject, and believe me, that is very, very hard to do. I have had ADHD my whole life, (though it wasn’t specifically tested for and diagnosed until just two years ago), and if a movie does not capture my interest within the first ten minutes, I will either get bored and start fidgeting, or I’ll simply nod off, much to the chagrin of my family members.

We do not have cable television, but have Internet TV instead. I love having the freedom to watch what I want to watch, when I want to watch it. Lately, I’ve been on a Ken Burns’ kick, mesmerized by his depictions of the prohibition era, the man-made disaster that contributed to laying the foundation for America’s dust bowl, and our nation’s exquisite national parks. Most recently I watched the eighteen-and-half hour documentary, “Baseball.” I loved it.

I find all the tidbits of information that Burns’ weaves into his stories fascinating. Take for instance, the fact that baseball is the only sport in which the defense has control of the ball. Despite being a fan all my life, this unique and amazing detail has escaped me.

My heart ached when “Baseball” focused on how strong racial prejudices against black players had been, and I cried when learning that two of my all-time favorite St. Louis Cardinals, Bob Gibson and Curt Flood, were prohibited from staying in the same hotel as their white teammates, but had to stay in hotels that were miles away. Hatred and bigotry were hallmarks of the great Ty Cobb, I learned, and I wished I had never thought he was a great baseball player.

I laughed when the story of Mickey Mantle’s less-than-stellar minor league experience was told, and that, when he was in a hitting slump how he telephoned his dad back home in Oklahoma and told him about it. His dad told him he’d be right there, and immediately drove to Mantle’s hotel in Independence, Missouri. Upon his dad’s arrival, Mantle was surprised that his dad began packing his bags instead of giving him the much-anticipated and much-wanted pep talk. When he asked his dad what he was doing, his dad replied, “I’ve come to take you home…I thought I raised a man.” I laughed because this struck a chord with me; you see, I was the hard-nosed parent that was more about having my kids suck-it-up than to coddle them. Someone has to do it.

In my mind, baseball has and always will be my idea of America’s favorite pastime. Like movies that bore me and cause me to fall asleep, other sports simply do not have what it takes to make me come back game after game, season after season. And while baseball has its tainted past–racism, the steroids scandals, and player strikes–it is something defines our country and the fans who can’t get enough of it. From spring training in March to the World Series in October, it has my attention. It’s gotta be love.

Just Say It Correctly. Please.

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Being a writing tutor and a teacher of ESL (English as a Second Language) at a local community college makes my ears more fine-tuned than most. This is both a blessing and a curse: it’s a blessing because it helps me communicate to my students clearly and precisely, and it’s a curse because it makes me impatient with Americans who mispronounce relatively easy words. Take, for instance, the words “ask,” “specifically” and “asterisk.” It drives me crazy to hear these words pronounced as “ax,” “pacifically” and “asteriks.”

When I mentioned my annoyance with those who cannot correctly pronounce these words to a colleague, she politely asked (haha…”axed”), “Are you from up north?” Frankly, I find that particular question difficult to answer because Missouri is smack dab in the middle of the United States, hence not actually ‘up north.’ However, in Civil War context–which must be considered when one lives in the south (I live in Kentucky)–the question takes on a whole new meaning. Because Missouri was divided over the issue of slavery, it, along with Maryland, Delaware, and ironically, Kentucky, is technically a “border state.” In this regard, Missouri is kind of like Switzerland. But I digress.

I felt it safe to answer, “I’m from Saint Louis,” therefore putting the ball back in her court, to which she replied, “Good enough.” That’s when I learned that she was from New York, and the commonality of being Kentucky transplants was heartening. Her next comment, though, completely left me perplexed. She said, “Well, here it’s more acceptable to be nice than right.” Say what??? Was my colleague graciously advising me to let it go? I’m sorry, but try as I might, I just can’t.

People need to communicate clearly so that misunderstandings do not result. Miscommunication and misunderstandings cause all kinds of problems and unfortunate situations. People need to communicate clearly in relationships with those at home, in school, in the workplace, in text and email messages, and even on the playing field so that information is interpreted correctly. In the movie, “Blazing Saddles,” the townspeople mistakenly heard, “The sheriff is near,” when instead, it was a very politically incorrect but funny as hell announcement. In the CCDW (carry concealed deadly weapon) class I recently attended, the instructor kept pronouncing “firearm” such that it sounded like “farm.” In both examples, minor confusion was the result. Neither of these situations were particularly significant, but they illustrate how misinterpretations can completely alter a meaning. God help 911 operators and all emergency responders.

Though my friends tease me relentlessly about being a language Nazi, I look for the potential educational value of these intermittent bursts of annoyance I have with affronts to the English language, whether they be mispronunciation, poor grammar, or lack of punctuation (such as in, “Let’s eat, Grandpa” versus “Let’s eat Grandpa.”) Was I surprised to discover that a normal linguistic process called “metathesis” occurs when two sounds or syllables switch places in a word. Furthermore, I was taken aback to learn that /aks/ is not only a common regional pronunciation found not just in the South, but as far north as New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Illinois and Iowa and that the metathesis began sometime in the 14th century.

For my part, I will continue to insist that my students take toothpicks out of their mouths when they speak to me so that their words can be emitted without interference. I will continue to reiterate to them the correct pronunciations of “ask” and “specific” and “asterisks”. Of course, I will subtly correct mispronunciation when I hear them and not tell the offenders outright that “pacifically” is not even a word. Although, as another colleague pointed out, if it was, it would be a beautiful word. Obviously, she has learned that it’s better to be nice.

 

 

 

 

 

When did “Work” become a 4-letter word?

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 Happy Work-cycle

 

Chris Kutcher’s–ahem, I mean Ashton Kutcher’s–recent acceptance speech at the Teen Choice Awards struck a chord with me, particularly when he said that ‘opportunity looks a lot like work.’ That caused me to reflect on the many jobs I’ve had in nearly six decades of living, many of which I have truly enjoyed and all of which taught me at least one Life Lesson. I don’t know when work became associated with something negative, as many millenials (and some of their parents) think, for I remember anxiously awaiting my sixteenth birthday so that I could get a job. Legally, that is. I don’t count the two years before that when I helped my aunt cater weddings nearly every Friday and Saturday night. Somehow, shlepping mostaccoli, pouring coffee, and cutting wedding cake didn’t seem like work.

I held at least one job while going to school, and sometimes two. One of my favorite jobs was working at the bakery at Target, especially on Saturday mornings when the hot donuts were delivered. It was sheer nirvana. The chocolate-iced ones were my favorite. Maybe I liked working there a little too much, because I got a second job at a women’s-only figure salon called Elaine Powers that I reported to after getting off at Target. As a result, I learned that I was a bit obsessive-compulsive, but I regarded that revelation as a Life Lesson because knowing one’s true self is paramount to one’s happiness and satisfaction. And isn’t that what we are all ultimately striving for in everything we do and every relationship we have?

One of the most satisfying jobs I ever had was as a gift-wrapper at a large department store in Saint Louis, Stix, Baer & Fuller. How fun it was to have all those rolls of wrapping paper and yards of ribbon at my disposal! I totally reveled in the appreciation and gratitude I received from my customers because they were completely in awe of how little time it took to wrap a plain box and transform it into a work of art. This job led to another job within the store, and although I made more money as a waitress in the dining room, I wasn’t as fulfilled as I was working as a gift-wrapper in the basement. Life Lesson #2: Money Isn’t Everything. However, I did manage to put myself through college with the money I earned and saved, and the satisfaction I got from that was more than just a little worthwhile.

Sometimes jobs can rescue us from the ordinary and give us comic relief. Such was my short-lived, but unforgetable, job at a condom factory in Dothan, Alabama, called Alatech. It was the early 1980’s, and I was a young mother of two children under the age of three, and although I loved being a stay-at-home mom, I hungered for adult conversation. So, I signed up with Manpower Temporary Agency; that way, I could pick where and when I worked. At Alatech, my week-long job was to fill in for the secretary in the research and development section, and my duties included picking up all the daily mail and filtering it to the right department within the factory. Also included in my duties was opening and reading the mail directed to the R&D department. Lordie, Lordie! Was that ever fun! Those letters, every one of which was written by a male, were a cross between letters one would see in a Dear Abby newspaper column and Penthouse magazine. Conversations with my husband over dinner no longer centered around how many times I’d been barfed upon or what letter was taught that day on Sesame Street, but rather the hilarious or shocking consumer comments I had read at work. One letter was especially memorable; the consumer recounted in vivid detail–and at great length (no pun intended)–his experience with the product, and concluded his letter/manuscript/screen play with, “and if I may offer a suggestion, it would be to make the condoms bigger, as my portions are larger than the average Caucasian.” I nearly fell off the chair laughing! The fact that I have remembered his self-congratulatory comment for thirty years speaks volumes. Although nearly every job I worked at temporarily usually resulted in an offer by the company to continue working there full-time, such was not the case at Alatech. My guess is that the regular secretary loved her job too much to ever quit. The Life Lesson learned here was Love What You Do.

A passion for the importance of clearly communicating with and helping others is perhaps what ultimately led me to a career in teaching (compensated), and then to founding and promoting an organization for women in boating (volunteer.) And both of those eventually led me to what I’m doing now, tutoring college students with their writing assignments (compensated) and teaching English as a second language (volunteer.) Both have all the components that, collectively, satisfy me beyond measure. Work is good for both the mind and the soul. It’s impressive that Chris/Ashton has learned at such a young age that opportunities come through work. I hope that he can influence his entire generation.

 

 

 

 

It’s Time to Stop Spoon-Feeding Already!

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 Filed under “What Is Happening to Our Educational System?” is this course description found in the fall semester catalog of Northern Virginia Community College. Really? Isn’t America dumbed down enough that a course on wedding planning needs to be taught?

Whatever happened to independent RESEARCH? The Internet has made it easier than ever before to locate information on any topic one might desire. As a matter of fact, it is almost too easy to find too much information, given the links within a webpage that transport the user instantaneously to a completely different website. Is the problem that people in general, and students in particular, do not know how to look for information? Or is the problem that people are losing the ability to think for themselves?

There was a time not so long ago that dictionaries and thesauruses were standard school supplies. If a student did not know how to correctly spell a word, basic skills like sounding the word out and alphabetizing helped that student eventually locate the word in a dictionary. A thesaurus came in handy when a student needed to learn how to paraphrase resources. Not anymore. Nowadays, a feature in most wordprocessors called autocorrect makes those ‘searching skills’ (research) obsolete, never mind the fact that many times, autocorrect changes the intended message completely, so much so that websites such as www.DamnYouAutocorrect have sprung up.

Is America so caught up with standardized testing that independent research has fallen by the wayside? Are today’s students on a “need to know basis,” and therefore learning only those things that are later quizzed, albeit so easily forgotten? Learning is SO much more than memorizing facts and certain steps. How can creativity–and this is where research skills lie–develop in a uni-dimentional world?

One day, when my daughter was fifteen years old, she announced that she was tired of high school and wanted to get her GED (General Equivalency Diploma) so that she “could get on with her life” and start college. At first, I didn’t know what to say; after all, when I was fifteen, the only girls who got their GED’s were pregnant. However, Kate had yet to have her first date. Sensing my hesitancy, she countered with, “Just go to Barnes and Noble, Mama. You’ll find a Dummies book on it there.” I was at Barnes and Noble that afternoon.

I learned that four out of the five subjects, Writing, Reading, Social Studies, and Science, were tested subjectively; that is, in essay form. Mathematics was the sole subject that was tested objectively; the answers A, B, C, or D were circled. I thought this was fabulous! My daughter would have to think, and then organize her ideas, and finally write a logical paragraph or essay.

We were living in Washington, D.C. in 1997 and, back then, its Board of Education wanted its GED candidates to be at least seventeen years old. I could have interceded for Kate and pleaded her case, but I felt that part of my children’s education was for them to learn how to fight their own battles, and so Kate was the one who went in the front of the school board and articulated all the reasons she should be able to take the test at age fifteen. Granted, she was nervous and scared to death, but like David and Goliath, she prepared herself well for the battle and ultimately won.

Today Kate is a mother of two young children and homeschools them the way she was homeschooled–by “unschooling.” Children are naturally inquisitive, and this method allows them the freedom to self-direct their own education. I imagine readers who are unfamiliar with unschooling are thinking that learning cannot possibly take place in such an unstructured environment. I feel that I only need say that my daughter graduated from a community college at the age of eighteen and then applied to an Ivy league school back when homeschoolers were first being considered. Her acceptance hinged on, what else? An essay. She later graduated from Cornell University.

But, back to the course on wedding planning that got me riled up in the first place… Don’t waste your hard-earned money on something that can be easily learned with a few keystrokes. In your computer’s browser type in the words “how to plan a wedding,” and be amazed at the plethora of links to guides, checklists and ideas that will be presented. Else you take the risk of having a cookie-cutter event that more-than-just-a-little resembles the wedding of every one of your classmates. And who would want their wedding to be like that?

 

 

 

Things Learned from a Disaster

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It is said that “time heals all wounds,” and I believe this to be true. Still, as the long month of August inches towards its final days, I tend to remember something that happened eight years ago, but is as clear as though it happened just yesterday–Hurricane Katrina. But rather than rehash the story, nowadays I reflect more on the lessons that I learned. While I hope that I never again have to go through something as surreal as a deadly and devastating storm, I now know how to be better prepared and I hope my experience will benefit others.

First and foremost, forget the notion that “the government” will help you. God helps those who help themselves, and this couldn’t be more true in the wake of a disaster. If you’re advised to evacuate, evacuate. Realize that all of your possessions–including your home–are just things, and things can be replaced. Lives cannot. Don’t be complacent and think that “it won’t happen to you,” because it can. And even if it doesn’t, and you return to your home just as it was when you left, consider yourself lucky. This time. And even if you don’t have to evacuate, at least be sure that you have everything you need to ride out the storm as safely as as comfortably as possible: water, food, candles/lighter, a weather radio, batteries, first aid kit, medications, a whistle to signal for help, a can opener, and a local map. Katrina inundated our town with a twenty-six foot flood surge, and every street sign was decimated. It was a nightmare for search and recovery teams, as well as for those who were responsible for delivering and setting up FEMA trailers.

Have a binder in which you keep the originals or copies of all the important things of your life, and keep it current: birth certificates, your marriage certificate, health histories, Social Security cards, passports, credit cards, diplomas, mortgage papers, car titles, etc. In the event you have to leave in a hurry, this is easy to transport, and will save you a ton of headaches down the road. Believe me on this one.

About all those “things”: take photos of all the things that are meaningful, and if you’ve got receipts, that’s great. Insurance is the grand illusion, and if you can’t prove that you owned those things, chances are great that the insurance company won’t believe you and disallow coverage.

Speaking of photos, take as many with you as possible if you have to evacuate. You won’t believe how meaningful they are in the wake of a disaster.

Know that safe deposit boxes at banks may be fire-proof, but they are not flood-proof. We weren’t able to get access to the contents of ours until six weeks after the hurricane, and when we were able to, we discovered that the salt water–which remained in the safe deposit box until the locksmith emptied it–had destroyed several savings bonds and other valuable papers. Luckily, I had an inventory of everything that was in the box, so things that were destroyed were eventually replaced.

Have one or two out-of-town contacts that can relay information from you and to you. Communication will likely be interrupted in the wake of a storm and, therefore, intermittent at best. Plus, we all know how the media can perpetuate misinformation. So have one person to whom you can convey information and news, and ask them to pass it along to other relatives and friends.

If you decide to return and help with the recovery, realize that you will experience the best of human nature, as well as the worst. You will be utterly amazed at those who up and leave their own lives to help you recover yours…there truly are angels among us. You will also be shocked at those who come to prey on those who have been affected: looters, shysters, and the like.

Speaking of those who come to help, the ones who helped Bay Saint Louis, Mississippi the most were the Salvation Army, medical teams, and all of the religious organizations. The Salvation Army sent their trucks out to distribute water and meals…and if the trucks were not able to get to the neighborhoods, the workers set out on foot to reach the people. Medical tents and triage units were set up quickly and manned with medical personnel from all over the country 24/7, and although they were continually overwhelmed with people who were hurting both physically and emotionally, they somehow kept their wits about them and provided care in both a professional and humane manner. The religious organizations had their acts together like the government never will, and distributed food, water, and basic living supplies like toilet paper and diapers in an incredibly organized fashion, which was so helpful. They were a true godsend. And while I am always careful to preface my opinions regarding the American Red Cross with “their first aid and CPR classes are really good,” I must say that their disaster response leaves much to be desired. I will never, ever, make a donation to that organization again, and advise others not to either.

Also realize that modern conveniences such as ATMS, gasoline pumps, and credit cards probably won’t work. Count on electricity being out. Carry cash, and bring your own supply of fuel. However, in light of the predators aforementioned, be able to guard your belongings.

If you feel comfortable, pack heat. Or at least have a dog with a ferocious bark. Gun control is a sensitive issue these days, but realize that you are responsible for your own safety. In the days after Katrina, the local police force had its hands full with serious problems, let alone looters. So be prepared to fend for yourself, because you’ll have to.

While we will never be able to control the direction or the intensity of the wind, we will always be able to adjust our sails, and so it is with life’s disasters. We can choose to be prepared and we can be proactive, or we can succumb and be victims. Life is not always a bed of roses, and it may deal us a bad hand from time to time, but we can always make the most of it and benefit from the lessons those experiences impart. It’s a chance for growth. It’s all part of our journey.

 

Bloom Where You Are Planted

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Hopkinsville

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine living in Kentucky, but when Hurricane Katrina stole everything we owned in Bay Saint Louis, Mississippi, we had to go somewhere. Our daughter and son-in-law, both soldiers, were stationed at Fort Campbell, and it seemed as good a place as any to live.  It has been almost five years since I moved to Hopkinsville, and out of all the places I’ve ever lived–and that includes San Diego, Washington, D.C., North Palm Beach in south Florida, and Gulf Breeze in Florida’s panhandle–this place ranks high on my list of Favorite Places. People who are originally from here can’t get over the fact that I like it as much as I do, and frankly, sometimes neither can I. But obviously I’m not the only one, because Hopkinsville was recently named Kentucky’s fastest growing city.

There are so many reasons I like this place. For one thing, there are lots and lots of sidewalks, something that is all but fading from the American landscape. Every morning, a friend and I walk a little more than four miles, all of which, except for our jaunt through Riverside Cemetery, are on sidewalks. We have a regular route, and morning after morning, we see familiar faces who greet us with waves and greetings like, ” Looking good, Ladies!” or “Remember to breathe!” Motorists are kind and smile at us when giving us the right of way, and both the exercise and the human contact are a fabulous start to my day.

I love that traffic here is practically non-existent. Once, when I complained that a meeting which required my attendance was “way over on the other side of town,” my daughter rolled her eyes and commented, “Mom, it’ll take all of ten minutes to get there.” And it was true. Most of the time when I go to work, the five stop lights I pass through are green, and on the few occasions they aren’t, my wait is less than a minute and no more than two. The most heavily traveled road is known as simply, “The Boulevard,” which I find quaint. It’s common for an Amish horse and buggy to further slow what little traffic there is, and even then, people are usually courteous and not terribly put out. I guess people here just aren’t in a hurry, and I find that refreshing.

There are many farms all around, and I love that they are a short bike-ride away. Hopkinsville has two farmers markets and many side-of-the-road fruit and vegetable stands, so not only do we have access to homegrown goodness, but it’s easy to get to know the farmers themselves. I’ve gotten so spoiled eating just-picked produce, and I’ve never felt healthier. I’m already dreading that summer is ending soon; I’ve actually been thinking about learning to can, which, for this big-city girl, is about as outrageous a thought as I’ve ever had.

Seldom do I find the need to venture away from here to shop. While some may argue that Hopkinsville doesn’t have much in the way of shopping, I always manage to find most everything I need. Not that I’m not much of a shopper to begin with. I think of going to Clarksville the way I think of going to Wal-Mart: an act of God needs to get me there, and even then, there has to be more than just one thing on the list. If I ever felt the need for a big city fix, Nashville, St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Memphis are all within four hours away. Fortunately, I haven’t needed a big city fix in a long, long time.

I love that it has been easy to get involved in the community; any number of organizations always need, and are always grateful to have, volunteers. By working on a variety of projects, I’ve met a lot of people from all walks of life, which in turn has resulted in opportunities for me to learn and grow and contribute. Somehow, I am sure the connections I’ve made through volunteerism played a pivotal role in my employment at the community college and for a local magazine, neither of which I really consider “jobs,” because I enjoy them way too much.

By writing this, I’ve discovered that I have found satisfaction in being content with not just where I am, but who I’ve become. Indeed, life is more than just a destination; and although the journey may have unforeseen detours and pit stops, it is worth savoring because unexpected blessings usually unfold. It isn’t so much that Hopkinsville, Kentucky is the end-all place, because obviously it isn’t right for everyone. But it suits me just fine; I have bloomed where I was planted.

 

 

 

 

I’m the Spam Nazi, and I’m OK with That

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The older I get, the more I embrace being from Missouri, the “Show Me” state–or maybe I’m just morphing into a female Andy Rooney. Either way, I sure am getting annoyed at the number of forwarded email messages in my in-box that are shotgunned to the masses. The problem is not that a message has been forwarded or even that my name is among a host of others; the problem is that nine times out of ten, the message is false. Bogus. Completely wrong. My friends call me a spam Nazi because I always check the authenticity of a message and then reply to their message with the link proving the message’s falseness–by “replying all,” of course.

Email hoaxes have circulated about the CIA being responsible for creating the AIDS virus, the nursery rhyme “Ring Around the Rosie” being a coded reference to the Black Plague, a co-ed at the University of Texas losing both of her kidneys to organ thieves,  Cambodian midgets fighting a lion, and a missing shipment of UPS uniforms presumably having been stolen by terrorists, and a host of others. It’s impossible to know how many more untruths are being circulated to millions and millions of people, but suffice it to say that truth-finding websites such as truthorfiction.com, snopes.com, and breakthechain.com are doing a booming business.

It’s bad enough that my in-box is filled with messages that I do not even bother to open. It seems that ordering from an online source even one time apparently gives the go-ahead to be on a company’s mailing list. So, about once a month, I take the time to siphon through those messages and unsubscribe from future mailings. It takes time, but it’s time well spent. But I’ve gotten to the point that I’m about to go Mommy Dearest on a couple of friends who insist on sending me bogus messages that are political in nature, and frankly, even though I lean to the right of center, it just isn’t right to spread untruths about the President. Or anyone. Or anything, for that matter. Bernard Baruch, advisor to U.S. Presidents Woodrow Wilson and Franklin Roosevelt, said that ‘every man has a right to be wrong in his opinions, but  no man has a right to be wrong in his facts.’ So, with several websites available to check a message’s authenticity, why perpetuate untruths?

There are not enough hours in my day to do all the things I would like to do, so why anyone takes the time to make up something with the intention of spreading it virally is beyond me. Neither am I a psychologist, but having been a special ed teacher, I postulate that people who create hoaxes just want attention. Even though it would be extremely difficult for them to know exactly how many times and to whom their message was forwarded, perhaps these individuals, in some twisted way, feel “successful” for pulling the wool over people’s eyes. Or maybe such individuals view their email hoax as a type of viral vandalism in which their anger against a certain political figure can be vented both secretively and publicly. It’s almost as if their underlying motives are like those of vandals who spray graffiti on walls of buildings in the dead of night or slash the seats of a movie theater in the dark. Even though such motives are pointless to most, there must be some intrinsic value to creating an email hoax, such as a sense of power, or perhaps just a cheap thrill.

I hope that my friends who insist on forwarding forwarded messages read this and either start checking out the authenticity of something they think I need to see or just not send it at all, but I doubt they will. After all, how can my rant possibly compare to a supposed website that advocates techniques for creating Bonsai kitties?

 

 

Jumping on the Bandwagon to Nowhere

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It all began a couple of weeks ago when a friend on Facebook posted that she was going to France for eleven days. I knew damn well she wasn’t; her husband is ill and she is hard pressed to go to an exercise class three times a week, much less make a trip overseas. To the four comments she received, she replied to none. A friend of hers replied, “Again?” and that sparked my curiosity.

Yesterday, another friend posted that she was going to Germany for 25 days. There were immediate replies such as, “Lucky you!” and “That’s fantastic!” I didn’t believe a word of it.

So, I began to research. I found out that somehow–though I fail to understand just how–this supports breast cancer research.

It works like this:

Write: “I am going to live in (month you were born [see below]) for (day you were born) months!” or “I am going to (month you were born) for (day you were born) days!”

January – Mexico
February – London
March – Miami
April – Dominican Republic
May – France
June – St. Petersburg
July – Austria
August – Germany
September – New York
October – Amsterdam
November – Las Vegas
December – Columbia

Try as I might, I cannot connect the dots between such a posting and breast cancer research.

So, I wonder, why would someone post such a thing on a social media site? And then, not reply to comments. Is there absolutely nothing else going on in their lives that they have to post BS? And, if nothing else remarkable is going on in their lives, why post anything at all?

It bothers me that some women do such things because it reflects negatively on womanhood as a whole. Such postings make us look like lemmings, weak and eager to follow the latest trend or  jump on the latest bandwagon.

On the contrary, breast cancer is a serious topic and breast cancer research needs to be supported.

So, if you have a mind to post something about one or the other, please make it count. Post a link to the latest research. Tell about how you’re training for participation in a Run or a Walk for the Cure. Shout out kudos to a loved one who beat the odds and is in remission, or honor someone who succumbed. Copy and paste a breast cancer awareness ribbon.

But please don’t do something stupid like posting you’re going to somewhere exotic for x-number of days/months, whatever. It makes us all look bad.

 

Our Daughter’s First Date

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Boston Whaler

“Discovery,” “Discovery.” This is “Miss Kate.”

“This is “Discovery.” Come back, “Miss Kate.”

“Daddy, switch to seven-two!”

Formal protocol concluded, both parties switched to channel 72 of the VHF radio aboard our boat, Discovery, and Kate’s sailboat, Miss Kate. Whereupon Dave got the biggest tongue-lashing he’d ever gotten from our then-15 year old daughter, before or since. Which makes me marvel when I think about it, since there is a tremendous bond between the two of them. So what horrendous thing did Dave do to deserve such treatment?

Our family was making our way down the east coast from Washington, D.C. in late fall of 1997 via the Intracoastal Waterway. The boys, Dave and our 13-year old son, DJ, were in the trawler, and Kate and I were in her boat. “Why” we had two boats is a whole other story, which will be shared another time.

That early December morning, Kate and I had awakened in an anchorage just south of the submarine basin at King’s Bay. Georgia. We might have even crossed the imaginery state line and been in Florida, but when traveling by boat, who knows? The boys had been delayed in Savannah waiting on an engine part, so it seemed logical that the girls would go ahead, since Miss Kate’s top cruising speed was about 10 miles an hour on a good day. The plan was to meet up in the anchorage off Fernandina Beach. Ah, Florida! You are never as beautiful as you are in winter.

It is imperative to get an early start when cruising in December, since the days are short. The lines are untied or the anchor gets pulled shortly before sunrise, and hot drinks help ward off the chill for hours afterwards. By the time high noon rolls around, the better part of the day has passed and all on board are looking forward to stopping for the night.

It was just a short while after we dropped anchor late in the afternoon that day that Discovery caught up. Once the anchors were set, arrangements to go ashore were made via the VHF and soon we were off to the dinghy dock in our Whaler. It was more like our station wagon, for all it hauled those years we lived aboard.

We wandered around, checking out the shops. All were decorated so gaily, it was just the elixir we all needed to get into the holiday spirit, as my dad had passed away just the month before. At one of the shops, Kate and the teenage boy clerk talked while the rest of us went outside to sit on the bench and wait. Eventually, Kate came outside and asked if she could come back after the boy got off work. This would turn out to be her first date!

We said ‘yes,’ and the kids made arrangements for later. Back on our separate vessels, Dave and Kate (mostly Dave) went over things like curfew, and since she’d be taking the station wagon, last-minute instructions in that were given, as well. She took off in the dinghy, and we bided our time over the next couple of hours, waiting for her to come home.

No more than a couple of hours later, the engine on the dinghy being started could be heard, and we could see that she had all the necessary lights on before she even left the dock. We were only a handful of boats in the anchorage, so we knew Kate could see us. She made her way towards our boat, slowly, as to not cause a wake, when for SOME unknown reason that has never been fully explained, Dave flicked on the SPOTLIGHT that shown from atop our mast, and which illuminated everything around us. Poor Kate! I’m certain she was mortified.

“Daddy, how COULD you?” (Unbelieving)

“Bu…”

“Did you think I couldn’t see the boat?” (Sarcastic)

“Bu…”

“It’s a good think I’ll never see (what’s-his-name) again. I am SO embarrassed!  Good night, Daddy!  This is Miss Kate going back to one-six.” Leave it to Kate to remember protocol. And before Dave could utter another partial-syllable, the click on the radio signaled that Kate had turned hers off.

Next morning, the anchors were raised before dawn, and we continued making our way south along the coast of Florida, boys in one boat, girls in another, a blessing in itself, given the all the venting Kate was doing. Years later, our family still talks about the trip down the coast and and many other boat trips, as well. Those are special memories, for sure.

Crabby

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crab

My honeymoon was so bad, it was funny. From before it even began, during, and afterwards, it was completely unlike anything anyone could have imagined, much less planned.

It was the Monday before our wedding in October, 1979. It was a glorious and crisp autumn afternoon. The trees were ablaze with red, orange, yellow, and golden leaves, and the sun shone brightly. We had been home from work just a short while and were sipping on a glass of wine when the doorbell rang. Dave got up to see who was at the door, and the sight of our unexpected guest was astonishing. The frame of his body seemed to fill the entire doorway, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to outline the mass. His reflector aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, but his square jaw protruded nonetheless. He wore a suit, his muscles bulging beneath.

“Mr. Russell?” he inquired in a deep voice befitting such a hulk, although he must have known that the man who opened the door was Mr. Russell.

“Yes,” Dave answered tentatively.

He identified himself as a federal marshal and presented Dave with a court summons to appear in court in Lubbock, Texas the following week. Dave glanced at it and attempted to give it back, saying, “I can’t. I’m getting married Saturday and I’ll be on my honeymoon.”

“Mr. Russell, you WILL be in Lubbock,” he said authoritatively. “Oh, by the way, make sure you bring the clock with you.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but instead turned around and walked to the white, unmarked car parked in front of our flat.

It was at this point that I thought that perhaps I should have gotten to know the man I was to marry a bit better. I sat waiting for an explanation for why he was being summoned to appear in court. It was then that I heard the story behind the marble antique clock that was sitting atop the mantle. Apparently it was given to my beloved from a friend as payment for helping him move some “stuff,” specifically, thousands upon thousands of dollars of antiques that he had bought for a Texas “oil man.” The problem was that the friend had supposedly forgotten to give the Texan the goods for which the man had paid, and now he was was being brought to trial, accused of grand theft. Dave, having possession of the clock, was considered an accessory.

There was no getting around the fact that whatever honeymoon plans we had made were abandoned in favor of an unexpected trip to Texas. And where WAS Lubbock, anyway? I certainly had no clue. Resigned to our destiny, we purchased our plane tickets and prepared to leave the morning after our wedding. All that week a cloud hung over us; on one hand, excited about getting married, but bummed out that we couldn’t go to the Lake of the Ozarks like we had planned.

Our best man shuttled us to the airport on departure day, and we checked our suitcases, but not the clock which had to be hand-carried, lest it disappear into that abyss otherwise known as Lost Baggage. Because it was made of marble it was quite heavy and Dave cursed it repeatedly, especially when we had to race through the Dallas airport to catch our connecting flight to Lubbock. When we disembarked, Dick Tracy was waiting for us. He still wore his reflecto-aviator sunglasses, but instead of a suit he wore a polo shirt that appeared to be tight, but actually it was his muscles that was stretching the material beyond its natural limits.

He chauffeured us in the unmarked police car to what appeared to be a three-star motel, but given where we were, it was probably one of the nicer motels in Lubbock.(Little did we know that a week later, we would give it an even lower rating.) After we thanked him and bid him farewell, he announced that he was, in fact, our babysitter for the duration and that he would be “just outside the door.” This is not good news for newlyweds. Evidently, Dave was the star witness and Dick Tracy had been given orders to shadow us. Our honeymoon was going from bad to worse real fast.

The next day, he and Dave, along with the marble  antique clock, headed to federal court. I began writing Thank You notes for wedding gifts we had received. When they returned later that afternoon, I could barely get excited at the prospect of going out for dinner because I knew our chaperone would go with us. He gave us the courtesy of not sitting at our table, but sat at another one a few feet away. Afterwards, the three of us made our way back to the motel, no one uttering a word.

Day Three in Lubbock was a repeat of Day Two, except for the news that Dave’s testimony was over and we were free to go back home on Wednesday. This was cause for celebration! After dinner we asked Dick Tracy if we could go to the movies and see “Animal House,” which had just been released. He consented and we made our way to the movie theater. He sat directly behind us.

Words cannot describe how happy we were to catch sight of the Arch as our plane made its descent into St. Louis the following day! We began settling into life together and when the following week rolled around, we returned to our teaching jobs and recounted the details of our most unromantic honeymoon to our co-workers, who thought it hilarious.

It wasn’t long after our return that my nether regions began to itch incessantly all day long. I had no idea what it was, and I was afraid to say anything to anyone, even Dave. Scratching only seemed to make it worse. I didn’t know what to do. Then one night, shortly after the itching began, Dave got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He yelled, “Holy shit!” and then he came back into our bedroom, flipped on the ceiling light, and announced in a voice that was angry/stern/disbelieving, “Maria, I’ve got the crabs. I know where I’ve been. How about you?”

I began crying hysterically saying, “I think have them, too, but I was too embarrassed to tell you.” Truly, I didn’t even know what crabs were. Never was the subject discussed in any of the Catholic schools I had attended. Immediately, we put the blame on the motel in Lubbock, for neither of us had been anywhere else.

Thank goodness that a 24-hour drug store was nearby. Despite my humiliation and embarrassment, I laughed when Dave recounted how the clerk, a teenage girl, gingerly handed him the bag containing the bottle of RID shampoo, using only her index finger and thumb as she stood as far away from him as she could. We each took turns bathing in the stuff, paying extra-special attention to the infested areas, and eventually the horror gave way to hilarity because the start of our marriage was nothing short of ridiculous.

While this story remained a secret between the two of us for a long time, I can freely recount it now, thirty-five years later. Given the crazy adventures Dave and I have had in our lifetime together, it seems only right that our marriage would have begun in such an unusual way.