Oct. 29, 2003
Sweaty, Chintzy, Flammable Masks
I just spent over 16 bucks to turn my already bony kid into a skeleton.
That's what it cost to buy the Halloween costume 10-year-old Nick wanted. What is the
world coming to when a skeleton costume costs 16 bucks? And the kid didn't appreciate my
money-saving offer to paint him white and let him trick or treat naked.
I don't think my parents paid over 2 clams for any of my Halloween costumes when I was
a kid. Then again, the costumes were crap in the '60s and '70s.
One year, I was a skeleton. The costume consisted of a black jumpsuit, made of some
highly flammable, chemical-based, itchy material with bones painted on it and strings at
the back of the neck to tie it closed. It came with a chintzy, thin plastic mask that
covered most of my face and was strapped onto my head with a piece of elastic that broke
the first time I tried the mask on. The elastic had to be stapled back to the mask,
causing it to crack and tear, numerous times. Now, that's scary stuff, kids!
When I was trick or treating age, I always chose to be something scary. No stupid fairy
princesses here. The only costume I picked out that wasn't intended to be scary was a
Batman one, based on the 1960s TV show. Otherwise, I was a witch, monster or something
undead. There really wasn't a great deal to chose from.
My brother and I would usually get our costumes from
either Kmart or Ben Franklin. There, they were stored on the shelves in neat rows of thin
cardboard boxes. The end of each box had a white rectangle on it, whereupon words such as
"RAGGEDY ANN CHILD M (10-12)" would be printed.
The box had cellophane on the top of it so you could see the mask and so that hooligans
could punch their fingers through it and smash the noses on those flimsy masks. You had to
be careful, because the costume you'd find in one of the boxes sometimes didn't match the
writing on the box or masks would get switched.
These costumes were made by a company called Ben Cooper. I don't think they're in
business any more.
My brother, Mike, and I used to cut up some of Mom's old nylons and glue oval-shaped
pieces to the inside of our masks to cover the eye holes. We didn't want anyone being able
to see our eyes and guess who was behind the mask. Of course, there were invariably the
old neighbor ladies who would bend down, say "Oh, aren't you cute?" and make us
tell them who we were before they'd give up the candy. I hated that.
Some of the masks had a slit where your mouth was and perhaps nostril holes if you were
lucky. These holes were never quite big enough to keep a kid from suffocating, and our
breath would condensate, making the inside of the mask wet, hot and slimy. This is why
we'd often lift our masks and perch them atop our heads between porches. I can still feel
the brisk Halloween night air hitting my face.
Sometimes we were able to save a costume from one year to the next. When that was the
case, we'd go out on Beggar's Night the night before Halloween and see who we could
convince to give us some loot. And, if we had built up three costumes that still fit,
better yet – we'd wear one on Beggar's Night, hit the neighborhood on Halloween in
the second one, go home and change into the third, and head out for even more sweets. Mike
always took an empty pillowcase to make sure he had plenty of room to store all the
goodies.
I realized it was my last Halloween to trick or treat when I couldn't find one of those
cheap costumes to fit me. So, I dressed up as a hobo and went anyway.
Here's hoping you have a happy Halloween and can afford a costume!
Oct. 15, 2003
Celebrating the Life of Mr. Powell
As I write this, I'm preparing to go to the funeral of a dear
friend. Although I'm mourning his loss and am sad to say goodbye, I'm happy for him. I'm
happy because, never in my life have I been more certain that someone is going to keep
company with Jesus than I am right now.
There's no doubt in my mind that Wilson Powell has gone on to something even better
than what he had here on Earth, and he'll be rewarded for being the most selfless person
who spent time among us.
I met Mr. P. shortly after I graduated from Arkansas College. From then on, I had the
privilege of hanging out with him every weekday (and some long election nights or other
assignments) for the next 15 years at the Guard-Record Co. office where he was
accountant/business manager.
His office also served as one of the most comprehensive, compact archives for north
central Arkansas history anyone's ever assembled. As time went on,am right now.
There's no doubt in my mind that Wilson Powell has gone on to something even better
than what he had here on Earth, and he'll be rewarded for being the most selfless person
who spent time among us.
I met Mr. P. shortly after I graduated from Arkansas College. From then on, I had the
privilege of hanging out with him every weekday (and some long election nights or other
assignments) for the next 15 years at the Guard-Record Co. office where he was
accountant/business manager.
His office also served as one of the most comprehensive, compact archives for north
central Arkansas history anyone's ever assembled. As time went on, more and more files,
boxes, documents, papers and books encroached on Mr. P.'s workspace until he had very
little room left for his chair and manual typewriter.
We tried to get Mr. P. a computer or a word processor, but he wouldn't hear of it. We
finally did talk him into an electric typewriter. I worked to help him learn how to use
the new typewriter, but before I left the Guard in 2000, I noticed the electric
machine, complete with all its bells and whistles, sat upon a stack of old newspapers, and
Mr. P. was plunking away at that old Royal, working on his weekly column.
Mr. P. got more correspondence than one person could possibly keep, more and more
files, boxes, documents, papers and books encroached on Mr. P.'s workspace until he had
very little room left for his chair and manual typewriter.
We tried to get Mr. P. a computer or a word processor, but he wouldn't hear of it. We
finally did talk him into an electric typewriter. I worked to help him learn how to use
the new typewriter, but before I left the Guard in 2000, I noticed the electric
machine, complete with all its bells and whistles, sat upon a stack of old newspapers, and
Mr. P. was plunking away at that old Royal, working on his weekly column.
Mr. P. got more correspondence than one person could possibly keep up with, most of it
from people wanting information about their ancestors. One by one, Mr. P. would dig out
books and files he thought would be useful for them and try to answer every single one, no
matter how much time and digging it took.
I don't remember my first conversation with Mr. P. or exactly when we became friends.
But, I'd venture to say it was within a few minutes past 8 a.m. on Sept. 9, 1985 – my
first day on the job.
I was fresh out of college, wet behind the ears and hired to cover the police
beat. That meant not only going to the police station every day to pick up reports and
look at the dispatcher's log, but it alp up with, most of it from people wanting
information about their ancestors. One by one, Mr. P. would dig out books and files he
thought would be useful for them and try to answer every single one, no matter how much
time and digging it took.
I don't remember my first conversation with Mr. P. or exactly when we became friends.
But, I'd venture to say it was within a few minutes past 8 a.m. on Sept. 9, 1985 – my
first day on the job.
I was fresh out of college, wet behind the ears and hired to cover the police
beat. That meant not only going to the police station every day to pick up reports and
look at the dispatcher's log, but it also meant being sent out to crime scenes just as
soon as we learned the 10-20 from the scanner in the newsroom.
Within 10 days of my joining the news staff, managing editor Roy Ockert Jr. sent me to
a car wreck at Sulphur Rock. As I left the building, all we knew was that it was bad. I
couldn't have imagined how bad.
I came back to the office from that accident that took the life of a 13-year-old girl,
stunned and ready to hand in my reporter's notebook.
I found myself in Mr. P.'s office, crying. I ended up staying.
From then on, Mr. Powell was better than any shrink I could've paid good money for.
That poor man listened to more lso meant being sent out to crime scenes just as soon as we
learned the 10-20 from the scanner in the newsroom.
Within 10 days of my joining the news staff, managing editor Roy Ockert Jr. sent me to
a car wreck at Sulphur Rock. As I left the building, all we knew was that it was bad. I
couldn't have imagined how bad.
I came back to the office from that accident that took the life of a 13-year-old girl,
stunned and ready to hand in my reporter's notebook.
I found myself in Mr. P.'s office, crying. I ended up staying.
From then on, Mr. Powell was better than any shrink I could've paid good money for.
That poor man listened to more problems – everything from financial woes to two
divorces to irate readers. Yet, he always remained upbeat.
Even through the tragic death of his own daughter, Mr. P. kept a handle on it all and
still lived to help everyone around him. I never once heard him say anything negative
about anyone. Whether I was in his office to gripe about a "mean" editor or an
interview gone wrong, Mr. P. always just nodded and smiled knowingly.
He'd been through it all before and could always offer insight. Even though he'd
sometimes point out what my enemy of the day might be thinking, he'd always be supportive
of me.
Every once in awhile, problems – everything from financial woes to two divorces to
irate readers. Yet, he always remained upbeat.
Even through the tragic death of his own daughter, Mr. P. kept a handle on it all and
still lived to help everyone around him. I never once heard him say anything negative
about anyone. Whether I was in his office to gripe about a "mean" editor or an
interview gone wrong, Mr. P. always just nodded and smiled knowingly.
He'd been through it all before and could always offer insight. Even though he'd
sometimes point out what my enemy of the day might be thinking, he'd always be supportive
of me.
Every once in awhile, I'd go out to take pictures at an event and forget to jot down
someone's name or get the proper spelling. That was when I'd slip into Mr. P.'s office,
show him the print of the photo, and ask, "Who is this lady, and how do you spell her
name?" Mr. P. would always know. He knew EVERYBODY.
Whenever I felt too rushed and didn't have time to gather background information for an
upcoming article, Mr. P. would always have a file on it to share.
As time went by, I grew from the green reporter to a seasoned writer and eventually
managing editor. Mr. P. was always there to encourage me and praise my work when no one
else would. By that time, I', I'd go out to take pictures at an event and forget to jot
down someone's name or get the proper spelling. That was when I'd slip into Mr. P.'s
office, show him the print of the photo, and ask, "Who is this lady, and how do you
spell her name?" Mr. P. would always know. He knew EVERYBODY.
Whenever I felt too rushed and didn't have time to gather background information for an
upcoming article, Mr. P. would always have a file on it to share.
As time went by, I grew from the green reporter to a seasoned writer and eventually
managing editor. Mr. P. was always there to encourage me and praise my work when no one
else would. By that time, I'd go into his office to chat about the "newbies" and
what it used to be like in the "old days."
Even though I'm sure I was still under Mr. P.'s wing when I left the Guard, I
was proud to be able to call him a colleague. I'd like to think some of his positive work
ethic rubbed off on me, and maybe someday, we'll be talking newspapers together again.
June 14, 2000
Someone great once said something like "Truly I tell you, just as you did not do
it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."
Of course, that great someone was Jesus Christ, and the quotation above is
from the New Revised Standard Version of Matthew 25:45. Jesus was explaining to his
followers that, when they feed or clothe strangers or give them a drink, they are really
serving him. Or, by the same token, when they fail to help "the least of these"
they are failing him.
I was reminded of this passage recently, on a hot day, when I returned home
from work. The first thing I always do upon coming home is "slip into something more
comfortable." For those who work with me, I know it's hard to imagine I even own
something more comfortable.
Any way, on this particular day, something more comfortable was in the
dryer down the hall from my bedroom. So, I scampered from the bedroom to the laundry room
in my skivvies to fetch it.
Let me back up here to set the scene.
Just as it became apparent that summer was coming whether we wanted it to
or not, I asked my dad to install a screen door on the front of my house. He worked
diligently doing just that so I could try to draw some air into the house and conserve on
cooling bills.
OK. As I was gallivanting down the hallway, I saw a young woman, probably a
teen-ager, walk up my front porch steps to the screen door. I gasped and darted into the
laundry room.
"Excuse me, ma'am," she said. "Could I have something to
drink?"
My thoughts immediately went to an east Batesville woman who was nearly
killed by intruders earlier this year. Two men came to her house, asked for a drink,
entered the house, bound the lady and dragged her around her home as they looked for
money. She was very lucky to have escaped out a back door when they weren't looking.
As far as I knew, this young woman on my porch had some thug waiting out of
sight to knock me on the head and take whatever they could from my home, leaving me for
dead.
"What do you need?" I shouted out at her.
"What do you got?"
That didn't sound right. So I hollered back, "I'm sorry. I don't think I can help
you."
"Water?" she pressed.
Time to think again.
"OK," I said. "Can you back off a bit? Just back up some.
I'm running around in my underwear here. Give me a minute."
She turned her back on the house, and I threw something on. From there, I
went to the kitchen and grabbed an expendable plastic cup out of the cabinet. I opened the
screen door just wide enough to hand her the cup while saying, "Here's a cup. The
water from the faucet over on that side of the house is much colder than from the sink any
way. Just undo the hose and help yourself."
Without uttering a word, she took the cup and disappeared around the side
of the house. I heard the hose come on as I was closing the screen door and metal front
door. I didn't see where she went after that, and that made me a bit more nervous.
Reflecting on the chain of events and pondering all the bracelets and
clothing that pose the question "WWJD" (What would Jesus do?), I wondered if I'd
done the right thing. It's hard to say what was right or wrong in this situation. I felt
justified that I didn't invite the person in and offer her a Diet Pepsi or a Kool-Aid or
an Old Milwaukee Light for heaven's sake. Personal safety has to be an issue considered
now-a-days.
Then again, in Luke 10:25-37, the Bible asks who is our neighbor? Whoever
needs us really, according to the parable of the Good Samaritan.
Did I do the right thing? Well, I may not have been overly friendly, but I
did meet the young woman's need, and that was only for something to quench her thirst.
I didn't find the cup outside anywhere. Hopefully, she took it with her so
that she can stop in at another faucet on her path in case she gets thirsty again
June 28, 2000
What were you doing 20 years ago? Have you
changed any since then? Are you a completely different person?
Chances are, you've changed some,
but deep down inside, you're still basically the same person. Usually, a crabby old man
was a crabby young man. Someone who was pretty happy-go-lucky usually stays that way. A
juvenile trouble-maker is likely a grown-up trouble-maker.
My mother had the nickname
"Sunny" when she was younger because she had such a friendly, sunshiny
personality.
She still does have that positive
outlook, but life has changed my mom some. Breast cancer, diabetes, stroke, high blood
pressure, thyroid disease, trying times with each of her children and over 50 years of
marriage – these have all made her more realistic in her approach to daily life. But
underneath, she's still Sunny.
Twenty years ago, I was going into
my senior year of high school. I was a nerd. Not the overtly smart type of nerd. I got a D
in algebra because I didn't care about it. But, the kind of nerd who liked everything that
wasn't "cool" with the in crowd.
I took part in no extracurricular
activities. Well, I was on the school newspaper staff, and that was about it. I went to
school, then I went home day in and day out. At home I'd spend every evening watching
television, listening to the radio, writing in my diary, reading or talking with friends
on the phone. Yes, I did have friends – some close ones with whom I'd hang out at the
mall, go to the movies or have slumber parties. But I was never invited to any
"keggers" or even school dances, proms or games. I didn't taste my first
alcoholic beverage until I was 20 and a college student.
I knew what I was into and what I
liked was considered "lame" by some my age, and I guess what made me a real nerd
was that I would proudly defend it.
It was not cool to like, for
example: Tiger Beat magazine, Donny Osmond, the Captain and Tennille, disco dancing, the
Bee Gees, puka shells and mood rings. I would debate those who doubted the Captain and
Tennille's musical talents, and I'd go to bat for them today (with the possible exception
of "Muskrat Love.") Heck, I almost got beaten up once when I told a friend's
older sister that the Bee Gees' version of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club
Band" topped the Beatles' original.
In celebration of what I thought
was my unique and hopeless nerdiness, I created a Web site a few years back called
"Stuck in the '70s." To me, all the kitsch I was into defined my favorite
decade. I made my Internet site a tribute to all that was fun or corny. I even began
publishing my 1970s diaries on the site so people who didn't live then could learn what
was popular. I thought the diaries were pretty typical, telling my viewpoints on current
events and talking about boys on whom I had crushes – boys who didn't even know I
existed.
Ends up, I am not alone. I receive
hundreds of e-mails from nerds just like me! They were in their rooms, listening to the
Top 40 stations at the same time I was. Or, I get e-mails from their daughters, who are
now buying Tiger Beat and listening to their CDs of the Backstreet Boys, Hanson and
'Nsync.
I was riding high until last week
when someone signed my virtual guest book in a not-so-friendly way. She was someone who
was three years ahead of me in high school. She started out by writing, "I don't even
remember you." Well, honestly, in a school with over 500 students, I didn't know who
she was either. I didn't even find her in my yearbook (she probably had a hang-over the
day school pictures were taken).
She went on to basically call me a
loser. She said I was crazy if I ever thought I had a chance with Joe, the fox I followed
around and sent secret admirer notes to. She said the Captain and Tennille were lame and
so was all of the other stuff I enjoyed. She asked why I didn't include some
"real" musical groups on my site such as Cheap Trick, AC/DC, Pink Floyd,
Aerosmith and a few drug-related, alleged rock and rollers I'd never heard of in the '70s.
Wow. As I read over her message
again, I was immediately taken back to those times in high school when I faced the same
ridicule. That shouldn't be possible when one is well into being thirty-something. I felt
like a loser again for the first time in years. Then I got angry.
The woman didn't bother to say what
she is doing now. The last time I saw Joe the fox, he was a 40-year-old Pizza Hut bus boy.
I'd be interested in her career and achievements.
So, I let it go, but not without
defending myself. My return message went something like this:
"Thank you for signing my
guest book and for reminding me why I hated high school and how much I don't miss the burn
outs. Have a nice day."
And, you have a nice day.
July 12, 2000
Broadcasting is an addiction. Once you've decided it's for you, you can try to escape,
but you'll always have to come back for a fix.
As a teen-ager, I spent a lot of time alone, listening to the local top 40
radio station. It was a thrill to call the local disc jockey to request a song and then
listen for it and see what he'd say about it. After playing my requested Andy Gibb tune
once, I remember the d.j. saying Gibb sounded like a chimpanzee in heat. Ouch.
Eventually, I arranged to meet my favorite d.j. and take a tour of the
station. I was in love – with both the broadcaster and broadcasting.
My father and I had always been fascinated with radio. He explained to me
many times about the vacuum tube and we discussed Marconi a lot. We purchased a crystal
radio kit from Radio Shack and that was fun for awhile. But it didn't satisfy my need to
actually have my voice go out over the airwaves.
At the time, anyone who would be on the radio was required by the Federal
Communications Commission to have a first class radio operator's license. So, I got the
necessary books and began studying. I also recall buying a book called "How to be a
radio disc jockey." It was full of all the fun stuff, tongue twisters and fake
commercials to practice reading. It told how to enunciate, breathe and how to develop a
good delivery while the technical books were dry and told about how to take various meter
readings and about ohms and watts and such. I even signed up for a college-level radio/TV
course.
One evening while perusing our Radio Shack catalog, Dad spotted a kit that
would allow one to have her own frequency modulation (FM) "radio station." Of
course, the wattage was very low and no licenses were required. We rushed out and got the
kit.
Dad didn't just put together the kit, he made a switch so I could go back
and forth between putting out the records I played on my stereo or the microphone in which
I spoke; and he built an "on the air" sign that would light every time I turned
the equipment on to broadcast.
At age 15, I had my very own radio station in the basement! At first, I
called it WFID, using the first three letters of my last name. Then, I read in
Broadcasting magazine (to which I subscribed) that it was becoming hip to include the
letter "Z" within call letters. So, I became WFIZ.
The format of my radio station? It ranged from Top 40 to my brothers' Led
Zepplin albums to my mom's big band tunes to my dad's George Carlin and Bill Cosby LPs.
Our coverage area? The house, garage, driveway, yard and perhaps a bit of the neighbors'
yards on either side of us. I got requests, that's for sure. Dad would call in on the
intercom from his workbench in the garage; Mom would call from the kitchen sink while
doing dishes; and brother Mike would listen from the back porch where he was twiddling
with a homemade go cart.
All through high school, I continually applied for a job, any job, at the
local radio station – which I never got. But, I didn't give up. As I watched more and
more current events on television during the Iran hostage crisis, I adjusted my dream to
becoming a television broadcast journalist. Jessica Savitch was blazing a path for women
in broadcasting that I found hard to avoid.
My first day at Arkansas College I was disappointed to find the radio
station had become defunct just that summer, and I introduced myself to the media
professor as "Julie M. Fidler, the next Jessica Savitch." That was obviously
before she was killed in an awful car wreck.
While I was attending AC, I helped pay for tuition by working in the
school's media center and with a part-time job at KBTA/KZLE. There, in a small brick
building by the White River, I got to fulfill part of my dream by d.j.'ing on KBTA. Much
to my chagrin, the format was the only kind of music I wouldn't have thought of playing on
WFIZ – country. I was also needed to cover local meetings and produce some news for
the stations.
During my college years, I became very interested in covering and writing
news, and shortly after my graduation, I got a job at the local newspaper, where I stayed
for 15 years and loved it.
Just over a month ago broadcasting, my first love, re-entered the picture.
I came to WRD Entertainment when I heard there was an opening for a
part-time disc jockey. Hooray! I thought it would be fun to d.j. part time and do some
freelance writing, photography and Web site building. However, the company was in need of
someone in its news department and I did, after all, have about 18 years of experience in
that area.
So, here I am, excited to be covering the news AND getting my Midwestern
voice on the air several times a day. Now, if I can just work my way into a bit of that
d.j. thing. . .
July 19, 2000
Recently a man beat another man to death over
their children's hockey game.
It was just a game.
The man who was killed was the
single father of four who had just gained custody of all of his children. Now, his elderly
mother is left to care for them.
What's wrong with people? I cannot
fathom how any human could get his temper worked up so much over a game as to strike
someone. It's just a game.
Why do kids play organized sports?
No one in my family, including my two older brothers, has ever felt the desire to play on
a team, so I truly can't say. But, my guess is that it is fun and there is good fellowship
and maybe even some rewards.
From the comments I've heard from
children athletes, they are out there to have fun. How upsetting it must be to watch your
father killed over a game in which you are playing.
The latest incident has brought it
home to me once again how grateful I am that my two sons, ages 7 and 11, show absolutely
no interest in organized sports. For one thing, I won't ever have to worry about getting
them to this or that game in this or that town and stay up all night for a late ballgame.
I also won't have to worry about some parent beating the crap out of me if my kid does
something stupid on the field or court.
This is not to say that my sons and
I don't like sports. We love to play Wiffle Ball or catch, bat around the badminton in the
side yard or play a round of H-O-R-S-E with the basketball hoop in the driveway, but we
never lose our tempers over any of it. After all, we're just in it for the fun. We're more
likely to play Monopoly. And, although we get upset that someone else manages to get both
Park Place and Boardwalk, we're not going to kill over it.
My oldest son, Vincent, has had two
attempts at organized sports, and both were a lesson to us.
The first was with tee ball when he
was five. It was my idea to get him into it. It seemed like the thing to do. (So did that
one baby pageant in which I entered him, and he cried the entire time he was on the
stage.) He showed no enthusiasm either way about being on the team. Whenever it was his
turn to bat, it would take him numerous swings to hit the ball even though it was right
there in front of him, just resting there, waiting to be smacked.
When it was Vincent's turn in the
outfield he would often sit down on the ground and play in the dirt. Another time, a ball
rolled straight to him, coming to a halt less than a yard from his left foot. I was
sitting on the bleachers wondering what he'd do. He put his hand up by his mouth, so as to
amplify his voice, squinted in the sun, pointed at the ball and hollered, "Mommy, is
it OK if I pick that up?"
I laughed and bellowed back,
"Sure, go ahead. And throw it to the boy at second."
He had no idea what I meant. What
was second? Why throw it there? Well, we survived. At the end of tee ball season every kid
got a trophy for participating. He still keeps his little golden baseball player on his
dresser.
The past two years, Vincent signed
up for kids' church league basketball. Our church, I'm afraid, offers very few youth
activities for children until junior high school when they can join the youth group.
Vincent is in the children's choir and hand bells at church, and he saw the basketball
team perhaps as a good way he might get to hang out with some of his friends from those
activities.
As one of only a couple fourth-graders on the
team, he was surprised to find none of his choir buddies were there. He came home after
the weekly practice and talked about being bullied and picked on. I told him that's just
the way it was when you're the smallest. "Wait 'till next year," I said.
"You'll show them!"
Next year came, and Vincent
reluctantly signed up for church basketball again. Now, he was a fifth-grader, but this
time it was worse. The bigger kids remembered how awkward he was the year before, and it
was magnified this year. He played in one painful game against another church. Or, I
should say, he played in a small part of the game.
Rarely, someone on Vincent's team
would accidentally pass the ball to him. He'd cover his face, protecting his glasses, and
duck. He couldn't dribble and walk at the same time, and he never got anywhere near the
hoop.
At half-time, I motioned to my son
to "come here." His head hung low, he obviously expected me to chastise him.
When he got close, I put my arm around him and the other around his little brother (who
was getting very bored with all this) and said, "Let's go."
"Why Mommy?" Vincent
asked.
As we were walking out of the
building, I looked at my oldest boy and could see a tremendous weight lifted off his
shoulders. He smiled broadly.
"You don't have to do that if
you don't want to," I said.
"All riiiiiight!" he
said.
And we went for pizza.
July 26, 2000
Over the past couple of weeks I've found a
reason it might be good to have a grown male human around the house – for the purpose
of moving furniture.
Since my divorce, the only other
reasons I could come up with were for killing bugs and for disposing of pets that die. I
don't like mowing the lawn, but I can handle it.
I've had the unpleasant task
recently of picking up and moving baby kitties that were runts and just didn't make it.
Then, the other day I found a big ol' spider in my bathtub. What I would've given to just
say in both cases, "Honey, take care of that wouldja?"
More recently, I had it in my head
that I would undertake a major project inside my home. A 3-bedroom house, it's always been
divided up with both sons in one room and the second bedroom with a bed, games, an
electric treadmill and JUNK. While the boys have been away for a couple months this
summer, I thought it would be a nice surprise to separate out their stuff and fix up one
room for each of them. As a result, I haven't been able to get to my own bedroom or the
master bath for almost a solid week.
The first step was to take
everything, and I mean everything, out of the room they had been sharing for seven years.
This meant going through every drawer, the closet, toy boxes and under the bed with a
fine-tooth comb. Yuck! I found old, smashed chocolate-covered marshmallow Easter eggs,
dried up cat poop and plenty of dirty underwear and socks. But I also found some really
sweet stuff. I found the beginnings of inventions made by number two son and school papers
I had somehow never seen.
Among the school papers was a theme
by the oldest one about why his mom is so great. The three reasons backing up his
statement? I'm fun; I'm a great cook; and I'm a hard worker. Wow.
It took a few hours each night and
one whole weekend day to get that room cleared out and rearranged. The final night, I
slept on the bottom bunk there.
Next, I tackled what would become
the youngest boy's room. There, I moved out an exercise bike, the treadmill, a computer
and computer table and rearranged the bed, dresser and entertainment center. After two
days of that, I slept on that kid's bed, still unable to get to my own.
By this time, I was in great pain.
Muscles ached that I probably hadn't used since climbing on the jungle gym at Mossville
Elementary School.
Next, I'll get on my bedroom and
hopefully, by next week, be able to sleep in my own bed. It'd be nice to say, "Honey,
would you take care of that?"
Sept. 4, 2002
Guess who is now officially a “soccer mom”?
Yup, yours truly.
You hear that term, soccer mom, thrown around a lot these days. I
tried to do some research, and really, it doesn’t have one specific definition.
Everyone seemed to agree during the 1996 presidential election that
soccer moms were overwhelmingly white and live in the suburbs. Well, I guess I meet one of
those criteria. That is, unless you would call Batesville a suburb of Little Rock,
Jonesboro or Memphis. No, that doesn’t work.
In her column in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Sally Kalson covered it
pretty well by saying, “You don’t need to have a kid in soccer to be a soccer
mom. All you need is some combination of the following: a kid or kids; a paying job; a
non-paying job; three places you’re supposed to be at the same time; less than six
hours sleep a night; the chronic sense that whatever you’re doing, it isn’t
enough, and wherever you are, you should be someplace else.”
That’s me!
My youngest son, now 9 and a half years old, has been wanting to be a
team player for a long time now. The two sports that grabbed his interest most were
baseball and soccer. I couldn’t sign him up for Little League because he
wouldn’t be around to play some of the games. The moment school lets out for the
summer, he goes to stay with his dad and stepmom.
When he pestered me about soccer last year, he was quite involved in
Cub Scouts, and I couldn’t see how he could be in both. Each time I had contact with
him over this summer, he asked me if I’d signed him up for soccer yet.
So, the time came, and signed up he was. Now, with three practices
under his belt, he’s raring to go. When I asked him who his favorite player was, he
said, “Sammy Sosa.” Oh well. ...
Nick is pretty unique in that organized sports doesn’t
necessarily run in his blood, especially not contact sports. With a waist measuring about
21 inches and an inseam five inches longer, I’m afraid an opposing playing is going
to snap him like a twig.
The only one on my side of the family who’s been interested in
playing team sports is me. Neither of my older brothers was very sporty. Mike always had
his head under a car hood, and Bob was usually perched behind a set of drums.
I wanted to play baseball. But, girls weren’t allowed. Lord
knows I tried. By the time I got into fifth or sixth grade, softball was offered for
girls, and I signed up.
The coach happened to be our cute band instructor. I played for one
season, but by the time the next spring rolled around with another softball season, I was
diagnosed with a thyroid disease that would keep me out of sports and P.E. from then on
through high school.
Nick’s father was on a swimming team when he was a kid, and did
quite well.
So, although I don’t know if I actually fit what the term
“soccer mom” brings to mind, literally I am one.
That means I’ll be carting him back and forth several times a
week (no, I don’t have a minivan -- although I’d like one), and I’ll bring
my lawn chair, mosquito repellent and a jug of cold water. I’ll holler when he makes
a good play (if I recognize it), and I’ll let him know how much I love him before and
after every game.
As it ends up, we lost Mom the evening of Sunday,
Nov. 23. She'd been ill, but we were still taken by surprise. Mom and I were honestly best
friends, as well as having the best mother-daughter relationship anyone could possibly
imagine. We were "in tune" with each other in a way I cannot put into words. It
was kind of like an extra-sensory perception. So, I will admit that I could feel, even 40
miles away, that she wanted to move on to something else.