This is kind of my therapy blog. The stories I write down are simply anecdotes from my life; until I write them, that is. The following story is for me, but I'm willing to share. I'm putting it here for two reasons. 1. It's a story that I want to tell. 2. The woman about whom I'm writing does not read this blog, although her Hubby does. I don't want to bring any pain to either of them. To Mr. J, I plead: It still hurts like crazy, I need to write it out, please understand.
The Mighty Quinn
My best friend and I have been through a lot. Twice we have tried and failed to open a small business. We have taked and laughed and cried, like good friends do. She has carried me more times than I care to admit here. She always has a warm smile and an open door. Always. The story begins with an open door.
N opened the front door to Chasmyn's home, and welcomed me inside. As usual, the place was quiet, homey and spotless. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was wafting from the kitchen, and her home was a pleasantly warm contrast to the nippy October air. I wanted to find my friend and give her a big, joyous hug. I wanted to share the happiness. Coffee placed a distant second that night.
Chasmyn had called me at around 8 o'clock at night. It was October 20th, 2000. She thought she might be in real labor. Having been there myself I asked a lot of silly questions and decided she might just have this baby in the next 24 hours. I showered to wash away the smell of cigarettes, Chasmyn doesn't smoke. Then I meditated while waiting for her next phone call. It came a little before 10 pm.
I kissed my hubby and hugged my son, telling them I didn't know when I would be back, and drove to Chasmyn's house. I was one of a very few people invited to Chasmyn's home birth. I spent the drive time reminding myself not to say anything stupid or crude. I was born without a faux pas filter, and I never really developed one later, either.
The select group, myself included, sat in the living room drinking coffee while Chasmyn worked her way through the various stages of labor. We had a lot of fun waiting. You could say it was some of the best waiting ever. There was a point where I sagely advised, "You're about halfway through the transition phase. It's the worst, but it will be over soon." Chasmyn responded, "You don't know! You can't possibly know!" And we fell out of our seats with laughter. Well, all of us guests. Chasmyn was too busy to laugh, and I don't think she thought it was funny at all.
The doula was on time, the doctor had gotten lost and was late; but he was there for the important part. He had given himself plenty of time. (There is one doctor in St. Louis who does home births. I expect he's a busy man.)
Chasmyn delivered on a bed with 50 billion pillows, being held by her mother, her hubby, and her closest friends. She would push, and we'd all push with her. Everyone was touching her when she pushed Quinn into the world. (well, everyone but me, I was holding a video camera, and it doesn't matter, I was touching her in spirit)
Quinn was born with a caul, a sign of good fortune for the child. I heartily agree. Anyone with J and Chasmyn as his parents would be fortunate indeed.
I went home feeling blessed by this newborn's presence. I felt I had witnessed the birth of a child who would touch the world. I expected great things of him. I thought about my own birth experiences and recalled the looks of wonder on the faces of my friends, and decided that although my children were special, they were nothing compared to Quinn.
Two days later, Chasmyn called me from the hospital. Quinn wasn't eating. He cried all the time. His breathing was labored and his lips were purple. Quinn was born with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, and my best friend was faced with some very tough choices. She could put her 2 day old son on a waiting list for a heart transplant, she could hope he became healthy enough for a series of experimental open heart surgeries, or she could take him home and give him what the doctors called "compassionate care". Compassionate care means caring for your child until they die.
I didn't scream, gnash my teeth, or throw sharp pointy objects at the universe for letting this happen. I didn't even think about that kind of drama until later. Instead, I drove to Cardinal Glennon Hospital. I waited with her family and friends, while J and Chasmyn sat with Quinn in PICU. They were taking turns bringing people to visit their son. Can you believe that? I probably would have been balled up in as corner, rejecting the world. They invited their loved ones to see their son.
There's more to the story, of course, but I'm done writing about it for now. It hurts too damn much. I'll let you off the hook, though. They opted for the series of surgeries, and Quinn thrived for 2 years and 8 months. He died June 19th. He went in for a comparatively simple valve replacement, and just didn't recover. You can read his story, in his mother's words here
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Friday, December 26, 2003
First Boyfriend, First Kiss
In Catholic school, I had earned the nickname "Medusa" for my wildly curly red hair. Some genius in my class pulled one of my bouncy locks one day and commented, "Your hair is like snakes. Medusa!" The nickname stuck, and didn't do a whole lot for my self-image.
Then I transferred to public school, where nobody knew my nickname. I was "the new kid", and it was great. Everyone but me had a boyfriend or girlfriend, so I picked a kid who would be handsome when he finished growing up, and we began dating. For 5 months, we held hands on the bus ride home. That was it. We held hands.
His stop was before my own, so I really only held hands for half the bus ride. Then I'd switch seats and sit in front of my friend Ben. He was a lot more fun than my boyfriend, but he wasn't good eye candy. My boyfriend was cute but clueless. I'd spend half the bus ride listening to stupid jokes, laughing and trying to look interested. The only thing I was truly interested in was getting kissed. I wanted this kid to give me my first kiss. I wasted 5 months of my youth waiting for a kiss that never came. Eventually I asked him if he wanted to kiss me. He said, "No." So I said, "Then I'm going to break up with you." He said, "Good." And that was that.
After the break up, I spent all of the bus ride leaning over the seat and talking to Ben. He didn't tell stupid jokes, he talked about interesting stuff. His world was so different from my own, although we lived less than a mile from each other.
First of all, he had both parents. Secondly, his parents let him do stuff that my mom would never let me do. Like playing D&D or owning weapons. He had a bb gun, knives, nunchucks and throwing stars.
We would yack during the ride and continue the conversation at the ice cream place. The ice cream place was only open in the summer, so we would sit on the picnic bench outside and not be disturbed. We would talk for about half an hour, then Ben would ask me for a kiss. Every day I would scream, "Ew! No!" And every day he would steal my purse and say, "I'm not giving your purse back until you kiss me." I would then kick him in the shin, grab my purse and leave in a huff.
There was no way this guy was going to be my first kiss! He was too skinny. His hair was too dark. And he sniffed all the time because he had allergies. My first kiss was supposed to come from Prince Charming, not some sickly little boy.
Except that sickly little boy began to grow on me. I had so much fun hanging out with him, and the walk home became a very lonely walk indeed. One day Ben snatched my purse and made his request, and I thought, "Why not? You've got to kiss somebody."
So I kissed him.
I thought of soap operas, and tried to kiss like it looked like they kissed on the shows. It was an open mouth, no tongue kiss; and it was no big deal.
I waited more than a year before telling Ben that he was my first kiss.
I suppose persistence pays off.
In Catholic school, I had earned the nickname "Medusa" for my wildly curly red hair. Some genius in my class pulled one of my bouncy locks one day and commented, "Your hair is like snakes. Medusa!" The nickname stuck, and didn't do a whole lot for my self-image.
Then I transferred to public school, where nobody knew my nickname. I was "the new kid", and it was great. Everyone but me had a boyfriend or girlfriend, so I picked a kid who would be handsome when he finished growing up, and we began dating. For 5 months, we held hands on the bus ride home. That was it. We held hands.
His stop was before my own, so I really only held hands for half the bus ride. Then I'd switch seats and sit in front of my friend Ben. He was a lot more fun than my boyfriend, but he wasn't good eye candy. My boyfriend was cute but clueless. I'd spend half the bus ride listening to stupid jokes, laughing and trying to look interested. The only thing I was truly interested in was getting kissed. I wanted this kid to give me my first kiss. I wasted 5 months of my youth waiting for a kiss that never came. Eventually I asked him if he wanted to kiss me. He said, "No." So I said, "Then I'm going to break up with you." He said, "Good." And that was that.
After the break up, I spent all of the bus ride leaning over the seat and talking to Ben. He didn't tell stupid jokes, he talked about interesting stuff. His world was so different from my own, although we lived less than a mile from each other.
First of all, he had both parents. Secondly, his parents let him do stuff that my mom would never let me do. Like playing D&D or owning weapons. He had a bb gun, knives, nunchucks and throwing stars.
We would yack during the ride and continue the conversation at the ice cream place. The ice cream place was only open in the summer, so we would sit on the picnic bench outside and not be disturbed. We would talk for about half an hour, then Ben would ask me for a kiss. Every day I would scream, "Ew! No!" And every day he would steal my purse and say, "I'm not giving your purse back until you kiss me." I would then kick him in the shin, grab my purse and leave in a huff.
There was no way this guy was going to be my first kiss! He was too skinny. His hair was too dark. And he sniffed all the time because he had allergies. My first kiss was supposed to come from Prince Charming, not some sickly little boy.
Except that sickly little boy began to grow on me. I had so much fun hanging out with him, and the walk home became a very lonely walk indeed. One day Ben snatched my purse and made his request, and I thought, "Why not? You've got to kiss somebody."
So I kissed him.
I thought of soap operas, and tried to kiss like it looked like they kissed on the shows. It was an open mouth, no tongue kiss; and it was no big deal.
I waited more than a year before telling Ben that he was my first kiss.
I suppose persistence pays off.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
I changed the date and removed the duplicate comments. If you haven't been here in a few days, there are new stories below my request post.
A Request
I have written enough material for two books already, and I'm not half done with the stories. I've been stuffing the raw tales into Microsoft Word and doing some refining. Some of my stories must absolutely go into the book. I insist on it. :p
These are my favorites, the ones I look back on and laugh or cry (or both)
Drunks
More on Drunks
The Race War That Wasn't
...And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!
Shopping
Wednesday Is Dumpster Day
The Sad Story Of Mr. Brown
Biker's Code Of Ethics
Payphone Perverts
Hanging Out aka why poor kids don't go to college
Independance Day
The California Bum
Why You Shouldn't Skip School Warning Potentially triggering rape story
The Neighbors Downstairs
Some of these are integral to the book, some are just writing I'm proud of.
So here's my request. Which stories are your favorites? Which ones would you like to see in the signed copy I send to you loyal 6 readers?
A Request
I have written enough material for two books already, and I'm not half done with the stories. I've been stuffing the raw tales into Microsoft Word and doing some refining. Some of my stories must absolutely go into the book. I insist on it. :p
These are my favorites, the ones I look back on and laugh or cry (or both)
Drunks
More on Drunks
The Race War That Wasn't
...And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!
Shopping
Wednesday Is Dumpster Day
The Sad Story Of Mr. Brown
Biker's Code Of Ethics
Payphone Perverts
Hanging Out aka why poor kids don't go to college
Independance Day
The California Bum
Why You Shouldn't Skip School Warning Potentially triggering rape story
The Neighbors Downstairs
Some of these are integral to the book, some are just writing I'm proud of.
So here's my request. Which stories are your favorites? Which ones would you like to see in the signed copy I send to you loyal 6 readers?
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Pre-Neighborhood Santa Story
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, J and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone. The unlucky altar boys carry candles, the lucky ones carry either the Bible or the Monstrance.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got nice gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "M and D will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, J and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone. The unlucky altar boys carry candles, the lucky ones carry either the Bible or the Monstrance.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got nice gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "M and D will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Discovering Drugs
When I was 14, I was invited to a party in the downstairs apartment. I asked mom if I could go. She said ok, because I would only be right downstairs. I met Kenny out on the porch, and he told me he thought I was old enough to "learn how to party" and that was why he had invited me. We went inside and he introduced me to his friends while mixing up a screwdriver.
This was my first real drink.
Growing up Catholic, I'd had wine at church; but that is no more than a sip. Growing up with an Italian family, I'd had watered wine at holiday get-togethers. I had never had vodka before. Before the party was over, I was totally plastered.
I walked around sipping my screwdriver and chatting with Kenny's friends. They spent a lot of time talking about their cars. Pretty soon, my screwdriver was all gone. Kenny noticed my empty glass and brought me another drink. He asked me if I was having fun, and I politely responded, "Yeah, this is great."
I smiled up at him while thinking the party was dumb. The radio was playing annoying hard rock; I preferred top 20 stuff. The guys only talked about things that didn't interest me. I was bored, but I felt I should live up to Kenny's supposition that I was old enough to party. I didn't want to let him down.
The party got much better when the alcohol hit me. Things became interesting. I realized I didn't have to care about the rusted-out piece-of-shit that somebody was "fixing up". I could let them talk, and just enjoy watching how they lit up whenever they thought about their car. The range of emotions on these guys faces was amazing. I found myself surrounded by guys telling me all about their cars, and through that, themselves. I could see that some of them would always be losers, and some of them would be able to stick to their tasks; eventually resulting in a nice looking car.
I excused myself to take a bathroom break, and received the shock of my life. I passed the mirror. Being staggeringly drunk, I didn't realize it was a mirror at first.
I saw a stunningly beautiful girl, and stopped to look at her. I hadn't seen this girl at the party, she must have just come in. Then I recognized my freckles on the girl in the mirror. It was me, and I was beautiful!
I spent a lot of time looking at myself. I wanted to go home and see if I was pretty in that mirror too, but I didn't want mom to know I was drunk; so I stayed and played with my newly-discovered attractiveness. I let one of the guys start kissing on me, and then we were laying down on the couch kissing. I was really relaxed and it felt good. About the time the guy had gotten a hand down my pants, Kenny came to the rescue. He lifted the guy by his shirt and said, "Dude, She's 14."
The guy fled from me like I had started sprouting roaches.
I became very embarrassed and went home.
A few months later Kenny introduced me to pot. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I believe Kenny was trying to teach me the ways of the world in the safest way possible. He slowly opened my eyes, and stayed with me to keep me out of trouble. I suppose I should be grateful. He put a lot of effort into watching over me. I think he did it because he was head over heels in love with my sister. I think he didn't want her to get hurt by seeing me get hurt. I know I didn't start doing stupid things until I'd changed my circle of friends.
The most valuable thing I learned from Kenny was "Just say no thank you." The people doing drugs are fine with that. The usual response is, "More for me!"
When I was 14, I was invited to a party in the downstairs apartment. I asked mom if I could go. She said ok, because I would only be right downstairs. I met Kenny out on the porch, and he told me he thought I was old enough to "learn how to party" and that was why he had invited me. We went inside and he introduced me to his friends while mixing up a screwdriver.
This was my first real drink.
Growing up Catholic, I'd had wine at church; but that is no more than a sip. Growing up with an Italian family, I'd had watered wine at holiday get-togethers. I had never had vodka before. Before the party was over, I was totally plastered.
I walked around sipping my screwdriver and chatting with Kenny's friends. They spent a lot of time talking about their cars. Pretty soon, my screwdriver was all gone. Kenny noticed my empty glass and brought me another drink. He asked me if I was having fun, and I politely responded, "Yeah, this is great."
I smiled up at him while thinking the party was dumb. The radio was playing annoying hard rock; I preferred top 20 stuff. The guys only talked about things that didn't interest me. I was bored, but I felt I should live up to Kenny's supposition that I was old enough to party. I didn't want to let him down.
The party got much better when the alcohol hit me. Things became interesting. I realized I didn't have to care about the rusted-out piece-of-shit that somebody was "fixing up". I could let them talk, and just enjoy watching how they lit up whenever they thought about their car. The range of emotions on these guys faces was amazing. I found myself surrounded by guys telling me all about their cars, and through that, themselves. I could see that some of them would always be losers, and some of them would be able to stick to their tasks; eventually resulting in a nice looking car.
I excused myself to take a bathroom break, and received the shock of my life. I passed the mirror. Being staggeringly drunk, I didn't realize it was a mirror at first.
I saw a stunningly beautiful girl, and stopped to look at her. I hadn't seen this girl at the party, she must have just come in. Then I recognized my freckles on the girl in the mirror. It was me, and I was beautiful!
I spent a lot of time looking at myself. I wanted to go home and see if I was pretty in that mirror too, but I didn't want mom to know I was drunk; so I stayed and played with my newly-discovered attractiveness. I let one of the guys start kissing on me, and then we were laying down on the couch kissing. I was really relaxed and it felt good. About the time the guy had gotten a hand down my pants, Kenny came to the rescue. He lifted the guy by his shirt and said, "Dude, She's 14."
The guy fled from me like I had started sprouting roaches.
I became very embarrassed and went home.
A few months later Kenny introduced me to pot. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I believe Kenny was trying to teach me the ways of the world in the safest way possible. He slowly opened my eyes, and stayed with me to keep me out of trouble. I suppose I should be grateful. He put a lot of effort into watching over me. I think he did it because he was head over heels in love with my sister. I think he didn't want her to get hurt by seeing me get hurt. I know I didn't start doing stupid things until I'd changed my circle of friends.
The most valuable thing I learned from Kenny was "Just say no thank you." The people doing drugs are fine with that. The usual response is, "More for me!"
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Snow
Poverty looks like peeling paint on wooden windows, broken glass patched with tape, flat tires, and barren yards where even the weeds fear to grow.
Poverty smells like stale beer, cooked cabbage, urine and Roach-Ex.
Poverty feels like despair. Day in and day out, it seeps into you and weighs you down.
Snow is everything that poverty is not. Snow is white and sparkling, it covers everything and weighs practically nothing. I have always loved snow. I love watching it drift in the air. I love watching it coat the world. I love clearing the sidewalk, and I love playing in it.
My sister and I would build snowmen in the back yard, because they would be safe there. If we built them in the front yard, the snowmen would get knocked over and the remains would be thrown at passing cars. We went sledding on cardboard boxes until my sister found a real sled at a yard sale. And we threw millions of snowballs.
The boys in the neighborhood would shove rocks in their snowballs before throwing them. We got revenge by dipping ours in the gutter and making slush balls. All of us threw things at the busses. We would hide behind cars, with a stash of snowballs and bombard the bus as it came down the street. It gave us a feeling of power to smack a snowball against the bus window, where some working stiff was resting his head.
I never attacked the homeless people, but a lot of the other kids did. Woe to the hapless bums on a snow day. The neighborhood kids would run at them with their arms full of rock encrusted snowballs, and bombard the poor fellows. The homeless would inevitable hunch their shoulders and wander away. They never fought back. Perhaps that's why I didn't take part in the game. I couldn't see the fun in attacking someone less powerful than myself.
One year we had an honest-to-God blizzard. The total snowfall that week was more than 2 feet. The kid next door dug snow tunnels all over his yard. He was out there most of the day, moving snow.
I was so excited. Finally enough snow to build an igloo! I grabbed the snow shovel and made a giant mound of snow in the back yard. Then I couldn't figure out how to turn a mountain of snow into an igloo. I thought I should make the snow a little denser first, so I smacked the mound with the shovel to firm it up. Then I had a small, dense mound. Hmm. I added more snow and tamped it down again. My mound was not noticeably larger.
Eventually, after several hours of work, the yard was half empty and I was the proud owner of a 5 foot high flat-bottomed snowball. I went inside to have some hot cocoa and think about this. Sometime during the snow moving, I had come up with a brilliant idea. When snow is a day or so old, it gets a layer of ice on the top. If I could create a layer of ice, I would have a see through igloo. How cool is that?
I took a cup of water outside and poured it on my snow mound, but everything the water touched turned to slush. This clearly wasn't working out as I'd hoped. Never one to give up easily, I filled the spray bottle mom used for misting the plants, and tried spritzing the snow mound.
Better.
It still turned to slush, but not as much. I spritzed the entire mound and went inside for the night. I was cold, my mittens were wet, and I was thinking the whole thing might have been a waste of time. The next morning, my snow mound had been trampled by the kids who lived downstairs.
I have since learned the mechanics of building an igloo. I went about it in entirely the wrong way. :)
Poverty looks like peeling paint on wooden windows, broken glass patched with tape, flat tires, and barren yards where even the weeds fear to grow.
Poverty smells like stale beer, cooked cabbage, urine and Roach-Ex.
Poverty feels like despair. Day in and day out, it seeps into you and weighs you down.
Snow is everything that poverty is not. Snow is white and sparkling, it covers everything and weighs practically nothing. I have always loved snow. I love watching it drift in the air. I love watching it coat the world. I love clearing the sidewalk, and I love playing in it.
My sister and I would build snowmen in the back yard, because they would be safe there. If we built them in the front yard, the snowmen would get knocked over and the remains would be thrown at passing cars. We went sledding on cardboard boxes until my sister found a real sled at a yard sale. And we threw millions of snowballs.
The boys in the neighborhood would shove rocks in their snowballs before throwing them. We got revenge by dipping ours in the gutter and making slush balls. All of us threw things at the busses. We would hide behind cars, with a stash of snowballs and bombard the bus as it came down the street. It gave us a feeling of power to smack a snowball against the bus window, where some working stiff was resting his head.
I never attacked the homeless people, but a lot of the other kids did. Woe to the hapless bums on a snow day. The neighborhood kids would run at them with their arms full of rock encrusted snowballs, and bombard the poor fellows. The homeless would inevitable hunch their shoulders and wander away. They never fought back. Perhaps that's why I didn't take part in the game. I couldn't see the fun in attacking someone less powerful than myself.
One year we had an honest-to-God blizzard. The total snowfall that week was more than 2 feet. The kid next door dug snow tunnels all over his yard. He was out there most of the day, moving snow.
I was so excited. Finally enough snow to build an igloo! I grabbed the snow shovel and made a giant mound of snow in the back yard. Then I couldn't figure out how to turn a mountain of snow into an igloo. I thought I should make the snow a little denser first, so I smacked the mound with the shovel to firm it up. Then I had a small, dense mound. Hmm. I added more snow and tamped it down again. My mound was not noticeably larger.
Eventually, after several hours of work, the yard was half empty and I was the proud owner of a 5 foot high flat-bottomed snowball. I went inside to have some hot cocoa and think about this. Sometime during the snow moving, I had come up with a brilliant idea. When snow is a day or so old, it gets a layer of ice on the top. If I could create a layer of ice, I would have a see through igloo. How cool is that?
I took a cup of water outside and poured it on my snow mound, but everything the water touched turned to slush. This clearly wasn't working out as I'd hoped. Never one to give up easily, I filled the spray bottle mom used for misting the plants, and tried spritzing the snow mound.
Better.
It still turned to slush, but not as much. I spritzed the entire mound and went inside for the night. I was cold, my mittens were wet, and I was thinking the whole thing might have been a waste of time. The next morning, my snow mound had been trampled by the kids who lived downstairs.
I have since learned the mechanics of building an igloo. I went about it in entirely the wrong way. :)
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Theft
St. Louis hosts a great 4th of July bash. It used to be called the V. P. Fair, but the name has been changed the Fair St. Louis in recent years. Why the name change, you ask? I don't have the foggiest idea. We all still call it the V.P. Fair anyway.
V. P. stands for Veiled Prophet. Every year, some St. Louis business man gets to dress up like the pope with a veil covering his face, and ride in the 4th of July parade. I suppose it looks bad to out-of-towners, seeing some dude dressed in white with a white pointy hat and a covered face. They probably wonder if a lynching is part of the festivities. I heard many dark rumors about Masonic satanists and perverts running the V.P. Fair. Somehow my child's brain turned that into the Veiled Prophet being in drag under his white robe.
One year I was getting paid to hand out balloons at the Fair. It was a hot and tiring, but rewarding job. After work, I walked down to the Arch, where the festivities were going on. I met my mom at the St. Francis De Sales beer booth, where they were selling -you guessed it- BEER. Saint Louisans are a strange bunch. We will go out of our way to buy beer from a church, rather than support the small businessman.
I helped mom sell beer for the next hour, watched the fireworks, and helped clean up. When everything was done, we went down the hill to the Huck Finn/Tom Sawyer riverboats. My sister was a waitress on the boats, so we hung out until she got off work. Then we rode the bus home together.
I was so tired, I almost fell asleep on the bus. Once home, we went into the living room, and discovered our TV was gone. Our intruders had also taken the stereo, the change jar (that held mostly buttons) and mom's silver dollar collection. They had gone through every drawer in the house, including mine.
Our front door had a dead bolt, but the back door had only a sliding bolt. We never thought twice about it. The back door was an interior door. Anyone breaking in would have to break down the outside door (with it's measly sliding bolt, too); and that would be loud. Both doors were hanging wide open.
We thought all of our pitiful possessions were gone, but mom started finding things they missed. They had dropped one of the speaker covers on the stairs. They missed the alarm clock. It had gotten unplugged when our cowardly dog hid under mom's bed. Best of all, they had entirely skipped the stereo in my sister's room. It was in a dark corner with some clothes on top of it.
I cannot tell you how much it lifts your spirit to realize you have something left. That stereo was all we had for 2 years. We couldn't afford a new TV, so we listened to music instead. My friends were astounded when they came over and realized we had no TV. We spent a lot of time sitting on the porch talking.
Mom swiped some paper from work, and my sister and I would listen to the radio and draw pictures. The idea was to make a little logo for whatever song was on at the time. The image must be finished before the song ended. Some examples:
a pair of tickets with dice on them = "Two Tickets to Paradise"
A crescent moon and a guy with shades = "I Wear My Sunglasses At Night"
We always tried to out do each other for creativity, and would plague mom to judge the pictures when she got home.
I think getting our TV stolen was one of the better things that happened to me.
St. Louis hosts a great 4th of July bash. It used to be called the V. P. Fair, but the name has been changed the Fair St. Louis in recent years. Why the name change, you ask? I don't have the foggiest idea. We all still call it the V.P. Fair anyway.
V. P. stands for Veiled Prophet. Every year, some St. Louis business man gets to dress up like the pope with a veil covering his face, and ride in the 4th of July parade. I suppose it looks bad to out-of-towners, seeing some dude dressed in white with a white pointy hat and a covered face. They probably wonder if a lynching is part of the festivities. I heard many dark rumors about Masonic satanists and perverts running the V.P. Fair. Somehow my child's brain turned that into the Veiled Prophet being in drag under his white robe.
One year I was getting paid to hand out balloons at the Fair. It was a hot and tiring, but rewarding job. After work, I walked down to the Arch, where the festivities were going on. I met my mom at the St. Francis De Sales beer booth, where they were selling -you guessed it- BEER. Saint Louisans are a strange bunch. We will go out of our way to buy beer from a church, rather than support the small businessman.
I helped mom sell beer for the next hour, watched the fireworks, and helped clean up. When everything was done, we went down the hill to the Huck Finn/Tom Sawyer riverboats. My sister was a waitress on the boats, so we hung out until she got off work. Then we rode the bus home together.
I was so tired, I almost fell asleep on the bus. Once home, we went into the living room, and discovered our TV was gone. Our intruders had also taken the stereo, the change jar (that held mostly buttons) and mom's silver dollar collection. They had gone through every drawer in the house, including mine.
Our front door had a dead bolt, but the back door had only a sliding bolt. We never thought twice about it. The back door was an interior door. Anyone breaking in would have to break down the outside door (with it's measly sliding bolt, too); and that would be loud. Both doors were hanging wide open.
We thought all of our pitiful possessions were gone, but mom started finding things they missed. They had dropped one of the speaker covers on the stairs. They missed the alarm clock. It had gotten unplugged when our cowardly dog hid under mom's bed. Best of all, they had entirely skipped the stereo in my sister's room. It was in a dark corner with some clothes on top of it.
I cannot tell you how much it lifts your spirit to realize you have something left. That stereo was all we had for 2 years. We couldn't afford a new TV, so we listened to music instead. My friends were astounded when they came over and realized we had no TV. We spent a lot of time sitting on the porch talking.
Mom swiped some paper from work, and my sister and I would listen to the radio and draw pictures. The idea was to make a little logo for whatever song was on at the time. The image must be finished before the song ended. Some examples:
a pair of tickets with dice on them = "Two Tickets to Paradise"
A crescent moon and a guy with shades = "I Wear My Sunglasses At Night"
We always tried to out do each other for creativity, and would plague mom to judge the pictures when she got home.
I think getting our TV stolen was one of the better things that happened to me.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Thanksgiving With Family
As previously mentioned here, I have a large family. I have 2 Aunts and 5 Uncles. So thanksgiving at grandma's house was always a crowded affair. Grandma would cook the biggest turkey in the Universe, and leftovers were unlikely.
When we moved from Grandma's house to the apartment on California, we started having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I believe mom had had enough of her siblings for a while.
That first year, mom made the Universe's largest turkey. It was 23 lbs. I was so heavy, it bent the oven rack. She forced stuffing into every nook and cranny of the bird, and packed the leftovers all around it. I think she prepared a good 5 lbs of stuffing. She made sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, and that horrible "salad" with peeled grapes and raisins in it. (I think it's a Waldorf salad. It's grapes, raisins, shredded carrots and marshmallows. Why is this food?)
Hang on a sec. I'm breaking my cardinal rule here, and ranting instead of writing, but bear with me... or skip this part if my life as an adult bores you.
Ages ago, I was at a New Years Eve party. One of my friends had somehow come up with a disgusting mix of foods, and just had to share it with everyone. She'd rush up and whisper, "cinnamon mayonnaise." Then laugh while you made faces at the taste that had suddenly appeared in your mouth.
This spawned "The Disgusting Food Game", which my hubby and I play with our son. The idea is to pick 2 foods that individually taste good, but together would taste horrible, and say them out loud. An example would be "crab leg brownies". You win if you can get everyone to make a face.
My son would spend hours (if we'd let him) making up strange things. Anyway, I think Waldorf salad should win the Disgusting Food Game hands down. I mean, really; marshmallow grapes is strange, marshmallow raisins is bad, and marshmallow carrots is just plain nasty. Ok, back to the story:
We had leftovers through Christmas vacation. We had to pitch the stuffing because it started growing mold. We had turkey sandwiches almost every day for lunch. I thought I'd never want to eat turkey again. I didn't eat any of the Waldorf salad.
The next thanksgiving, Tru-Buy had some Rock Cornish Game Hens. They were only a dollar a piece, and we bought 3. We each got to dress our own bird. It was a lot of fun. The cat kept jumping up on the table and trying to steal them. By the time the hens made it into the oven, all of them had teeth marks.
Believe it or not, that is not the funniest cat vs. Thanksgiving story in my repetoire. Mom had rescued a kitten and brought it home. He was so tiny, she could hold him in one hand. He had outsized ears and a pointy little face. Gremlins had just come out in the theaters, and he looked like a black and white version of those evil green critters, so we named him Gremlin. Boy did that cat live up to his name. He had a fetish for stinky things, like shoes and armpits. We would take off our shoes when we got home from school, and he would promptly bury his head in them. If you tried to take the shoes away, he would scratch you. He would also hop onto my boyfriends laps, purring away, and slowly creep his way toward their armpit. Then he'd shove his head in there and start sniffing. Then he would lick. I always said at this point, "You might want to move him..." and wait. A few good licks would drive the cat into a frenzied desire for the smell, and he would bite their armpit. (tee hee)
Needless to say, Gremlin was aptly named. We first discovered it when Gremlin was still a kitten. Mom was again making a gigantic turkey, and gremlin hopped up onto the table and snagged it by the foot. We all laughed at the cute little kitten who's eyes were bigger than his stomach. Then that beast started dragging the turkey away. We thought that was pretty funny too, and mom said, "Where's my camera? This is great!"
We stopped laughing when the turkey hit the floor. All that seasoning work down the tubes. We had to wash off the turkey and start from scratch.
As previously mentioned here, I have a large family. I have 2 Aunts and 5 Uncles. So thanksgiving at grandma's house was always a crowded affair. Grandma would cook the biggest turkey in the Universe, and leftovers were unlikely.
When we moved from Grandma's house to the apartment on California, we started having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I believe mom had had enough of her siblings for a while.
That first year, mom made the Universe's largest turkey. It was 23 lbs. I was so heavy, it bent the oven rack. She forced stuffing into every nook and cranny of the bird, and packed the leftovers all around it. I think she prepared a good 5 lbs of stuffing. She made sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, and that horrible "salad" with peeled grapes and raisins in it. (I think it's a Waldorf salad. It's grapes, raisins, shredded carrots and marshmallows. Why is this food?)
Hang on a sec. I'm breaking my cardinal rule here, and ranting instead of writing, but bear with me... or skip this part if my life as an adult bores you.
Ages ago, I was at a New Years Eve party. One of my friends had somehow come up with a disgusting mix of foods, and just had to share it with everyone. She'd rush up and whisper, "cinnamon mayonnaise." Then laugh while you made faces at the taste that had suddenly appeared in your mouth.
This spawned "The Disgusting Food Game", which my hubby and I play with our son. The idea is to pick 2 foods that individually taste good, but together would taste horrible, and say them out loud. An example would be "crab leg brownies". You win if you can get everyone to make a face.
My son would spend hours (if we'd let him) making up strange things. Anyway, I think Waldorf salad should win the Disgusting Food Game hands down. I mean, really; marshmallow grapes is strange, marshmallow raisins is bad, and marshmallow carrots is just plain nasty. Ok, back to the story:
We had leftovers through Christmas vacation. We had to pitch the stuffing because it started growing mold. We had turkey sandwiches almost every day for lunch. I thought I'd never want to eat turkey again. I didn't eat any of the Waldorf salad.
The next thanksgiving, Tru-Buy had some Rock Cornish Game Hens. They were only a dollar a piece, and we bought 3. We each got to dress our own bird. It was a lot of fun. The cat kept jumping up on the table and trying to steal them. By the time the hens made it into the oven, all of them had teeth marks.
Believe it or not, that is not the funniest cat vs. Thanksgiving story in my repetoire. Mom had rescued a kitten and brought it home. He was so tiny, she could hold him in one hand. He had outsized ears and a pointy little face. Gremlins had just come out in the theaters, and he looked like a black and white version of those evil green critters, so we named him Gremlin. Boy did that cat live up to his name. He had a fetish for stinky things, like shoes and armpits. We would take off our shoes when we got home from school, and he would promptly bury his head in them. If you tried to take the shoes away, he would scratch you. He would also hop onto my boyfriends laps, purring away, and slowly creep his way toward their armpit. Then he'd shove his head in there and start sniffing. Then he would lick. I always said at this point, "You might want to move him..." and wait. A few good licks would drive the cat into a frenzied desire for the smell, and he would bite their armpit. (tee hee)
Needless to say, Gremlin was aptly named. We first discovered it when Gremlin was still a kitten. Mom was again making a gigantic turkey, and gremlin hopped up onto the table and snagged it by the foot. We all laughed at the cute little kitten who's eyes were bigger than his stomach. Then that beast started dragging the turkey away. We thought that was pretty funny too, and mom said, "Where's my camera? This is great!"
We stopped laughing when the turkey hit the floor. All that seasoning work down the tubes. We had to wash off the turkey and start from scratch.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Stamp Collecting Without a Babysitter or why Famous Barr has rubber doohickeys on their escalators
Once upon a time, my mom worked at the Famous Barr downtown. She frequently told us about the emergency stop button on the escalators, and the accidents she saw while working there. Then dad left, stuff happened, and we wound up living in a 1 bedroom apartment on California.
Mom had long since stopped working at Famous Barr. Now she worked for Royal Papers. They were located downtown, around the corner from Manhattan Coffee, and a mere 2 blocks away from Busch Stadium. Sometimes my sister and I would take a bus downtown and surprise mom at lunch time. This was always a good way to score some chili from O. T. Hodges, makers of the best chili in St. Louis. Mom was always happy to see us. We would show up at her desk, grinning; then we'd all walk to Hodges to eat massive bowls of all-meat chili for $1.20 a bowl. I never really connected those trips with mom eating peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the week. (Geez, now I'm ashamed at my 11 year old selfishness)
Anyway, someone had given my sister and I stamp collecting kits for Christmas the year before; and it became tradition to surprise mom for lunch, then visit Famous Barr to (maybe) buy a new stamp. My sister was always finding ways of making money. That year she was a coat check girl at an Italian restaurant. She'd spend her tips on stamps.
The collectibles department was on the 8th or 9th floor, which meant a lot of escalator riding. We used to play around on the escalators, walking backwards, jumping the last few steps, etc. Nobody really cared, and we behaved ourselves when the escalator was crowded.
Most of the escalators were wide enough for us to stand side by side easily, but the 7th floor one was narrow. We had perused the stamps and were tired from all the walking we'd done that day. On the 7th floor escalator, we both sat down. J was in front, I was behind her. Near the bottom, I jumped past my sister, clearing the magic disappearing stairs easily. I turned in triumph to say, "Didja see that jump?!" to my sister, expecting some snide 'I jumped farther when I was 3' kind of comment.
Instead, I saw my sister crouched in front of the escalator for some reason. Even at 11 years old, I knew when something was wrong. Alarm bells started going off in my head, and I ran to the escalator. J had somehow managed to get her hand stuck in the space where the handrail goes into the escalator. She said, calmly, "Ow."
I completely forgot that all escalators had an emergency stop button. I grabbed the black hand rail and pushed with all my might, trying to make it go backwards so my sister could pull her hand out. The rubber slid through my hands. I couldn't stop it. I tried pushing harder. No results. I was starting to panic. I looked around and saw that we had drawn a crowd. My sister said, again quite calmly, "This really hurts. Could someone get my hand out?"
I knew there was an easy way to stop the escalator, but I couldn't remember how. It sat, nagging, in the back of my head. Visions of my mom telling us about the accidents she had witnessed while working at this very store popped into my head; but I couldn't remember the easy way to make the belt stop. I kicked the hand rail, thinking the jolt would trigger some hidden stopping device, then I stepped back to appraise the situation. I thought that just pulling her hand out would hurt it worse, so I looked at the crowd of adults for help. J said again, "This really hurts. Could someone help me?" The grown ups were so far away. There was a huge space between us and them. J's hand was slowly getting sucked deeper into the machine. The whole hand was buried now, and I couldn't stop the belt. I pleadingly said, "Help us. Please help my sister."
The crowd just stared. Then a man leapt from the crowd like Superman. He was of medium height. He was neither fat nor thin. He had a brown beard with a little bit of grey here and there. He was wearing a tie, but no jacket. He had blue eyes. I'll never forget him.
He didn't pause as I mentally photographed him. He went straight to my sister, grabbed her arm and yanked her hand free.
For a few seconds, the world slowed down. I had plenty of time to see the bloody, mangled mess if my sister's hand. I thought I could see some bone on two of her fingers. I completely lost control of myself. I felt faint, and I sat down cross-legged and started crying into my hands. I couldn't stop crying. My mind calmly stated, "You're having hysterics." Then, "This is what hysterics is like. J needs you. Help J." But I couldn't do anything except cry into my hands.
An employee came over and made me stand up. Then he (she? That part is gone from my memory) took my sister away. The man who saved my sister looked into my face and said, in the most gentle voice I'd ever heard, "Her hand is fine. They took her to (don't remember) floor. This man is going to take you to her. She'll be alright."
Someone led me to a service elevator. I looked back as we headed away from the crowd, but the man with the beard was gone. I never got to thank him, and he'll never know the end of the story. -but you will-
They took my sister to the nurses office and poured iodine on her hand. I sat on a chair in the dimly lit hallway, listening to her scream. The employee who brought me to the nurses hall sat with me for a little bit. He kept asking me, "Are you ok?" I kept telling him that I was. It was a lie, of course. I was not ok. I suggested that he had better things to do than sit with a kid, and eventually he went away.
A lot of this is blurry for me, and I'm sorry I can't share every excruciating detail. Really.
I remember the nurse asking J for mom's phone number. I vaguely recall hearing that mom was on her way. The only bits that come back to me with any intensity are me biting the heels of my hands every time I heard my sister cry out, and how incredibly lonely it was in the corridor.
Mom showed up after what seemed an eternity, but couldn't have been more than 15 minutes. She was a little winded; she had just run 6 blocks in high heels. She Looked at me, said, "Thank God you're alright," and went into the room where they were taking care of J.
I wish I could remember the reaming she gave the people on the other side of the door, but I can't. It's a shame. I'm sure her words were choice. I waited some more, feeling lost and unloved; with nothing but the walls for company. I tried to be mature about the whole thing. I was unhurt, my sister was in agony. Of course mom was going to rush to the injured child. I didn't expect her to take care of me too, but I really wanted to hear her say, "It's not your fault."
Mom called a cab to take us to Cardinal Glennon hospital. She and J came out, and we took the service elevator to the first floor. My sister's hand was heavily bandaged, and a little bit of blood was starting to seep through. We were escorted to the entrance, and waited for the cab on the sidewalk.
At the hospital, we were greeted by one of the owners of Royal Papers. He had brought along his brother, who was a lawyer. The lawyer didn't usually work in personal injury, but he thought this was worthy of a lawsuit. He explained that Famous Barr would not correct the escalator problem unless it went to court. He told mom that my sister was the perfect way to make sure something like this didn't happen to anyone else.
My sister's hand was photographed, x-rayed, splinted and re-bandaged. She was seen by a specialist, who declared that she would lose her middle fingernail, but should have full use of her hand. The lawyer waited while all this was going on, and he drove us home.
J's fingernail did come off, and she grew a new one. For a while, the nail was only attached on one side. She would chase me through the house, opening and closing her fingernail like it was a door. I'd run away screaming, "You're gross, you're so gross!"
We took Famous to small claims court, and won easily. When my sister testified, it was a sight to see. She was an A-B student with a big vocabulary and a lot of poise. She sat in the witness chair, swinging her feet and looking cute as can be. The judge was incensed that such a thing could happen to such a bright girl. He was also pissed at my mom. He told her she should have taken the case to civil court and asked for millions. Mom said, "I don't want millions. I just want Famous Barr to use safe escalators."
The judge awarded us the maximum amount allowed, $1600. He also ordered Famous to replace or repair the escalator in question. A few years later, we went shopping there, and noticed big rubber pads tied to the base of the hand rail. You would have to work hard to get your hand in there now. They never replaced the escalators that had been installed in the 1920's. My sister has scars for the rest of her life, and Famous Barr is out $1600, a few dozen foam pads, and our insurance co-pay. Woo-de-hoo.
On a brighter note. My sister works in the medical field now. She's a PA, certified for surgery. She does everything a doctor does, except write prescriptions. Missouri doesn't allow PA's to write scrips. She's damn good at her job, and I'm friggin' proud of her.
Once upon a time, my mom worked at the Famous Barr downtown. She frequently told us about the emergency stop button on the escalators, and the accidents she saw while working there. Then dad left, stuff happened, and we wound up living in a 1 bedroom apartment on California.
Mom had long since stopped working at Famous Barr. Now she worked for Royal Papers. They were located downtown, around the corner from Manhattan Coffee, and a mere 2 blocks away from Busch Stadium. Sometimes my sister and I would take a bus downtown and surprise mom at lunch time. This was always a good way to score some chili from O. T. Hodges, makers of the best chili in St. Louis. Mom was always happy to see us. We would show up at her desk, grinning; then we'd all walk to Hodges to eat massive bowls of all-meat chili for $1.20 a bowl. I never really connected those trips with mom eating peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the week. (Geez, now I'm ashamed at my 11 year old selfishness)
Anyway, someone had given my sister and I stamp collecting kits for Christmas the year before; and it became tradition to surprise mom for lunch, then visit Famous Barr to (maybe) buy a new stamp. My sister was always finding ways of making money. That year she was a coat check girl at an Italian restaurant. She'd spend her tips on stamps.
The collectibles department was on the 8th or 9th floor, which meant a lot of escalator riding. We used to play around on the escalators, walking backwards, jumping the last few steps, etc. Nobody really cared, and we behaved ourselves when the escalator was crowded.
Most of the escalators were wide enough for us to stand side by side easily, but the 7th floor one was narrow. We had perused the stamps and were tired from all the walking we'd done that day. On the 7th floor escalator, we both sat down. J was in front, I was behind her. Near the bottom, I jumped past my sister, clearing the magic disappearing stairs easily. I turned in triumph to say, "Didja see that jump?!" to my sister, expecting some snide 'I jumped farther when I was 3' kind of comment.
Instead, I saw my sister crouched in front of the escalator for some reason. Even at 11 years old, I knew when something was wrong. Alarm bells started going off in my head, and I ran to the escalator. J had somehow managed to get her hand stuck in the space where the handrail goes into the escalator. She said, calmly, "Ow."
I completely forgot that all escalators had an emergency stop button. I grabbed the black hand rail and pushed with all my might, trying to make it go backwards so my sister could pull her hand out. The rubber slid through my hands. I couldn't stop it. I tried pushing harder. No results. I was starting to panic. I looked around and saw that we had drawn a crowd. My sister said, again quite calmly, "This really hurts. Could someone get my hand out?"
I knew there was an easy way to stop the escalator, but I couldn't remember how. It sat, nagging, in the back of my head. Visions of my mom telling us about the accidents she had witnessed while working at this very store popped into my head; but I couldn't remember the easy way to make the belt stop. I kicked the hand rail, thinking the jolt would trigger some hidden stopping device, then I stepped back to appraise the situation. I thought that just pulling her hand out would hurt it worse, so I looked at the crowd of adults for help. J said again, "This really hurts. Could someone help me?" The grown ups were so far away. There was a huge space between us and them. J's hand was slowly getting sucked deeper into the machine. The whole hand was buried now, and I couldn't stop the belt. I pleadingly said, "Help us. Please help my sister."
The crowd just stared. Then a man leapt from the crowd like Superman. He was of medium height. He was neither fat nor thin. He had a brown beard with a little bit of grey here and there. He was wearing a tie, but no jacket. He had blue eyes. I'll never forget him.
He didn't pause as I mentally photographed him. He went straight to my sister, grabbed her arm and yanked her hand free.
For a few seconds, the world slowed down. I had plenty of time to see the bloody, mangled mess if my sister's hand. I thought I could see some bone on two of her fingers. I completely lost control of myself. I felt faint, and I sat down cross-legged and started crying into my hands. I couldn't stop crying. My mind calmly stated, "You're having hysterics." Then, "This is what hysterics is like. J needs you. Help J." But I couldn't do anything except cry into my hands.
An employee came over and made me stand up. Then he (she? That part is gone from my memory) took my sister away. The man who saved my sister looked into my face and said, in the most gentle voice I'd ever heard, "Her hand is fine. They took her to (don't remember) floor. This man is going to take you to her. She'll be alright."
Someone led me to a service elevator. I looked back as we headed away from the crowd, but the man with the beard was gone. I never got to thank him, and he'll never know the end of the story. -but you will-
They took my sister to the nurses office and poured iodine on her hand. I sat on a chair in the dimly lit hallway, listening to her scream. The employee who brought me to the nurses hall sat with me for a little bit. He kept asking me, "Are you ok?" I kept telling him that I was. It was a lie, of course. I was not ok. I suggested that he had better things to do than sit with a kid, and eventually he went away.
A lot of this is blurry for me, and I'm sorry I can't share every excruciating detail. Really.
I remember the nurse asking J for mom's phone number. I vaguely recall hearing that mom was on her way. The only bits that come back to me with any intensity are me biting the heels of my hands every time I heard my sister cry out, and how incredibly lonely it was in the corridor.
Mom showed up after what seemed an eternity, but couldn't have been more than 15 minutes. She was a little winded; she had just run 6 blocks in high heels. She Looked at me, said, "Thank God you're alright," and went into the room where they were taking care of J.
I wish I could remember the reaming she gave the people on the other side of the door, but I can't. It's a shame. I'm sure her words were choice. I waited some more, feeling lost and unloved; with nothing but the walls for company. I tried to be mature about the whole thing. I was unhurt, my sister was in agony. Of course mom was going to rush to the injured child. I didn't expect her to take care of me too, but I really wanted to hear her say, "It's not your fault."
Mom called a cab to take us to Cardinal Glennon hospital. She and J came out, and we took the service elevator to the first floor. My sister's hand was heavily bandaged, and a little bit of blood was starting to seep through. We were escorted to the entrance, and waited for the cab on the sidewalk.
At the hospital, we were greeted by one of the owners of Royal Papers. He had brought along his brother, who was a lawyer. The lawyer didn't usually work in personal injury, but he thought this was worthy of a lawsuit. He explained that Famous Barr would not correct the escalator problem unless it went to court. He told mom that my sister was the perfect way to make sure something like this didn't happen to anyone else.
My sister's hand was photographed, x-rayed, splinted and re-bandaged. She was seen by a specialist, who declared that she would lose her middle fingernail, but should have full use of her hand. The lawyer waited while all this was going on, and he drove us home.
J's fingernail did come off, and she grew a new one. For a while, the nail was only attached on one side. She would chase me through the house, opening and closing her fingernail like it was a door. I'd run away screaming, "You're gross, you're so gross!"
We took Famous to small claims court, and won easily. When my sister testified, it was a sight to see. She was an A-B student with a big vocabulary and a lot of poise. She sat in the witness chair, swinging her feet and looking cute as can be. The judge was incensed that such a thing could happen to such a bright girl. He was also pissed at my mom. He told her she should have taken the case to civil court and asked for millions. Mom said, "I don't want millions. I just want Famous Barr to use safe escalators."
The judge awarded us the maximum amount allowed, $1600. He also ordered Famous to replace or repair the escalator in question. A few years later, we went shopping there, and noticed big rubber pads tied to the base of the hand rail. You would have to work hard to get your hand in there now. They never replaced the escalators that had been installed in the 1920's. My sister has scars for the rest of her life, and Famous Barr is out $1600, a few dozen foam pads, and our insurance co-pay. Woo-de-hoo.
On a brighter note. My sister works in the medical field now. She's a PA, certified for surgery. She does everything a doctor does, except write prescriptions. Missouri doesn't allow PA's to write scrips. She's damn good at her job, and I'm friggin' proud of her.
Friday, November 21, 2003
I wasn't always this sane
(Oh, the places I could go with a title like that...)
Turns out, I'm going somewhere really gross. Don't read this if you're faint of heart, or don't like pain. I warned you.
When you grow up in a neighborhood like mine, it tends to be stressful; and stress does weird things to people. Stress takes whatever little idiosyncrasies one has and turns them into full blown wrongness.
One of my idiosyncrasies is how I hate my body. Not my whole body, just one little piece of it at a time. For a while, I hated my nose. It was too cute. It ended in a little round ball. It was covered in freckles. (um, yeah. Redhead=freckles.) One month my legs would be too skinny, the next my skin would be too pale. You know, standard body dismorphic stuff. I never did anything stupid about it, just grumbled into the mirror when I thought nobody was looking.
That is, I never did anything stupid until I started hating my hair. One day, I'll post a picture of my hair, and you'll understand. But until I get around to that, you'll have to accept a description instead.
My hair is thick and curly and orange. It wouldn't feather, like Farrah Fawcetts. It wouldn't spike, like Cyndi Laupers. It had a mind of it's own, and all it wanted to do was puff.
One day I got sick of looking at my bushy orange hair, so I decided to cut it. This was shortly after I had liberally doused my hair with Sun-In, and learned that peroxide turns red hair day-glo orange. I didn't have the money for a hair cut, so I got the scissors out and started chopping at it myself. I was upset at the neon effect, I was on my period, and I was crying. What with all the internal chaos, I cut rather sloppily, and accidentally snipped off the very tip of my ring finger.
(I'll wait while you cringe in horror)
.
.
.
You can't really tell. It was just a few millimeters of skin, and I didn't actually cut it all the way through. It still had a tiny bit that was connected, so when I realized what I had stupidly just done, and ran cold water over it, the bit of skin flapped around.
I stopped running water over my finger, because that was just creepy. Then it started to hurt, and my god, the pain was unlike anything I could remember. I knew I needed stitches, but I also knew what mom would say.
"You don't need stitches. We'll sit in the emergency room all day waiting, and those doctors should be seeing people who need them."
So I grabbed a band-aid and tried to stick the flap of skin back on. This was a miserable failure, of course. The band-aid would slip around, pulling the skin with it. It hurt like crazy, and was freaky too. I tried using 3 band-aids instead, One to hold the flap, and 2 to hold the flap holding band-aid. I promptly bled through all of them.
I went and showed my finger to my sister, hoping for some moral support, or maybe just a way to fix it. Her help came in the form of a question, "What did you go and do that for?" Then she rolled her eyes like I had done it for the attention.
We had some gauze and paper tape, so I wrapped my finger in gauze and made a little cast for it out of the tape. That worked pretty well. The finger bit still hurt so badly I wanted to just stop feeling anything, but the mini cast protected it from being jarred. Unfortunately, my little protective device wasn't breathable. My finger started to sweat, then it got all pruny. After a few days of incarceration, it started to smell like feet.
I decided to let it breathe several times a day, because bactine just wasn't killing the awful smell. In hindsight, letting it breathe probably saved me from the joys of gangrene. That might have been my only bright moment that week.
I kept expecting the little flap of skin to turn black and fall off. Like an umbilical cord, or my sister's fingernail when she got her hand caught in the escalator. But it didn't turn black. It knitted itself back to my finger. It's kind of funny, I have a little 3mmx5mm oval of skin, complete with fingerprint lines, surrounded by scar tissue. I don't have much feeling in that bit of skin. I can feel pressure and pain, but not heat or cold. I used to freak out my friends by poking it with a needle, pretending that it didn't hurt. (Lord knows why. Stupid teenager tricks, perhaps?) When I think about it, (or write about it, like here) the fingertip tingles.
The moral of the story:
Don't let your kids stay home alone. They will do stupid things and not tell you about them.
(Oh, the places I could go with a title like that...)
Turns out, I'm going somewhere really gross. Don't read this if you're faint of heart, or don't like pain. I warned you.
When you grow up in a neighborhood like mine, it tends to be stressful; and stress does weird things to people. Stress takes whatever little idiosyncrasies one has and turns them into full blown wrongness.
One of my idiosyncrasies is how I hate my body. Not my whole body, just one little piece of it at a time. For a while, I hated my nose. It was too cute. It ended in a little round ball. It was covered in freckles. (um, yeah. Redhead=freckles.) One month my legs would be too skinny, the next my skin would be too pale. You know, standard body dismorphic stuff. I never did anything stupid about it, just grumbled into the mirror when I thought nobody was looking.
That is, I never did anything stupid until I started hating my hair. One day, I'll post a picture of my hair, and you'll understand. But until I get around to that, you'll have to accept a description instead.
My hair is thick and curly and orange. It wouldn't feather, like Farrah Fawcetts. It wouldn't spike, like Cyndi Laupers. It had a mind of it's own, and all it wanted to do was puff.
One day I got sick of looking at my bushy orange hair, so I decided to cut it. This was shortly after I had liberally doused my hair with Sun-In, and learned that peroxide turns red hair day-glo orange. I didn't have the money for a hair cut, so I got the scissors out and started chopping at it myself. I was upset at the neon effect, I was on my period, and I was crying. What with all the internal chaos, I cut rather sloppily, and accidentally snipped off the very tip of my ring finger.
(I'll wait while you cringe in horror)
.
.
.
You can't really tell. It was just a few millimeters of skin, and I didn't actually cut it all the way through. It still had a tiny bit that was connected, so when I realized what I had stupidly just done, and ran cold water over it, the bit of skin flapped around.
I stopped running water over my finger, because that was just creepy. Then it started to hurt, and my god, the pain was unlike anything I could remember. I knew I needed stitches, but I also knew what mom would say.
"You don't need stitches. We'll sit in the emergency room all day waiting, and those doctors should be seeing people who need them."
So I grabbed a band-aid and tried to stick the flap of skin back on. This was a miserable failure, of course. The band-aid would slip around, pulling the skin with it. It hurt like crazy, and was freaky too. I tried using 3 band-aids instead, One to hold the flap, and 2 to hold the flap holding band-aid. I promptly bled through all of them.
I went and showed my finger to my sister, hoping for some moral support, or maybe just a way to fix it. Her help came in the form of a question, "What did you go and do that for?" Then she rolled her eyes like I had done it for the attention.
We had some gauze and paper tape, so I wrapped my finger in gauze and made a little cast for it out of the tape. That worked pretty well. The finger bit still hurt so badly I wanted to just stop feeling anything, but the mini cast protected it from being jarred. Unfortunately, my little protective device wasn't breathable. My finger started to sweat, then it got all pruny. After a few days of incarceration, it started to smell like feet.
I decided to let it breathe several times a day, because bactine just wasn't killing the awful smell. In hindsight, letting it breathe probably saved me from the joys of gangrene. That might have been my only bright moment that week.
I kept expecting the little flap of skin to turn black and fall off. Like an umbilical cord, or my sister's fingernail when she got her hand caught in the escalator. But it didn't turn black. It knitted itself back to my finger. It's kind of funny, I have a little 3mmx5mm oval of skin, complete with fingerprint lines, surrounded by scar tissue. I don't have much feeling in that bit of skin. I can feel pressure and pain, but not heat or cold. I used to freak out my friends by poking it with a needle, pretending that it didn't hurt. (Lord knows why. Stupid teenager tricks, perhaps?) When I think about it, (or write about it, like here) the fingertip tingles.
The moral of the story:
Don't let your kids stay home alone. They will do stupid things and not tell you about them.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Marathon Chess
As I grew older, I spent more and more time on activities that separated me from the rest of the neighborhood. I stopped visiting the game room, where we used to hang out by the jukebox and burn each other's butts with lighters. (a variation of a hot-foot, I guess) I ceased going to neighbors' garages, to look vapid while actually learning to fix cars. No longer did I drive my friends around, yelling Wooo at cute guys. Instead, I made some new friends; and we taught each other to play chess.
I had experimented with chess before, of course. All those different pieces, each one having it's own way of moving, fascinated me. But previous forays into the world of chess involved me sitting on some guys lap and moving the pieces wherever he told me to. Sad as it sounds, I felt priveledged to touch those lovely rooks, bishops and knights. (yeah, the pawns get no respect) I believed that if I were well behaved enough, one day someone might actually teach me to play. It didn't happen that way; I remained "the piece mover" until we broke up.
Months later, I spied a chess set at a friends' house. It was sitting in a corner, sandwiched between some other board games. I asked, "You know how to play chess? He said, "Yeah, but I'm not real good." He had barely gotten the "yeah" part out, when I pounced on him saying, "You'll teach me, right?"
He probably would have taught me without me using my feminine wiles on him, but I was a teenager; and I figured it couldn't hurt.
So I learned to play chess, and pretty soon, we were teaching others in our group to play too. One by one, we bought our own chess boards; and pretty soon we had 3 different sets taking up residence in my friend's apartment. That was how marathon chess was born.
We would all meet at Dennis's house and start playing. We didn't have timers or anything, but as long as you were winning, you got to keep your seat. The fun was in the playing, and the challenge was to hold the most comfortable seat for as long as you could. If you lost, you had to get up and wait for another game. The wait was never very long, for we played speed chess. Most games lasted less than 10 minutes.
If a game ran long, everyone would leave their tables and stand around watching us. I say 'us' because the long matches were usually between me and my bestest friend, Jon. Not always, but usually.
People would watch, because it wasn't the normal -stare at the board for 5 minutes, then slowly move your piece- kind of match. It was more like a 30 second pause, move your piece, flash a devilishly triumphant grin, wait for the dawning light of doom to hit them, then cuss loudly as your opponent makes the one move you didn't see.
It wasn't about winning, so much as it was about winning quickly, so you could tackle a fresh opponent. "New victim... fresh meat... gotta play!"
We were chess junkies.
As I grew older, I spent more and more time on activities that separated me from the rest of the neighborhood. I stopped visiting the game room, where we used to hang out by the jukebox and burn each other's butts with lighters. (a variation of a hot-foot, I guess) I ceased going to neighbors' garages, to look vapid while actually learning to fix cars. No longer did I drive my friends around, yelling Wooo at cute guys. Instead, I made some new friends; and we taught each other to play chess.
I had experimented with chess before, of course. All those different pieces, each one having it's own way of moving, fascinated me. But previous forays into the world of chess involved me sitting on some guys lap and moving the pieces wherever he told me to. Sad as it sounds, I felt priveledged to touch those lovely rooks, bishops and knights. (yeah, the pawns get no respect) I believed that if I were well behaved enough, one day someone might actually teach me to play. It didn't happen that way; I remained "the piece mover" until we broke up.
Months later, I spied a chess set at a friends' house. It was sitting in a corner, sandwiched between some other board games. I asked, "You know how to play chess? He said, "Yeah, but I'm not real good." He had barely gotten the "yeah" part out, when I pounced on him saying, "You'll teach me, right?"
He probably would have taught me without me using my feminine wiles on him, but I was a teenager; and I figured it couldn't hurt.
So I learned to play chess, and pretty soon, we were teaching others in our group to play too. One by one, we bought our own chess boards; and pretty soon we had 3 different sets taking up residence in my friend's apartment. That was how marathon chess was born.
We would all meet at Dennis's house and start playing. We didn't have timers or anything, but as long as you were winning, you got to keep your seat. The fun was in the playing, and the challenge was to hold the most comfortable seat for as long as you could. If you lost, you had to get up and wait for another game. The wait was never very long, for we played speed chess. Most games lasted less than 10 minutes.
If a game ran long, everyone would leave their tables and stand around watching us. I say 'us' because the long matches were usually between me and my bestest friend, Jon. Not always, but usually.
People would watch, because it wasn't the normal -stare at the board for 5 minutes, then slowly move your piece- kind of match. It was more like a 30 second pause, move your piece, flash a devilishly triumphant grin, wait for the dawning light of doom to hit them, then cuss loudly as your opponent makes the one move you didn't see.
It wasn't about winning, so much as it was about winning quickly, so you could tackle a fresh opponent. "New victim... fresh meat... gotta play!"
We were chess junkies.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
The little girl who lived downstairs
I find that I can not write this story in my usual vivid style, but I want it told because it speaks volumes about the "protect the children, adults can fend for themselves" mentality of my neighborhood. So here's the story in it's more concise form:
The downstairs neighbors had 4 children, 3 girls and a boy. The youngest girl was 5 years old when she disappeared from the yard. She was found wandering down our street several hours later, in shock. The heroin dealer who lived by Tower Grove park had swiped her, violated her, and left her to find her own way home. The little girl who lived downstairs had some great uncles. They took care of the matter. The heroin dealer does not sell drugs anymore. His body was pulled out of the Mississippi River. The cops never bothered to look for his murderers, and I'm glad.
I find that I can not write this story in my usual vivid style, but I want it told because it speaks volumes about the "protect the children, adults can fend for themselves" mentality of my neighborhood. So here's the story in it's more concise form:
The downstairs neighbors had 4 children, 3 girls and a boy. The youngest girl was 5 years old when she disappeared from the yard. She was found wandering down our street several hours later, in shock. The heroin dealer who lived by Tower Grove park had swiped her, violated her, and left her to find her own way home. The little girl who lived downstairs had some great uncles. They took care of the matter. The heroin dealer does not sell drugs anymore. His body was pulled out of the Mississippi River. The cops never bothered to look for his murderers, and I'm glad.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
The neighbors downstairs
December in St. Louis is usually annoyingly cold and snowless. We rarely had a white Christmas. What little snow we did get would melt quickly, since the usual December high was 45 degrees. I used to head off to school with a dusting of snow making the world look like it was covered in diamonds, my hair freezing solid; but on the walk home at 3:00, the snow would be gone and the streets would be dry. Typical St. Louis winter.
One Christmas eve, we got blessed with a warm snap. Literally. It was the usual freezing bitterness on the 23rd, then bam! 75 degrees the next day. It was great until the hoosiers started drinking. We were kept up half the night with the party downstairs. It seems their entire family and a keg of beer had crammed themselves into the 4 room apartment below us. Of course, with the weather so nice, they were drinking on the porch too. The next morning, as mom was refusing to let us wear shorts to Christmas mass, our downstairs neighbors started arguing. Mom said, "Damn this weather! They always do that!"
Which was true, Hoosiers do always drink and fight when it gets warm. We went to church (in dresses, mom always wins) and changed into shorts the second we got home. We were just beginning to open our presents when the fighting downstairs spilled out onto the front porch. I actually stopped unwrapping to listen to big Ken (the father) fight with little Ken (his brother-in-law). The fight had been going on for nearly 2 hours by this time. I think they had taken breaks to drink more beer, though.
Mom sort of growled, and went for the phone. She had a feeling she'd be calling the cops pretty soon. Sure enough, she had barely gotten the phone in her hand when big Ken threw little Ken (Kenny) through our storm door. Glass went everywhere; a good portion went into Kenny's neck and back. At least big Ken hadn't thrown him head first.
Mom was livid. She forgot about the phone and stormed downstairs with a broom and dustpan. Knowing her, she was probably going to make both men clean up the broken glass. My sister and I rushed downstairs too. This action was too good to miss!
Big Ken had gone back into his house and Kenny was sitting in the middle of the porch, drunkenly trying to pick glass out of his shoulders. Mom kind of deflated and started picking up the glass herself. She ignored the little drops of blood everywhere. She ignored Kenny, too.
Kenny gave up trying to evict his glass and went inside to apologize. Apparently he had called Ken a "fat fuck" in front of the kids, then compounded it by disparaging Ken's ability to buy Christmas presents for his family.
(I don't think the children were traumatized from hearing their Uncle call their dad names nearly as much as they were traumatized by the bloody fight afterward. But that's just me. After all, who beats the snot out of someone -in front of their kids- for saying something they shouldn't have said in front of the kids? Hoosiers, that's who.)
We could hear the whole thing, of course. In 80 degree heat, you know every window was open. Kenny apologized profusely while his sister pried glass out of his body with a pair of tweezers.
Mom finished with the glass and sat on the porch smoking, waiting for everything to die down. Eventually Ken came outside and mom showed him the dustpan full of glass. He said, "What happened?"
He had no recollection of throwing his brother-in-law through our storm door.
He was a good guy in general. He replaced our glass and everything. The sucky part for me is that I still can't remember what I got for Christmas that year.
December in St. Louis is usually annoyingly cold and snowless. We rarely had a white Christmas. What little snow we did get would melt quickly, since the usual December high was 45 degrees. I used to head off to school with a dusting of snow making the world look like it was covered in diamonds, my hair freezing solid; but on the walk home at 3:00, the snow would be gone and the streets would be dry. Typical St. Louis winter.
One Christmas eve, we got blessed with a warm snap. Literally. It was the usual freezing bitterness on the 23rd, then bam! 75 degrees the next day. It was great until the hoosiers started drinking. We were kept up half the night with the party downstairs. It seems their entire family and a keg of beer had crammed themselves into the 4 room apartment below us. Of course, with the weather so nice, they were drinking on the porch too. The next morning, as mom was refusing to let us wear shorts to Christmas mass, our downstairs neighbors started arguing. Mom said, "Damn this weather! They always do that!"
Which was true, Hoosiers do always drink and fight when it gets warm. We went to church (in dresses, mom always wins) and changed into shorts the second we got home. We were just beginning to open our presents when the fighting downstairs spilled out onto the front porch. I actually stopped unwrapping to listen to big Ken (the father) fight with little Ken (his brother-in-law). The fight had been going on for nearly 2 hours by this time. I think they had taken breaks to drink more beer, though.
Mom sort of growled, and went for the phone. She had a feeling she'd be calling the cops pretty soon. Sure enough, she had barely gotten the phone in her hand when big Ken threw little Ken (Kenny) through our storm door. Glass went everywhere; a good portion went into Kenny's neck and back. At least big Ken hadn't thrown him head first.
Mom was livid. She forgot about the phone and stormed downstairs with a broom and dustpan. Knowing her, she was probably going to make both men clean up the broken glass. My sister and I rushed downstairs too. This action was too good to miss!
Big Ken had gone back into his house and Kenny was sitting in the middle of the porch, drunkenly trying to pick glass out of his shoulders. Mom kind of deflated and started picking up the glass herself. She ignored the little drops of blood everywhere. She ignored Kenny, too.
Kenny gave up trying to evict his glass and went inside to apologize. Apparently he had called Ken a "fat fuck" in front of the kids, then compounded it by disparaging Ken's ability to buy Christmas presents for his family.
(I don't think the children were traumatized from hearing their Uncle call their dad names nearly as much as they were traumatized by the bloody fight afterward. But that's just me. After all, who beats the snot out of someone -in front of their kids- for saying something they shouldn't have said in front of the kids? Hoosiers, that's who.)
We could hear the whole thing, of course. In 80 degree heat, you know every window was open. Kenny apologized profusely while his sister pried glass out of his body with a pair of tweezers.
Mom finished with the glass and sat on the porch smoking, waiting for everything to die down. Eventually Ken came outside and mom showed him the dustpan full of glass. He said, "What happened?"
He had no recollection of throwing his brother-in-law through our storm door.
He was a good guy in general. He replaced our glass and everything. The sucky part for me is that I still can't remember what I got for Christmas that year.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
This is neat
The Open Directory Project is the largest, most comprehensive human-edited directory of the Web. It is constructed and maintained by a vast, global community of volunteer editors.
and it's pretty durned cool, too. How would you like to search for a blog or journal about, say... shamanism, without having to look at stupid ads or web-crawler sites? I sure would. Go Netscape!
The Open Directory Project is the largest, most comprehensive human-edited directory of the Web. It is constructed and maintained by a vast, global community of volunteer editors.
and it's pretty durned cool, too. How would you like to search for a blog or journal about, say... shamanism, without having to look at stupid ads or web-crawler sites? I sure would. Go Netscape!
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