Sorority chick

Ok.. found out something while going through my mom's stuff.  I always knew she was a sorority girl at her college- but it was the Deaf University- Gallaudet in Washington DC, (The Standford/Harvard of the Only Deaf University in the World)  and while it was a sorority at her school, it wasn't the same as the "official" Greek system across American campuses.  Nothing wrong with her sorority. It was pretty neat from what I could see, and probably in many respects a lot like many other sororities like mine- even to this day.

I remember writing home from college and asking my mom if it was ok if I joined a sorority at my college campus. I sent her the stuff I got from the house, and told her how much I liked the girls and could I join?  If they asked me?  It was going to be expensive- more than what school cost with all of the dues and things. And my mom wrote back, and said. "Yes, you should. I was in a sorority and I loved that time in school and my friendships with the members. You should. It will be fine."  It was always fine with my mom. "It's fine."

I wondered if I would fit in there. You know, it was a varied group of girls. Some were from out of state, and not like the typical  "in-state" girl.  Some of the girls, you sort of got the impression that they were well taken care of by their families. They had cars; even new cars, nice clothes, nice stuff.  Me, I was a child of deaf parents,  blue collar by any measure; and while my parents worked very hard to achieve the American Dream... they were not wealthy-rich or even upper middle-by any means. I was lucky to go to college on loans and what cash they had saved, and I never had a car. We were strictly - middle class, government payroll - family.  I guess in today's world that would be a really good - upper middle class gig for most families. After all,  my parents worked at their careers for 30+ years, it did turn out to be a huge benefit for them and we all were grateful for the opportunities given to them. I think about that in today's economy and with the struggles that  my husband and I and other family members have had to go through the past few years.  My parents were fortunate. Very fortunate.

So I did join the sorority. It was a nice place, and really I loved it. I did. I loved the Monday night formal dinners, where the food was home cooked and there was china, and sterling silver and a matronly housemother and it was just so-oh-how do you say it without being ridiculous -so "country club."  It certainly wasn't what I was used to.   I didn't belong there; really I didn't.  But I kept remembering my Mom. She did it.  With the railroad engineer dad, and a mom that was ill and dying; she somehow melded into her east coast  "sorority life".  So I joined, and there were other girls like me too.  We all just went through the motions of school and social life and really we all got out of it what we put into it. Songs, Sweatshirts, Boys, Functions, Parties; I ate it up.

Throughout my years there, I kept thinking, well  maybe this is the ticket in?  Into a higher social circle? Outside of the circle I was cast from?  Maybe  if I meet the right people, do the whole school thing, and meet the right guy- the law student, the nerdy guy... maybe?   I wondered.  It didn't really happen that way for my mom.  She did the big University, she did the sorority stuff, I've rummaged through her pictures with her dates with what looked to be aspiring young successful men.  But she didn't do that.  She chucked it all and got on a train and came out west.  To be a teacher.  A teacher at a deaf school which when I found her first year contract the other day it stated "Congratulations- you're hired....  starting pay $320 a month for 9 months."  I suppose my mom thought that was a great thing.  It probably was.  Her mother had passed away, her sister was getting married or already was,  her dad wasn't in such great health, and her brother wasn't really any help.   So she never looked back and got on the train.  She'd never been anywhere out west. She had one friend that was here.  She met my dad later that year, he was a roofer.  They had an excellent life together.       

It's funny how lives parallel each other.  I did the same thing as my mom. I had the sorority life. I have great friendships from my time there, and still do to this day. But, I married a guy - sort of just like my dad.  Handy, physical, good looking, knows things about life and hard work, a loving father and admittedly a laborer of sorts.  So we're really middle class.  So sometimes just the option of being in the sorority life doesn't automatically admit you to the "good life".  Maybe it was a fait du accompli.  It was my choice. I bowed out.  I looked for other things in my life, not necessarily worse - and perhaps better--for me.  Just different. Like my mom. 
  

Hey, Dad is eating Santa's cookies! (Innocence Lost-Circa 1968)

So, dear reader; Yes this is ANCIENT history.  I'm that old.  Most of you are too.  But I call your attention to the photo.   That's me in the too small pink dress, my little sister all smiles with the curly hair.   I am eight and a half years old, my future husband to be has just  received his draft card and will be in the U. S. Army in three months. Nixon was just elected President, and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated earlier that year, and the Democratic Convention in Chicago had riots in the street.  Yeah, that 1968.

So a year or so prior, we had moved to our new home on the south side of our town, and it was everything my Mom and Dad could hope for. Probably a bigger mortgage than they had bargained for, and with inflation and growing daughters with bad eyes and crooked teeth, expenses they didn't really plan for. Hence, my belief that maybe new Christmas dresses weren't in the budget  that year, so my dress I wore in first grade I was still wearing in third grade. Proof; right there in that picture.  But no, there too... are lots of gifts. I think I was having a bad day, and just insisted on wearing the too small dress, because truthfully-- there's a bit of this here too; being eight and a half was not too much fun. I was dorky, wore glasses, with coltish legs that grew three inches that year, and a dumb haircut and big huge molars growing in. Weird and dorky. Right there, that phase lasted about five years.  Ugh. I really wanted to be little and cute like my sister, and play with baby dolls and get all excited about Christmas. But there was this lingering doubt?

Days before, I went with my sister to the big department store downtown, where Santa Claus would have you sit on his lap, and you could tell him what you wanted.  I don't think I was an overly big child but Santa groaned when he picked me up, "Wow, you're a big girl!"  He smelled funny.  Not like the Santa I imagined the year before.  Strange shopping trips with my mom,  looking at things that we wanted Santa to bring us. Curious and strange.  Just this sense of doubt. You know?   Between third and fourth grade, little whispers from your classmates.  Not really knowing, not really sure.

So our family had this Christmas Eve tradition, just like many other families across the country. But ours was to celebrate Christmas Eve by going out to dinner at my parents favorite Supper Club, and then drive around for about an hour looking at lights at the Smelter Hill and all around town. The thinking behind this, our Dad told us, was to give Santa enough time to come to our house while we were at dinner and driving around.  Naturally, this was TORTURE for my sister and I.

So why were we not at Church? Well, our deaf parents had a "Deaf" church  that had their Christmas service the Sunday before Christmas. We weren't secular by any means, but going to a "hearing" church or Mass wasn't something we ever did.   We had the baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph and a Christmas tree, Angels and a Star at home. So we did our thing on Christmas Eve at our home.

So, Christmas Eve 1968, Mom had ordered my sister and me to the car where Dad is waiting for us and has warmed up the Chevy Impala.   "You go wait in car with Dad.We go eat soon." So we two girls bounce into the back seat. I reach over the front seat  for the radio and turn it up loud.  The AM station is airing the "SANTA CLAUS WATCH broadcast - LIVE FROM NORAD at the NORTH POLE".  It must be true. It's on the radio. The announcer says, we have a sighting of a red light and an UNIDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECT on the radar screen heading over North America."  Wow! That was impressive to me.    Then Mom opens the car door, and Dad signs...."Oh. I forgot something". The checkbook or something like that.  He leaves. My moms orders us again. "Stay here, Dad will be back soon, then we go."   We buy it.  But then, my sister looks at me with alarm and says, "WAIT! I forgot the carrot for the reindeer!"  She tears out of the car, and my mom looks at me with panic and signs "WHAT? WHY FOR??? Why is she gone?" I sign "she forgot the Carrot."  My mom signs "NO!! Go get her, Dad is putting presents under the tree!"

Um? what?   I walk into the house, and there's my sister, whimpering and crying that Dad was eating the cookies we left for Santa.  Dad signs.. "oh, sorry. I was hungry".  My sister grabs another cookie and puts it on the plate, and Dad signs "please go wait in car."  I think my sister was so upset about the carrot and the cookies she didn't see all the presents now under the tree that weren't there earlier.   But I saw them, hey there was a bunk bed crib thing unwrapped, and a bunch of big boxes with Santa paper that weren't there an hour ago. So...what's the deal?

I fidgeted all through dinner. If my sister knew anything she was oblivious 15 minutes later, happily playing with her milkshake and pickles at dinner.  I couldn't figure it out. Later in the car ride, I was annoyed by the radio announcer broadcast about Santa Claus sightings over Argentina, and how he was en-route to Mexico.  I was bored, and the driving around Smelter Hill and the neighborhood made me sleepy.  We finally got home, and opened the door, and my sister screamed with delight!  The bunk bed baby crib! The presents.   But for me, I saw them all three hours earlier, and there wasn't anything different. For me, Santa didn't come.

So the photo tells a lot.  Taken moments before we could open  our presents. I looked at it recently and tried to remember why the face? Why the pinched look and crossed arms? A too small dress that was for Easter, a Spring dress on a cold winters night. Cold probably.  A little lost look perhaps?   So when you see an eight, nine even a ten year old during this holiday season, know this.  They try. They really do.  They hopefully wish, they usually get things they ask for in our over commercialized-retail season.  But I look back at this picture, some xxx years ago, and I remember that feeling. Innocence lost.  I think It's interesting to remember that year in our nations' history too. Weren't we all a little lost, dazed and confused?

But I don't want leave you with an impression that it was a unfortunate circumstance. It wasn't. It's a story my sister and I share and laugh about, and we treasure those Christmas memories.  We have lots of them, and hey, that night I got the coolest Barbie doll ever.  Francie.  Her ponytail grew out of her head.

The Left Arm

Those who know me know my story about my arm.   My left arm.  Now that it's summer and I wear shorter sleeve shirts - maybe a tank top or two- I see the left arm. The left arm reminds me of one day when I was five years old. I'm sure many of my friends and relatives have stories about a traumatic injury in their life.  When their bike ran into a car, when they fell off the bunk bed and broke their arm, some kind of accident.  Well I had one. I've only had one that was this injurious, and well, it left its mark.

I was five, and like all five year olds, I was trying to be all big in my world, and I was surrounded by older kids.  I wanted to be big like them.  Do things like them, be with them, be one of them.  One day in the summer, my mom got a babysitter for us. It must have been a regular week day, because she had a dentist appointment. I don't know where dad was, probably at work or maybe he was at the dentist too--I don't know, and all I know is we had the teenage girl from next door as our babysitter.  She was taking care of us like teenage girls do by telling us to go outside while she watched a soap opera; problem was is her kid sister, who I desperately wanted to be with and do things with, wanted the older teenage sister to drive her somewhere.  Somewhere other than here hanging out with babies like me and my sister.  The teenage babysitter argued with her and basically said, "Are you kidding.. I'm babysitting and no, I'm not driving you somewhere."   Well I heard this conversation and being the little smartie pants I was, I had a great idea. I thought, "The kid sister should ride the tandem bike they had in the garage. That way she could go to the friends house, pick her up and they would ride back together on the tandem bike".  

Problem solved! I'm so smart!  I heard the kid sister storm out of my house in a huff... and I ran out of the kitchen down our hall way to tell her about my great five year old  idea.   Our house was a strange house.  It was a government house, rented by my parents who worked at the state deaf school.  It was a long-almost trailer house size- house, kind of modeled on a military barrack. The rooms were just organized in a long sequence so the living room was in front of the dining room, the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom and bedroom.  A long row of rooms.  Well I had a ways to run to the front of the house mid-way from the kitchen so I was running... running fast down that hallway to the front door.  

I was at full peal speed when I flung my arm out to the front door - with a glass single pane window where a screen should have been- but wasn't and and my little hand hit the glass - full bore. The glass didn't go with my force to open the door, the glass  broke. All over my arm.  My tender five year old chubby little arm.The sharp single pane glass sliced it, shards of glass falling into open gaping L shaped skin flap and other gaping skin flaps that were immediately gushing bright red blood.  All over the front porch.  I vividly remember this. I looked down, whimpered a bit, and then SCREAAAAAAAMMEED.  The babysitter came running. She screamed, my baby sister screamed.  The babysitter ran away and must have ran next door to get someone - her mom- her dad- I don't know.  Someone came running, and next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom with the babysitter and she was trying to get some control of the situation.  She grabbed the purple towel that hung on the towel bar. The pretty towel  - that was  "for pretty" " not for bath" my mom would sign.  I groaned, she wrapped my little arm, glass shards and all in the towel, and somehow her dad was there then, and drove us all to the hospital emergency room about  25 blocks away.   I'm sure we were going pretty damn fast.

Next thing..maybe I passed out..(my adult mom instinct tells me I probably did), I am laying there in a ER room with a nurse, and a doctor. I'm crying like a baby, but there's a nurse and she's holding my other hand and she is nice.  The doctor is picking out glass. I can see it and hear it tinging in a little silver bowl.  Uh.   Then my mom and dad come in.  I don't know how they got in there... but they let them in, and I started crying again.  My mom was a wreck, she was crying, my dad was upset. I don't know what they saw but after while everybody calmed down and I came out with my left arm all wrapped from wrist to armpit in a huge gauzy wrap. It looked  like a mummy arm.   I remember my Dad  rushed to a drug store to buy me something to cheer me up, because on the drive home with  there was a HUGE bag of candy and a bag of new coloring books and crayons.  I bet they knew I would be spending a lot of time inside and maybe coloring would cheer me up.  

I colored for days.  I couldn't go outside. My mom kept a serious eye on me and didn't let me do ANYTHING except rest and color. I colored houses, people, animals. I gave everyone on my block a coloring page because it was my thank you for the booty of stuff  I received to "get well". I was sick of the candy that I ate too much of, and I wanted to go outside and play.  Everyone else was outside.  I wanted to be outside too and it was HOT. My neighborhood friends were out in the sprinkler and those blue plastic pools.

So my mom and aunt invented this way for me to go outside and cool off.  A bread bag.   An Eddy's Bread bag. All the moms kept them around for some reason, to stuff  laundered and still damp cotton shirts into to iron in the morning, as a sandwich bag, what have you... there were plastic bread loaf bags around. So she put my injured five year old arm in the bag, tied it at the top with some yarn, smiled at me and signed " it's good now, you can go outside with cousins, no swimming, but you can play in water sprayer- go play."

Really Guys?   Me and my bread bag arm.  I spent the next couple of  weeks over the  hot summer with a plastic bread bag on my arm anytime I needed a bath or wanted to play outside.  You remember old fools-- the stitches from long ago could NOT get wet. They would get infected and gross so, you had to keep an injury like my gashed up arm with 500 stitches impeccably clean and dry.  On a five year old!?  Really?

I'm lucky I have my arm. I've been told it was a pretty serious injury  being very close to damaging major nerves and leaving me with a useless arm.  I have 5 gashes that over the past mmm -40 some years have faded and are just a reminder of that summer.  People sometimes notice them when I have totally forgotten about them and point out the sign of a catastrophic injury.  Those scars sort of left a mark physically and emotionally. I don't really care for sleeveless tops and tanks. Maybe it's the scars and the flabby arms I recently found to be even more unattractive.  Yeah, that too.   I never really consciously knew that I liked to be covered,  but when summer is over, I find comfort in covering up the arms.  And those battle scars with the old glass door is forgotten.

Flo Ellen

It's her birthday today. And I miss her terribly.  There are days when I ache for her sweet smile and quiet demeanor. I miss her help, her guidance and friendship. I miss her profoundly and it's a deep grief I cannot get over, and I know I'm not alone in missing and grieving for a mother.

But, I remember her today. And a few things things that bring her back to me.  
She wore White Shoulders. Syrupy sweet gardenia, and other florals. It smelled like her. When I smell gardenia anything...it's my mom.   I don't even know if  you can find that anymore.  I loved that smell. In fact, for awhile there was a bottle left from her house, and I wore it for awhile.  But it wasn't the same.  When I encounter that scent, either on another woman, or a fleeting memory scent; it's like she's here.  It only belonged to her.  Sure my sister and I would try to find our signature scents, we ran through a collection of Estee Lauder and high priced designer fragrances, I don't know if we've ever settled on "our fragrance".  But my mom did. Probably for more than 50 some years, she never strayed (at least too far- there was a moment when she was Elizabeth Ardened by the sales woman at The Bon) but White Shoulders defined her. In fact,when I was little I would look at the cameo silhouette of the woman and her naked shoulders on the bottle next to my moms lipsticks and jewelry box, I was convinced it was my mom.

Her handwriting. It was perfect.  You don't even see it anymore. Completely stylized, perfect formed cursive writing. Since she was deaf, her handwriting defined her personality. Somewhat formal, deft, intricate, and perfect.  Like her.  It sort of  was a sense of frustration to us as a family, because her handwriting if anything was a production. Writing a check at the grocery store; took preparation, the correct pen (never red, or black-only blue) and the check at the right angle, and it would take her at least 3 to  4 minutes to write out the check.  Forty-five dollars and 69/100 ~~~~~~~~~DOLLARS. Certainly not a swipe of a debit card or a hastily scribbled out check.  Her signature was the same-every time and there was never a short cut. Perfect F E H p e.  Always. 

To the check-out clerk and people behind her in line,what that was about they could never figure out; but for my mom it was her purpose to write the perfect note, letter, phrase or assignment on the blackboard or white board. In a cursive or print style that was so perfect it was text book.  I've often wondered why she was so attentive to her writing style. Was it something drilled into her during her years at the Deaf school? "Make sure you write clearly so people will understand you, and make sure it is graceful and beautiful because that is the impression you leave?"   I think so.  Because that is the impression she left on many people.

I came across a heartbreaking memento recently in my moms collection of things.  It haunts me.  My mother spent her life not in her family home, but in a school. A school she was sent away to because of her deafness. For her it was a refuge, because there she was with people who could communicate with her, teach her, and help her become the wonderful woman she became.   Her family home, was perhaps difficult at times. Her parents were not communicative with her. They tried to learn her sign language, but I know it must have been a barrier. So in her family, she was isolated.   But these mementos I found recently sort of are a peek into a loving relationship with her mom and dad- it was something she obviously treasured.

My mom had a "notebook" of signatures, poems people would write, maybe an autograph or two. I think it was sort of like a personal "year book".  The book is gone, but she saved two of the pages.  I ALMOST threw them away thinking they were scrap notes that she had hundreds of because deaf people always save notes.  I'm so glad I didn't. 
Her dad wrote in it:  July 1945  - She was 13
" Blue waters may between us roll and distance be our lot; but if we fail to meet again dear Flo, forget me not." Dad. 

Her mom wrote in it:  July 1945
 " Be good sweet maid and let who will be clever. Do noble things, not dream them all day long. And so make a life, death and that vast forever- one grand sweet song."  Your mother.

I cried the first time I read those notes. I keep them now as a memory of her and her life.

Happy Birthday Mom. I love you.




Mom writing a order for the waitress



I'm a CODA

So, I'm a "Child of Deaf Parents"- CODA.   Some people think that CODA is a acronym for something sinister like alcoholics or something. But in deaf culture circles, we all know what a CODA is.  And for what's it worth; being a CODA was actually pretty cool.    I think there were some in my town that sort of looked on our family and other deaf parent families with pity or curiosity, but all of us turned out just great. Probably better than most families with a bit of dysfunction.

Being a child of deaf adults had it's ups and downs. I know I share the same backgrounds and history as a lot of people that grew up that way. And what's interesting, is now over the past some years; the similar scenarios that a generation of us had in common- are not so common anymore. Because; the Deaf Adults and Deaf Parents and their children today are not the same as a generation ago.

It's been awhile since I got in touch with my "deaf culture" side.  Since my parents died, it's been slightly removed from my current frame and place. But once in awhile, I get together with some deaf relatives ad my mom and dad's friends, and share a night of gossip and catching up. It's great to do that, and it makes me wistful for those times with my parents again. But I've noticed, that the other generation of deaf adults that I've run across, don't have that bond with other deaf parents and their children.  Maybe it's because so many of the next generation of deaf adults/parents didn't attend an institutional school; they were mainstreamed into public schools. Their lives were centered around making sure they fit into the HEARING world and a tag along interpreter. So they entered the dating, workforce and adulthood life sort of by themselves.   Not with a tight knit bond of "deafies" who did everything together like my parents did with their circle of friends.  It's different, this generation of deaf adults-parents that  may have hearing children like my parents did, but they either married hearing spouses and work in a "hearing" world.   The CODA experience for mainstreamed Deaf Adults  today  is not the same as the CODA experience of us who had parents who grew up in the institutional setting and worked with deaf people. And to me, that is a sad thing.

I feel a bond with foreign immigrant families whose children were born English speaking but at home the foreign language was spoken. It was the same way at my house.  I feel an identity with those new immigrants, whether Hispanic, Asian, Slavic, even middle eastern families.  The new immigrant  parents struggle with the language, the "English" world,  the American culture, and lean on their English speaking children to translate the world so it makes sense.  They stay close to their communities,and ethnic neighborhoods  and are engaged with others like them. They socialize together, worship together, marry each other, and eventually a generation later, they're all melded into the American soup pot.  But for a generation; there's that sticky mess of part of the family not quite in the mainstream.  I know it well.  Lived it.

The Note Pad: 
I was the oldest child, so many times the responsibility of communicating with the "hearing world" was left to me.  This story is common with many CODA's, bearing the responsibility of making sure our parents were understood to the outside world.  I ordered food for my parents at restaurants, made appointments, even having to talk to police, doctors or bankers, about very personal information no child should ever have to do. My parents were fiercely independent,and for years they were part of the group that rejected interpreters; so there were times, that my sister or I needed to step in because that writing pad that my parents brought with them everywhere -well it just doesn't work sometimes when things are not clear or you don't need to tell the waitress "bring some ketchup" on a note pad.  But that note pad was always there.  We found a box of them when we cleaned out my parents house.It made me laugh, and today, deaf people have the freedom to use email, text, and tty's and video relay to communicate without involving their children.  I know my parents always had the security of the note pad  or an interpreter, but somehow knowing that that their children were there to always speak for them; is comforting to me even now.

Your House is Loud:
You would think having two deaf parents would make for a silent home. Wrong. Our house was loud.  Because with profoundly deaf parents, they never had any idea how much noise they were making.  Making meals was very loud. Huge pots and pans, dishes, cupboard doors,running the water, the disposal, dishwasher even if you were trying to read or study...  it was crazy how loud things were, and my sister and I would just turn up the radio or tv to stifle the sound they were making, so then it was even louder. I never realized how loud until my husband to be came to meet my parents and he couldn't believe the racket.  

You Probably Got Away With Everything:
This is not true. Ask any CODA. I think deaf parents are hyper-sensitive parents; and they KNOW when their kids are screwing off.  They know the weird looks from other parents when their kid is doing something inappropriate like having a tantrum in the middle of a store. Or even worse, your name in the paper because you did something bad, like a ticket or something worse.  CODA's of my generation were drilled to NEVER embarrass their parents.  It's the code of a CODA.  Don't embarrass, humiliate or draw attention to the Deaf Parent.  "Because you never know, THEY could come and take children away because some police might think Deaf Parents are bad parents and cannot know what their children are doing because they can't hear"  Am I right CODA's?   (head nod)

Deaf Church:
I will tell you this.  Deaf Church is very quiet. At least my experience was.  My parents belonged to and started a congregation of Deaf Lutherans or what have you. They were not the "Deaf Catholics" they  had their own church and interpreter.  The Deaf Lutheran Church was different and quiet.  No music unless you count 2 or  3 deaf ladies up at the alter signing Onward Christian Soldiers.  Somehow the impact was missing- at least for me the hearing kid who had sang it and heard it with the big organ at the big Lutheran church downtown with a congregation of 300. Mmmm yah, it wasn't the same.  Just a lot of silent hands, sometimes angry hands, and maybe a lay minister feebly trying to sign to his new congregation because he was a lay minister who just learned sign.  I did not like Deaf Church, nor did I like Hearing Church, because my sister and I were like the two little orphan children with the neighbor who drove us to church every Sunday.  Parent-less, stared at, pitied at the coffee hour, because while other parents were chatting it up and having donuts... my parents were at their Deaf Church.  I was a lost soul-even in Church. It has affected me years later even to this day.

I Can Finger spell Faster than You:
I remember it well. The day some girls in my grade school discovered "sign language". I was mortified.  I could not understand why these little Brownies were making it THEIR MISSION to learn to finger spell and learn sign language.  It was like they demanded entry into my secret world with my family and deaf friends. Why did they want to know that? Was it some kind of test for Girl Scouts?  I would see them practicing and hand spelling to each other like it was secret code.  Many in my school never knew I had deaf parents.  Then one day, I couldn't STAND it! They were all in a little circle, proudly spelling to each other with the little alphabet card they got somewhere, and I said; "You know, I can finger spell faster than any of you"  and I whipped it out. Right there on the playground. 4 seconds flat- the whole alphabet, even the crazy hard Q and R ,that twist your whole hand and K and P that no one EVER gets. Expertly. I think that was the first time I was proud of knowing how to sign.  Yeah.. next time you think you're in your secret code talking about something.. I'm watching you.

Deaf Movie Night:
For the hearing reader, this probably doesn't make any sense to you, but I assure you, it still is a problem today.  For many Americans, going to movies is like a non-event. You see a trailer, you want to go, you buy a ticket, get some popcorn, and you're there immersed in movie-land.   So as a child, I wanted to go to movies, so we really didn't get to go until we were older and could go to the movies by ourselves. I remember going to Sound of Music with my Mom and Dad; which looking back on it.. what did they get out of it? It was the SOUND OF MUSIC for God sake. The irony doesn't escape me.  So to get around the problem of going to movies that were meaningless dialogue and musical scenes which most deaf people would fall asleep at, they would go see westerns because at least there was guns, good guys and bad guys, and horses.  The deaf group my parents hung out with had a monthly Deaf Movie Night.  It usually required a giant noisy film projector- borrowed from the school- usually in the gym at the school, and later it moved to a room at the basement of a bank, or a basement room of a real estate office, or finally someones house in their basement.  It also required a screen and then later it ended up being a white bed sheet tacked on a wall.  My dad and a few other dads took jabs at being the projectionist and making sure that the next film reel was ready to load into the projector.  If the film ever broke.. well  there went 8 minutes of the movie, and guess you'll figure it out.  The movies for Deaf Movie Night were always CAPTIONED FOR THE DEAF,  and in black and white and were at least 30 years old and rarely acclaimed award winning movies. Rarely was there a color one- if there was, I wasn't there for it.  The deaf families would organize the steel folding chairs in rows (like a theatre), and there would be popcorn, and candy that the Deaf Club would have stashed away, but bring it out for an intermission and sell the candy bars and pop and popcorn to the CODA's that would stand around in the back.  The parents would visit and the CODA's would hang out and play games with each other. Rarely did the kids ever watch the movie.  I know many of my CODA friends have the best memories of Deaf Movie Night.  But think about that the next time you go to a movie. They're not captioned like a tv programs, so unless it's a "captioned" special evening.. the deaf world is left out until it comes out on DVD or online.  So 21st Century.

Secret Shame
Ok, I can go on and on about life as a CODA. I may do another story or two. But here's my secret shame and I know some other CODA's agree.  I'm sure as a baby and toddler my parents voice was their voice and I knew no other. It was sweet, nurturing, babbling, cooing just as other parents do with their babies and I'm sure I developed my sense of voice from their baby-speak.  But, there was a point in time, when I knew that my parents voice wasn't like the others.  Maybe it was in a grocery store or at a park. Maybe it's when I misbehaved and wasn't "listening" or obeying what they had told me to do. STAY HERE.  NO. BE GOOD GIRL. Well, I never noticed their Deaf Voice until people around me noticed it. And I noticed most of deaf parents I knew never used their Deaf Voice unless they HAD TO. For good reason, it drew attention to their deafness.   And for me, I didn't like it.  Because deaf parents who were been born deaf, or lost their hearing, have NO idea what they sound like. It's like shouting into a wind tunnel, with no perception of volume, tone, affect.  So to have your deaf parent use the DEAF VOICE- in public. Wow.. get ready. If you never heard one, I think it's like a combination of a elk bugle, mooing cow, an old dried out saxophone.  I think that's why CODA's generally are pretty well behaved children because they know... mom might use her DEAF VOICE and then it's over.   It's all over.

I Sign
I sign well.  In fact, I sign as well as someone born to into a Hispanic family knows Spanish as their first-second language.  I know the dialects, the slang, the nuances, the formal language, and the "shortcuts" which for most is the true language: American Sign Language.  ASL.  But admittedly, I'm not proficient at it. I think as CODA's  there was one parent who signed to us in ENGLISH, and the other who signed in ASL.  For my family, my mother ( the teacher) was always signing to us in Signed English- proper noun verb order- and our Dad who used ASL, and that would be a completely different language than English.   I really believe whether this was intentional or not; that one parent would be the translator /Signed English/ signer for the children, and then it would be "translated" to the other parent.  Sort of a High German - Low German for those who follow linguistics.  But there are days, when I am jealous of the super qualified interpreter I see on TV that is deftly interpreting or a new deaf person I don't know well signing  in total ASL- hands flying, signs I don't recognize, syntax I don't recognize, and I don't get it.  How does that happen?  Does a Spanish speaking person immersed in a language and culture from birth - suddenly lose their ability to "hear" their language?  Or do I just need a dose of deaf culture now and then.  I miss it.  Really I do.

Thanks for reading... ily.

Vernon

Well, I feel like a shithead today. My sister had to remind me that today five years ago today.. my dad died.   Normally, do people remember the day someone died?  I really don't have that day flagged as memory keeper.  It was a bad day.  But I remember his birthday.  I remember a lot of things about my dad....the epic VERNON. 

My dad was huger than life to me...my whole life. It wasn't until his last few years on earth that he seemed frail and small.   But for my whole life he was the big guy, who could do anything and wasn't afraid of anything or anyone.  I'm sure that's how it is with most daughters.  But Vernon was an incredible guy. 

He was a part time "stay at home" dad for many years-probably before anyone thought it was normal for dads to do that in the 1960's.   For many years, he worked the graveyard or overnight shift at the state school where he started as a janitor and apprentice boiler-man.  He would work the after school shift as many school janitors did; emptying trash cans, cleaning blackboards,and pushing a broom down the endless hallways of dust mopping and buffing.  There was some kitchen duty, cleaning out the walk in coolers of rotten fruit and vegetables, taking inventory of supplies, and then endlessly checking that boiler...that fire eating dragon boiler.  I was deathly afraid of that boiler.

There was two of those boilers that burst into flames every 20-25 minutes or so, to keep the  3 story dormitory and school nice and warm.  Nights when my mom had class or something going on, my dad would take us to the school during his night shift, and as long as we didn't cause any trouble; we could be there with him.  We'd happily help him with the trash, and clean the blackboards-- and maybe he would let us hang out in the wood shop room and we would play with the sawdust or go into the print shop and breathe the toxic fumes and I suppose get a little high from the ink.  I loved it.  Nights with dad at work were the best.  Especially when he would let us play on the trampoline in the gym and get us an apple from the walk in, and a bottle of coke from the coke machine. Glass bottles, $.25 cents.  But god, I hated that boiler.  I wondered silently why on earth my dad would have to be the guy working in the boiler room because it was loud and scary and a little like hell-or so I thought.

Since my dad didn't work until  4 o clock in the afternoon, he would get us breakfast in the morning and help get me to school. His one treat-that he made especially for me- in my mind-was mashed up boiled eggs and toast.   My mom never made this, it was dry cereal and toast with her. But my dad,  he would make these 3 minute eggs and butter toast and smash it all up in a bowl and he would put milk on his, but just give me the mashed up eggs and toast. It looked completely awful, but YUM.   That is my favorite memory of my dad Vernon. Mashed up 3 minute eggs and buttered toast.

As his career progressed, and we got older, he got more seniority and eventually became a supervisor. He had his own "truck" and kind of set his own hours.   But no matter, he was up at  5am and at that school by 6am...to make sure that damn fire eating dragon boiler didn't break down, that the school was warm, that the kitchen was ready to go, that the classrooms were clean, and hey-during those Montana winters-he would shovel ALL the sidewalks. When the state got some money they bought  him a tractor and plow.  I think he spent 35+ years shoveling miles of sidewalks and driveways; not counting the time he spent shoveling when he was a kid at the school.  

There's so much about Vernon that I could share. But some of that is for me.  He was an incredible athlete. He was a great basketball player, he was a tremendous baseball-softball player.  Even at almost 55+ years old; he was a catcher in a senior league and would go after foul balls like a young man.  He could out bowl most anyone.  He was honored for his bowling and named into a "Hall of Fame" for notable deaf bowlers.   He could play poker with the best of them.  He loved a dirty joke and a beer.  He was intensely proud.. Proud of his wife and daughters. He would do ANYTHING for any of them and he did; many times. He was admired for his work ethic, his devotion to his school. The school that raised him and taught him most everything about life that he didn't learn back home from his dad.   The school that was his life for almost 65 years.  

I miss my dad-and while I feel really bad that I had to think of it today -of all days- to share my story about my dad; Vernon was epic.   I just wanted you to know.  RIP Vernon.

  XOXOXO.

Schwinn Sting Rays-Remember?

It's Spring, and the bikes are out. Being a child of the 70's we had the best bikes ever. EVER.  We had these Schwinn Sting Ray bikes that had banana seats and racing tires.  My sister had one that was pink-purple and had a cute basket that she would put our cat Cocoa in. Really, if you ever want to see something hilarious; picture a Siamese male cat being hauled into a bike basket, taken for a ride, and then he would just LEAP out of the basket onto some lawn and he would tear off at breakneck speed. My sister was younger, and perhaps for a moment my mom thought or she thought she was more girl-like so she got the prettier bike with the fancy basket. 

I was older, with a stupid looking Mia Farrow haircut so I looked like a boy with glasses. Maybe that's why I got the more boyish avocado green Schwinn with the functional basket...BUT; it had the sparkly green banana seat and a rear racing tire. We loved our bikes.  We would ride our bikes for hours on our street with no traffic.  We lived practically on the edge of our city, and for the first few years we lived there, the street wasn't even paved. But then they paved it, the houses were all built, sidewalks in, and it was glorious play land for all of us kids. And wow, there was a lot of us.   Every house had kids. "Go Outside" was no problem.  Hell yes... go outside. The world was out there, all our friends were there, and everyone-almost everyone had a bike.  

Our favorite was the street with the hill.  I loved the hill.  The thrill of putting my feet up on the handlebars, speeding down the hill...maybe-even-letting go of the handlebars, hands in air. Like FLYING!! We were a perpetual circus act.  I would never let my kid do that. But back in the day, we did it.  My sister did it, my friends did it.  Some of the more daring ones would even stand on their banana seats. We would "pop a wheelie" which if you think about it; took great body strength to not only pull up on the handlebars but also the front wheel- all while coasting.   Jeezus!  I can't imagine why more of us didn't end up in the hospital. No bike helmets for us. Just speed, our bikes and our friends. Maybe a cherry Popsicle too. Of course, we tried to trick out our bikes. Flashy streamers, joker cards with clothes pins stuck on the bike frame. Click,click,clack,click, click, clack. It was like a motor. We were cool. 

By our neighborhood was a huge undeveloped tract of land. Not really farmed, and there were DIRT MOUNTAINS THERE.  I mean God, DIRT HILLS, that the really cool motor bike kids would tear up.  We decided that we were as cool as motor bikers, and we would pump up and down, exhausted, walk our bikes up these steep hills. But ah! The joy of tearing down!Gaaadggh ,,,uummmppph,,ggaaammmppp. Not the paved street hill, but certainly as exhilarating.  Just a killer to get back up.   No wonder we were exhausted at the end of the day.  We would fall asleep, sunburned, insect bitten, dirty fingernails little girls.
I hope kids today don't miss out on something like this. I know some do... but the ones who have any opportunity to really play with their bikes, not just bike around a bike path with bike helmets on; well, they're missing something.

Those bikes were soon followed by the Schwinn Varsity 10 speed bikes. Everyone ditched the fun sting-rays for these uber cool European type racing bikes.   They certainly were more functional, and going uphill was not as thigh burning as the one speed bike; but the days of "look mom- no hands" and riding-standing on your banana seat were over.

Not my bike.. but pretty close

Meat Loaf and Gramma

Making meat loaf the other day, I was reminded of one of my first experiences with meat loaf.  Meat Loaf always conjures up memories of thrift, doing more with less, taking a half a pound of hamburger (the cheapest) and putting in as much stuff in to it to feed a family of four or six; maybe more, and then having enough left over for meat loaf sandwiches.  I'm sure it came into being across kitchens in the U.S. during the Depression;  then for decades after into the 60's & 70's.  Now it's "Comfort Food" and you can purchase frozen microwave meals with Meat Loaf and Potatoes so those of the newer generation that missed out on REAL meat loaf, can have a instant prepared meat loaf meal.  Sort of.  

Yeah, I may on occasion, buy the microwave Marie Callendar Meat Loaf dinner, when I feel guilty that I didn't prepare the home cooked version.  And by the way, that one is the best.  But I do; at least a couple times a year, make the meat loaf that I remember growing up with. 

Actually, I think that Meat Loaf is a gourmet type of terrine.  In the days of Julia Child, terrines were the rage.  Salmon terrains, veal terrines,  and then there was meat loaf.  In the Good Housekeeping cookbooks from the 60's  they would use a combination of pork, veal and sirloin, and add exotic ingredients like real french bread croquettes that they had created from french bread, seared in olive oil, garlic, toasted and crushed.  In our house, we used the 3 or  4 slices of old Eddy's white bread that included the end parts that no one would eat. Same thing? N'est pas?

The meat loaf story and Gramma is a story that my sister and I shared for many years.  My grandparents on my Dad's side were our only grandparents. My mom lost her mother in high school, and  then her dad shortly after graduating from college.   Living in a deaf school dorm for most of her life, my mom's family life was distant; perhaps non-existant. There are just vague snippets of her life with her parents.  My dad's life was a little different. He too, spent most of  his time in a deaf school dormitory; but he would return home on the train to visit his parents for summer and  holidays.  He always said his Norwegian mother made the best home cooked meals. My Hoosier mom could never measure up.

We really never "knew" our grandparents that well. Compared to today, when grandparents are a phone call away, a text away, Skype, Facebook, a short visit away... we  saw Gramma and Grandpa maybe  four times before I was 6 years old.  That summer, my sister and I "got" to spend about two weeks with Gramma and Grandpa. 

We took the train; which probably was the last time the train left this town. They closed the tracks that we rode on shortly afterward. We headed 10 hours east to the far northeastern corner of Montana. Somehow I remember feeling; that for me-this modern child with polyester orange shorts and PF Flyers, was headed to a prior century.  It sort of was.   While my hometown was surging with growth and population; it seemed like that distant corner of my state was somewhat burdened by drought, population loss and just sort of lost in time. 

I remember being at Gramma's and Grandpa house. Again, we didn't know these people that well. And they really didn't know us.  We spent days trying to re-acquaint ourselves. We spent days finding the white kitty's that  hid in Grandpa's shed, walking around Grandma's garden, getting our hair washed with rainwater that Grandma collected in the rain barrel beneath her downspout. Remember I said, I felt like I went back in time about 100 years?  Yeah.  And one day, she said we would have our lunch outside. 

Gramma made these little wax paper bundles with white bread-cold meat loaf slices in them. Of course, being a child of the city, and my mom was all progressive and that, she served us Peanut Butter/Jelly, Velveeta Cheese or Oscar Mayer Bologna sandwiches on White Eddy's Bread. I had never seen a meat loaf sandwich. And this one was on stale white, huge crusty bread with crusty burnt pieces of meat loaf inside.  We tried.  I'm sure we were hungry.

So we ate the other stuff that she brought. Pickles, some fruit, but nah... that meat loaf sandwich. We couldn't do it.  So we're outside. No dog to bribe, no place to hide it, because she was out in her garden all day.  So I was wandering around trying to find a place.  I found a perfect spot.  Gramma's bird bath.  Plastic noveau decor with a dish bowl that you could lift apart from the stand.  Voila!   I stashed the un-eaten, inedible parts of our meat loaf sandwiches down the pipe of the bird bath.    Replaced... and we were all done. Literally. 

Of course, you know the rest.  We didn't get away with it. Somehow the truth was told, and tears flowed.  Something about being punished by Jesus because he was watching us, and a lip that was pouting out ready to be pecked off by a bird.  I'm sure there was a big lesson in there; like "eat what the Lord provided you", etc..etc.. So yes, meat loaf sandwiches are a traumatic memory for me. And to this day, my sister and I have never forgotten that trip to Gramma's and the meat loaf sandwich.

Post Bin Laden

Almost ten years ago, it was a different world for my family.  Today, it's a different world because of a terrorist that changed everything for everyone on earth.  

As I was watching the news last night of the shooting death of Osama Bin Laden, it struck me how many of the young people rejoicing were about my daughters age.   The Park across from the White House was filled with college students.  Time Square, Ground Zero, quickly filled up with young people and people who had experienced the events first hand.  

I watched mesmorized, and tried to count back the years.  These kids were in 3rd, 4th, 5th -middle school grades when this event took place?  What they must feel?  So many of them watched brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers, then later their school mates off to the military or guard to serve their country.  It consumed the last ten years of their young lives.  News pundits paralleled  it to the same rejoicing that occurred after WWII. 
Probably.

I remember 9/11 clearly, because I wanted so much to keep a normal face on what was happening that morning. It was school picture day, and I was desperately trying to get my 3rd grade daughter ready for school, trying to agree on an outfit of choice, hair arranging, which escalated into an argument between us in the bathroom during the whole time the third plane struck the Pentagon in Washington D.C.  I wanted to turn off the TV, but I couldn't. She was obviously affected by my freaked out state, and we could not get on the same page that morning.  I couldn't tell you about the other school picture day mornings, but that one- is as vivid a memory as something that happened yesterday.

I just kept wondering, what is today going to be like? Should I send her to school?  I wondered what her day would be like, because my day was wasted and those of us at work that day were zombies, numbly doing our tasks, which seemed important- but really was not. 

The following weeks I was numb. I tried to keep things normal, and not watch coverage. But it was hard not to be drawn into the whole thing. I think I cried every day for a week.   But I knew that that day, that man would change the lives of these young children forever. Our  kids had their innocence taken away. Our nation was changed forever. Whether the kids  knew it or not, parents everywhere had their guard up. Mail was suspect, shopping malls and big city plaza's were not as safe as they once were, even Disneyland was re-done to move cars and traffic away from the main gates.  Travel was different. The following summer, my blue eyed blonde daughter was pulled from the airport gate at Minneapolis and "wanded", as we watched horrified. For years,  they were involved in school programs and activities to commemorate patriotism and support the troops. They were in it from the get go.

No wonder these kids were screaming USA USA USA last night.  In a way, these kids won a little bit of their childhood back. 

  

Nest Building

OK, it's Spring. Or it's trying to be Spring- desperately. I came to this realization in between winter storms last week. That's right, it is still really winter-like here. Every other day another squall of semi-snow, "sn-hail", even a dumping of heavy wet snow. But it is Spring, and bits of green grass and sprouts of leaf buds  prove it.  And the robins are back.  Those who know my robin story know how this goes, but I sort of had an introspective moment recently, and I think there's more to the robin story. 

Last year, a young robin started to make her nest on the gutter pipe just 3 feet from my kitchen window. She was a newbie robin, probably her first nest ever. Somehow her inner-GPS told her that this was her homeland, and she should built her nest-HERE. On the gutter pipe.  Not in the tree where she probably was born, but on the crux of the gutter pipe.  So the whole mother nature drama played out over three to four weeks right out my window where I spent my time by my kitchen sink.

She was busy building her nest; furiously getting it all ready and it was a pretty good one...she sat on it  for hours readying herself for her eggs; when the BIG STORM hit. We always get one this time of year, but this one was a pretty severe wind and angry winter storm warning.  It blew in; typical  and slammed the fierce wind up against the front of the house-where of course her nest was.  Her nest was blown to the ground   more or less intact but yards away from where she built it. She was like "what the hell?"  I felt so sorry for her, I fixed it. And that's what I am. A fixer.

I put the nest back up on the downspout, and she returned after the storm, re-inforced it with some more twigs and dirt, and soon within a week; there were little babies.  Couldn't see them at first, but the the following week, three little yellow beaks appeared from the narrow nest. She and her partner visited, fed them grubs, and she sat on her brood. Soon it became apparent that she favored one over the other two.  Soon there was only two little hungry beaks quivering for food.  Then the weaker one was thrown out of the nest and never seen again.  So she came back to her one surviving chick-let, and he was a pig. She spent hours and hours feeding it, hovering nearby, attending to his all consuming greedy diet of worms.   In a few weeks he was brave enough to launch himself to the tree branch, then to the ground, but he couldn't fly.  She just hopped around leading it to somewhere, hopefully he made it.    I never knew. I wondered, and soon we took the hose to the nest, bird droppings and all and power washed it off the spout.

So two weeks ago, she returned.   She started building the nest again, on the downspout. She had trouble again, because just like last year, she started building in the middle of winter/spring squall season, and the wind was giving her a lot of trouble.  She started to build it and started to sit on her nest-like mess of twigs that wasn't a nest.  The wind was blowing everyday, and it was a challenge to keep her twigs anchored in the downspout. And again, I thought; well I should help her?  I went out to the bird feeder that was empty from a month of sparrows that had polished it off last month.   I filled up the bird feeder, thinking; well if she likes the suet thing she's been picking at... she'll want some food nearby.  Wrong. The sparrows honed in, and then my robin was gone.  Gone for good.  Too many treacherous other birds, too many threats, too much wind, too much of everything. Too much of my fixing. 

I learned a lesson.  The nest story had me thinking about a lot of things about my nest.  My nest that had been blown to bits by  too many traumatic things over the last few years.  My now empty nest. My nesting instincts that try to fix other nests, much to my detriment. My world-my nest that had taken a beating by employment challenges, financial challenges, family challenges.  But in all, my nest is intact-still.  I reinforce it with twigs and support, borrowed or otherwise lent from family and friends.  I was also reminded of this lesson last week when it seemed like the entire Dixie South was beat to HELL by huge tornado's and those people lives, their nests, will have to be rebuilt.   I swore I would never complain about the weather again.

So it's spring, and unlike some other years, when I think spring is just another season; I actually am seeing it for the first time as a New Year-a new start. I get to rebuild my nest. My daughter is coming home soon from her first year away at college. My husband will have a new career. We'll get an opportunity to rebuild connections, maybe restore some hard edges, even financially, and I may stop fixing things for everyone, and just focus on my nest.

The Fizzle and the Sizzle

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes Awww! Jack Kerouac -On the Road

Katy Perry’s new single Firework did something for me the other day. It made me realize that I am a burned out Firework. I was a Firecracker once. I once had that passion for work, school, marriage, child rearing, even my appearance. What happened?

Perry’s song draws reference from Jack Kerouac’s novel of random thoughts–On the Road. They both claim that it’s people that show their sizzle, their spark, their passion for life that sustains the day. I need some of that; I need some of that around me. Most of the time, I gravitate to a couple of people who are my fireworks. My daughter and my sister. My daughter; is an exploding firework. I do sit back and go Awwww! I can’t wait to see her perfect road. I am extremely proud of her, her accomplishments, her talents, her beauty, even her scary downward spirals when she makes mistakes and picks herself up. She dazzles me. My sister is a fabulous yellow roman candle. She lights up a room, is quick with the wit, and is hilariously funny. She explodes with confidence and sister crazy.

Maybe it’s the first born syndrome? The Serious One? Was I always? I don’t think so. My sorority sisters would say otherwise. As I got older I lost my spark? Has the harshness of age, trials and tribulations beaten me up? The Mojo is gone?


Maybe the line: Do you ever feel like a plastic bag; drifting through the wind, wanting to start again? YES! I do!

The line: Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin, like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?
YES! I do!

But then the hopeful lines:   Do you know there's still a chance for you? Maybe you're the reason all the doors are closed, so you could open one that leads you to the perfect road? 
Where IS that? 
So I have pledged that Firework is my new anthem. For me and the other Fireworks in my life. I hope we all show the world what we’re worth. Make 'em all go AH AH AH.

Wax Thanksgiving Candles

If you like to wax nostalgic; take a trip down memory lane with me.   When we were little, my treasured memories of Thanksgiving was the typical stuff. Turkey smells and watching the Macy's Parade on a grainy, bad color television . Because my parents liked to watch two televisions at once; the other television would have a football game.   Seriously... side by side televisions, with competing programs. One for Dad; one for Mom and the girls.   No wonder I went into broadcast journalism. I grew up watching dueling monitors! 

Anyway, Thanksgiving was always about the perfect meal, the perfect table, and a quiet deaf dinner ambiance, since it was usually just the four of us and the blinking televisions.  One thing about the perfect table, it was set with lace tablecloth, corelle-ware, and crystal bowls with cranberries, pickles, an assortment of dinner accoutrement's.  And then there were the Wax Thanksgiving Candles.http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/view/42514.   I remember them as far back as I can remember.  A big  mulit-crayola colored hued Turkey, a little Turkey, a Pilgrim, A Mommy Pilgrim, A Indian, and an Indian Maid . My relatives might have had the expanded family of Little Pilgrim Children and Little Indian Children... but my memory says; we only had these Thanksgiving Wax Candles:  Pilgrim, Pilgrim Wife, Indian, Indian Maid, Big Turkey, Little Turkey. They commanded  the center of the table and they were NEVER lit.   A serious dead look would come from my Mother if someone said, "Let's light the candles!"   "No, they're only for pretty"  she would sign.

So one day, bored, with the blinking televisions on, probably doing homework at the table, I noticed, that the Pilgrim, Indian, and the Indian Maid no longer had eyes or mouths!  Someone had taken their fingernail and scraped the painted wax dot eyes and mouths off their faces!  They were blind, mute!  AH!   I shot a look at my little sister... really?  Mom would kill us.   Of course, my mom noticed, gave us a stern "WHAT FOR-WHY?" sign, and then left them on the table... blind and mute Pilgrims and Indians.   It was a sad commentary on Thanksgiving. The candles were there for a few more years, and then my mom tired of the doll-like old decor; just put them somewhere.

Years later when I returned home from college for Thanksgiving break; I would say.. "Hey where are those cute candles we used to have?  My mom would sign "Well you girls defaced them and ruined them so we don't have them any more."  I was sad, knowing that I was getting older and a little piece of my nostalgia had created a bad memory for my mom.  She replaced the ruined dolls with new ceramic vibrant Gold Turkeys  to match her new Gold Checked wallpaper to go with the Gold, Burnt Orange and Brown recently remodeled kitchen that she was so PROUD of. 

I never thought of  those candles again.  After countless Thanksgivings at my parents home with new grandchildren in place, relatives that would come and share our family gathering, new table settings would come and go.   It wasn't until four years ago, almost to the week; that those eyeless, mouthless candles re-appeared.    It was Thanksgiving 2006, and my mother was in Hospice...dying.  Of course, we didn't have a real Thanksgiving that year. My father had just died, we were eating some kind of meal that we numbly put together because no matter what was going on at Hospice, we needed to have the sense that Thanksgiving would go on, and we were thankful to be there with our mom.    It was her last days; and my sister and I were in the basement of my mom's house-searching for something. It seems bizarre now; but we needed to be in the basement, finding our memories. Something to cling onto because we couldn't cling on to what was happening at the Hospice house. It was awful.  Rummaging through old Christmas stuff, old picnic items, vintage cooking appliances; stored in the cold cupboard was a white paper bag.   It was the WAX THANKSGIVING candles.  We screamed!  It was a sign, it had to be!   So we then and there decided that we would always have these candles at our family Thanksgivings...despite no eyes, no mouths.. we didn't care.   I was given the treasured white paper bag with the candles and tucked them away at my house.

The following year, I bravely stated that I would host Thanksgiving. In our first year without our parents; my sister and I still wanted to have some semblance of what was our Thanksgiving tradition--will always be?   Of course that isn't true today; but three years ago, my sister and I wanted so much to hang on to that.  I looked for the little white paper bag with the treasured candles about a week before the festivities.   I located the bag in a dresser drawer in a upstairs bedroom.  Upstairs guest room, that probably never had a window open all summer, and where it probably got to 100 degrees that August since that was the summer of fires and heat.    Inside the paper bag, was a melted wax ball of hideous brown, white, blue. Eyeless faces melted into wax turkey feathers.   I screamed and just cried.  I cried like it was the funeral again. Because in a way it was. 

I cried to my sister that I had ruined Thanksgiving, and I was desperately looking for replacement candles. "They don't make them anymore! Did you know that?"   I thought I could just go to Micheal's Crafts and they would be proudly standing there. I was defeated, sad, and felt awful as my sister's family came to join us for Thanksgiving. I put some lame ceramic Pilgrims and Indians on my table that I found on clearance at Joanne's Fabrics. It was insulting.    I walked into my dining room after helping my nephews unload the car; and there on my table were the WAX THANKSGIVING  candles!   My sister found them. EBAY!   She found enough for my table, her table, and our kids tables for years to come. She found the Thanksgiving Six, along with the little pygmie pilgrim-indian families.  To this day, I cannot thank her enough. She told a great story of finding them, her whole office helping her outbid other Ebay freaks to save my Thanksgiving.

Today, I am packing up my little treasured WAX THANKSGIVING candles to accompany us to our daughter's college house to share Thanksgiving with her.  For this, I'm truly thankful.

The Better Dog

People who know me know about my dog.   Gunnar is our family German Shepard.   Gunnar is the third German Shepard that has been a part of my family household. I love Gunnar with all my heart.  But, I was not always a dog person. 
Growing up up with deaf parents, having a dog was sort of a challenge.  We had a crazy Norwegian Elk hound ( that's what they passed her off as- but I think she was part sled dog-indian dog) with an unpronounceable name. Eleyska. Something we made up out of the World Book Encyclopedia.  My mom thought it should have a Norwegian name, so dutiful little girls with the teacher mom looked up Norway in the book and found a town named something, Of course, not having a hearing  parent to help us figure out how to pronounce the name, we came up with something like  Ah LEESK a.   A better name would have been "crazy indian dog".  Deaf parents can't really command a crazy dogs attention. We had no training, and she didn't understand the deaf  "NO!"  which is very different than the Norwegian Elkhound NO!   
She dug, she jumped up on everyone, it barked and ate the corners of the dog house, and then my mom's fabulous blonde furniture. That was probably the last day it ate any furniture ever, because then, one day crazy indian dog was gone.  My dad said she ran away, but I knew.   

Then, another crazy dog.  This one was my sister's dog. Pepper.  Pepper was a mutt faced mix of poodle, terrier and spaniel.  If you could ever have a dog with a psychotic mix, this was it.   Pepper arrived when I was about to leave home for college. Pepper also didn't understand the Deaf "NO" . She liked  underwear. My sister's underwear. If there was a door, she would bolt.  "It's a open door, I have to go, go somewhere, I don't know,  but I'm going, I'm going to the street, then the neighbors, and I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you." 

So my formative years growing up with dogs,  was with two crazy dogs that ate furniture and underwear. Gah.

Then I met my husband.   He came from Alaska with a dog that was a pure specimen of Dog God.   MAJOR.  Major was a purebred AKC German Shepard. Sable mix, 120 pounds of muscle that had traveled the Alaska Highway, ventured out on Oregon and Alaska rivers, spent every moment of his life with his ex-Army Ranger that logged, ranched, built log houses, guided king salmon fishing trips, grizzly and caribou. Major was an Alpha male that lived his life for another Alpha male. They were a team.  He was not a dog that would ever eat underwear. He was magnificent and knew it.    When I met them, I was truly in awe of the Dog God.  He was obedient, he was loyal, he listened. He would actually communicate. He was respectful.  He learned to love me.  Especially since I had a warm apartment, and I smelled like cookies.   Major was a superior dog, and there will never be another like him.  

As our life moved into marriage, the hole without Major was killing us.  We wanted another dog, but there was never going to be another Major. We knew he was irreplaceable. We looked. We even called the Oregon breeder, but decided that we couldn't heal the hole in our heart with a clone. We found a new German Shepard dog for our new life together- RUGER.  All Black and from the Gallatin Valley, Ruger was essentially the essence of his name. Ruger-- a badass firearm.  Intimidating, a little too serious, a combination of my husband and me, starting out in life with a new baby and the oppressiveness of life challenges on our back.  Ruger was the protector. We trained him in Schutzhund training, mostly as something for us to do as a couple , and partly to see what would happen if you trained a German Shepard to actually defend, protect, even maim. He eventually learned to be brave on command, even in German.  We showed him off with his little German commands... "Platz"  "Auz"  "Blieb". A little Nazi-SS  dog machine.  He was loving, but he knew his job was to protect the homeland.   He did that.  No one got in our yard in the ghetto. He would KILL YOU.  Because he was a little defender on four legs, he did not like being in the house. He was not a house dog, and even if you smelled like cookies, Play-Doh or Barbies, he really didn't want to be with any of us. His job was to stay out there with the rabbit he almost killed, and the garden that smelled like old sunflowers.  Ruger had a challenge with his digestive system, perhaps from the stress of defending the homeland, it eventually got the better of him.

A couple of bunnies, and a cat (story in a future blog) later;  we decided that the bundle under the perfect Christmas Tree, for the perfect eight year old daughter, for the perfect new house, was a perfect little German Shepard Puppy.  A puppy with five sisters, a big overbearing brother, and a runty brother, from the Hi-Line Plains of Montana.  Dad and daughter played with the puppies in the Havre K-Mart parking lot  on Christmas Eve, and decided that the one that kept coming back to her would be the one we took home.
We named him immediately, Gunnar.  The Alpine name of a sweet brother combined with  fearless tank sniper who could take out an enemy outpost.  We hoped that he would be a combination of the two.    

Gunnar is best dog I have ever had in my life.   He is loyal, obedient, brave in the face of squirrels, somewhat stubborn, and a true imprint of what our life has become. Settled.  Major was my husband's dog, Ruger was the protector, and Gunnar was my daughter's dog, but now has become my dog.    He sleeps by me,  gives me head hugs( dog head in-between my legs) he talks to me via brown eye gazes, helps me mow the lawn, helps me with the garbage, defends my yard from squirrels. Once in awhile, he decides to check out the neighborhood and roams around, but he has never been the mean scary police dog that I have to worry about.  Neighbors bring him home, or call me and tell me Gunnar is over here.  He's the best dog, with the best reputation.  I found him last month, in the park with a bunch of children, and a little girl who I would have thought would have been scared of a big German Shepard,  tied a plastic bow on his neck, and was dragging him around the school yard.  Gunnar was in heaven, tongue lolling out, following this little girl who smelled like shampoo and outside.  I couldn't ask for a better dog.

Second Hand

Lately, I've been hanging out at second hand stores.  Stores like Goodwill, Salvation Army, St.Vincent De Paul.  No, I'm not turning into a hoarder, although that show is very interesting. I can see how hoarders end up that way.. easily.

No, those second hand stores are like a peek into yesterday.  Funky smells, weird stains on blenders, cups, greasy afghan "quilts".  I wonder... who would ever want this stuff?  Who had this stuff?  Why is it here? Dark shadows run through my mind. Is this someone's "estate"?   Is this the discarded remnants of someone's full vibrant life?  Did they make pancakes every Sunday on this stained, wobbly, singed marked griddle?   Could someone pick up this griddle and start a new Sunday tradition, and the traces of the previous owners Sunday morning griddle life would somehow transfer into a new place?  Eh... creepy.

But then the quirky and weird always make me smile when I'm in those placees.  Not quite antique, not quite vintage... but just  the discarded stuff that someone didn't want anymore. Maybe they moved, maybe they got better stuff, maybe  they married and their old stuff wasn't needed anymore?  I saw nine George Foreman grills at St. Vinny's today.  I'm sure they function quite well, but why are they here?  And why did nine people discard them?   Did they get them for Christmas?  Was it some subtle hint by a relative, --Hey, I know you're trying to lose weight, here's a grill for Christmas.  Nice. That's why the grills are there.  George made millions on those grills, and there they sit on the salvaged shelf at St.Vinny's for $3.00 - $5.00 a piece.  Means something I'm sure. 

But mostly, I hang out there to find stuff for my daughters new life.  Hopeful, that some of the discards will find a happy new life.  Vacuums, pots and pans, blenders, even a funky weird chair from 1977 will become a treasure or at least a prized possession?  I have great hopes for that funky find;  that it will become a party chair, a featured backdrop in campus party pictures. "Hey, here's Kristin passed out on that awful chair. OMG.. that chair is so ugly it's hilarious."

Somehow tying the past of that chair- the once vibrant harvest gold floral pattern for the woman of the house, to greet her  guests for a night of bridge-- to it's present day position of beer pong chair.. is just. Perfect.

First and Ten : Why I love Football movies

So, I am not an expert on Football. I really don't even understand the game that well. But, Football Movies--those just get me. Because they aren't really about Football. It's about heart, emotion, leaving it on the field with abandon.   Radio, Rudy, Friday Night Lights, Remember the Titans, We are Marshall, the Blind Side...countless others.  So if it's on.. I'm watching it.

Maybe it's the upcoming school season, college football, the high schooler that's always within me; it's like a ritual. Maybe because deep down, I really wanted to have that kind of intense personal commitment to a goal - to a team - a coach.  I see it there on the big screen, or in my living room. and I say THERE!...That's life! No wonder that guys who play the game in school, never let go of that passion. I think it's something that men take with them forever. If they played the game, it's with them.

My experience has been that women don't get that kind of intense emotional relationship  where EVERYTHING is on the line- unless it's bitchy.  Maybe?  I don't know. I don't think I've been involved in a battle where it really mattered with a group of women.   There might have been an important deadline or project, but it doesn't compare to the "game".  But, since I'm of the generation that ushered in Title 9-- where girls did cheerleading, drill team, gymnastics or swim team- there wasn't that much to get in the game about.  "Does my hair look cute?"  "Does this leotard make me look fat?" "God, I hate wet hair".

Now young women have that high level game experience that I apparently missed out on. They've been out there, in battle,on the field.   Frankly, I'm jealous. Girls today have no idea what it was like to be repressed, to not compete and get our emotions on.  It wasn't feminine. Oh sure, there were some girls that did the softball thing and girls basketball was just starting.  But come on, you know most of us - even now, just marched in the band or twirled a baton at the game.  I guess the Bring it On movies are for us?  Yuk. 

So it's the season of football, and I know I can find my favorite football drama on some cable channel.
Young man vs. Goliath of Football glory-dom? 
Physically/mentally challenged boy vs. Stereotypical Prejudice?
Racism vs.Athleticism?
Emotional devastation vs.Rebuilding?
Homelessness vs.Grace? 

Oh, and there's a football game or two in there.