Black Market Lunch
When I was in public school, lunch was doled out according to the number of lunch coupons you had. You could buy a week's worth of coupons, or you could buy them daily.
Mom thought I brought my lunch every day. I never told her that I usually got my lunch on the black market. Because some of the more enterprising 8th graders would make copies of their lunch coupons and sell them throughout the week. So, if I was lucky enough to find money on the ground, or if I had something to trade; I could get a black market lunch. The 8th graders would take money, cigarettes, pills, or services -like running stacks of coupons to other sellers.
It didn't take long to learn that food coupons had different values on different days. On "meat"loaf day, you could buy black market lunch for a dime. On pizza day, the cost was 75 cents or 5 cigarettes. I never stole my mom's cigarettes, but I did carry a pack around in my purse for trading. The white kids smoked Marlboro, the black kids smoked Kools. Sometimes I'd find a half a pack of smokes on the ground in front of the bar after a fight. That was a good find. It meant I could eat without being part of the crime syndicate... Although I was a good runner.
Another way to get in good with the 8th graders was to hide their activities and warn them when a teacher was coming. That was easy work. All you had to do was start a game of dodgeball on the side of the school and have a watcher. The crowd of dodgeball players would obscure any 8th grade activity, and give plenty of time to put out their cigarettes if a teacher was coming.
Playing dodgeball was how I learned about black market lunch in the first place. I wondered why there was a crowd of kids around the 8th graders, and wandered over. It took me a few days to figure out that you really could get a hot lunch, practically for free! From that point on, I ate black market lunch and gave my peanut butter sandwiches away.
When I finally fessed up to my mom (last night), she told me she used to counterfeit bus passes at her school.
!
Friday, December 09, 2005
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
The Dirty Book Store
The dirty book store sat at the corner of Jefferson and Sidney, right next to Trader Bob's Tattoo shop. Trader Bob's is still there. The book store (thankfully) is not.
My sister and I threw a little party when the book store closed. We bought Big Gulps from 7-11 and spent the whole day standing around that corner; claiming it as our own. Because the area around the dirty book store was the only place my sister and I had feared to go. Anywhere else, risky as it might be, was fair game. Even the abandonded buildings.
The dirty book store sat at the corner of Jefferson and Sidney, right next to Trader Bob's Tattoo shop. Trader Bob's is still there. The book store (thankfully) is not.
My sister and I threw a little party when the book store closed. We bought Big Gulps from 7-11 and spent the whole day standing around that corner; claiming it as our own. Because the area around the dirty book store was the only place my sister and I had feared to go. Anywhere else, risky as it might be, was fair game. Even the abandonded buildings.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Foot Update
Dr. Pozzi granted me 6 physical therapy sessions. I'm going to ask for more. Bit by bit I'm getting better. But damn, it's frustrating. I have stretching exercises and toe exercises that I to every day. I can walk without my cane now, but I really have to concentrate on walking properly. Twice a week, I see my therapist. First she chants, "Toe DOWN! Toe DOWN!" as I walk to her station. Then she pulls out thetorture device ultrasound machine. The ultrasound helps break up the scar tissue that sits like a pile of rocks in my foot. It's agony. Sometimes my eyes water.
I get a foot rub after the ultrasound therapy, but it's not much fun either. And it should be. Foot rubs are (usually) nice.
Every visit brings a new exercise. At first it was just stretching and using my toes to scrunch up a towel. Believe it or not, this was difficult. On the second visit, she put a weight on the towel and I got to balance on a device that looks like a cross between a ball and a sit n spin. Again, this was actually difficult.
Yesterday, I had progressed to picking up marbles with my toes. I used to be able to pick up anything with my toes... pens, needles, superballs, you name it. Nowadays, picking up marbles is a triumph.
I'm very proud of me. I'm progressing pretty darned well, I think. It makes me happy.
Besides, I've always liked a challenge!
Dr. Pozzi granted me 6 physical therapy sessions. I'm going to ask for more. Bit by bit I'm getting better. But damn, it's frustrating. I have stretching exercises and toe exercises that I to every day. I can walk without my cane now, but I really have to concentrate on walking properly. Twice a week, I see my therapist. First she chants, "Toe DOWN! Toe DOWN!" as I walk to her station. Then she pulls out the
I get a foot rub after the ultrasound therapy, but it's not much fun either. And it should be. Foot rubs are (usually) nice.
Every visit brings a new exercise. At first it was just stretching and using my toes to scrunch up a towel. Believe it or not, this was difficult. On the second visit, she put a weight on the towel and I got to balance on a device that looks like a cross between a ball and a sit n spin. Again, this was actually difficult.
Yesterday, I had progressed to picking up marbles with my toes. I used to be able to pick up anything with my toes... pens, needles, superballs, you name it. Nowadays, picking up marbles is a triumph.
I'm very proud of me. I'm progressing pretty darned well, I think. It makes me happy.
Besides, I've always liked a challenge!
Monday, August 29, 2005
no comment
You may have noticed a lack of interesting stories from my past recently. It's because I've been living an interesting story right now. Wanna hear? Then read on!
About 3 weeks ago, I stepped on a broken mason jar and sliced my foot open. Oddly enough, it was while I was on the phone with my doctor's office. When I looked at my foot, I thought I'd cut it all the way across the arch. I cussed into the phone, then told them calmly that I'd have to call them back. Because right now, I needed to go to the emergency room and get stitches.
A tiny part of me was freaking out. The rest of my brain was saying, "Cool! Stitches! I've never had stitches! except for, you know, giving birth; and that's not the same."
My husband was home at the time (thankfully), and he bandaged my foot and drove me to St. Anthony's. We could have gone to a closer hospital (like Barnes) but I wanted a hospital with an empty waiting room. I didn't want to wait for hours to get my foot fixed. Had we gone to Barnes, I'd probably still be there.
So we went to St. Anthony's. This is where I discovered that I cope well with pressure. I stayed calm during the 15 minute drive. My mind would start to think of the horrors beneath the bandage, the risk of infection, whether I'd be able to walk -and I'd just change the channel. Yeah, that medical stuff is interesting; let's see what's on CNN.
Along the way, my Hubby said, "I'm so proud of you. You're staying so calm."
What, are you kidding me? I was terrified. I just didn't see how crying and screaming would help the situation. As a matter of fact, I could see several ways that crying and screaming would hurt. It would raise my blood pressure, which would cause more blood loss. It would upset my husband, who I was relying on to get me to help. It would frighten my son. No, breaking down would not help at all.
I almost broke down at the entrance to the ER. They saw me getting out of the truck and met me with a wheelchair. I realized thees people would fix me, and I started to cry. Out of relief. Suddenly, it wasn't just me holding my foot and self together. There were people I could pass this on to.
And just like that, the tears dried up.
I returned to the calm, interested, semi-trance I'd been in on the drive. When they triaged me, my BP was 129 over 73. See how calm I was?
I spent the next half hour or so laying on the waiting room floor with my foot on a chair -that being the best way to stay calm. I became fascinated with the workings of my own body. There would be a wave of pain through my foot, followed by a brief spurt of endorphins. The sudden lack of pain would remind me that I have a foot that I'm trying to ignore. Which would freak me out, like spiders tickiling the edges of my mind. I would take deep "calming" breaths, and think, "Nothing to do but wait..." Then my nostrils would start twitching. I don't know why. It was like a tic in my nose. It would spasm with each heartbeat, and since I have mitral valve prolapse, my nose was kind of dancing to it's own rhythm. Which I found hilarious. So I'd giggle. Which made my foot hurt...
So. After a period of pain waving, endorphin riding, nose twitching fun; I was taken to a room for my stitches. This is where it got ugly.
A woman came in for my insurance card and asked me questions I couldn't answer. I must have used up my endorphin stash in the waiting room, because having labor-like pains in my foot that left me breathless. My hubby answered for me, and the woman left with my insurance card.
A nurse came in and chatted with me as she removed my makeshift bandage (toilet paper and gauze tape). "I'm going to take off your bandage and have a look."
There was a small package of cleaning supplies by her side. Yeah, this was going to hurt. I told her, "It's pretty bad."
She replied, "Yeah. Foot trauma can be..."
I'll never know what foot trauma can be, because she'd removed the bandage at that point and gotten her first look at my little cut. Her face lost a little color and she quickly put a fresh bandage on my foot.
I had been thinking, "It's not as bad as it first looked. Injuries never are." And it wasn't. The gash was only 2 inches wide. The bleeding had mostly stopped. And the cut looked like I'd used a scalpel, rather than the raggedy tear I was expecting. Who knew that glass can cut like a knife?
Nonetheless, seeing my wound gave me the shakes. The nurse said, "That's very deep. You'll probably need an x-ray. The doctor will be in in a moment, and he'll give you an anesthetic."
She smiled gently and asked, "Does it hurt?"
I said, "not as much as I'd expected."
She said again, "You'll probably get an x-ray." And left the room.
My hubby was holding my hand, and I looked over at my son, realizing that he had chosen the chair that was right beside my foot. He was practically at eye level with the gash the nurse had just bandaged. Shit. I didn't want him to see that.
So I asked him, "Did you see my foot?"
He said, "No! I closed my eyes."
Good. I stopped shaking.
About that time, the doctor came in. He pulled back the bandage enough to get a peek an my cut, then sat down to talk with me. His bedside manner rocked. He explained that since I'd cut my foot on glass, he would have to probe around and see if there was any left. He seemed genuinely contrite that he would have to use an anesthetic during this procedure. He warned me that the shots of Lidocaine would hurt very much. Something about how the nerves in the foot react. I knew he was telling the truth.
But. There was nothing to be done about it. And at the end of it, I'd be numb. That was a good thing. Besides, I'd delivered a 10 lb. baby without anesthesia. How much worse could it be?
.
.
.
It was worse. Much, much worse. So much so, that I don't really remember it.
I remember him holding my foot down and saying, "Try very hard not to kick me. You don't want the needle to break off in your foot, and neither do I."
I was laying on my tummy, with my husband holding my hand and arm; braced for the worst. The doctor verbally walked me through everything he was doing as he prepped my foot. And then came the injections. I felt the needle go in, not too bad... The doctor said, I'm going to start injecting. Try not to kick. Are you ready?"
I said, "Ok, go." And made myself go limp, like you do before a tetanus shot. (They gave me one of those, too.)
Then I said, "Ooooooooooooooh!"
Ok, that sucked. Next shot.
"Aaaaaaaaahhh..Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah."
On the 4th shot, I lost vision for a bit. I recall thinking how interesting it was that it hurt so badly I couldn't see. And there were more shots coming. Toward the end, I was screaming. But my leg never moved. I didn't so much as twitch. I'm grateful for that. But the pain? No memory of it whatsoever. It's gone. It was gone the instant it stopped. Like it never was.
As a result, I could endure another round of Lidocaine. Because as far as my mind was concerned, it was nothing.
Then he probed around in my foot, cleaned it thoroughly, stitched me up, and went on to his next patient.
He talked me through the whole thing. My foot was glass free. The gash was 3/4ths of an inch deep and about 2 inches long. The cut was very clean and should heal fine. Because of the depth, he gave me antibiotics. I didn't need him to explain how much an infection would suck. I knew that one already.
Here is a pic of my stitches, the first time I had the dressing changed:
Stitches
And here it is the day the stitches came out:
No stitches
It healed very nicely. I can walk pretty well, although I've got a bit of nerve damage on the ball of my foot and in my big toe. Hopefully, my doctor will come through and give me a referral for physical therapy. I called today and asked for it.
The phenomenon they call "phantom pain" is quite an experience. I don't recommend it. It's really weird when you can "feel" your big toe in your other big toe, if that makes any sense. Plus, your brain makes up random sensations at inconvenient times. I think it's testing out different things, just to see if it gets a signal back. The day before yesterday, it felt like my foot was asleep all around the numb spot. You know, that pins and needles feeling? Today, it feels like I have a splinter.
A really strange one it when my brain says "Foot Cramp!" and my foot doesn't do a damned thing. I look, and it's just sitting there, being a foot. No cramping, no anything. Odd.
They say the nerves will grow back, or re-route, or something.
If nothing else, it's interesting.
You may have noticed a lack of interesting stories from my past recently. It's because I've been living an interesting story right now. Wanna hear? Then read on!
About 3 weeks ago, I stepped on a broken mason jar and sliced my foot open. Oddly enough, it was while I was on the phone with my doctor's office. When I looked at my foot, I thought I'd cut it all the way across the arch. I cussed into the phone, then told them calmly that I'd have to call them back. Because right now, I needed to go to the emergency room and get stitches.
A tiny part of me was freaking out. The rest of my brain was saying, "Cool! Stitches! I've never had stitches! except for, you know, giving birth; and that's not the same."
My husband was home at the time (thankfully), and he bandaged my foot and drove me to St. Anthony's. We could have gone to a closer hospital (like Barnes) but I wanted a hospital with an empty waiting room. I didn't want to wait for hours to get my foot fixed. Had we gone to Barnes, I'd probably still be there.
So we went to St. Anthony's. This is where I discovered that I cope well with pressure. I stayed calm during the 15 minute drive. My mind would start to think of the horrors beneath the bandage, the risk of infection, whether I'd be able to walk -and I'd just change the channel. Yeah, that medical stuff is interesting; let's see what's on CNN.
Along the way, my Hubby said, "I'm so proud of you. You're staying so calm."
What, are you kidding me? I was terrified. I just didn't see how crying and screaming would help the situation. As a matter of fact, I could see several ways that crying and screaming would hurt. It would raise my blood pressure, which would cause more blood loss. It would upset my husband, who I was relying on to get me to help. It would frighten my son. No, breaking down would not help at all.
I almost broke down at the entrance to the ER. They saw me getting out of the truck and met me with a wheelchair. I realized thees people would fix me, and I started to cry. Out of relief. Suddenly, it wasn't just me holding my foot and self together. There were people I could pass this on to.
And just like that, the tears dried up.
I returned to the calm, interested, semi-trance I'd been in on the drive. When they triaged me, my BP was 129 over 73. See how calm I was?
I spent the next half hour or so laying on the waiting room floor with my foot on a chair -that being the best way to stay calm. I became fascinated with the workings of my own body. There would be a wave of pain through my foot, followed by a brief spurt of endorphins. The sudden lack of pain would remind me that I have a foot that I'm trying to ignore. Which would freak me out, like spiders tickiling the edges of my mind. I would take deep "calming" breaths, and think, "Nothing to do but wait..." Then my nostrils would start twitching. I don't know why. It was like a tic in my nose. It would spasm with each heartbeat, and since I have mitral valve prolapse, my nose was kind of dancing to it's own rhythm. Which I found hilarious. So I'd giggle. Which made my foot hurt...
So. After a period of pain waving, endorphin riding, nose twitching fun; I was taken to a room for my stitches. This is where it got ugly.
A woman came in for my insurance card and asked me questions I couldn't answer. I must have used up my endorphin stash in the waiting room, because having labor-like pains in my foot that left me breathless. My hubby answered for me, and the woman left with my insurance card.
A nurse came in and chatted with me as she removed my makeshift bandage (toilet paper and gauze tape). "I'm going to take off your bandage and have a look."
There was a small package of cleaning supplies by her side. Yeah, this was going to hurt. I told her, "It's pretty bad."
She replied, "Yeah. Foot trauma can be..."
I'll never know what foot trauma can be, because she'd removed the bandage at that point and gotten her first look at my little cut. Her face lost a little color and she quickly put a fresh bandage on my foot.
I had been thinking, "It's not as bad as it first looked. Injuries never are." And it wasn't. The gash was only 2 inches wide. The bleeding had mostly stopped. And the cut looked like I'd used a scalpel, rather than the raggedy tear I was expecting. Who knew that glass can cut like a knife?
Nonetheless, seeing my wound gave me the shakes. The nurse said, "That's very deep. You'll probably need an x-ray. The doctor will be in in a moment, and he'll give you an anesthetic."
She smiled gently and asked, "Does it hurt?"
I said, "not as much as I'd expected."
She said again, "You'll probably get an x-ray." And left the room.
My hubby was holding my hand, and I looked over at my son, realizing that he had chosen the chair that was right beside my foot. He was practically at eye level with the gash the nurse had just bandaged. Shit. I didn't want him to see that.
So I asked him, "Did you see my foot?"
He said, "No! I closed my eyes."
Good. I stopped shaking.
About that time, the doctor came in. He pulled back the bandage enough to get a peek an my cut, then sat down to talk with me. His bedside manner rocked. He explained that since I'd cut my foot on glass, he would have to probe around and see if there was any left. He seemed genuinely contrite that he would have to use an anesthetic during this procedure. He warned me that the shots of Lidocaine would hurt very much. Something about how the nerves in the foot react. I knew he was telling the truth.
But. There was nothing to be done about it. And at the end of it, I'd be numb. That was a good thing. Besides, I'd delivered a 10 lb. baby without anesthesia. How much worse could it be?
.
.
.
It was worse. Much, much worse. So much so, that I don't really remember it.
I remember him holding my foot down and saying, "Try very hard not to kick me. You don't want the needle to break off in your foot, and neither do I."
I was laying on my tummy, with my husband holding my hand and arm; braced for the worst. The doctor verbally walked me through everything he was doing as he prepped my foot. And then came the injections. I felt the needle go in, not too bad... The doctor said, I'm going to start injecting. Try not to kick. Are you ready?"
I said, "Ok, go." And made myself go limp, like you do before a tetanus shot. (They gave me one of those, too.)
Then I said, "Ooooooooooooooh!"
Ok, that sucked. Next shot.
"Aaaaaaaaahhh..Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah."
On the 4th shot, I lost vision for a bit. I recall thinking how interesting it was that it hurt so badly I couldn't see. And there were more shots coming. Toward the end, I was screaming. But my leg never moved. I didn't so much as twitch. I'm grateful for that. But the pain? No memory of it whatsoever. It's gone. It was gone the instant it stopped. Like it never was.
As a result, I could endure another round of Lidocaine. Because as far as my mind was concerned, it was nothing.
Then he probed around in my foot, cleaned it thoroughly, stitched me up, and went on to his next patient.
He talked me through the whole thing. My foot was glass free. The gash was 3/4ths of an inch deep and about 2 inches long. The cut was very clean and should heal fine. Because of the depth, he gave me antibiotics. I didn't need him to explain how much an infection would suck. I knew that one already.
Here is a pic of my stitches, the first time I had the dressing changed:
Stitches
And here it is the day the stitches came out:
No stitches
It healed very nicely. I can walk pretty well, although I've got a bit of nerve damage on the ball of my foot and in my big toe. Hopefully, my doctor will come through and give me a referral for physical therapy. I called today and asked for it.
The phenomenon they call "phantom pain" is quite an experience. I don't recommend it. It's really weird when you can "feel" your big toe in your other big toe, if that makes any sense. Plus, your brain makes up random sensations at inconvenient times. I think it's testing out different things, just to see if it gets a signal back. The day before yesterday, it felt like my foot was asleep all around the numb spot. You know, that pins and needles feeling? Today, it feels like I have a splinter.
A really strange one it when my brain says "Foot Cramp!" and my foot doesn't do a damned thing. I look, and it's just sitting there, being a foot. No cramping, no anything. Odd.
They say the nerves will grow back, or re-route, or something.
If nothing else, it's interesting.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Dr. Seuss Does Death
Don't pump me full of chemicals
and bury me in the ground.
Just toast me 'til I'm ashes
and spread me all around
Don't need a final resting place
for folks to come and mourn
I'd rather fertilize the Earth;
a part of me reborn
Into a flower or a tree,
or maybe just some grass.
Eternity inside a box?
I think I'll take a pass.
Don't pump me full of chemicals
and bury me in the ground.
Just toast me 'til I'm ashes
and spread me all around
Don't need a final resting place
for folks to come and mourn
I'd rather fertilize the Earth;
a part of me reborn
Into a flower or a tree,
or maybe just some grass.
Eternity inside a box?
I think I'll take a pass.
Friday, July 15, 2005
OMG!
I forgot Soulard Farmer's Market, the whole Soulard area, Pevely Flea Market (hour drive to buy other people's crap)... Argh! I'm sure I'll think of more...
Downtown, including Union Station, the train depot turned shopping mall, get some Hodges Chili if you visit... Look at all the people wearing red for the Cardinals baseball game, I'm sure there will be one during your stay... There's just so much to do. How long were you planning on being here?
I forgot Soulard Farmer's Market, the whole Soulard area, Pevely Flea Market (hour drive to buy other people's crap)... Argh! I'm sure I'll think of more...
Downtown, including Union Station, the train depot turned shopping mall, get some Hodges Chili if you visit... Look at all the people wearing red for the Cardinals baseball game, I'm sure there will be one during your stay... There's just so much to do. How long were you planning on being here?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
For Sarsparilla
When you visit St. Louis, I highly recommend some of our totally free museums. We also have quite a few dirt-cheap museums. Most are less than $10. That's what, 6 Pounds?
Don't bother with the Arch, unless you like to look at a city from high up.
If you like art, The Art Museum (creative name, eh?)has a fantastic collection. Admission is free, although there is a fee for any special exhibits. The Art Museum is in Forest Park, which is kind of St. Louis' version of Central Park in New York. Forest Park is chock full of places to go, like The Muny, which offers 1,500 free seats for every show. They're not the best seats, so bring a pair of binoculars.
There's also The History Museum, The Jewel Box (an old greenhouse), and the Science Center.
The Zoo gets it's own paragraph, because the zoo is our pride and joy. Parking is $10 or so, but admission is (you guessed it) free! I went there a few weeks ago with my sister-in-law. We bought bracelets ($10) that let us in to all the pay attractions, all day long. So we rode the trains as long as we wanted, rode the carousel that's full of hand carved zoo critters, went on the air conditioned dinosaur ride, saw a (really crappy) movie, walked through a herd of butterflies, and visited the children's zoo. We were there for 6 hours! On a sad note, we're down to 1 polar bear. Both of his pit-mates dies recently. He looked very lonely. :(
If you're looking for something a bit more exciting, there's the City Museum; a touchy-feely museum that was once a factory. A mad man with some money bought the place and started building. It's still growing. Wear comfortable clothes, as you'll be crawling through caves and riding a 3 story slide. I particularly like the City Museum. Partly because everyone scoffed and said, "No one will pay to visit a museum!" and partly because they have a huge collection of St. Louis architecture. They've saved the facades and do-dads from practically every building that's been torn down. Since I grieve the loss of our old buildings, the architecture exhibit is my favorite place to go. The City Museum charges an admission fee, but their food prices are reasonable and the only other expenses are parking and the world aquarium. For $6, you can touch a non-stinging ray.
The height of excitement would be Six Flags St. Louis. Admission is $42, but they have specials all the time. Like any theme park, food is prohibitively expensive. Expect to spend $100 for admission and food. The thrill rides are thrilling, the other rides are fun, the water park is nice and wet... bring sunscreen. The water park hasn't been open long enough to grow decent shade trees. Six Flags is an easy 30 minute drive from Downtown St. Louis.
For that matter, just about everything is an easy 30 minute drive from downtown St. Louis. We're chock full of interesting places. The dog museum, the bowling hall of fame, horse racing, car racing, the delightfully haunted Lemp Mansion, the museum of transport for train fans, the Magic House for children, and so much more!
I haven't even touched on the people watching delights. Fun neighborhoods to shop and stare include the U City Loop, the Central West End (adjacent to Forest Park), Grand Center, and South Grand Avenue (I recommend Mokabee's Coffee House).
That's a month's worth of tourism, so take your pick!
We also have gambling boats.
You might wonder why so many of St. Louis' attractions are free, or super cheap. That's because we believe the arts should benefit everyone, regardless of income. A lot of our property taxes go toward our parks and museums so that everyone can enjoy them. The city is considering raising the property taxes again to support the St. Louis Symphony. When the measure finally comes up for a vote, I bet it'll pass. I'll happily pay another 2 cents per hundred dollars of valuation to maintain our world class symphony.
When you visit St. Louis, I highly recommend some of our totally free museums. We also have quite a few dirt-cheap museums. Most are less than $10. That's what, 6 Pounds?
Don't bother with the Arch, unless you like to look at a city from high up.
If you like art, The Art Museum (creative name, eh?)has a fantastic collection. Admission is free, although there is a fee for any special exhibits. The Art Museum is in Forest Park, which is kind of St. Louis' version of Central Park in New York. Forest Park is chock full of places to go, like The Muny, which offers 1,500 free seats for every show. They're not the best seats, so bring a pair of binoculars.
There's also The History Museum, The Jewel Box (an old greenhouse), and the Science Center.
The Zoo gets it's own paragraph, because the zoo is our pride and joy. Parking is $10 or so, but admission is (you guessed it) free! I went there a few weeks ago with my sister-in-law. We bought bracelets ($10) that let us in to all the pay attractions, all day long. So we rode the trains as long as we wanted, rode the carousel that's full of hand carved zoo critters, went on the air conditioned dinosaur ride, saw a (really crappy) movie, walked through a herd of butterflies, and visited the children's zoo. We were there for 6 hours! On a sad note, we're down to 1 polar bear. Both of his pit-mates dies recently. He looked very lonely. :(
If you're looking for something a bit more exciting, there's the City Museum; a touchy-feely museum that was once a factory. A mad man with some money bought the place and started building. It's still growing. Wear comfortable clothes, as you'll be crawling through caves and riding a 3 story slide. I particularly like the City Museum. Partly because everyone scoffed and said, "No one will pay to visit a museum!" and partly because they have a huge collection of St. Louis architecture. They've saved the facades and do-dads from practically every building that's been torn down. Since I grieve the loss of our old buildings, the architecture exhibit is my favorite place to go. The City Museum charges an admission fee, but their food prices are reasonable and the only other expenses are parking and the world aquarium. For $6, you can touch a non-stinging ray.
The height of excitement would be Six Flags St. Louis. Admission is $42, but they have specials all the time. Like any theme park, food is prohibitively expensive. Expect to spend $100 for admission and food. The thrill rides are thrilling, the other rides are fun, the water park is nice and wet... bring sunscreen. The water park hasn't been open long enough to grow decent shade trees. Six Flags is an easy 30 minute drive from Downtown St. Louis.
For that matter, just about everything is an easy 30 minute drive from downtown St. Louis. We're chock full of interesting places. The dog museum, the bowling hall of fame, horse racing, car racing, the delightfully haunted Lemp Mansion, the museum of transport for train fans, the Magic House for children, and so much more!
I haven't even touched on the people watching delights. Fun neighborhoods to shop and stare include the U City Loop, the Central West End (adjacent to Forest Park), Grand Center, and South Grand Avenue (I recommend Mokabee's Coffee House).
That's a month's worth of tourism, so take your pick!
We also have gambling boats.
You might wonder why so many of St. Louis' attractions are free, or super cheap. That's because we believe the arts should benefit everyone, regardless of income. A lot of our property taxes go toward our parks and museums so that everyone can enjoy them. The city is considering raising the property taxes again to support the St. Louis Symphony. When the measure finally comes up for a vote, I bet it'll pass. I'll happily pay another 2 cents per hundred dollars of valuation to maintain our world class symphony.
Friday, July 08, 2005
The Multi-Use Roof
St. Louis is great because it has a multitude of flat roofs. When you combine them with narrow gangways, you get a daring method of transportation. If you can leap 6 feet, you can traverse an entire block without touching the ground.
Since most of our flat roofed buildings have a facade; you can hide from the cops, sunt@n t0pl&ss, or bombard your friends. They're also a great place to shoot off fireworks.
A flat roof should be re-tarred every 5 years or so, which explains all those smelly tar trucks around the city.
When we moved in to the apartment next door to the bar, the roof was freshly tarred. When we moved out 7 years later, we left behind an assortment of tupperware that had been collecting drips. The landlord didn't do a damn thing to maintain the building.
When the downstairs neighbors broke our door, Mom was the one who fixed it.
When the Leisures threw a brick through our window, Mom was the one who patched it with duct tape.
And when kids pulled the mortar out from between the bricks so they could have something to throw at the busses, our neighbors were the ones who tuckpointed the place.
We gave that slumlord $300 a month for a leaky roof and an apartment we had to share with mice and cockroaches. And I'm a little bitter about it tonight.
Tenants have rights, and mom could have called the health department and gotten the place condemned; but then where would we live? So we tried to make the best of it. Eventually, we got rid of the mice and roaches through the judicious application of cats and Raid. For some reason that's beyond me, our landlord had carpeted the kitchen; so we put cardboard around the stove, to keep the carpet clean. (throw rugs? What, are you kidding me? We couldn't afford throw rugs! We needed that money for food and such.)
I have a picture of our cat, standing on the stained cardboard, with a bloody mouse in his mouth. we were so proud of him. He single handedly (clawed-ly?) rid our apartment of mice, and then he went after the roaches. He was the most efficient killer I've ever known.
St. Louis is great because it has a multitude of flat roofs. When you combine them with narrow gangways, you get a daring method of transportation. If you can leap 6 feet, you can traverse an entire block without touching the ground.
Since most of our flat roofed buildings have a facade; you can hide from the cops, sunt@n t0pl&ss, or bombard your friends. They're also a great place to shoot off fireworks.
A flat roof should be re-tarred every 5 years or so, which explains all those smelly tar trucks around the city.
When we moved in to the apartment next door to the bar, the roof was freshly tarred. When we moved out 7 years later, we left behind an assortment of tupperware that had been collecting drips. The landlord didn't do a damn thing to maintain the building.
When the downstairs neighbors broke our door, Mom was the one who fixed it.
When the Leisures threw a brick through our window, Mom was the one who patched it with duct tape.
And when kids pulled the mortar out from between the bricks so they could have something to throw at the busses, our neighbors were the ones who tuckpointed the place.
We gave that slumlord $300 a month for a leaky roof and an apartment we had to share with mice and cockroaches. And I'm a little bitter about it tonight.
Tenants have rights, and mom could have called the health department and gotten the place condemned; but then where would we live? So we tried to make the best of it. Eventually, we got rid of the mice and roaches through the judicious application of cats and Raid. For some reason that's beyond me, our landlord had carpeted the kitchen; so we put cardboard around the stove, to keep the carpet clean. (throw rugs? What, are you kidding me? We couldn't afford throw rugs! We needed that money for food and such.)
I have a picture of our cat, standing on the stained cardboard, with a bloody mouse in his mouth. we were so proud of him. He single handedly (clawed-ly?) rid our apartment of mice, and then he went after the roaches. He was the most efficient killer I've ever known.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Hey, St. Louis!
We're having a little bit of a drought here, and tomorrow is the 4th of July. Which means cheap fireworks will be lighting the sky for the next few nights. If you don't water your lawns; they'll be lighting your grass, too.
I know it's a hassle, but you might want to water your roof, too. It's been a long time since St. Louis was so dry... But trust me; debris in your gutters or laying on your roof will catch fire.
We're having a little bit of a drought here, and tomorrow is the 4th of July. Which means cheap fireworks will be lighting the sky for the next few nights. If you don't water your lawns; they'll be lighting your grass, too.
I know it's a hassle, but you might want to water your roof, too. It's been a long time since St. Louis was so dry... But trust me; debris in your gutters or laying on your roof will catch fire.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
More Interesting Stuff About My Dad
During my father's stay in the brig, he wrote long letters to my mom. She wrote medium-length letters in return. With a toddler (my sister) running around the house, it was all she had time for. Some of their communications discussed the naming rights of the baby to be. (me)
Mom thought that if I were a boy, I'd be named after my father... But what if I were a girl?
Thankfully, I am a girl; which spared me the moniker Willian Daniel Phillips the Third. Dad would have nicknamed me Billy Da Turd. He liked to play with words. Tomatoes = tamaygers, etc.
Perhaps there is a Billy Da Turd in an alternate universe. I wouldn't know. This universe is strange enough to keep me busy.
Anyway, my name is a blend of fact and fiction. In fact, my father is Welsh. Pure Welsh. All 4 of his grandparents were born in Wales. They had little Welsh babies who grew up, met, and married in America; whereupon they produced little Welsh/American babies.
My mom, on the other hand, is half Sicilian and half everything else.
I get the red hair for both sides of the gene pool.
In fiction, dad's grandparents were born in a lovely green valley filled with flowers and bunnies and happy, plump people. They called their paradise "The Valley of Sharon"; and everyone lived happily ever after.
Dad wanted to name his daughter after the valley where his grandparents were born. Mom thought it was a wonderful story, and so I was named after that valley.
When she wrote my father to tell him he had a new daughter, he was delighted. But he couldn't figure out why she'd named me "Sharon". He had no recollection of the story he'd made up.
It doesn't bother me that my name has no base. People name their kids all kinds of weird things. I mean, since I was born in 1969, I could have been saddled with "Moonbow" or "Dandelion" or any number of names you won't find on a toothbrush.
And besides. At least I'm not a Turd.
During my father's stay in the brig, he wrote long letters to my mom. She wrote medium-length letters in return. With a toddler (my sister) running around the house, it was all she had time for. Some of their communications discussed the naming rights of the baby to be. (me)
Mom thought that if I were a boy, I'd be named after my father... But what if I were a girl?
Thankfully, I am a girl; which spared me the moniker Willian Daniel Phillips the Third. Dad would have nicknamed me Billy Da Turd. He liked to play with words. Tomatoes = tamaygers, etc.
Perhaps there is a Billy Da Turd in an alternate universe. I wouldn't know. This universe is strange enough to keep me busy.
Anyway, my name is a blend of fact and fiction. In fact, my father is Welsh. Pure Welsh. All 4 of his grandparents were born in Wales. They had little Welsh babies who grew up, met, and married in America; whereupon they produced little Welsh/American babies.
My mom, on the other hand, is half Sicilian and half everything else.
I get the red hair for both sides of the gene pool.
In fiction, dad's grandparents were born in a lovely green valley filled with flowers and bunnies and happy, plump people. They called their paradise "The Valley of Sharon"; and everyone lived happily ever after.
Dad wanted to name his daughter after the valley where his grandparents were born. Mom thought it was a wonderful story, and so I was named after that valley.
When she wrote my father to tell him he had a new daughter, he was delighted. But he couldn't figure out why she'd named me "Sharon". He had no recollection of the story he'd made up.
It doesn't bother me that my name has no base. People name their kids all kinds of weird things. I mean, since I was born in 1969, I could have been saddled with "Moonbow" or "Dandelion" or any number of names you won't find on a toothbrush.
And besides. At least I'm not a Turd.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
PTSD
I was reading a Frontline article about how the military deals with killing, which led me to look up post traumatic stress disorder; and what I found was fascinating.
I know I have PTSD. I've known for a long time, but I'm not exactly sure what caused it in the first place.
It wasn't the stuff that I don't talk about here because it embarrasses certain family members who choose to believe that stuff never happened. Should you ever meet me in person, go ahead and ask. I'm not embarrassed.
It wasn't my childhood.
It was probably the rape, but I'm not certain.
The thing is... whenever the original trauma happened, it's caused me problems ever since. Something stressful happens, and I stumble. Like walking down a path and tripping over a log. Each time it's harder to get up and climb over the damn thing; and I wouldn't even recognize that I'd tripped if I didn't have good people around to tell me so.
Here's an example: My son was accepted into a very fine high school, unfortunately it's $8900 for his first year. Which we don't have. Which means I need a job. But it's hard to find a job when you've been a stay-home mom for 14 years. It's especially hard when you need to work between 9 and 2:30, no weekends.
So it's stressful.
My mind wanders when I talk on the phone. I stop snuggling with my husband. I don't talk about what's bothering me -heck, I totally forget what's bothering me. I sleep poorly and dream about things I overcame years ago. I startle easily. And I don't leave the house without putting on the mental toughness I acquired in my old neighborhood.
It may sound like a list of complaints. A whine list ;) But it's just stuff I've been thinking about recently. Mostly thoughts like, "Now that I see it, how do I make it go away?" and "I wonder what normal looks like?"
I've come so far, damnit, and I'm still tripping over invisible logs.
It's frustrating.
I was reading a Frontline article about how the military deals with killing, which led me to look up post traumatic stress disorder; and what I found was fascinating.
I know I have PTSD. I've known for a long time, but I'm not exactly sure what caused it in the first place.
It wasn't the stuff that I don't talk about here because it embarrasses certain family members who choose to believe that stuff never happened. Should you ever meet me in person, go ahead and ask. I'm not embarrassed.
It wasn't my childhood.
It was probably the rape, but I'm not certain.
The thing is... whenever the original trauma happened, it's caused me problems ever since. Something stressful happens, and I stumble. Like walking down a path and tripping over a log. Each time it's harder to get up and climb over the damn thing; and I wouldn't even recognize that I'd tripped if I didn't have good people around to tell me so.
Here's an example: My son was accepted into a very fine high school, unfortunately it's $8900 for his first year. Which we don't have. Which means I need a job. But it's hard to find a job when you've been a stay-home mom for 14 years. It's especially hard when you need to work between 9 and 2:30, no weekends.
So it's stressful.
My mind wanders when I talk on the phone. I stop snuggling with my husband. I don't talk about what's bothering me -heck, I totally forget what's bothering me. I sleep poorly and dream about things I overcame years ago. I startle easily. And I don't leave the house without putting on the mental toughness I acquired in my old neighborhood.
It may sound like a list of complaints. A whine list ;) But it's just stuff I've been thinking about recently. Mostly thoughts like, "Now that I see it, how do I make it go away?" and "I wonder what normal looks like?"
I've come so far, damnit, and I'm still tripping over invisible logs.
It's frustrating.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Ruminations
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I turned 36 a few days ago, and I must say... I couldn't be happier.
Sure, I look in the mirror and see a few laugh lines; and there are some interesting white streaks in my red-orange hair. But in general, I look in the mirror and see myself. I wonder how much of that is genetic, and how much it has to do with attitude?
What got me thinking about this was not the 10 year old who accused me of looking like I was in my twenties (and informing me that wasn't a compliment.) No, it was this:
The song "MacArthur Park" was stuck in my head, and I shared some of the godawful lyrics with my son. We found a website listing a whole bunch of bad, bad songs; and giggled over some of the things people wrote -and made money from!
But on the list was "seasons in the sun", and I really liked that song when I was a kid. Because one repeating verse really spoke to me. The one where he sings goodbye, it's hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky... I've always felt that it will be hard to die. I don't have any fear of what comes after, I just don't wanna let go. It's so wonderful here.
I'm a 36 year old kid marvelling at life. I like that.
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I turned 36 a few days ago, and I must say... I couldn't be happier.
Sure, I look in the mirror and see a few laugh lines; and there are some interesting white streaks in my red-orange hair. But in general, I look in the mirror and see myself. I wonder how much of that is genetic, and how much it has to do with attitude?
What got me thinking about this was not the 10 year old who accused me of looking like I was in my twenties (and informing me that wasn't a compliment.) No, it was this:
The song "MacArthur Park" was stuck in my head, and I shared some of the godawful lyrics with my son. We found a website listing a whole bunch of bad, bad songs; and giggled over some of the things people wrote -and made money from!
But on the list was "seasons in the sun", and I really liked that song when I was a kid. Because one repeating verse really spoke to me. The one where he sings goodbye, it's hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky... I've always felt that it will be hard to die. I don't have any fear of what comes after, I just don't wanna let go. It's so wonderful here.
I'm a 36 year old kid marvelling at life. I like that.
Friday, April 29, 2005
The Fall Of Saigon
I would have been not quite six years old at the time. I remember that mom and dad would watch the evening news, and sometimes they'd argue about it. Saigon falling to the North Vietnamese definitely sparked an argument. Mom and dad would go into the dining room to argue, and I'd be left to watch the news alone. At least until mom sent me to play elsewhere. She didn't think a 5 year old should be watching the news.
*break for a rant about my father*
My father was, among other things, a Marine. He served in Vietnam, somewhere around 1967 or 1968. His mother was hospitalized during his tour, and he was given leave to visit her. She recovered from her whatever-it-was, and dad never went back to the military. He came to St. Louis instead. A mutual "friend" made a bet with my dad. He bet that dad couldn't get my mom to agree to marry him.
A few months later, dad won a measly $5 and a wife. They had a little honeymoon, conceived myself, and only then did he tell my mom that he was AWOL from the Marines. He told her because he had decided to turn himself in. He was court-marshaled and sentenced to 2 1/2 years in the brig. When he was released, he had his dishonorable discharge papers framed and hung on the wall behind his recliner.
*end rant*
Somehow, my father thought that spending 4 months as a stock clerk in a large, safe city in Asia entitled him to opine about Vietnam. My mother disagreed.
So I got to watch a few news clips while my parents argued. All I remember seeing was helicopters and crowds of people. I didn't understand any of it.
Some months (or years) later, I earned a spanking for asking ceaseless questions about the Vietnamese children that were coming to America on a plane.
My parent's did not understand that I felt I'd missed a turning point in history, with the fall of Saigon; and that I wanted to know what was going on now. I thought those Orphan Flights would be just as historic as Saigon, and I didn't want to miss it!
Yeah, so I was wrong. Oh well.
I would have been not quite six years old at the time. I remember that mom and dad would watch the evening news, and sometimes they'd argue about it. Saigon falling to the North Vietnamese definitely sparked an argument. Mom and dad would go into the dining room to argue, and I'd be left to watch the news alone. At least until mom sent me to play elsewhere. She didn't think a 5 year old should be watching the news.
*break for a rant about my father*
My father was, among other things, a Marine. He served in Vietnam, somewhere around 1967 or 1968. His mother was hospitalized during his tour, and he was given leave to visit her. She recovered from her whatever-it-was, and dad never went back to the military. He came to St. Louis instead. A mutual "friend" made a bet with my dad. He bet that dad couldn't get my mom to agree to marry him.
A few months later, dad won a measly $5 and a wife. They had a little honeymoon, conceived myself, and only then did he tell my mom that he was AWOL from the Marines. He told her because he had decided to turn himself in. He was court-marshaled and sentenced to 2 1/2 years in the brig. When he was released, he had his dishonorable discharge papers framed and hung on the wall behind his recliner.
*end rant*
Somehow, my father thought that spending 4 months as a stock clerk in a large, safe city in Asia entitled him to opine about Vietnam. My mother disagreed.
So I got to watch a few news clips while my parents argued. All I remember seeing was helicopters and crowds of people. I didn't understand any of it.
Some months (or years) later, I earned a spanking for asking ceaseless questions about the Vietnamese children that were coming to America on a plane.
My parent's did not understand that I felt I'd missed a turning point in history, with the fall of Saigon; and that I wanted to know what was going on now. I thought those Orphan Flights would be just as historic as Saigon, and I didn't want to miss it!
Yeah, so I was wrong. Oh well.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Music
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If you check my profile, you'll see that I'm not a fan of country music. That's because I associate it with the bar across the street.
We could hear the jukebox from our front porch; they always turned the music up on the weekends. As the night would wear on and the drinking would get heavier, the music would become more and more maudlin. There were endless versions of some poor slob who's dog had died, or his wife had left him, and he was walking down the train tracks, because he'd just got outta jail... Songs with the corniest lyrics, I swear!
As long as the music was maudlin, the bar would stay pretty quiet. But sooner or later someone would play "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino" and follow it up with "You're Cheatin' Heart"; and we knew it was just about time to go inside and call the cops. Because those two songs in combination meant that some woman was fed up with her no-good-drunk-of-a-man; and she was right that instant sitting on some other guy's lap.
The noise level would rise to a point that we couldn't hear the music anymore, and then bodies would come tumbling out of the bar. A knot of people beating on each other would be surrounded by a larger group of observers. Some would try to interject a bit of drunken wisdom, "Hey, man. You can't be doin' that." or "She ain't worth it." Others would join in the fray. Lord knows why. Still others would wail at the sky, bemoaning their fate.
The funniest one I ever saw was a woman jump into the mess of people and shove her husband out of the fight so that she could start a new one. She yelled, "GodDAMN you, Greg! Now we can't drink no more!"
This caused a mass exodus back into the bar; people having realized they were jeopardizing their own drinking privileges for the night.
In case you're unfamiliar with the song "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino"; here are David Frizzell's classic words:
I came crawling home last night, like many nights before:
I finally made it to my feet as she opened up the door.
And she said, "You're not gonna do this anymore."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "Just bring your Friday paycheck, and I'll cash them all right here.
"And I'll keep on tap - for all your friends, their favorite kinds of beer.
"And for you, I'll always keep in stock, those soft aluminum cans.
"And when you're feeling macho, you can crush them like a man."
She said: "We'll rip out all the carpet, and put sawdust on the floor.
"Serve hard boiled eggs and pretzels, and I won't cook no more.
"There'll be Monday night football, on T.V. above the bar.
"And a pay phone in the hallway, when your friends can't find their car."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "You'll get friendly service, and for added atmosphere.
"I'll slip on something sexy, and I'll cut it clear to here.
"Then you can slap my bottom, every time you tell a joke.
"Just as long as you keep tipping, well, I'll laugh until you're broke."
She said: "Instead of family quarrels, we'll have a bar-room brawl,
"When the Ham's bear say's its closing time, you won't have far to crawl.
"And when you run out of money, you'll have me to thank.
"You can sleep it off next morning, when I'm putting it in the bank."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino, to decorate our home,
"So you can feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"When you and your friends get off from work, and have a powerful thirst.
"There won't be any reason, why you can't stop off here first."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
.
If you check my profile, you'll see that I'm not a fan of country music. That's because I associate it with the bar across the street.
We could hear the jukebox from our front porch; they always turned the music up on the weekends. As the night would wear on and the drinking would get heavier, the music would become more and more maudlin. There were endless versions of some poor slob who's dog had died, or his wife had left him, and he was walking down the train tracks, because he'd just got outta jail... Songs with the corniest lyrics, I swear!
As long as the music was maudlin, the bar would stay pretty quiet. But sooner or later someone would play "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino" and follow it up with "You're Cheatin' Heart"; and we knew it was just about time to go inside and call the cops. Because those two songs in combination meant that some woman was fed up with her no-good-drunk-of-a-man; and she was right that instant sitting on some other guy's lap.
The noise level would rise to a point that we couldn't hear the music anymore, and then bodies would come tumbling out of the bar. A knot of people beating on each other would be surrounded by a larger group of observers. Some would try to interject a bit of drunken wisdom, "Hey, man. You can't be doin' that." or "She ain't worth it." Others would join in the fray. Lord knows why. Still others would wail at the sky, bemoaning their fate.
The funniest one I ever saw was a woman jump into the mess of people and shove her husband out of the fight so that she could start a new one. She yelled, "GodDAMN you, Greg! Now we can't drink no more!"
This caused a mass exodus back into the bar; people having realized they were jeopardizing their own drinking privileges for the night.
In case you're unfamiliar with the song "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino"; here are David Frizzell's classic words:
I came crawling home last night, like many nights before:
I finally made it to my feet as she opened up the door.
And she said, "You're not gonna do this anymore."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "Just bring your Friday paycheck, and I'll cash them all right here.
"And I'll keep on tap - for all your friends, their favorite kinds of beer.
"And for you, I'll always keep in stock, those soft aluminum cans.
"And when you're feeling macho, you can crush them like a man."
She said: "We'll rip out all the carpet, and put sawdust on the floor.
"Serve hard boiled eggs and pretzels, and I won't cook no more.
"There'll be Monday night football, on T.V. above the bar.
"And a pay phone in the hallway, when your friends can't find their car."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "You'll get friendly service, and for added atmosphere.
"I'll slip on something sexy, and I'll cut it clear to here.
"Then you can slap my bottom, every time you tell a joke.
"Just as long as you keep tipping, well, I'll laugh until you're broke."
She said: "Instead of family quarrels, we'll have a bar-room brawl,
"When the Ham's bear say's its closing time, you won't have far to crawl.
"And when you run out of money, you'll have me to thank.
"You can sleep it off next morning, when I'm putting it in the bank."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino, to decorate our home,
"So you can feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"When you and your friends get off from work, and have a powerful thirst.
"There won't be any reason, why you can't stop off here first."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
Thursday, April 07, 2005
The Worst Thing I've Ever Done
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This month's Blogging For Books subject is ... Cruelty.
What a quandary! To tell, or not to tell? If I bare my deepest act of cruelty, I could lose every friend I have. But if I don't take this opportunity... It's the old "tree falling in the woods" thing. You know, if I did something awful, but no one knows... will I still be seen as good? I guess I'll never know unless I hit that "publish" button at the bottom of my blog.
"We like to think of ourselves as nice people. Yet even the nicest person can engage in cruel, vindictive, or just plain mean behavior.
For this Blogging for Books, write about the meanest thing you have ever done - either to another person or to yourself. (Topic idea credit: Jenorama)"
I've fried ants with a magnifying glass and fed nasty food to my dog. Who hasn't? I've said hurtful things, deliberately; with the sole intention of making someone miserable. I've even thrown rocks at children.
But all those things had a reason behind them. A justification, if you will. Each one carried it's own lesson, too. Your dog will eat anything. Ants run from heat. Sometimes you have to choose between a power trip, and having your own power. Throwing rocks won't change the fact that you're mom is getting the shit beat out of her at home... Or that the only reason your sister is throwing rocks along with you is that your mother is taking the blows in her place.
None of those things shame me. It's all stuff I'll happily talk about, if you're interested in the sordid details of my childhood. And there's one thing I will not happily talk about. It makes me sick to my stomach when I remember it. It's the thing I did that taught me the definition of "cruelty".
I helped beat up "the retarded kid".
It doesn't matter that I was in the 4th grade at the time. It doesn't matter that I had been the victim of escalating abuses at school. It doesn't even matter that a teacher had just that week plucked a splinter of my own broken glasses out of my eye, yet continued to have me fend for myself on the playground.
What mattered was that for once, they were beating up someone else. And I rushed across the street to join in.
I wanted to know what it was like from the other side. I wanted so badly to be part of a group, just once. I thought maybe they would like me if I did a good job on this poor kid.
So I ran across the street and whacked him with my bag full of homework.
I was aiming for his head. I wanted to knock him down so the kids could see that it was me with all that power. But he was tall and I wasn't strong enough. My book bag bounced ineffectually off of his back and tears were running down my face. (Yes. I hit him from behind. Not only did I attack a mentally deficient child, I did it from behind. If there's a hell, I'll be there along with Hitler and those guys who wore black hats on the Lone Ranger show.)
I expected the kids to start laughing any minute. I was afraid they might turn on me next. A part of me thought that wouldn't be a bad thing. At least I would deserve it for thinking I was in any way socially acceptable.
I still had a chance to show how tough I was, though; because no one had noticed my feeble attack. I thought I could jump on the kid's back and pound him in the head a few times. Then everybody would see how great I was. Except I couldn't jump that high. My arms weren't strong enough to pull myself up to his shoulders.
I tried again. And I just couldn't do it. He was a 7th grader, for gosh sakes! I just wasn't big enough.
I could still get in a few good blows with my book bag, but first I'd have to re-load it. Everything had fallen out when I'd made my sneak attack. The fight moved down the street as I stuffed my books back in the bag. I'd have to run to catch up.
And then I came to my senses. Instead of running back to the fight, I ran down a gangway. I hid in the shadows and dried my eyes on my sleeve. Then I walked toward home until I was past the fighting. When I got around the corner, I ran.
I ran past the homeless people, fresh tears blurring my vision, terrified that someone would punish me for beating up the retarded kid.
There it is. The worst thing I've ever done. My definition of cruelty.
And Jay? I think this Blogging for Books subject is pretty damn cruel too. :p
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This month's Blogging For Books subject is ... Cruelty.
What a quandary! To tell, or not to tell? If I bare my deepest act of cruelty, I could lose every friend I have. But if I don't take this opportunity... It's the old "tree falling in the woods" thing. You know, if I did something awful, but no one knows... will I still be seen as good? I guess I'll never know unless I hit that "publish" button at the bottom of my blog.
"We like to think of ourselves as nice people. Yet even the nicest person can engage in cruel, vindictive, or just plain mean behavior.
For this Blogging for Books, write about the meanest thing you have ever done - either to another person or to yourself. (Topic idea credit: Jenorama)"
I've fried ants with a magnifying glass and fed nasty food to my dog. Who hasn't? I've said hurtful things, deliberately; with the sole intention of making someone miserable. I've even thrown rocks at children.
But all those things had a reason behind them. A justification, if you will. Each one carried it's own lesson, too. Your dog will eat anything. Ants run from heat. Sometimes you have to choose between a power trip, and having your own power. Throwing rocks won't change the fact that you're mom is getting the shit beat out of her at home... Or that the only reason your sister is throwing rocks along with you is that your mother is taking the blows in her place.
None of those things shame me. It's all stuff I'll happily talk about, if you're interested in the sordid details of my childhood. And there's one thing I will not happily talk about. It makes me sick to my stomach when I remember it. It's the thing I did that taught me the definition of "cruelty".
I helped beat up "the retarded kid".
It doesn't matter that I was in the 4th grade at the time. It doesn't matter that I had been the victim of escalating abuses at school. It doesn't even matter that a teacher had just that week plucked a splinter of my own broken glasses out of my eye, yet continued to have me fend for myself on the playground.
What mattered was that for once, they were beating up someone else. And I rushed across the street to join in.
I wanted to know what it was like from the other side. I wanted so badly to be part of a group, just once. I thought maybe they would like me if I did a good job on this poor kid.
So I ran across the street and whacked him with my bag full of homework.
I was aiming for his head. I wanted to knock him down so the kids could see that it was me with all that power. But he was tall and I wasn't strong enough. My book bag bounced ineffectually off of his back and tears were running down my face. (Yes. I hit him from behind. Not only did I attack a mentally deficient child, I did it from behind. If there's a hell, I'll be there along with Hitler and those guys who wore black hats on the Lone Ranger show.)
I expected the kids to start laughing any minute. I was afraid they might turn on me next. A part of me thought that wouldn't be a bad thing. At least I would deserve it for thinking I was in any way socially acceptable.
I still had a chance to show how tough I was, though; because no one had noticed my feeble attack. I thought I could jump on the kid's back and pound him in the head a few times. Then everybody would see how great I was. Except I couldn't jump that high. My arms weren't strong enough to pull myself up to his shoulders.
I tried again. And I just couldn't do it. He was a 7th grader, for gosh sakes! I just wasn't big enough.
I could still get in a few good blows with my book bag, but first I'd have to re-load it. Everything had fallen out when I'd made my sneak attack. The fight moved down the street as I stuffed my books back in the bag. I'd have to run to catch up.
And then I came to my senses. Instead of running back to the fight, I ran down a gangway. I hid in the shadows and dried my eyes on my sleeve. Then I walked toward home until I was past the fighting. When I got around the corner, I ran.
I ran past the homeless people, fresh tears blurring my vision, terrified that someone would punish me for beating up the retarded kid.
There it is. The worst thing I've ever done. My definition of cruelty.
And Jay? I think this Blogging for Books subject is pretty damn cruel too. :p
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Desegregation
St. Louis began it's desegregation program when I started the 6th grade. The year was 1981. The city quickly created magnet schools to try and get more volunteer students, and to keep the courts from creating a plan of integration. The kids in my neighborhood attended either Notre Dame Catholic School, or the nearest public school. I didn't know anyone who went to Holy Cross Lutheran School, although that was also an option.
The public school kids walked to school, attended classes with their neighbors, and generally behaved like normal kids. And then the busses came, bringing problems that no one was prepared for. It never occurred to the school board that the deseg students might resent being pulled from their neighborhood schools. They didn't really have a choice. The "black" schools were closed, and the students had to go somewhere. That "somewhere" was predominantly white schools filled with children who had known each other their entire lives. The black students were divided between many schools, meaning they were separated from their friends. They probably felt isolated, and I know they were scared. Some of the new students were agressive; determined not to be pushed around or put down by "whitey". The white students were told fearful stories about how savage "black people" were; how they were all criminals or animals.
None of this was true, of course; but it made for a very bad start.
When I left Notre Dame for a magnet school, I was warned about "black" behaviour. I was told that the girls would steal anything they wanted from me. I was warned not to carry a purse, because the girls would come up to me and say, "What you got girl gimmie some." While taking whatever I had. I was told that "they" would beat me up if I resisted...
Mind you, my neighborhood was filled with some of the meanest, toughest kids I'd ever seen. The kinds of kids who would knock you down and kick your teeth in. Kids who thought that a fight wasn't a fight unless you came away with blood and a trophy. Yet they were afraid to fight the black kids.
Children are good at sensing fear, and when these new students saw the fear in the old students, they took advantage of it. It's what children do across the world.
It took a few years for the neighborhood kids to remember that they were tough. Then they started fighting back. The schools became dangerous. Students of both races started cutting school because the streets were a safer place to be. They also found ways to be safe within the schools. One way was to sell drugs. The drug dealers were cool, and you don't mess with the cool kids. That's how we got 7th and 8th graders selling pot or speed to 5th graders. Smoking was also cool. Smoking meant you were a badass, and therefore less likely to be a victim. The really badass kids would talk back to the teachers, walk out of class, and throw things out the window. Nobody messed with those kids.
Desegregation, at least St. Louis' version of it, created a lot of problems. We still don't have any solutions.
St. Louis began it's desegregation program when I started the 6th grade. The year was 1981. The city quickly created magnet schools to try and get more volunteer students, and to keep the courts from creating a plan of integration. The kids in my neighborhood attended either Notre Dame Catholic School, or the nearest public school. I didn't know anyone who went to Holy Cross Lutheran School, although that was also an option.
The public school kids walked to school, attended classes with their neighbors, and generally behaved like normal kids. And then the busses came, bringing problems that no one was prepared for. It never occurred to the school board that the deseg students might resent being pulled from their neighborhood schools. They didn't really have a choice. The "black" schools were closed, and the students had to go somewhere. That "somewhere" was predominantly white schools filled with children who had known each other their entire lives. The black students were divided between many schools, meaning they were separated from their friends. They probably felt isolated, and I know they were scared. Some of the new students were agressive; determined not to be pushed around or put down by "whitey". The white students were told fearful stories about how savage "black people" were; how they were all criminals or animals.
None of this was true, of course; but it made for a very bad start.
When I left Notre Dame for a magnet school, I was warned about "black" behaviour. I was told that the girls would steal anything they wanted from me. I was warned not to carry a purse, because the girls would come up to me and say, "What you got girl gimmie some." While taking whatever I had. I was told that "they" would beat me up if I resisted...
Mind you, my neighborhood was filled with some of the meanest, toughest kids I'd ever seen. The kinds of kids who would knock you down and kick your teeth in. Kids who thought that a fight wasn't a fight unless you came away with blood and a trophy. Yet they were afraid to fight the black kids.
Children are good at sensing fear, and when these new students saw the fear in the old students, they took advantage of it. It's what children do across the world.
It took a few years for the neighborhood kids to remember that they were tough. Then they started fighting back. The schools became dangerous. Students of both races started cutting school because the streets were a safer place to be. They also found ways to be safe within the schools. One way was to sell drugs. The drug dealers were cool, and you don't mess with the cool kids. That's how we got 7th and 8th graders selling pot or speed to 5th graders. Smoking was also cool. Smoking meant you were a badass, and therefore less likely to be a victim. The really badass kids would talk back to the teachers, walk out of class, and throw things out the window. Nobody messed with those kids.
Desegregation, at least St. Louis' version of it, created a lot of problems. We still don't have any solutions.
Conflicted
I'm really conflicted about what to write next. What started as a series of amusing stories became therapy for me as I worked through my memories.
-I just realized that I still haven't told about skipping school, the disaster that the St. Louis public shool system was in the 1980's, my neighborhood's reaction to desegregation, racing down the highway at 115 mph, the yuppie rehabbers at the neighborhood meetings, how to spot a narc, running away from home because my mom wouldn't let me go to a concert... Yeah, I have a lot more to say.
Somewhere along the line, this blog went from what I observed to more personal stuff. I guess in that way, it reflects life. My childhood was joyful -untouched by what I saw. And as I grew older, what I saw became what I lived. I was no longer the center of my universe. I was just another neighborhood kid trying to stay alive long enough to escape.
I'd never meant to get into the more personal (and painful) aspects of my life story. So if you notice a shift in my writing, that's why.
The completed book will include the story of my rape, because it's integral to the complete picture. My rape changed how I viewed my neighborhood, thereby changing the stories I tell. I think it will make a nice segue into the darker stories.
I'm really conflicted about what to write next. What started as a series of amusing stories became therapy for me as I worked through my memories.
-I just realized that I still haven't told about skipping school, the disaster that the St. Louis public shool system was in the 1980's, my neighborhood's reaction to desegregation, racing down the highway at 115 mph, the yuppie rehabbers at the neighborhood meetings, how to spot a narc, running away from home because my mom wouldn't let me go to a concert... Yeah, I have a lot more to say.
Somewhere along the line, this blog went from what I observed to more personal stuff. I guess in that way, it reflects life. My childhood was joyful -untouched by what I saw. And as I grew older, what I saw became what I lived. I was no longer the center of my universe. I was just another neighborhood kid trying to stay alive long enough to escape.
I'd never meant to get into the more personal (and painful) aspects of my life story. So if you notice a shift in my writing, that's why.
The completed book will include the story of my rape, because it's integral to the complete picture. My rape changed how I viewed my neighborhood, thereby changing the stories I tell. I think it will make a nice segue into the darker stories.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Surprise, Surprise
I was surprised to see hits from Ecology Of Absence, I wondered who had been hitting them from here. I was even more surprised when I saw that I hadn't linked them yet. I had meant to from the first time I visited and saw a post about a place I'll never forget. I'll never forget it because I discovered it by accident while driving with my son. We had gone to a skating party at what used to be Ron's Roller World. On the way home, I realized my son has never wandered his own neighborhood. (being an only child, he has no one to wander with)
I thought about all the wondrous discoveries he'd missed out on, and decided then and there to change it. So I turned right at the next corner, saying, "Let's see where this takes us, ok?"
And so we drove. Always taking the road less traveled (the street less occupied), wending our way toward my beloved Mississippi River. Within minutes, we had found a road that appeared to go nowhere. There were no gates or signs to keep us out, just this scrabbly old road.
To what wonders would this broken pavement lead? We drove along (maybe all of 3 short blocks) and found a magnificent old factory compound. My breath caught in my throat, and I hoped no developer ever discovered this place. It was built when bricklayers were true craftsmen, and it was beautiful. I spied a clearing toward Broadway, and slowly drove in that direction. I was so worried about damage to my tires, or disturbing some vagrant who might consider this place home, that I didn't see it at first. My son whispered, "mom..." and turned his head toward the clearing. And there it was. A young deer. Standing in the bright sunshine and scrubgrass. Staring at us. I wondered if the deer was as awestruck by a truck in this place, as I was by a deer in the middle of the city.
The deer looked his fill and then casually strolled away. After a time, we left too.
In writing this, I figured out that the blog isn't the website, although they're both by the same people. So go read the blog. Ecology Of Absence is so damn good. It's really warming to see people who love St. Louis, and it's glorious architecture, the way I do. Kudos to Michael and Claire for their awesome writing and interest.
I was surprised to see hits from Ecology Of Absence, I wondered who had been hitting them from here. I was even more surprised when I saw that I hadn't linked them yet. I had meant to from the first time I visited and saw a post about a place I'll never forget. I'll never forget it because I discovered it by accident while driving with my son. We had gone to a skating party at what used to be Ron's Roller World. On the way home, I realized my son has never wandered his own neighborhood. (being an only child, he has no one to wander with)
I thought about all the wondrous discoveries he'd missed out on, and decided then and there to change it. So I turned right at the next corner, saying, "Let's see where this takes us, ok?"
And so we drove. Always taking the road less traveled (the street less occupied), wending our way toward my beloved Mississippi River. Within minutes, we had found a road that appeared to go nowhere. There were no gates or signs to keep us out, just this scrabbly old road.
To what wonders would this broken pavement lead? We drove along (maybe all of 3 short blocks) and found a magnificent old factory compound. My breath caught in my throat, and I hoped no developer ever discovered this place. It was built when bricklayers were true craftsmen, and it was beautiful. I spied a clearing toward Broadway, and slowly drove in that direction. I was so worried about damage to my tires, or disturbing some vagrant who might consider this place home, that I didn't see it at first. My son whispered, "mom..." and turned his head toward the clearing. And there it was. A young deer. Standing in the bright sunshine and scrubgrass. Staring at us. I wondered if the deer was as awestruck by a truck in this place, as I was by a deer in the middle of the city.
The deer looked his fill and then casually strolled away. After a time, we left too.
In writing this, I figured out that the blog isn't the website, although they're both by the same people. So go read the blog. Ecology Of Absence is so damn good. It's really warming to see people who love St. Louis, and it's glorious architecture, the way I do. Kudos to Michael and Claire for their awesome writing and interest.
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