Teenaged Girls—Even They Don't Understand Them

Like little boys who long ago would dip a special little girl's pigtail in an inkwell, thinking that somehow she's going to understand it as a symbol of love, teenaged girls often have strange ways of showing they're attracted. I can't believe I'm going to tattle on myself.

Seventh grade. I was plump, unknown, the newest kid among new kids on a military base in Virginia. Up to that point there were few important things in my life. I loved books, getting straight A's, knitting and music. Those things were all portable, and in my life that counted. That mattered. That lasted.

We lived in a duplex with three bedrooms. My parents got one room. My two brothers shared one, and my sister and I shared the other. Our room also shared a wall with another family. Actually, the wall was shared with the bedroom of their high school aged son. My newly teenaged heart was suddenly alive with hope.

He failed to notice.

I realize now that I didn't have a chance with him. He was a senior, several years beyond me. I was his little sister's age. We gathered to play RISK on occasion, and he treated me like a sister. Not what I wanted. My little brother tagged along. Not what happened in my dreams. He went out on dates, driving away in his dad's car. I watched from the upstairs bedroom window. Not what I was scripting in my fairy tales.

So what does a young teenager do to really get his attention and let him know how very aware she is of him? We did have one thing in common. We were both musicians. He played clarinet, and was very serious about his daily practice. I was very serious about mine as well. I played accordion. Loudly.

The walls were thin. I started practicing whenever he did. Different songs. Accordion versus clarinet. It's rather like bagpipes against a piccolo. I didn't win his heart, but luckily he was a worthy young man with a sense of humor.

His high school graduation and acceptance at Annapolis saved him from too many further machinations. I can actually only think of one. Discretion... I'll just keep that one to myself.

Just Un-Multiply

Today a friend on Facebook asked for ideas to help her young daughter who is having a hard time learning long division. I suggested she un-multiply until it makes more sense. She didn't understand my answer, so I offered to go into more detail on my blog.

As I child I counted my schools for a while. When I stopped in 7th Grade, Hill School at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, it was my 13th school. My dad was military—U.S. Army to be exact, and during most years I was in more than one school. In case you don't realize it, there is no relationship to what a person is taught in 3rd grade, for instance, in Illinois and Idaho; none whatsoever between what is offered for a sophomore in Virginia and one in Southern California.

I'll discuss another time what this did to my ability to make deep friendships. Today I'm just going to touch on one of the educational aspects of the classroom experience. I managed to learn addition twice, while missing subtraction completely. I left one school just before they started it, arriving at another when they had already finished and were starting multiplication.

We did multiplication and were preparing for division when my family was reassigned again. The new school had just begun multiplication. It was an easy (read that to mean boring) time in math for me. We were gone again, of course, before that class was ready to tackle long division. If you're following the pattern here, you realize that the next class I got to had already finished long division.

I figured out ways to compensate. With double the normal practice on addition and multiplication skills, whenever I hit a subtraction problem, I would un-add. If the numbers were 15-7=something, I would automatically read it 7 and something equals fifteen. Un-adding, I would know it was 8.

Multiplication and division worked the same way. If you had 24 divided by 3, I would say, what times 3 equals 24? I knew that answer was 8. With long division, just write down the answer and carry down the numbers. Then, since subtraction is in order, I would just un-add the balance and bring down the next number.

Eventually I learned how to do it correctly as a student, but I'm out of practice now, so I do it the old way, as I taught myself growing up. I un-add and un-multiply. It works. So it's not the most normal method you've ever heard of. I've never tried to be the most normal person. I've never even understood what normal was, or why it should be deemed important. I found something that worked. I could move every 6 months and still get A's in school.

Now, if I could only remember why that was important...

Missing the Olympics

I remember having skates just like the ones shown above. I sat like a little snowball in my parka, strapping them on my shoes and then shuffled off onto the ice. I was about four years old, and very proud of myself. It was my turn on the ice. I wasn't good enough to play with the real hockey players, but we had our own plastic pucks and sticks and we sure thought we were playing. The fact that our skates had four blades on the bottom didn't bother me a bit. In fact, I believe I was in third grade before I actually got my first pair of real figure skates.

Watching hockey during the Olympics this year, I realized how much things have changed. Aging has certainly changed me. My eyesight has probably been the most obvious change, other than size. Now I can actually follow the puck better when I watch the game on the radio. Think about it. The radio announcers know how much you can see on the airwaves. The television commentators assume you can see just fine. If given a choice between being given back my high school figure or my high school eyesight, I'd be throwing away my glasses. (Could we toss in that sharp hearing, too, please? No? I didn't think so...)

I got used to staying up late, watching the Olympics. I'd sit here and think, "I can do that...in my dreams." Of course, I can also fly in my dreams. I've been doing that since I was tiny. I always figured that most people have flying dreams. Maybe you don't. I always have. To me, it's more like swimming through air than what a bird does. I don't flap my arms or anything. I glide. People below me don't know I'm there. I'm fast. I'm silent. I hear things. Keep an eye on your ceilings. I'm not sure it's not actually happening. It's not an Olympic event, though.

But the skating. I always knew it took somebody a whole lot more coordinated than I've ever been to manage what they do. By the time they're done with their three or four minute programs, I'm practically hyperventilating. And I rarely agree with the judges. Was there anyone who thought that the Phantom of the Opera skate routine wasn't going to win? Just me? Well, maybe that's why they didn't ask me to judge this year. I'm available for 2014.

So I sit here, four hours after John went to bed, wondering why I didn't save some of the Olympics to watch later. Even with as bad a job as NBC did televising them (sometimes an hour between skaters, which was really a sad way to run things) I still enjoyed watching them. Too bad they didn't organize them better for the viewer. Why did I have to watch them all during the two weeks they were on? I could have just left them on the DVR and watched them slowly over a month, made them last.

Maybe in two years, when the Summer Olympics are on, I'll try that, because almost any book I own is better than almost anything else that's on television...

To the Kids Who Survived the 20s Through the 60s

[Sent to me by friend Sherm, with comments added by me, of course.]

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they were pregnant. They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can and didn't get tested for diabetes. Then after that trauma, we were put to sleep on our tummies in baby cribs covered with bright colored lead-based paints.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, locks on doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had baseball caps not helmets on our heads. As infants and children, we would ride in cars with no car seats, no booster seats, no seat belts, no air bags, bald tires and sometimes no brakes. Riding in the back of a pick-up truck on a warm day was always a special treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle. We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and no one actually died from this. We ate cupcakes, white bread, real butter and bacon. We drank Kool-Aid made with real white sugar. And, we weren't overweight. Why? Because we were always outside playing....that's why! We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach us all day. And, we were O.K.

We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride them down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem. We did not have Playstations, Nintendos or X-boxes. There were no video games, no 150 channels on cable, no video movies or DVDs, no surround-sound or CDs, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet and no chat rooms. We had friends and we went outside and found them.

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents. We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever. We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays, made up games with sticks and tennis balls and, although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes. We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them.

Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that. The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!

These generations have produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever. The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it all.

If you are one of them, congratulations. You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated so much of our lives "for our own good." While you are at it, forward it to your kids so they will know how brave and lucky their parents were.

[This originally came to me with a "quote" attributed to Jay Leno attached. I did the responsible thing and went to snopes.com and checked it out. It was an urban legend, not a true quote, so I have deleted it. I don't distribute fallacy.] The rest of this is great. I can add to it that I also remember playing with the mercury from thermometers. In fact, I remember having a little bottle where we kids kept the stuff when we broke a thermometer, which we occasionally did intentionally. (Gee, Mom, we're so sorry!) I also remember running behind the DDT truck, while it sprayed great clouds of insecticide. That was great fun. Instant fog machine.

I'm still alive to tell about it. Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn't it?

An Old Poem—In Honor of Mother's Day

I've written before of my mother's penchant for reciting old, and often strange, poems to us kids. I've heard from the other three that they think it's weird that I memorized these arcane bits of poetry, but I guess they're parts of my history, and even though few people ever seem to know them besides our family, I believe they're part of the personal lore of growing up.

I present for you here one of the little rhymes Mom swears she got from her own mother. I can't see any reason why she'd make that up, and Grandma didn't have time to write poetry, with fourteen kids, so I'll just mark it Anonymous. (He wrote so many things, anyway.)

Me Mudder

Who, when I was a wee wee tot,

Would take me from me warm warm cot,

And put me on the cold cold pot,

And tell me to go if me could or not?

Me Mudder.

And who, when me prayers were poorly said,

Would take me from me little bed,

And spank me til me bum were red?

Me Mudder.

And who, when the morning light would come,

And in me crib me dribbled some

Would wipe me tiny little bum?

Me Mudder.

And who would me hair so neatly part,

And hug me gently to her heart,

And sometimes squeeze me til me fart?

Me Mudder.

Who looked at me with eyebrows knit,

And nearly had a king-sized fit

When in me Sunday pants me S***?

Me Mudder.

And who when at night her bed did squeak,

And me raised me head to have a peek,

Would yell at me to go to sleep?

Me Fadder!

Easter Sunday

I've changed a bit from the Easter Sunday when I posed with my sister and two brothers for this photo. Today we didn't pose for any photos. I didn't even have an Easter basket. It was a wonderful Easter, though.

When you don't have family in your area, it's always amazing to have people treat you as if you were family. That's what we have. Our youngest son's brother-in-laws and their families always treat us as if we belong, and we have a great time together, no matter whose house we congregate at. 

Great food, great fun, and a special holiday. It was an exceptional day. I look at the old photo, and know I couldn't possibly have been as happy back then. Thanks, Matt and Heather, for inviting us, and David and Heather for joining in the fun. 

Looking Ahead

I sat on the bed, a little kid who had just started second grade, thinking about what my daddy had said when he came home so early. "Get out the maps, Honey. We've got new orders." 

Standing in the doorway and watching them, I had listened long enough to learn that our next two stops would be Illinois and Idaho. My dad was part of the original teaching cadre for setting up nuclear power plants around the country. By the time he retired, I would have been enrolled in sixteen different schools. I was a sophomore then, and we stayed put until I graduated. It was a novel experience. 

I resented some of the moves, enjoyed others. I loved being on the road, but hated being the new kid on the block. I got along better in some places than others, loved the rural areas better than the towns.

I had a flashback this week to that little kid sitting on the bed. I can remember so clearly sitting there thinking, "We're going to move to Illinois, and then Idaho, and I'm going to remember sitting here on this bed. I'm going to remember sitting here thinking about this for a long time, because I don't want to go." 

This week John came in and said that he's needed for some testing operations at a missile base in California during May and again in July. I suddenly remembered that little kid sitting on the bed.

"Excuse me. We have invited company for the HAM festival at Estes Park the end of May. Remember?"

"Well, I'll try to get them to finish by the middle of May."

Dream on, John. This is the military we're talking about. My dad used to call it the A&W. To him that stood for Ask and Wait. In some ways I'm still the little kid sitting on the bed. I could, of course, voice my opinion, but I'd get the same blank stare my father would have given me.

Middle Child

Reading has always been one of my favorite pastimes, so I've gathered a lot of seemingly useless information. Many of them stick in my head and pop back out at odd moments. I was just sitting here remembering something I read years ago. People can often use nightly news programs to demonstrate the different tendencies children manifest due to their birth orders. That sounds absurd at first glance, but it made sense in the article. 

The anchor or interviewer was generally a middle child. They would ask the questions, get the facts. They would try to keep everything in order and make sure that fairness was observed. (Obviously they didn't work for today's NBC.) The person being interviewed was most often an oldest child, the leader of the pack. They blazed trails, made the news, set the limits. It was their position that rated the most coverage in any conversation. The weatherman was the baby of the family. Can you spell "comic relief?" I thought you could. 

I was the middle child. Worse than that, I was the second middle child. Or maybe I was the only middle child, and my sister Ellen was the second oldest child. I guess that would be more true, as she was the oldest daughter. She was also the first child Dad got to know as a baby, since he was off in World War II when Pat was born. So that's it. I was the only middle child, and Kenny was the baby. I can be forgiven for trying to flush him down the toilet. I didn't understand comic relief.

I understood fairness, and it didn't seem fair that everybody who used to run in and look at me suddenly went running in to look at him. He wasn't that cute. I really was in the middle. Ellen was seventeen months older than me. Kenny was seventeen months younger than me. Ellen was beautiful. Kenny was cute. I turned into a great student.

So if you're a middle child, I'll bet you've learned to do a lot of things. Maybe you play a couple of instruments, like the guitar and accordion. Those are fun. Perhaps you like to craft. Crochet and knitting are fun and handy. Leather tooling and bead work are also really cool. You could have been up there in the top of your class. Maybe not—I got a B once. (Stupid teacher.) But however you handled being in the middle, I'll bet you had some fun—probably more than the others.

My Valentine

We've never really celebrated Valentine's Day. Don't get me wrong. I always buy a nice card for John, and a little gift of some kind, but that's as far as it ever goes. It doesn't really show up on our radar beyond that. It's never bothered me, because as a kid, Valentine's Day was the worst holiday on the books.

Being the new kid in class was traumatic if you arrived just before Valentine's Day. Back when I was young, it seems like every teacher would have the kids bring Valentines with names on them, and everyone would have a little bag on their desk. Kids would go around and put the cards in the bags. If they didn't know the new kid, usually me, then the new kid didn't get a card. It wasn't unusual for me to leave my class of 30 to 35 kids with only two to three Valentines in my bag. It was a mighty ugly feeling. Because of that, I got used to being a Valentine giver, not a receiver.

Last night I was sitting in my chair watching an old black and white movie, "Topper," on television while I worked on knitting the cabled sweater vest for my mom. John came in and stood there watching me. I paused the movie and the knitting needles. 

"What do you want to do for Valentines Day?" he asked. Obviously I was surprised. We never do anything. 

"Do?" I asked.

"Yes. Let's go out to lunch or something."

And that's what we did. We had a late lunch at the Cracker Barrel before going to church. It was really nice. I felt very special, and let him know how happy I am, living my life with him. These days, that man is just full of surprises.

Queen For A Day

When I was quite small there was a television program called "Queen For a Day" where several ladies would be featured. They would each have a sob story, some reason their lives were really hard, tragic or pathetic. At the end of the half hour, one of the ladies would be crowned Queen for a day, and given many gifts to ease her life and bring her joy. That show always fascinated me. I got my turn this week, but not on television.

We arrived home from California just in time to celebrate my birthday. It had to be the best birthday I've ever had. If I said that last year as well, then just accept the fact that my life just keeps getting better. The morning was split, partly with my knitting needles, working on sweaters for my granddaughters, and later with a wonderful novel. It's Melissa Mayhue's newest Highlander novel, and when she combines magic and Scotland, it's a perfect read.

John took me to lunch at the Olive Garden. We gallivanted around town for hours, then had frozen custard at Culvert's, and finally went over to the Cracker Barrel to pick up take out dinners (in case we ever got hungry that night). He did. I didn't. Mine kept until the next night. And we were home enough for just about every person I love to call and wish me a happy birthday. I think those calls, and the cards I received, just made the day all the more special. 

I had realized on our way home from California that I might be getting sick. My chest felt congested. Luckily, I didn't really get to feeling nasty until the night after my birthday. I got up during the night and took some cold medicine, and have been under the weather since, but I don't care. I'm still happy. At least I'm home. 

The Snow Shovel

"If one of you kids leaves the snow shovel outside again, you're going to sleep with it! That's a promise."

So spoke my dad. He meant it. I was the idiot who left the shovel outside the next time. It wasn't soon, but it wasn't long enough for him to have forgotten the threat, either. Unfortunately, I shared a double bed with my sister Ellen. She was seventeen months older than me, and had no tolerance for the little sister who could pull dumb stunts at home and straight A's at school.

We learned that night that snow shovels take up more room than little kids, and they never warm up. I'm thinking that Ellen either forgot about the shovel incident, since we're friends now, or she eventually forgave me. She probably forgot about it, which means that writing about this in a blog is not really bright on my part. On the other hand, seeing the new slide shows of my granddaughters playing in the snow and curled together in the little one's crib as Ashley wakes Kate up in the morning made me think back, and "full disclosure" has been one of the trademarks of this space for me.

Ellen was fairly good at getting her revenge when necessary, but I don't think she ever did anything that made me as uncomfortable as that snow shovel made her. In case I never said it at the time, "I'm so very sorry, Ellen. I was careless. I'll never do it again."

Moving In Again

Normal people simply don’t wear stripes with polka dots. Too late, I remembered my mother’s words. New town, new house, new kid on the playground—again. Working little knitting needles back and forth, making a long strip of nothing, I pretended not to stare at the groups frantically embracing the freedom of sunshine while the outer classroom wall warmed my backside.

Pulling more yarn from my oversized pockets, I realized I had settled onto a pile of dirt. Stripes, polka dots and grime—great way to fit in. I won’t care, I promised myself, and I won’t cry.

As an adult, I look back on all the times we moved into a new home, State, neighborhood, and school. I realized that memories of this move stood out. It was the first time I had consciously decided not to try to make friends or adapt. What would be the point? We were transferring mid-year, and my new classmates would already have formed their tight little clicks. Besides, even if I made friends, we'd never be staying long enough to keep them.

Breakfast had been sad. Daddy was scowling, his uniform so creased with starch it looked unbearable.

“We’re nomads,” I accused, brave for once, saving all my fear for the class of fifth graders.

“We’re military, Kathleen,” was his curt reply. No smiles. No sympathy. Around the table were the tolerant or sullen eyes of brothers and sister who had also lost friends and schools to the constant travel, and Mama, determined to act cheerful.

Sitting against the school yard wall during the lunch break, I reluctantly remembered the scene. Misery doesn’t love company. It prefers to wallow in the belief that its own is unique and precious, shared by none. Unequaled. A hanging thread on the hem of my dress distracted me from thoughts of eggs gone cold amid the silence of unspoken complaints. I pulled the tread, watching it unravel like my past life. The hem parted, drooping like my spirits as the bell clanged, signaling the afternoon’s confinement.

Students were filing inside when I heard the raucous sound of laughter. I erected a glazed wall between my eyes and the students before glancing over. No one caught my gaze, but somewhere between knowledge and suspicion, I always figured the laughter must be at my expense. Quietly joining the end of the parade, I left morning behind.

What can we say as adults about our childhood memories? By the time I graduated high school, I had been in sixteen schools. We traveled more than most military, I think, since Dad was helping set up nuclear power plants. That doesn’t take long. Get it done and move on. We saw most of the country, though, and learned a great deal. As Mom said recently, we were all changed, but not damaged.

Life is full. Some people learn that earlier than others. Insecurity, loneliness and pain can’t occupy the entirety of a human existence. They only serve to illuminate the intermediary spaces. Like a puzzle, I filled my box with pieces, and my self-portrait developed: music, books, writing, crafts, humor. As the picture began to unfold, people gravitated to it, some interested to glimpse details, some willing to share their own.

I love to count my blessings. I just think we should remember our trials, as well. They help make us who we are.

Moving In

My childhood was filled with sudden relocations, city to city, school to school. Dad was in the military, and as an adult there isn't a single childhood friend I can contact to share memories. I can look back and pinpoint a dozen individual days where I faced a new school in a town or city far from our last post.

A recent gift subscription to The Sun Magazine, a quality publication filled with amazing pieces written by professional and amateur writers around the globe, filled many hours with pleasure and introspection. Near the back of the volume, there was a section entitled "Readers Write." In an offset box, it listed the the rules for publication of the short non-fiction pieces on the pages that followed, along with the topics for the following months. Due November 1st was "Moving In."

Could anyone understand the joy and angst of 'moving in' more thoroughly than I did? Most likely someone can, but from my point of view it seems unlikely. Our own experiences always seem more clear than those of others. I took a couple of days searching through my memories of being the new kid in school—being uprooted from one set of friends and driven cross-country to a new home, a sea of strangers. I chose fifth grade.

There were many reasons for my choice. First, it was the only time I remember deliberately complaining to my father about the situation before heading off to school. He had problems of his own, and I got no sympathy. Second, it was the first time I had decided not to even try making friends. We would only be at this location for a short tour, and the school year was more than half over. The circles would be tight, and I would already be on the outside.

I learned so much from our travels that, as my mother recently said, I wasn't damaged. "Just changed," I told her. She agreed with that, saying that we all were, but that she liked to pretend at the time that it didn't bother her. Maybe she should have let us know. Maybe not. Too late now, anyway.

I'm not sure what the rules are about posting things on my blog if I'm entering them for publication, so I won't put it up now. However... once they decide whether or not to publish it, I'll be allowed to post it. When I do, I'll put a link back to this piece. It will be several months, as they don't decide until February or March, and then publication will be in May. Don't hold your breath that mine will be there. I'm sure they'll have thousands of entries.

Some memories reside like permanent companions, warning or comforting as we trek along our daily paths, making choices and climbing from the valleys to the hilltops. Others slip away. So many school days have vanished in the mist, and that's a good thing. The ones with the most important lessons hang around. Which school days do you remember?

What Did You Learn in School Today?

I wonder if Mrs. Dixon is still alive. She was my fifth grade teacher. My first impression has lasted all these years: the woman could bore paint off a wall. I doubt if she ever inspired anyone to learn a thing. 

Actually, I'll immediately take that back. She inspired five of us to learn American sign language. We'd split up the history assignments. Her tests were multiple choice. She just wanted names and dates, not reasons and causes. It was dull, dry and boring memorization. When the teacher doesn't seem to care, the students don't either. It never felt like learning, even before the cheating started.

Desks in her classroom were arranged in a circle. The five of us would sign the answers back and forth during history tests. It was unbelievably easy. We all aced the tests, since we only had to learn a fifth of the work. Since we were all A students, we were never suspected—never caught. And we did learn something. It just wasn't history.

It's been over fifty years since I managed to cheat in fifth grade. I'm not sure why it still bothers me so much, but every time after that when I wanted to cut corners in class, all I had to do was think of fifth grade, and it would stop me cold. 

So if you're out there somewhere, Mrs. Dixon, I am sorry I did it. I could have learned all the answers by myself. In fact, I usually did know them, but there came a point when I didn't know how to extricate myself without losing the friends. (Some friends, huh?) Luckily my family was transfered before I got into real trouble. 

Looking back, it's probably poetic justice that I remember the name of the boring teacher, but can't remember a single one of those exciting friends.

Perspective

One time my mom didn't kill me (and probably wished she could have) was the first time I remember my creativity getting the best of me. I was probably four or five years old, and decided to cut the grass. 

I went outside, sitting somewhere near our big old willow tree in the front yard, and was amazed at the beauty of the area I was trimming. The grass was lush and soft beneath my small fingers. I carefully held each clump straight up while I trimmed little bunches carefully with Mom's expensive Gingher pinking shears. 

I was very confused when she ran out screaming at me. Why wouldn't she look at the beautiful design in the tops of the little blades of grass? They were all patterned on top, and it looked wonderful—much better than Daddy could do with the mower.

Mom grabbed the scissors from my hand, than picked me up. I held her face in my hands, trying to make her look at what I had done. I pointed at the patch of grass I had finished. As we looked down together, I was shocked to see that from the height she was holding me, it didn't look any different from the rest. Maybe shorter, but that's all. I couldn't get her to kneel down and really look. 

I was crying. She was crying. I'm sure her expensive pinking shears were never the same. I know my day was shot. I had been so proud of myself. My days as a gardener were over before they'd hardly begun. 

I think Mom and I have both learned quite a bit about perspective in the last half century. Although I never left my pinking shears out where the boys could get to them, I tried really hard to get down and see things from their perspective. I also realize that as I grew up, Mom got a lot better with that as well. 

Still Squirming

When I think back on some of my childhood camping experiences, I understand why my sister shakes her head and rolls her eyes, wondering why I love those memories. I really enjoyed myself back then, but it's hard to explain it to other people. Most of those stories are outrageous, and I'm often the butt of the joke.

Daddy didn't think anybody needed an air mattress, even if the ground was covered with rocks. That's why God made little kids: to remove the rocks before the tent is pitched. If you miss any, you deserve to roll over on them. 

He had a good trick. Everybody had to scoop out a little hollow in the dirt where their hips would nestle. That way, while you're lying all cosy in your sleeping bag, your head and shoulders would be higher than your hips, making you much more comfortable. I'm not sure this works. I never seemed to get my hollow in the right place, but I tried.

There was one memorable night when we arrived somewhere, late and tired as usual. We picked rocks and dug our hollows, then erected the tent. Dragging our sleeping bags inside, we preserved our modesty by carefully undressing in shifts. We lay down like sardines in our bags, the night sounds all around us. I rolled around, trying to get my hips in the right place. Dad shut off the lantern. It was dark.

Wiggle, wiggle, squirm. Where is that hole? Swish went the zipper when I had to move it down to readjust myself. My flannel PJs had twisted inside the flannel sleeping bag. Zip. Wiggle. Come on, hole. I know you're there. Squirm. Wiggle. Squirm.

"Kathleen Louise! What are you doing over there?"

"Sorry, Daddy. I keep getting my shoulder caught in my rump hole!"

My mother is particularly fond of telling stories like that. The larger the group, the more likely this story is in making the rounds. Beware of marrying into our family. There are hundreds of stories like this, and you might consider avoiding Thanksgiving dinner until people think you've already heard all of the embarrassing tales from each of your new in-laws... 

Never mind. That will never happen. Besides, Ellen & Johnny host Thanksgiving each year. You really wouldn't want to miss that. And our family will never run out of stories, or care if you've already heard them.

By the time I entered the 10th Grade in high school, we had made seven cross country trips in a station wagon with four kids, two parents and all the camping gear a family could stuff in a small space and load on top of the car. My parents were either noble or nuts. I never did figure out which.

Here's a photo of the four of us at the Grand Canyon. My mother loves to remind us that we fought over comic books that entire trip. She swore she'd never again allow us to have comics in the car. Then she found out how much pain a kid could inflict with a hard back book. 

Trips would have been easier if Daddy had been more willing to stop occasionally. Once he put his foot down on the gas, he hated to lift it up again. Heaven help you if you didn't take care of all your business at the gas stop. We still love to tease Kenny, the youngest, about the time he said he didn't have to use the bathroom until about a half hour down the road. Dad pulled over by the side of the road. 

"Just go behind the bushes!" There might be an expletive deleted in there, but you don't need to know that, do you? 

"But I've got to go number two, Daddy." 

"Too bad, kid. Use the bush. We just left the gas station, and you said you didn't have to go. They had clean restrooms. Now you've got a bush."

He used the bush. Then he stepped in it before climbing back in the car.

Ellen, who always got car sick at the least provocation, proceeded to throw up not much further down the road.

Daddy stopped at the next gas station. It was a long stop. The car got cleaned and aired out. At least we weren't fighting over the comic books.

Uncle Mart

I was such a little kid when I fell in love with my Uncle Mart. He was actually my dad's uncle, and the story of his life was taken from the tales of the old west.

He left his home, family, and twin sister in Wisconsin and and made his way, mostly on foot he said, to St. Louis, Missouri. There he joined a wagon train heading West. He was a big twelve year old. He said he had no money to speak of, but he was young and strong. To pay for his passage, he helped out wherever he could. He worked mostly with the horses and the chuck wagon. 

He was headed for the Pacific Coast until he saw Idaho. Something about the Teton Mountains must have spoken to his soul, because that's where he stopped. He never complained to me about hardships along the trail, but he said it was a long trip. 

We found him still living in Idaho when I was in about the second grade. He had never moved on from there, but had homesteaded some land back away from the city of Tendoy. That made us laugh because Tendoy had a population of twenty, and if you blinked on the highway, you'd miss it. Either Daddy drove too fast, or he blinked a lot. Every time we went to see Uncle Mart, we'd have to turn around after driving past the town by mistake. Oops, there it went.

You'd leave the paved roads and wind up through the hills on hard-packed dirt roads. Herds of sheep would share the road with you, and more than once we'd be stifling our laughter while Daddy tried to honk and yell the animals off the road. Our giggles would have been the final straw. 

Uncle Mart lived in a valley near the crest of the foothills. He and friends had built everything he needed. There was his main homestead, a two room cabin. It had a bedroom, and a kitchen and living room combination. He cooked on a wood burning stove, which always sported a ready crock of sourdough. We had sour dough pancakes and biscuits that have never been equaled in my experience. He also had a bunkhouse. "Back in the day," he'd tell us, "it would fill up with hands to tend the sheep." He no longer owned any when we came along. 

The third building was our favorite. I should mention that he had no running water. He walked to the springs and then heated water on the old stove. He didn't have electricity. He used kerosene lanterns and had a hand cranked victrola. But across the graveled yard was the plunge. That's what he called his third building, and its contents. It was a covered, heated swimming pool, fed by underground hot springs. People would drive up and pay two bits for a plunge, and the name stuck. He gave family discounts, of course.

A couple of times, Mom and Dad would leave us kids there and go off together. I loved those weeks. I'd listen to Uncle Mart as long as he'd keep talking. He'd rock and smoke his pipe, and his rheumy eyes would look across his land, looking backwards in time. He talked about riding shotgun for Wells Fargo, but he didn't say much about that. Most of his stories were about the people that came up to see him at his homestead and use the plunge.

My favorite story was about all the swimsuits he had stored for people to use up there. Whenever someone left one behind, he'd save it for visitors in need. Eventually, he said he took the size labels out of all the suits. Why? Because there was always some lady who would insist she was a size twelve, and rip the seams on one of his suits. He could give her a sixteen with no tag, and she'd be perfectly happy He was no dummy.

When he finally got on an airplane for the first time in his life to visit us in California in the early sixties, we picked him up at the Los Angeles International airport. I'll never forget what he said when we crested the hills overlooking the vast San Fernando Valley on our way home.

"It would take a person a powerful long time to shake hands with every man who's got his porch light on in this town."

I still miss you, Uncle Mart... Even though you told Daddy that someday a pack rat was going to come along and trade me for a hen turd.

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

We all suffer through the pangs of making difficult decisions. The path not taken haunts most of us in one form or another. Whoever you would have been if you had taken that other turn, or made that other choice, is never going to exist. That puts a lot of weight on some of our decisions.

Since I opened up the subject of Mom and her poetry readings again yesterday, I'd like to add one of my favorites to the list. I'd hate for it to get lost forever. I know she didn't write it, and I'm not sure anyone knows who did, but she recited it in high school with an Italian accent, one of many she could mimic at that time, along with Finish and Swedish. You'd never guess how shy she is. I could never get her to do this in public now. Maybe she was braver then, or just more comfortable with her high school friends.

Here's the difficult decision of a young Italian man, ready to begin his own family. I've always wondered who he chose. (I hope it was Carlotta.)

Between Two Loves
I gotta love for Angela.
I love Carlotta too.
I no can marry both of them,
So what I gonna do?

Oh, Angela is pretty girl!
She's gotta hair so black, so curl,
And teeth so white as anything!
And oh, she's gotta voice to sing
That make your heart think it must jump
Right up and dance or it will bust!
And all the time she sing, her eyes
They smile just like Italia's skies,
And makin' flirting looks at you.
But that is all what she can do.

Carlotta is no gotta song,
But she is twice as big and strong
As Angela. And she no look
So beautiful—but she can cook!
You ought to see her carry wood;
I tell you what, it do you good.
When she is be somebody's wife,
She work'a hard, you bet my life!
She never getting tired, too.
But that is all what she can do.

Oh, my! I wish that Angela
Was strong for carry wood,
Or Carlotta got a song
And look'a pretty good.
I gotta love for Angela.
I love Carlotta too.
I no can marry both of them
So what I gonna do?

Mama Recited Poetry

Dad didn't always appreciate the poems Mama recited to us kids. The one I remember that made him the most cross was called "When Papa was a Little Boy." Reading it as an adult, I understand exactly why he'd leave the room. I even understand some of what would be happening before she'd start reciting it. It would happen when Daddy would be on one of his perfectionist rampages. That's as good a word as any. I'm positive it was more effective than her yelling at him would have been.

I imagine the poem would fit many a husband and father, but with a little rewording, it would probably fit many women and mothers of today's world as well. Enjoy now a laugh at the expense of our strange family.

When Papa Was A Little Boy

When Papa was a little boy, you really couldn't find
Within the state or anywhere a child so quick to mind.
His mother never called but once and he was always there.
He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair.

He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise;
And never in his life was known to fight with other boys.
He always studied hard at school and got his lessons right;
And chopping wood and milking cows were Papa's chief delight.

He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight,
And never lay abed til noon, and never sat up late.
He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten years old,
And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told.

He never grumbled when he had to do the evening chores,
And ne'er in all his life forgot to shut the stable doors.
He never, never thought of play until his work was done,
And labored hard from break of day until the set of sun.

He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor,
And never answered back his ma, and never banged the door.
"But truly, I could never see," said little Dick Malloy,
"How he could never do these things and really be a boy."