The Thing About Hoosiers
I've taught my son a bad word, and I'm not proud of it. It worked it's way in when I wasn't looking. It never even occurred to me, because it's such a common term in St. Louis.
The word is "Hoosier", and it doesn't mean "A graduate from the Universtity of Indiana". At least not in St. Louis, it doesn't. All my life, I've heard this word used daily. I never thought twice about it. Hell, I never thought once about it; until I met someone who was born and raised in Indiana. I was chatting with this person, when a car full of young adults came down the street. The radio was blaring Black Sabbath or some such, every person in the car was smoking, and the vehicle was more rust than steel. I muttered the phrase I'd heard my entire life, "Goddam hoosiers."
My friend from Indiana lifted his eyebrows and said, "...Um... I'm a Hoosier."
I said, "No you're not! You have a college degree. You have a good job. You own your own home, for god's sake. You are not a hoosier."
This led to an edifying conversation. I learned that, outside of St. Louis, "Hoosier" is something to be proud of. My friend learned that, within St. Louis, "hoosier" meant "lowlife caucasion scum with no ambition". Yes, St. Louisans have a different phrase for non-caucasions living below the poverty level. I won't go into them here. They are all derogatory. And that's entirely my point. My mother taught me to judge a person by their actions, not their income or skin color. But when she was teaching me that, she meant that I should not judge anyone but hoosiers. Anyone with a clear ethnic background was potentially a human being, but when you see someone with pale skin and an indeterminate ethnicity -the judgement is on.
It's what I was taught. It's ingrained in me, and I'm not proud of it. I resist it. And every time I think I've got it conquered, every time I cease my vigilance; my bigotry sneaks in the back door.
Over the years, it's snuck in often enough, that my son has a clear definition of the word "hoosier", and it's not pretty. To be fair, the only time I've heard him say "hoosier" is when talking to grown-ups. So I hope his definition is not as restrictive as mine. But it galls me that I've been oblivious to my bias for so long.
Even my friend from Indiana uses "hoosier" now. I asked him why, once; and he responded, "When you don't say hoosier, people see you as an outsider. It's clear you're not from St. Louis. When I say it, I'm accepted."
He now says it as casually as the rest of us do.
Goddam hoosiers.
Friday, April 16, 2004
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Congrats to Josh and Nats
Their baby girl was born Sunday, she's a whopping 10 lbs 7 oz. So pop over and offer them congratulations!
Their baby girl was born Sunday, she's a whopping 10 lbs 7 oz. So pop over and offer them congratulations!
Friday, April 09, 2004
Trying my hand at poetry. Visit St. Louis Bloggers to read some others' poetry
St. Louis Sunset
The setting sun
Touches the facade
Of my 19th century apartment
Painting the limestone
With red and gold hues
Works of man
Reflecting nature
St. Louis Sunset
The setting sun
Touches the facade
Of my 19th century apartment
Painting the limestone
With red and gold hues
Works of man
Reflecting nature
Friday, April 02, 2004
Fixing Up Cars
There were 3 classes of teenagers in my neighborhood; kids with no car, kids with a car that went nowhere, and kids with freedom -aka a car that runs. Thus a favored pastime was fixing up cars. I participated in it myself. The idea was to spend an entire paycheck on a car that didn't run, then have your friends push it to your house. Sometimes they pushed that car for miles. It didn't matter to them. All that did matter was having a status symbol. Boys with cars were a step up from boys who walked. Even if the car didn't have an engine, it might have an engine someday.
It showed that here was a guy who was going somewhere.
So, every once in a while, the whole neighborhood was entertained with the arrival of a new car. They'd come down California Avenue; one proud driver and 4 sweaty friends, pushing like mad. They always came down California, because that took them past the Game Room. It served a dual purpose in that, not only did you get to show off, you got more help to push your car home. Boys would pour out of the Game Room to ooh and aah over the rust bucket before them. They would spend an hour or so discussing the finer points of car restoration, eyes glazing over with dreams of what their own car might look like someday; living vicariously through others.
They always believed that this car would run again; they helped push it so they could share in the glory. Once home, the wheels would be taken off and the car would be put on blocks in the yard. For the next month, everyone would take turns sitting in the drivers seat and dreaming. This was called fixing up the car. As in, "We're going over to so-and-so's house, we're gonna help fix up his car." Sometimes they would get high, sometimes they wouldn't; but they always sat and dreamed.
Most of those old cars were eventually sold or traded when the owners' parents said they'd had enough, and to get that @&#^$ car outta the backyard. A rare few actually became drivable. That was pretty entertaining, too. We'd see our friends pull up in a car that was mostly body putty, blue smoke pouring out the back end, and usually running on less cylinders than should be possible. We'd all climb in the car and go for a ride. Then we would help push the car home. (snicker)
When I finally bought a car, I bought one that ran. Sure I had to replace a few things over time. Like the water pump, alternator, starter and one of the push rods. But I never needed my friends to help me push my car home.
I still grieve over that car. My much-beloved 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus was murdered by a drunk driver on the 4th of July, 1990. Two months later, the city towed it away and crushed it into a cube. We had moved to a better neighborhood, you see; and the neighbors complained about the ugly old wreck that was messing up their street.
On California Avenue, no one would have done that. They would have helped me bang out the dents and fix my baby's shattered frame. And they would have sat in the driver's seat and dreamed.
There were 3 classes of teenagers in my neighborhood; kids with no car, kids with a car that went nowhere, and kids with freedom -aka a car that runs. Thus a favored pastime was fixing up cars. I participated in it myself. The idea was to spend an entire paycheck on a car that didn't run, then have your friends push it to your house. Sometimes they pushed that car for miles. It didn't matter to them. All that did matter was having a status symbol. Boys with cars were a step up from boys who walked. Even if the car didn't have an engine, it might have an engine someday.
It showed that here was a guy who was going somewhere.
So, every once in a while, the whole neighborhood was entertained with the arrival of a new car. They'd come down California Avenue; one proud driver and 4 sweaty friends, pushing like mad. They always came down California, because that took them past the Game Room. It served a dual purpose in that, not only did you get to show off, you got more help to push your car home. Boys would pour out of the Game Room to ooh and aah over the rust bucket before them. They would spend an hour or so discussing the finer points of car restoration, eyes glazing over with dreams of what their own car might look like someday; living vicariously through others.
They always believed that this car would run again; they helped push it so they could share in the glory. Once home, the wheels would be taken off and the car would be put on blocks in the yard. For the next month, everyone would take turns sitting in the drivers seat and dreaming. This was called fixing up the car. As in, "We're going over to so-and-so's house, we're gonna help fix up his car." Sometimes they would get high, sometimes they wouldn't; but they always sat and dreamed.
Most of those old cars were eventually sold or traded when the owners' parents said they'd had enough, and to get that @&#^$ car outta the backyard. A rare few actually became drivable. That was pretty entertaining, too. We'd see our friends pull up in a car that was mostly body putty, blue smoke pouring out the back end, and usually running on less cylinders than should be possible. We'd all climb in the car and go for a ride. Then we would help push the car home. (snicker)
When I finally bought a car, I bought one that ran. Sure I had to replace a few things over time. Like the water pump, alternator, starter and one of the push rods. But I never needed my friends to help me push my car home.
I still grieve over that car. My much-beloved 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus was murdered by a drunk driver on the 4th of July, 1990. Two months later, the city towed it away and crushed it into a cube. We had moved to a better neighborhood, you see; and the neighbors complained about the ugly old wreck that was messing up their street.
On California Avenue, no one would have done that. They would have helped me bang out the dents and fix my baby's shattered frame. And they would have sat in the driver's seat and dreamed.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
80's Clothes
Writing about my childhood during the 1980's just wouldn't be writing without the obligatory "I can't believe I wore that" entry. So for all you fans of 80's fashion; here ya go!
My earliest fashion memories stem from the late 1970's. Back then, clothing was comfortable and casual. Much like it is today. Children wore t-shirts and terry cloth, denim and velour. The colors were bland and earthy.
The advent of MTV changed all that.
We didn't have cable or satellite. Paying for television? What a frivolous expense! Yet, MTV style clothing began showing up in the stores. Matching sweatbands and legwarmers, previously available only at Danskin; were now everywhere. Colored tights, once the provence of little girls in cute dresses; were all the rage. It seems everyone was trying their hand at fashion design, and an entire generation suffered because of it. I'm not talking about the late 1980's, either. I mean the horrible, scary, early 1980's. The part of the decade that required you to change your style every month or so.
I remember babysitting all summer long so I could buy a pair on Nike shoes. Two months after I bought them, everyone was wearing Reebok. I was stuck with outdated shoes for an entire school year. But I learned a valuable lesson. I had 9 months to observe a fashion dance that I could never afford to keep up with, and I learned that dressing uniquely gives you more clout that dressing like the crowd. I would always be a fashion wanna-be, if I bought what we could afford. So, while others wore ruffled blouses with matching ruffled skirts, poufy sleeves and string ties; I wore what I liked.
I liked blue jeans and tee shirts without a logo. I liked deep, classy colors like emerald green, royal blue and chocolate brown. I only wore neon as an under tee shirt; so that when you roll up the sleeves, you see neon trim. I don't look good in neon.
Most of the kids in the neighborhood began wearing concert tee shirts. The problem with this was, each style had a stereotype attached to it. Polo shirts and khaki's were preppy, meaning you had tastes beyond your parents' income. Concert shirts were for burnouts, meaning you did a lot of drugs. Whatever was in that year was New Wave or Trendy, meaning you had no imagination. A mish-mosh of everything was low-grade Punk and a mish-mosh of clothes that clashed were hard core Punk. I fell into the low-grade Punk category. People thought I wanted to be Punk, but couldn't get away with dressing too crazy because my mom would kill me if I did.
Writing about my childhood during the 1980's just wouldn't be writing without the obligatory "I can't believe I wore that" entry. So for all you fans of 80's fashion; here ya go!
My earliest fashion memories stem from the late 1970's. Back then, clothing was comfortable and casual. Much like it is today. Children wore t-shirts and terry cloth, denim and velour. The colors were bland and earthy.
The advent of MTV changed all that.
We didn't have cable or satellite. Paying for television? What a frivolous expense! Yet, MTV style clothing began showing up in the stores. Matching sweatbands and legwarmers, previously available only at Danskin; were now everywhere. Colored tights, once the provence of little girls in cute dresses; were all the rage. It seems everyone was trying their hand at fashion design, and an entire generation suffered because of it. I'm not talking about the late 1980's, either. I mean the horrible, scary, early 1980's. The part of the decade that required you to change your style every month or so.
I remember babysitting all summer long so I could buy a pair on Nike shoes. Two months after I bought them, everyone was wearing Reebok. I was stuck with outdated shoes for an entire school year. But I learned a valuable lesson. I had 9 months to observe a fashion dance that I could never afford to keep up with, and I learned that dressing uniquely gives you more clout that dressing like the crowd. I would always be a fashion wanna-be, if I bought what we could afford. So, while others wore ruffled blouses with matching ruffled skirts, poufy sleeves and string ties; I wore what I liked.
I liked blue jeans and tee shirts without a logo. I liked deep, classy colors like emerald green, royal blue and chocolate brown. I only wore neon as an under tee shirt; so that when you roll up the sleeves, you see neon trim. I don't look good in neon.
Most of the kids in the neighborhood began wearing concert tee shirts. The problem with this was, each style had a stereotype attached to it. Polo shirts and khaki's were preppy, meaning you had tastes beyond your parents' income. Concert shirts were for burnouts, meaning you did a lot of drugs. Whatever was in that year was New Wave or Trendy, meaning you had no imagination. A mish-mosh of everything was low-grade Punk and a mish-mosh of clothes that clashed were hard core Punk. I fell into the low-grade Punk category. People thought I wanted to be Punk, but couldn't get away with dressing too crazy because my mom would kill me if I did.
Friday, March 12, 2004
ok, Now really! Who goes looking for "Sexist Redhead on the internet"??? Why don't you search for a sexist blonde or brunette, for a change. Redheads are not the epitome of life, you know. Geez, stop surfing the net, and grow an imagination!
The 9 year old prostitute
This is one of those stories that I've started and stopped a half dozen times. This time I'm going to finish it no matter how much it hurts.
My best friend had some cousins who lived over on the next block. The older two were both glue heads, the youngest was a prostitute. Her father had been selling her off to friends since she was a toddler. When she was 9, she decided it was time to go into business for herself. After all, why should her father get all the money?
On the outside, she was the perfect All-American girl. She had long blonde hair, lovely blue eyes, and a slender little girl body. On the inside she was hard as nails. She worried a lot about maturing. She thought she would lose a lot of business when she grew breasts. She also worried about getting caught. She only went home when she thought her dad was passed out drunk. If he was awake, he would beat her and take her money. To solve the problem, she carried a certain amount of cash at all times. She had hiding places for the rest.
She had learned the hard way, that her money was never safe in the house; and she hid her earnings in some truly creative places. There were several garages that could be broken into easily, and for a while she hid her cash there. When her brothers caught on and stole it all to buy drugs, she resorted to hiding it in the hubcaps of the neighborhood cars. It was risky; sometimes the money would be discovered, but she saw it as an acceptable risk. At least the money wouldn't be going to her dad.
She spent very little on clothes or make up. She had plans for her earnings. She wanted to go to college (didn't we all!), and be the president of her own corporation. I hope she made it. She was so damned hard. I think she would do well in the corporate world.
I only saw her break down once.
I was out wandering the night, like I sometimes did. It was winter, and it was supposed to drop below freezing that night. As I walked past the Notre Dame school yard, something had me detour. Instead of simply walking past, I entered the school yard and went over by the steps.
She was huddled up in the shadows, wearing nothing warmer than a cardigan. The whole right side of her face was bruised, and there was blood in her very messed up hair.
At first, she wouldn't let me come near her. She kept trying to hide her head. She didn't want me to look at her. She didn't want to be touched. I had no problem with that. Girls weren't allowed to hug each other in my neighborhood.
I thought one of her customers had beaten her up; so I said, "Which guy was it? I'll find him and beat the shit out of him."
She laughed bitterly and said, "It wasn't the customers. I can handle them." And she started to cry. Great, heaving sobs came pouring out of her. I sat down near her, to try and shield her from the wind. I just sat, not knowing what to do; while she cried.
She didn't cry for long, nobody ever did back then. Pretty soon she was telling me the story. I'd like to say my blood ran cold, but it isn't so. It would make for a great story. You know, how I became shocked and horrified; aghast at the cruelty of my fellow human beings. But I too, had grown up here. At 15 years old, her story didn't scare me, it angered me.
When she told me her dad had once again beaten her and taken her earnings, I felt a hard lump of anger in my stomach. When she told me her brothers had held her down while her dad had beaten, and then raped her, I simply added them to my "to-do" list. When she told me they had first pulled out big patches of her hair, and then cut what was left; I put those bastards near the top of my list. And when she told me they had made her get the $600 or so dollars she had hidden, I made their misery my life's work.
She wouldn't go home, but she couldn't stay in the school yard. They would find her there, easily. I told her to come home with me, but she wouldn't. She knew my mom would call the police, and then everyone would know. I suggested that I could walk her to her cousins house. We could sneak her in through the basement window, and nobody would know; but she wouldn't do that either. So I did the only thing I could do. I showed her a warmer, safer place to hide, and loaned her my coat.
I never did get around to killing her family. I suppose it's just as well. I don't think I truly have the stomach for murder. They got some karmic payback anyway. She ran away from home, and was gone for more than a year. During that time, one of the brothers died from drug use. The other one just kind of dropped off the face of the earth. Her father had a stroke, and finally, their home caught fire.
When she came back to the neighborhood, the house was nothing but a brick exterior; sheltering the homeless.
She wasn't very surprised.
This is one of those stories that I've started and stopped a half dozen times. This time I'm going to finish it no matter how much it hurts.
My best friend had some cousins who lived over on the next block. The older two were both glue heads, the youngest was a prostitute. Her father had been selling her off to friends since she was a toddler. When she was 9, she decided it was time to go into business for herself. After all, why should her father get all the money?
On the outside, she was the perfect All-American girl. She had long blonde hair, lovely blue eyes, and a slender little girl body. On the inside she was hard as nails. She worried a lot about maturing. She thought she would lose a lot of business when she grew breasts. She also worried about getting caught. She only went home when she thought her dad was passed out drunk. If he was awake, he would beat her and take her money. To solve the problem, she carried a certain amount of cash at all times. She had hiding places for the rest.
She had learned the hard way, that her money was never safe in the house; and she hid her earnings in some truly creative places. There were several garages that could be broken into easily, and for a while she hid her cash there. When her brothers caught on and stole it all to buy drugs, she resorted to hiding it in the hubcaps of the neighborhood cars. It was risky; sometimes the money would be discovered, but she saw it as an acceptable risk. At least the money wouldn't be going to her dad.
She spent very little on clothes or make up. She had plans for her earnings. She wanted to go to college (didn't we all!), and be the president of her own corporation. I hope she made it. She was so damned hard. I think she would do well in the corporate world.
I only saw her break down once.
I was out wandering the night, like I sometimes did. It was winter, and it was supposed to drop below freezing that night. As I walked past the Notre Dame school yard, something had me detour. Instead of simply walking past, I entered the school yard and went over by the steps.
She was huddled up in the shadows, wearing nothing warmer than a cardigan. The whole right side of her face was bruised, and there was blood in her very messed up hair.
At first, she wouldn't let me come near her. She kept trying to hide her head. She didn't want me to look at her. She didn't want to be touched. I had no problem with that. Girls weren't allowed to hug each other in my neighborhood.
I thought one of her customers had beaten her up; so I said, "Which guy was it? I'll find him and beat the shit out of him."
She laughed bitterly and said, "It wasn't the customers. I can handle them." And she started to cry. Great, heaving sobs came pouring out of her. I sat down near her, to try and shield her from the wind. I just sat, not knowing what to do; while she cried.
She didn't cry for long, nobody ever did back then. Pretty soon she was telling me the story. I'd like to say my blood ran cold, but it isn't so. It would make for a great story. You know, how I became shocked and horrified; aghast at the cruelty of my fellow human beings. But I too, had grown up here. At 15 years old, her story didn't scare me, it angered me.
When she told me her dad had once again beaten her and taken her earnings, I felt a hard lump of anger in my stomach. When she told me her brothers had held her down while her dad had beaten, and then raped her, I simply added them to my "to-do" list. When she told me they had first pulled out big patches of her hair, and then cut what was left; I put those bastards near the top of my list. And when she told me they had made her get the $600 or so dollars she had hidden, I made their misery my life's work.
She wouldn't go home, but she couldn't stay in the school yard. They would find her there, easily. I told her to come home with me, but she wouldn't. She knew my mom would call the police, and then everyone would know. I suggested that I could walk her to her cousins house. We could sneak her in through the basement window, and nobody would know; but she wouldn't do that either. So I did the only thing I could do. I showed her a warmer, safer place to hide, and loaned her my coat.
I never did get around to killing her family. I suppose it's just as well. I don't think I truly have the stomach for murder. They got some karmic payback anyway. She ran away from home, and was gone for more than a year. During that time, one of the brothers died from drug use. The other one just kind of dropped off the face of the earth. Her father had a stroke, and finally, their home caught fire.
When she came back to the neighborhood, the house was nothing but a brick exterior; sheltering the homeless.
She wasn't very surprised.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Looking Back
Driving through my old neighborhood, I see that both apartments we used to live in are boarded up. It's as if they're waiting for something. Solid brick buildings, with their 1880's interiors; standing silent and strong... waiting. I want to pull over and park, walk around the overgrown back yards, touch the spot where I buried my parakeet and climb the silver leaf maple just one more time.
The sense of danger is all around me. My mind screams, "Get out! Get out now!"
Memories chase after me as I drive on, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach Grand Avenue. Safe now. No neighborhood memories here.
The boarded up houses still stand. When I drove past them, I heard children's laughter; and for just a moment, I was a kid again. I felt again the love that had filled our home. I remembered all the good things.
I wonder if there's still modeling clay jammed in the cracks of the wooden floor? Does the plaster still bleed out the scents of countless meals and cigarette smoke? I wonder about the claw foot tub. If I went inside and looked, would it still be as big as a swimming pool? Would there be any remnant of the child I was?
I could buy one of those places. I could put it on my credit card. The city sells them cheap. I could own the only safe haven of my youth. But what would I do with it?
Driving through my old neighborhood, I see that both apartments we used to live in are boarded up. It's as if they're waiting for something. Solid brick buildings, with their 1880's interiors; standing silent and strong... waiting. I want to pull over and park, walk around the overgrown back yards, touch the spot where I buried my parakeet and climb the silver leaf maple just one more time.
The sense of danger is all around me. My mind screams, "Get out! Get out now!"
Memories chase after me as I drive on, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach Grand Avenue. Safe now. No neighborhood memories here.
The boarded up houses still stand. When I drove past them, I heard children's laughter; and for just a moment, I was a kid again. I felt again the love that had filled our home. I remembered all the good things.
I wonder if there's still modeling clay jammed in the cracks of the wooden floor? Does the plaster still bleed out the scents of countless meals and cigarette smoke? I wonder about the claw foot tub. If I went inside and looked, would it still be as big as a swimming pool? Would there be any remnant of the child I was?
I could buy one of those places. I could put it on my credit card. The city sells them cheap. I could own the only safe haven of my youth. But what would I do with it?
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Last one
I'm out of the running for Blogmadness. Voting is on hiatus, due to something completely unrelated to the competition between myself and Ipse Dixit. I think we both played fair. I really enjoyed the competition, and I will continue voting for the survivors when Blogmadness continues. Thank you to everyone who participated. I encourage you to continue.
Welcome to anyone who found this blog through Blogmadness. I hope you stay a while and enjoy yourself. If you've added me to your blogroll, please let me know, so I can reciprocally link you.
And now... on with my past!
I'm out of the running for Blogmadness. Voting is on hiatus, due to something completely unrelated to the competition between myself and Ipse Dixit. I think we both played fair. I really enjoyed the competition, and I will continue voting for the survivors when Blogmadness continues. Thank you to everyone who participated. I encourage you to continue.
Welcome to anyone who found this blog through Blogmadness. I hope you stay a while and enjoy yourself. If you've added me to your blogroll, please let me know, so I can reciprocally link you.
And now... on with my past!
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Blogmadness Update
I'm in round 6, and I'm up against the very fine entry "I Am A Sexist Pig: I Open Doors For Women" by Ipse Dixit. I know it's a fine entry because I've voted for it in every round. This time, of course, I'll be voting for myself.
If you click the link above, you'll see two pink boxes. Each box holds 2 entries, beneath which it says Vote!. If you click Vote! You'll see both entries in the left hand side, and the rules in a frame. From there you click the title of each entry. The rules will be replaced with the story. Read the story, then click the other entry and read that story. From there you just click the little dot for the story you liked better, and click the Vote! box. That's all there is to it. No registering, no nosy requests for info about you. So please, go and read. Pick one or the other, I don't care which. Participating is fun!
Links to the other regions are here:
Work Region round 6
Sports Region round 6
Bills Region round 6
Thanks
I'm in round 6, and I'm up against the very fine entry "I Am A Sexist Pig: I Open Doors For Women" by Ipse Dixit. I know it's a fine entry because I've voted for it in every round. This time, of course, I'll be voting for myself.
If you click the link above, you'll see two pink boxes. Each box holds 2 entries, beneath which it says Vote!. If you click Vote! You'll see both entries in the left hand side, and the rules in a frame. From there you click the title of each entry. The rules will be replaced with the story. Read the story, then click the other entry and read that story. From there you just click the little dot for the story you liked better, and click the Vote! box. That's all there is to it. No registering, no nosy requests for info about you. So please, go and read. Pick one or the other, I don't care which. Participating is fun!
Links to the other regions are here:
Work Region round 6
Sports Region round 6
Bills Region round 6
Thanks
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Tru-Buy
Big nods to Vanessa's Blog for the inspiration to write about the "grocery store" we used to shop at. I would never have thought of it, if she had not entered "Lidl" in BlogMadness. Thank you, Vanessa!
Tru-Buy was the biggest grocery store in the neighborhood. There were others. There was the confectionary 3 blocks west of my home, and there was the place a half-mile away where you could cash your paycheck for a 12% fee. But Tru-Buy had the best prices. There were shelves lining the walls, a freezer and two coolers; the kind that hold meat in modern grocery stores. The rest of the aisles were marked out with masking tape on the floor; an assortment of boxes and tables sat within the designated lines. The coolers never worked right. Everything was either frozen, or just barely cool. I actually thought raw beef was supposed to be brown, because that was the color of the frozen/thawed/frozen again hamburger we always bought.
We visited Tru-Buy on Saturdays and Wednesdays. We always bought the same things: a head of lettuce, a stalk of celery, a pound of hamburger, a pound of chicken, a loaf of bread, 2 packages of garlic bologna, a dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a can of tuna, margarine, ramen noodles or tomato soup, Rice-A-Roni, Hamburger Helper Chili-Mac, and a box of macaroni and cheese. When we weren't buying condiments, toilitries or dish soap; we had money for "extras".
I always loved the weeks we could buy extras. Bonus money bought whatever fruit was in season, banannas, cheese, and sometimes even cookies. The total price tag was around $20.
On rare occasions, we took a bus to Soulard Market, instead of shopping at Tru-Buy. Those were the best trips, ever.
Soulard was always crowded. The prices were hand printed on an assortment of cardboard, paper bags and poster board. It was wonderfully chaotic; with vendors calling out, "Hey pretty lady! Buy my plums! Best in the market!" or "Grapes! You need my grapes!" Several of the neighborhood families had stalls at Soulard Market. We always bought from them before shopping elsewhere. Mom would buy 5 lbs of apples; tossing them up to the vendor, who would catch and weigh them. My sister and I would be jumping up and down, asking, "Can we eat them now? Can we?" The vendor would bag the apples, then wink at us and toss in 3 more. He was either really nice, or really smart; because we would tear into those apples right there at his stall. People would see us and say to the vendor, "And I'll take some of those apples too."
There is nothing like shopping at Soulard.
Big nods to Vanessa's Blog for the inspiration to write about the "grocery store" we used to shop at. I would never have thought of it, if she had not entered "Lidl" in BlogMadness. Thank you, Vanessa!
Tru-Buy was the biggest grocery store in the neighborhood. There were others. There was the confectionary 3 blocks west of my home, and there was the place a half-mile away where you could cash your paycheck for a 12% fee. But Tru-Buy had the best prices. There were shelves lining the walls, a freezer and two coolers; the kind that hold meat in modern grocery stores. The rest of the aisles were marked out with masking tape on the floor; an assortment of boxes and tables sat within the designated lines. The coolers never worked right. Everything was either frozen, or just barely cool. I actually thought raw beef was supposed to be brown, because that was the color of the frozen/thawed/frozen again hamburger we always bought.
We visited Tru-Buy on Saturdays and Wednesdays. We always bought the same things: a head of lettuce, a stalk of celery, a pound of hamburger, a pound of chicken, a loaf of bread, 2 packages of garlic bologna, a dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a can of tuna, margarine, ramen noodles or tomato soup, Rice-A-Roni, Hamburger Helper Chili-Mac, and a box of macaroni and cheese. When we weren't buying condiments, toilitries or dish soap; we had money for "extras".
I always loved the weeks we could buy extras. Bonus money bought whatever fruit was in season, banannas, cheese, and sometimes even cookies. The total price tag was around $20.
On rare occasions, we took a bus to Soulard Market, instead of shopping at Tru-Buy. Those were the best trips, ever.
Soulard was always crowded. The prices were hand printed on an assortment of cardboard, paper bags and poster board. It was wonderfully chaotic; with vendors calling out, "Hey pretty lady! Buy my plums! Best in the market!" or "Grapes! You need my grapes!" Several of the neighborhood families had stalls at Soulard Market. We always bought from them before shopping elsewhere. Mom would buy 5 lbs of apples; tossing them up to the vendor, who would catch and weigh them. My sister and I would be jumping up and down, asking, "Can we eat them now? Can we?" The vendor would bag the apples, then wink at us and toss in 3 more. He was either really nice, or really smart; because we would tear into those apples right there at his stall. People would see us and say to the vendor, "And I'll take some of those apples too."
There is nothing like shopping at Soulard.
Elimination Round, Here I Come!
You Don't Know Jackson won his competition against me, so I've been bumped to the Elimination rounds. I never hoped to get as far as I have. I mean, I think my writing is good. You think my writing is good. (Thank you!) The question was -do average people think my writing is good? Because, of course; you all are way above average. :)
In answer to that question, I've made it to the top 25%. I think that's saying something.
You Don't Know Jackson won his competition against me, so I've been bumped to the Elimination rounds. I never hoped to get as far as I have. I mean, I think my writing is good. You think my writing is good. (Thank you!) The question was -do average people think my writing is good? Because, of course; you all are way above average. :)
In answer to that question, I've made it to the top 25%. I think that's saying something.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Blogmadness Semifinals are underway
This time around, it's "The Race War That Wasn't" vs. "Scenes From The Other Side Of The Tracks" Both entries are great, read 'em and choose! Remember: There's no registration requirements, voting is anonymous, and there's only one vote per family.
Don't forget to read the other fine entries in the Winner's round 4 and the Elimination Round 5. All 32 are pretty darn good.
This time around, it's "The Race War That Wasn't" vs. "Scenes From The Other Side Of The Tracks" Both entries are great, read 'em and choose! Remember: There's no registration requirements, voting is anonymous, and there's only one vote per family.
Don't forget to read the other fine entries in the Winner's round 4 and the Elimination Round 5. All 32 are pretty darn good.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Pregnancy
"If you don't want your baby, we'll try to find a home for it." Said the woman on the phone.
That was the point where I lost control. Looking for adoption agencies in the phone was hard. Actually talking to the agencies was even harder. For days, the phone book had sat open on the kitchen table, right underneath the avocado colored phone we had picked up at a thrift store. Every time mom went into the kitchen she said, "Just call Catholic Charities. They'll give him a good Catholic home."
After a week or so, it became an incessant nagging from her. "Did you call yet?" "Just call!" "Pick up the phone and dial, it's not hard!"
She had no idea. This wasn't like going to the St. Vincent De Paul Society for a little extra food. This was asking for the biggest handout in the world. This was asking someone to love my child for the rest of their lives, to provide for him, teach him right from wrong, and give him a better life. Mom had no idea how hard it was for me to just pick up the phone.
I had gotten pregnant on the 4th of July, having sex on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes. We were moving from the old neighborhood to a new one. I was looking toward a new direction in my life. I had a job, a car, and a guy I was going to marry someday. I was just waiting on the engagement ring. And while I was waiting, we had a lot of sex.
When August rolled around, and I hadn't gotten my period, I began to worry that something was wrong. I thought I might have cancer or something. My friends all said, "You're pregnant." but I thought, "No, it's cancer. I can't be pregnant. I'd know if I were pregnant."
When I realized my boyfriend was an overcontrolling jerk who belittled everything I said, and dumped him; I thought, "See. It's cancer. I'm removing the dead weight from my life before I get treatment."
When my belly started to swell, I thought, "The cancer is growing, I should really go to the doctor."
When 3 months had passed without a period, I decided to visit Planned Parenthood. Just to rule out pregnancy, before I paid a real doctor to treat the cancer I was so sure I had.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room, that I allowed myself to see that I was pregnant. When the test came back positive, I was overjoyed. I was having a baby! I had wanted to be a mom for as long as I could remember, and now it was happening! Sure, I'd only get one semester of college before his birth. Ok, I'd have to go on welfare for a little while, until I could work again. Yeah, it might be 5 or more years before I could go back to school; and I wouldn't be moving out of mom's house for a while yet. But all of that was bearable, because I was going to be a mom!
For the next two months, I planned every little bit of my child's life. I put money away for the birth. I priced toys and clothes, and figured out exactly how much I would need to earn to care for my son. The impending welfare stint sucked, but it was the only way to truly provide for him and still get my college education. And then I had a dream.
For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain. I've always had prophetic dreams. Not very often, but frequently enough that I've learned to pay attention. That night I dreamed I was searching for my son's real parents. When I woke up in the morning, I told my mom, "I'm giving him up for adoption."
I was happy. I was at peace, and I was so full of love that morning. I knew his parents were out there, and it was my job to find them. Mom was incredibly supportive. She was looking forward to having a grandson, and she understood that it was my choice. So she did what any loving mom would do. She stood by me, and supported me, and never said a word about the loss she would feel. She was there when I awoke, crying in the middle of the night, because I missed my baby. She was there when my friends didn't know how to look at me anymore. And she was there when the telemarketers would call with their offers of free baby pictures and coupons for formula.
I stopped answering the phone when mom was home. She would pick up for me, and I'd hear her side of the conversation. "Hello?"..."No, this is her mother"..."The baby died. Please don't call here again."
I always wanted to cry out, "He's not dead! I gave him up for adoption and I'M PROUD OF IT!" Yet I knew mom was right. That little white lie was easier than dealing with their curiosity. Before I quit answering the phone, one telemarketer had actually tried to enroll me in a conversation about it. "Really?" she said, "Was it hard?"
I'm not a fragile person, but those first few months, I broke down all the time. I cried on my family, I cried when strangers looked at my recovering belly and asked, "Oh! Are you pregnant?" and I cried when I was alone. Hell, I'm crying right now, just writing about it. Sometimes it still hurts, but it's a strange kind of hurt. When I think of my son, I feel complete; whole. I had 6 months to love him as he grew in my womb. I had 2 days to hold him in the hospital. I have the rest of my life to know he is loved by the best people in the world. The people who are his real family.
How can I be sad about that?
I can't.
"If you don't want your baby, we'll try to find a home for it." Said the woman on the phone.
That was the point where I lost control. Looking for adoption agencies in the phone was hard. Actually talking to the agencies was even harder. For days, the phone book had sat open on the kitchen table, right underneath the avocado colored phone we had picked up at a thrift store. Every time mom went into the kitchen she said, "Just call Catholic Charities. They'll give him a good Catholic home."
After a week or so, it became an incessant nagging from her. "Did you call yet?" "Just call!" "Pick up the phone and dial, it's not hard!"
She had no idea. This wasn't like going to the St. Vincent De Paul Society for a little extra food. This was asking for the biggest handout in the world. This was asking someone to love my child for the rest of their lives, to provide for him, teach him right from wrong, and give him a better life. Mom had no idea how hard it was for me to just pick up the phone.
I had gotten pregnant on the 4th of July, having sex on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes. We were moving from the old neighborhood to a new one. I was looking toward a new direction in my life. I had a job, a car, and a guy I was going to marry someday. I was just waiting on the engagement ring. And while I was waiting, we had a lot of sex.
When August rolled around, and I hadn't gotten my period, I began to worry that something was wrong. I thought I might have cancer or something. My friends all said, "You're pregnant." but I thought, "No, it's cancer. I can't be pregnant. I'd know if I were pregnant."
When I realized my boyfriend was an overcontrolling jerk who belittled everything I said, and dumped him; I thought, "See. It's cancer. I'm removing the dead weight from my life before I get treatment."
When my belly started to swell, I thought, "The cancer is growing, I should really go to the doctor."
When 3 months had passed without a period, I decided to visit Planned Parenthood. Just to rule out pregnancy, before I paid a real doctor to treat the cancer I was so sure I had.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room, that I allowed myself to see that I was pregnant. When the test came back positive, I was overjoyed. I was having a baby! I had wanted to be a mom for as long as I could remember, and now it was happening! Sure, I'd only get one semester of college before his birth. Ok, I'd have to go on welfare for a little while, until I could work again. Yeah, it might be 5 or more years before I could go back to school; and I wouldn't be moving out of mom's house for a while yet. But all of that was bearable, because I was going to be a mom!
For the next two months, I planned every little bit of my child's life. I put money away for the birth. I priced toys and clothes, and figured out exactly how much I would need to earn to care for my son. The impending welfare stint sucked, but it was the only way to truly provide for him and still get my college education. And then I had a dream.
For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain. I've always had prophetic dreams. Not very often, but frequently enough that I've learned to pay attention. That night I dreamed I was searching for my son's real parents. When I woke up in the morning, I told my mom, "I'm giving him up for adoption."
I was happy. I was at peace, and I was so full of love that morning. I knew his parents were out there, and it was my job to find them. Mom was incredibly supportive. She was looking forward to having a grandson, and she understood that it was my choice. So she did what any loving mom would do. She stood by me, and supported me, and never said a word about the loss she would feel. She was there when I awoke, crying in the middle of the night, because I missed my baby. She was there when my friends didn't know how to look at me anymore. And she was there when the telemarketers would call with their offers of free baby pictures and coupons for formula.
I stopped answering the phone when mom was home. She would pick up for me, and I'd hear her side of the conversation. "Hello?"..."No, this is her mother"..."The baby died. Please don't call here again."
I always wanted to cry out, "He's not dead! I gave him up for adoption and I'M PROUD OF IT!" Yet I knew mom was right. That little white lie was easier than dealing with their curiosity. Before I quit answering the phone, one telemarketer had actually tried to enroll me in a conversation about it. "Really?" she said, "Was it hard?"
I'm not a fragile person, but those first few months, I broke down all the time. I cried on my family, I cried when strangers looked at my recovering belly and asked, "Oh! Are you pregnant?" and I cried when I was alone. Hell, I'm crying right now, just writing about it. Sometimes it still hurts, but it's a strange kind of hurt. When I think of my son, I feel complete; whole. I had 6 months to love him as he grew in my womb. I had 2 days to hold him in the hospital. I have the rest of my life to know he is loved by the best people in the world. The people who are his real family.
How can I be sad about that?
I can't.
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