For the past 20 years I’ve made sure my boys had everything they hoped Santa would bring. Last year, it was a 1-son Christmas. This year, it’s a zero-son Christmas. The house is in a shambles. I can’t find the tree. Blah, blah, blah.

The decorations at the store went up before Halloween. This is what they’ve ordered. This is what you got. This is all you’re gonna get. Black Friday came like a big dog. Customers were waiting at 5 a.m. to swoop in on the deals. We kicked tail. That was it.

The other night … we decided we’d make a run to the nearest wet county (The Prohibition has not been abolished here, Dad would say). Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was bare. It’d been a rough week with ice storms and flu bugs. There was a dense fog advisory.

We conferred. It was unanimous. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor whatever that third thing is (Dark of night? Snow? Bumper-to-bumper traffic?) We should go.

I used to be able to handle rush-hour traffic in Peoria, Chicago, St. Louis, Little Rock, Memphis. Now, I can’t see at dark, and I get nervous if I’m not the only car on the road. Don drove. I took off my glasses so I couldn’t see. I put them back on, and everything looked the same. I turned on my cell phone and played Guitar Hero.

We made it there. We spent money.

On the way back, I thought about how broke we are. I thought about the fact that I’ve been poor since the time I legally became an adult. I’m pre-menopausal. Stuff wasn’t bad at all growing up. I never wanted for anything. Since I moved out of my parents’ home, I’ve never been able to make ends meet. (Moral of the Story: Don’t become a journalist, boys and girls.)

“How are we gonna make it two more weeks?”, I asked myself. Where will I find the cash to go pick up my youngest for Christmas week? Meanwhile, we were putt-ing along in the dense fog on the way home. I suggested the windshield wipers (didn’t make a difference), and I shifted the clasp on my necklace. It’s always moving around and hanging up on my little gold Cross.

Every time I pray, I touch the Cross Don got me last Christmas. It’s just below my Adam’s Apple. That night in the fog I shifted my necklace, and the true meaning of Christmas hit me in the side of the head like a ton of bricks. I thought about how the boys and I would always build the Fuller-Brush tree together, string the lights until we were dizzy, put up our special Hallmark ornament from that year. My boys are coming home. I thought about Nestor, the Long-eared Christmas Donkey. That was what we topped it off with each Christmas. Hokey,’70s stop-animation BS. Nestor was a Rudolph wannabe.

Nestor’s ears were so long (How long were they?) he tripped over them. The Arabs threw him out of the stable by his ears, and his mother broke out, sheltering him with her body from the cold. Of course, like Bambi’s mom, Nestor’s kicked the bucket. Cue your own Mom’s crying.

It ends up so well, though, for Nestor, and for all of us. Joseph and Mary used Nestor to bring them into Bethlehem. Nestor was somebody. He was able to go back home and shout, “Kiss my ass (literally – cuz he’s a donkey)! I got Mary to the manger. I am the chosen ass.”

What’s the point of all this, then? Shoot. Still hoping for a Christmas miracle. Still a Christian. I missed it this year. I’ll be more than ready the next.

Merry Christmas!
Julie
11:49 p.m.
12/19/08

It’s a most exciting and adventurous time, yet it’s dismal and sucky all at once. Within the past week, we’ve both contracted serious winter colds but had planned a couple of weekdays off together and reserved a cabin in the mountains. It was a 4-hour drive.

I’ve gotta keep the typing to a minimum (it’s noisy). We had a nice time. I’ve posted some pix on our Gravel Travel site. http://www.graveltravel.us/whiterock.htm

Brett Hudson dropped me a line while the old man and I were in the Mountains. I had talked to him 6 months ago about the DVD release of the Hudson Brothers’ Saturday morning show, “Razzle Dazzle.” Brett told me at the time about his battle with cancer, and I decided I didn’t want to be the one to tell anyone his personal business. He’s working on a film, “The Klinik,” about his battle and that of others who find a cure in Germany. I’ll be talking to Brett tomorrow and will visit with Bill soon about his musical goings on.

But the main point of Brett and my conversation tomorrow will be about a soon-to-be-released live Hudson Brothers CD from a 1978 appearance at the Chateau on Sunset Strip. The tapes have been lost for 30 years.

Tune in tomorrow.

Julie
12:54 a.m. 12/15/08

We’ve come up with a fun new Thanksgiving tradition. I got the idea from my favorite British comedian, Ricky Gervais, who has the funniest blog on the internet. Take a picture of yourself looking surprised.

We put the digital camera on a tripod, put it on self timer and hit the shutter release, with 10 seconds counting down to look surprised.

Attached are the results. I did my own first. When I got back from the bathroom, I set the tripod up for Don to do his. After I changed my drawers, we went to Mountain View where Dad donated his surprised expression. Mike topped it all off with the funniest yet. Then, we went back to Batesville with a plate for Don’s friend, Aurby. I twisted his arm, and the results are priceless.

Let me know what you think. I’m gonna put them on my blog, and please send me your pictures of you looking surprised.

Happy Holidays!
Julie

]]> http://stuckinthe70s.com/blog/2008/11/28/a-new-thanksgiving-tradition/feed/ 1 http://stuckinthe70s.com/blog/2008/11/21/thanksgiving-5-years-later/ http://stuckinthe70s.com/blog/2008/11/21/thanksgiving-5-years-later/#comments Thu, 20 Nov 2008 23:55:21 +0000 Administrator http://stuckinthe70s.com/blog/2008/11/21/thanksgiving-5-years-later/

I can’t believe it’s almost Thanksgiving. And how much has changed in the past five years.

Sunday, Nov. 23, 2003, my mother, Earlene Marie Biddison Fidler, passed away. Now, I know as a journalist, we don’t normally use the phrase “passed away.” It’s not AP style. People die. But, I can’t bring myself to word it like that.

Like this coming Sunday, Nov. 23, 2008, it was the weekend before Thanksgiving. Mom was really ill, and although I knew she wouldn’t feel like eating turkey and all the trimmings, let alone cooking the whole mess, I said I’d be over early Thanksgiving morning to cook up something small, and we’d have Thanksgiving. Instead, we had a funeral the day before.

A whole lot has gone down in these past five years, not all good, and thank God, not all bad.

Used to, I published The Fidler Forum. It started out as a Christmas newsletter, snail mailed (before e-mail) to all the family and friends. Then, it grew into a quarterly and monthly publication, complete with contributing writers across the country. Mom wrote a column, “Mom’s Corner,” for many of the editions, especially around the holidays. I’ll be featuring a couple of those here in the coming month. My friend, Jill Reed, hung onto her copies of the Forum, and snail mailed me the columns, which I had misplaced. Thanks, Jill!

What all has happened since then … Let me ponder aloud chronologically.

2003 — At the same time I lost Mom, I hooked up with someone with whom I was entirely incompatible. Everyone saw it but me. I was in some sort of vacuum-like shock. I knew I had to marry the guy, because that’s what I thought Mom would want, rather than me “shacking up.”

We struggled through the holidays, not really observing any of them.

2004 — I married the doofus on May Day. One of my dad’s brothers ended his own life the next day. I quit a good-paying job I hated for one more likable that didn’t pay and wouldn’t last. That September, Dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer. Things got even worse in the marriage, and I tossed him out in December and filed for divorce. Dad recovered from a surgery that removed his bladder and various other nearby organs.

2005 — My brother, Mike, came to Arkansas in February and moved in with Dad to help him around the place. In June, I went from the low-paying job to take a job as an “appliance specialist” at the local home improvement center being built in town. I met “the paint guy” and fell in love. I’d never met anyone like him. My divorce was final in July and his in October. We began seeing each other just before Thanksgiving and dated through the holidays.

2006 — In January, the paint guy and I decided to “enter into an official partnership.” He moved in, and we agreed we couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. For Valentine’s Day, he tattooed my name and a tribal design on his arm, wiping out the name of a former partner. In April, I flew to Florida for a job interview for a copy editor’s spot at a newspaper where my friend Sarah works. They offered me the job. After weighing out what it would mean to take the job — uprooting my two teen-age sons and moving them 1,000 miles, leaving my dad and brothers behind and forcing my man to find a job in Florida, a place I was not familiar with — versus the amount they were willing to pay me and the cost of living in that state, I decided against it. I got Don’s name tattooed over the heart above my left breast.

After that, I made a huge mistake and took a job with a small trader paper that was just trying to get off the ground. That didn’t work out, and I was jobless from August until November when I took a minimum wage part-time holiday job at JCPenney hanging clothes on racks before dawn each day. Just before Christmas, I was lucky enough to get hired back at the home improvement place in the same position I held before.

While I was working at Penney’s, just before Thanksgiving, I got a call from someone at the home center, saying my man had been taken to the emergency room. They thought he’d had a stroke. Ended up, it was an aneurysm, just behind his eye. We went to Little Rock a few days before Christmas for brain surgery. Again, we made it through the holidays.

2007 — That year, we prepared for my oldest son to graduate from high school. However, I didn’t get to see the ceremony because my youngest son broke his arm the afternoon of the graduation and spent the whole evening in the ER. That summer, we helped Number One Son move to the college campus and said goodbye. The old man and I got to know each other better. The rest of the year was fairly uneventful, but far from prosperous.

2008 — In April, I went for a big job interview in Springfield, Mo. I blew them away. I was under the impression I had the position. I was sorely mistaken. Mike and Don (the brother and the man) worked their feathers off fixing up the house while I packed boxes in preparation for the big move. I let the cat out of the bag at my current job because I was so excited. And it didn’t happen. In May, we bid farewell to my youngest son, who was moving to Memphis to live with his dad and stepmother to finish out his high school years. He’d been having a lot of trouble in the school system here. That made it awful quiet around here, and I began suffering from what I call “premature empty nest syndrome.” Then, the bone spur on my right heel became more and more unbearable to where I couldn’t function properly. The doc called for surgery, and I spent July 15-Aug. 24 on my couch, unable to do for myself. Thank goodness I had Don & my buddies, Sherrie and Cynthia. Toward the end of that six weeks, we took a fun float trip on the river. In July, I signed away all of my parental rights to Son Number Two. A few days after I went back to work, we got a phone call that my sister-in-law had, age 51, died on Labor Day evening. That couldn’t be right. But true.

Mike, Dad and I went up to Illinois to comfort Bob and remember Shar for a couple days. We brought Bob back down here for a week and had a nice time. The day Bob left, Dad started having irregular heartbeats. One week later, he was having open heart surgery in Little Rock, and I was missing work again.

It’s been a rough fall, and this brings us full circle. But wait, it gets better. On Nov. 10, the old man and I observed what I refer to as our third “anniversary.” That is to say, on Nov. 10, 2005, we had what I like to refer to as “our first date.” What that means is, he came over to my house that night and watched my DVD of “Napoleon Dynamite.” Gosh! Earlier this week, we were told Don has been chosen for the promotion to supervisor over the contractor services desk. All right. Way to go, mate. I’m so proud of my man. Now, I’m shacking up, and even Mom thinks it’s OK.

So, back to Thanksgiving. They’ve been pretty rough since Mom’s passing. But, I can see the light, and it’s fixin’ to get a lot better, man!

Have a nice day,
Julie M. Fidler
Nov. 20, 2008
17:55

Thanks for all your nice comments. Don’t mean to be such a downer at times. Things are good now, and I’ll write again soon.

Julie
10:39 11/14/08

Julie 12:22 11/4/08

It’s the top of the 9th, and the frickin’ Dodgers lead 9-1. We lost last night too. Both on home turf. We had the home field advantage for God’s sakes!! We only have to win 3 games!!! We’ve done that! We’ve won the central division title two years in a row now. We can do this!

At Wrigley, we stand on our feet when Zambrano pitches two strikes in a row. No one ever leaves their seats until the fat lady sings. Tonight, the pain in the faces in the crowd is unbearable. My face is synchronized. They showed one Cubs fan watching Dodgers home run #9, burying his face in his hands and not coming up for air any time soon.

1908. That’s the last time we won a World Series. My Grandpa Biddison would’ve been in his prime. He’d have been growing up listening to the Cubs games on the ol’ family radio. Decades went by, and Grandpa B. cussed those Cubs and he cussed those Cubs.

Grandpa B. had one of those big hearing aids, but he refused to wear it. Grandpa B. had a brass spittoon next to his chocolate brown naugahyde LaZBoy. He had a radio stand next to his chair, on the right. It was black with long legs, and painted with some sort of flowery thing on the front in red and white. It had a door on it that was made to look like two separate drawers. But, really, when you pulled the pull, it would swing open with hinges on the left side.

The rectangular black plastic radio with the white knobs and red needle atop the stand was always blasting the ballgame when the Cubs played. The TV set (truly a “set” with a wooden console) had the rabbit ears aimed at Chicago for the game on WGN. The volume button – yes, button, a sort of small knob that you had to walk across the room to control – was turned clockwise as far as allowed.

I sat upon Grandpa’s lap with my blue felt two-dollar Kmart Cubs hat atop my pony-tailed head. I had my mitt on my left hand. Only I knew what the old black radio stand contained.

(I see now it’s 10-1 in the bottom of the 9th, Cubs fans, and Derrek Lee just hit a double with no outs. THERE’S STILL A CHANCE!!!!!)

Sorry, I got sidetracked, thinking, dumbass Cubs fan that I am, there could possibly still be a chance we make it to the World Series.

Anyhoo … (go Aramis, we got no outs!) … Grandpa opens the old stand (Aramis advances to third, and we’ve got a man on first as well. DeRosa’s up to bat with no outs. Strike one. Pie’s on deck. DeRosa hits one off the third-base line and it’s called foul. Wow. My hat’s inside out.)

(One and two’s the count on DeRosa. Ramirez steals second. It’s two and two. The fans are chanting “Let’s go Cubbies.” It’s a double. Two men score for us. It’s now 10 to 3, still no outs with a runner at second. High fives all around.)

(The Dodgers coach is headed to the field.)

So, Grandpa opens the stand and pulls out a big stack of bubblegum cards. He slowly undoes the brittle rubber band with hands taken over by arthritis.

(The ESPN commentators are calling this game “officially over.” Cub fans, apparently, they’re not. Assholes.)

Grandpa removes the top card. Milt Pappas. He complains about the length of Pappas’ hair. And, look at those sideburns. A travesty. The next one looks like a playing card. It’s not your traditional Topps baseball card. One side of it has a blue design like those poker cards, and the other side has a mug shot of Ron Santo in the middle, a number in each corner, and bold text saying, “Pop Out.”

Well, Grandpa looks at the card. (Pie walks and now we have men on first and third. Soto comes up, and there’s a conference of homosexuals on the mound. Ball one to the Cubs’ catcher. Still no outs. I need to get another beer.)

(Fukudome is up with one out, and the count’s oh and one. Men on first and third. One ball and one strike. Strike two. Outside corner – looked like a frickin’ ball to me. Two and two. Look at that pitcher’s sideburns. Third strike. Fukudome must’ve been wooed by the burns. We’re down to our last out and Ward is stepping in to bat. Lord, help us. Two and oh to Ward. 4 errors this game. What the f**k?!! Two and one the count, and the Cubs fans are standing up again, of course. We have runners out there. Don’t strand ’em!! Full count. Oh my God, he’s got an earring in his ear. Just like a girl. Uh-oh. I’m channeling Grandpa B. again. They’re showing a female Cubs fan praying. Strike 3. That’s it. We suck, as expected. G!@#^&**%!!!!!!!!)

Grandpa turns the card over in his frail hands to look directly into the eyes of Santo. “Pop out,” he says. “That’s right. That’s all he’s ever good for. He couldn’t hit the ground with his hat.” He’s not angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. He’s just stating a fact.

“Here,” he says, handing the card to me. “You can have him. He’s worth nothing to me.”

He’s worth a lot to me. Now.

Julie
12:03 a.m.
10/3/08

Well, summer’s winding down. For that I’m grateful. My leave of absence is almost over. For that, I’m not.

It’s hard to believe how quickly six weeks off work goes, especially if you don’t have a screaming, pooping, barfing newborn to take care of.

The first couple weeks after surgery kind of sucked. I was sort of hoping for an extended vacation, as it were. But what I got instead was a lot of pain and the inability to do for myself. Thankfully, it got better.

What have I done over this past month and a half? Let me try to recall …

There was plenty of TV and DVD watching, computer playing and book reading. There were also the days completely wasted (maybe not, when it comes to my sanity), lying around with the cats and sleeping while it rained. There were two or three trips back and forth to Memphis to shuttle No. 2 son; and the times I spent with my best girlfriend, watching ghost-hunting shows, talking politics and eating excessively.

I mustn’t forget a couple jaunts to spend the day with Dad. And the times Old Fartt #2 joined us for some pickin’ and grinnin’ and big breakfasts. There was a hot day in the shade on the banks of the rapidly flowing Spring River. And, most recently, there was the trip down said river in a blow-up boat.

Sooner than I’d like, I’ll be reporting for duty at the kitchen design desk of your local home improvement center. Back to the day in, day out … some rude and irate customers, a handful of rumor mongering co-workers and backstabbers, aching bones and feet and taxes. In the middle of that, it’s when I’ll remember lying in bed at 11 in the morning, reading about sexy vampires and listening to Diablo’s soft purr.

The things I thought I’d accomplish didn’t quite get finished — although there’s still a day or two for that; and I’ll have some days off from work coming. The house is a little less messy, and that’s what matters, I guess.

I took some pictures and some video along the way, most of it – no, probably all of it – not really worth looking at. But it’s fun just the same. Below is a 1 minute, 45 second sample of “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”

My brother, my sweet baboo and I had gone to the outfitters to take a raft ride down the river. It was 1 in the afternoon. We arrived too late, so we scheduled for the next morning. We didn’t realize we’d be spending 5 hours in the unforgiving sunshine, fighting for our lives over some falls, dodging snakes and turtles and running out of beer a quarter of the way through.

Anyhoo … this video is from the day before the raft trip. I didn’t dare take my video camera along on that, and it’s a good thing, too (saving it for another blog entry). We had just been turned down for the Saturday float and decided to stop at a drive-in fast food chain for a bite to eat before heading back to the motel.

This is what we encountered.

Well, I’m off to tackle the grocery shopping.

Stay cool,
Julie
12:42 p.m. 8/25/08

You don’t? It means the smell of wastewater from the chicken plants down by the White River wafts all over these parts, ushering in the Independence County Fair & Livestock Show, the Cave City Watermelon Festival, numerous various pageants, and the granddaddy of ‘em all – THE WHITE RIVER WATER CARNIVAL. It’s a week-long extravaganza, the likes of which are rarely seen ’round here, topped off with the Miss White River Pageant (a pre-cursor to Miss America)!

The events start out small early in the week with the Cruisin’ Main event — a drive through the ol’ Main Street Route, circlin’ the Sweden Creme and showin’ off your hot wheels. Later in the week, the River City Cruisers host a car show. You know it’s time for the car show when you smell the chicken guts.

I’d told my yankee brother, Mike, about the car show for years. Told him how rinky dink it was, yet he longed to visit and see for himself. So, here he came south the last day of July or the first day of August, to see the show. They were lined up in the City Building parking lot in all their Armour-Alled glory.

I take a picture of my brother, his head underneath the propped-up hood of a ‘57 Ford. Snap. He surfaces with a sour look on his face. “What is that smell?”

“Oh. That? Why that’s local industry, big brother,” I explain. “What you’re smelling is a pure mixture that can be found nowhere else on this continent. First and foremost, you’ve got the rotting chicken guts, milling about in the sewage at the plants by the White River, which flooded 3 or 4 times this spring. Mix that with the sweat of the illegal immigrants trying to make a buck pulling the beaks off said chickens. And, then to top it all off, there’s the record-breaking stretch of temperatures and/or heat indices at or above 100 degrees farenheit. Mmmmmm … like a breath of spring time.”

Mike’s got a poker face on. He brushes his bangs off his forehead with his left index finger.

“Nice,” he replies.

Stay cool,
Julie
10:47 p.m. 7/11/08

Well, boys and girls … today was quite unusual. I think I’ve mentioned in previous blogs about this heel spur I’ve been living with. Yeah — I’m a middle-aged overweight woman who walks anywhere between 7 and 15 miles every day, 10 days in a row, on solid concrete at your local home improvement center.

My family doc referred me back to the orthopedic guy who had previously shot my foot up with cortizone (to no avail), and then put a cast on my leg so I’d stay off it (helped for a little bit). I saw him for 6 seconds today, and now I’m scheduled to have surgery one week from tomorrow morning. OK.

So, I’m in a frenzy trying to find out how to file for my short-term disability. I’ve got customers whose kitchens have only yet begun who are counting on me. My Missouri career apparently fell through. I don’t have any time off coming till Christmas. I worked 10 consecutive days while Don slept through his vacation. I deserve a break today. My foot hurts. Dammit.

OK. That’s enough of the whining. When Don asked me this afternoon, “What does this entail?” I thought he meant the medical procedure. No. He meant two weeks without my regular pay and 6 weeks worth of whining. He’s right. He’s got to psyche up.

What that means for you, faithful reader, is lots of Web site updates. Lots of video footage still to go through. Diaries to find. Lots of magazines, pictures and recipes to scan, and hopefully, more celebrity interviews to do.

So, children, this is the new permanent home of the Stuck in the ’70s blog. Thank you, Yahoo!, for fixing it! I’ll continue to be on My Space as well, but not my blog.

Stay cool,
Julie
11:58 p.m. 7/7/08