Think Kit topic day 22: Plan, outline, or mind-map a project you want to tackle in 2014.
I tried to use an online mindmapping tool to do this Think Kit topic, got really ticked off and said "screw it! I'm using a life line." And I am soooooo glad I did!
Smallbox LIFELINE: Was there an art experience that stood out this year? What did it look/feel/sound like? What other reactions did you notice?
For this to make sense, I need to give some background. I have no artistic ability whatsoever. I can't draw or paint or anything that most people consider "art"- no throwing pottery or sketching.
I love art, though. I think the thing I remember most of about junior high was the entire 9 weeks we spend on art history in our art class. I got an A; it was the only A I earned in art on my own or that wasn't given in pity 9or because of cheating- but that's a whole other blog post!) The rest of the class was bored out of their collective minds and I think my teacher was too because I distinctly remember his monotone. Every day we would come to class and he would dim the lights and show a slide after another after another. We had to write down the artist's name, time period he was alive, type of art style and medium used, influences, country of origin and the name of a famous piece of art she created. We also had to draw or in some way describe the art. I was mesmerized. I copied every bit of information eagerly and I could describe each painting in WORDS. I still remember tons of that information today.
My teen girl bedroom walls were dotted with several Degas ballerina posters after that.
Fast forward to the year I was able to work in my Master's degree (that I still do not have). It was taking liberal arts courses and one class was about folk art, which I had no idea was an art form. And part of that was the class, too- is folk art actually 'art'? I became completely enamored in the idea of folk art, which is often considered women's art so it's not really art, especially that of quilting. I wrote an entire thesis on this topic, complete with a 30 minute presentation of my paper.
When I moved into my first post-divorce/ post CanadaSam house, I hung Impressionist prints on my walls and a huge Georgia O'Keeffe because I liked the colors. I had Impressionist after Impressionist calendars on office walls, or printed Monet on a mousepad or van Gogh post-it notes or Renoir note cards.
If I had just had scads of loose money laying about, I'd go back to college to get a BA in art history because I love the knowledge of art.
Obviously, I have a thing about art. And I swear if you keep meandering along with me here, I'll get to how this relates to 2013... but hey, this whole think kit thing is about introspection and self -reflection so... *ahem* but I digress.
In 2006 I went to the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. It was the first time I've gone to an art museum as an adult. (the summer I spend in NYC after high school graduation didn't count at me going as an 'adult' even though I was 18. I didn't appreciate the experience at the time; I was just having a great time In the Big Apple- what did I know?) It was in February but unseasonably warm that time of year. I went alone. Long story as to why I was even in the city but I was. I had a day to myself and thought I's visit some museums- gee, such a novel approach when visiting the capital of our country, right?
I wandered around. I was awestruck the moment I walked in the door. I just sort of roamed room to room, my mouth agape. I would see a painting and think, "Is that real?" or "That's FAMOUS!" which seems really silly. Then I came to the Impressionist wing.
I was breathless. I was speechless. I was numb and practically immobile. Because there, just mere inches from my fingertips were famous paintings I'd been fascinated with my whole life.RIGHT THERE! Actually PAINTED and TOUCHED and CREATED by van Gogh and Rembrandt and Degas and Renoir and Monet and all the rest. IN THE SAME ROOM. WITH ME! I couldn't help it. I cried. And not touching little, quaint tears, but sobbed and snotted. I had 2 guards ask me if I was okay and I'm trying to explain the overwhelming beauty to them, right there, in front of me. Me, just a small town girl from the Midwest in the same room with famous paintings that has survived wars and centuries and... well, at least they didn't kick me out of the museum but I think they were more worried about me than your average tourist. I was shaking and crying in awe over the beauty of it all, right there, for anyone to look at. I didn't have to be rich or famous or special. All I had to have was the curiosity to look. That was all. I was as equal as the millionaire or the homeless man and we could all look at the exact same painting of Monet's The Japanese Footbridge no matter who we were. I just can't seem to describe it to this day. It seems silly, I'm sure, but I was so overcome with the beauty of what I was seeing and all the reality and realness and who I was, the place and time... not many years after our nation mourned, and I was there. I still don't have words.
Now go to this year, to 2013. I discovered the IMA, or the Indianapolis Museum of Art. It's free to visit (except for the traveling special exhibits) and I'm broke so it started as a once rainy afternoon activity. Then it became a habit and a favorite haunt in the city.
First time I went, I roamed around, much like I did when I was at the NGA in DC. Then I came to the impressionist room and again, I was overcome with emotion. Again, Renior and Degas and van Gogh. This time in Indianapolis. In the Midwest. Again these artists who shaped my love of art, of the classics. I walked quietly through the gallery, tears rolling (this time no snot or scared guards) as I was overcome again with such beauty offered to one and all, equality for the curious, for the seeker.
IMA because my haunt this year since I spent a great deal of time in Indy. I found I would go several times a month, walk around and then save the Impressionists and European artists for last. I'd walk through, practically holding my breath, find a bench in front of of my favorite painting, Monet's Charring Cross Bridge, right beside a Degas sculpture. I'd sit there and stare at the works in front of me and daydream or think. Sometimes I'd write letters to friends. Once in awhile I'd read. I just wanted to "be" with the art. Make sure it was still there. Let it know I cared.
Maggie
(and I did have my own encounter with canvas and wine in 2013... but that's a post for later, too!)
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Food is the point, right?
Thanksgiving is all about food. Look yeah, we all know about Pilgrims and Plymouth Rock and Squanto and Maze and shit, but really, it's about food and family (and football). But mostly food.
I was fixin' dinner last might and Daddy-O and I were talking about food. Food and "dishes". I mean the glassware sort, not a synonym for meal.
We have a yellow dish with a pattern that looks like cross stitch on it which my Grandma F ALWAYS made corn casserole in. We have a ceramic plate shaped like an apple that my mom always made Waldorf Salad in. We have a crystal pedestal cake plate that the famous sour cream coffee cake is served upon. The food is associated with dishes.
There's a matching blue basket weave stoneware piece that my Grandma F always served applesauce with cinnamon on the top. I was thinking we needed to get out the solid white soup tureen because my same Grandma F served hot, spiced apple cider in it, topped with floating cinnamon sticks.
We have a pink Depression glass candy dish that always held butterscotches in it when my dad was a kid and HE went to HIS grandma's.
I commented that I wanted to make Grandma F's banana pudding and Daddy-O said she used a nut grinder and covered the top with freshly ground peanuts, and she didn't mess it up with Nilla wafers- just yummy from scratch pudding with pieces of banana- the trick was green bananas so they weren't brown or mushy when the pudding was stirred. Daddy-O said that was his Uncle's favorite dish that his mother made- and yes, we have a special bowl for the banana pudding.
Did I mention she also "made" a kick ass ham loaf? Yeah, she cheated and bought it pre-made from the butcher BUT she did make her own pineapple topping to pour of the top! Delish!
I realize these memories are connected with family on the F side of the family but they're the one's who left these pieces to Daddy-O or to me (I didn't get anything like that when the other grandmother died). So many of my memories are all tied up like that: with food and dishes and the moments. It seems silly but they are.
For example, if we get out the tureen for hot cider then I have to get pimento cheese spread and wheat crackers because Grandma F always had those together. It is what it is.
It think this was memory food week, actually. I made an escalloped chicken casserole that was my Great Aunt Zen's recipe and my Grandma F made it and I managed to NAIL it just like hers! Oh yeah! Then last night I made canned chicken and dumplings and grilled peanutbutter sandwiches. Now my Daddy-O made us that as a meal when we were kids and my mom had to work late. That didn't happen often but when it did, that was one of his famous staples.
Today is Thanksgiving and I give thanks for my family and friends and food. And today we're going somewhere new for Thanksgiving. We've not nailed down a new Turkey Day tradition since my mom died so I look forward to the annual adventure to see what happens- will I cook, will we go to relatives, will I have a man friend with whom I will celebrate, etc. And this year we're going to a cousin's house down in the Southern part of the state and there's gonna be about 30 people. I'm bringing pies. I don't know if there'll be any traditional foods or not. But there will be food and family.
For which I'm exceptionally thankful for both.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Maggie Mae
I was fixin' dinner last might and Daddy-O and I were talking about food. Food and "dishes". I mean the glassware sort, not a synonym for meal.
We have a yellow dish with a pattern that looks like cross stitch on it which my Grandma F ALWAYS made corn casserole in. We have a ceramic plate shaped like an apple that my mom always made Waldorf Salad in. We have a crystal pedestal cake plate that the famous sour cream coffee cake is served upon. The food is associated with dishes.
There's a matching blue basket weave stoneware piece that my Grandma F always served applesauce with cinnamon on the top. I was thinking we needed to get out the solid white soup tureen because my same Grandma F served hot, spiced apple cider in it, topped with floating cinnamon sticks.
We have a pink Depression glass candy dish that always held butterscotches in it when my dad was a kid and HE went to HIS grandma's.
I commented that I wanted to make Grandma F's banana pudding and Daddy-O said she used a nut grinder and covered the top with freshly ground peanuts, and she didn't mess it up with Nilla wafers- just yummy from scratch pudding with pieces of banana- the trick was green bananas so they weren't brown or mushy when the pudding was stirred. Daddy-O said that was his Uncle's favorite dish that his mother made- and yes, we have a special bowl for the banana pudding.
Did I mention she also "made" a kick ass ham loaf? Yeah, she cheated and bought it pre-made from the butcher BUT she did make her own pineapple topping to pour of the top! Delish!
I realize these memories are connected with family on the F side of the family but they're the one's who left these pieces to Daddy-O or to me (I didn't get anything like that when the other grandmother died). So many of my memories are all tied up like that: with food and dishes and the moments. It seems silly but they are.
For example, if we get out the tureen for hot cider then I have to get pimento cheese spread and wheat crackers because Grandma F always had those together. It is what it is.
It think this was memory food week, actually. I made an escalloped chicken casserole that was my Great Aunt Zen's recipe and my Grandma F made it and I managed to NAIL it just like hers! Oh yeah! Then last night I made canned chicken and dumplings and grilled peanutbutter sandwiches. Now my Daddy-O made us that as a meal when we were kids and my mom had to work late. That didn't happen often but when it did, that was one of his famous staples.
Today is Thanksgiving and I give thanks for my family and friends and food. And today we're going somewhere new for Thanksgiving. We've not nailed down a new Turkey Day tradition since my mom died so I look forward to the annual adventure to see what happens- will I cook, will we go to relatives, will I have a man friend with whom I will celebrate, etc. And this year we're going to a cousin's house down in the Southern part of the state and there's gonna be about 30 people. I'm bringing pies. I don't know if there'll be any traditional foods or not. But there will be food and family.
For which I'm exceptionally thankful for both.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Maggie Mae
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Mac Stories #2
When Mac was in the second grade he used the word plethora. Correctly. His teacher told me she had to look it up. (That worried me on a whole different level, by the way). He's always been such a smartie pants.
Around the time Mac was 5 or 6, we had Thanksgiving dinner at my parent's house. My grandparents- the ultra conservative ones that I've referred to as The Shrews- were present. For some reason, in the middle of dinner- and I swear to this day my brother put Mac up to it- Mac started singing. My grandmother asked what he was singing and in a loud clear voice he repeated this much of the song "there's a skeeter on my peter, whack it off!" Silence followed. Then my brother and my Sam of the time were in hysterical tears, the grandparents were appalled and scolding me, my dad was trying to not crack up laughing because my mom would kill him, my mother and I were mortified, and Mac just kept on eating sweet potatoes, oblivious to it all.
When Mac was around 4 or 5 years old, my mother had beautiful African Violets that she raised. They were in pots in the house. If you aren't familiar with these flowers, I should let you know they are REALLY hard to grow. They're a finicky flowers, hard to nurture and fickle, too. She worked hard with these and seemed to have a knack for them. Now, Mac was raised to "know better" about things and he was also told the word "no" so he knew not to touch certain things, house plants being one. But for reasons unknown to this day, Mac didn't like the flowers. None of us knows why and of course he doesn't remember. He would purposely dump those flowers on the rug. He would up end the pots, splat on the carpet. My mom would get so pissed and threatened to even spank him but that didn't cure it. That child managed to toss 'em on the floor so many times that he killed them all. And she could never get African Violets to grow for her again, after that. Curious....
When Mac was three years old, my parents decided to plant a tree in the back yard. Mac decided to "help." He took his little shovel outside and watched Daddy-O and my brother dig a hole to put the tree in. They made a pile of dirt. Mac would take shovels full of the dirt and throw it back in the hole. Evey scoop they threw out, a half a scoop went back in. Finally my brother got him going int he right direction with it- dirt OUT of the hole. Then Mac eyeballed the hole and decided it was just his right size so he plopped his butt in it. He would move. The tree was big enough it took Daddy-O and Bro both to lift it, so they would set the tree down, take Mac out of the hole, set him down and pick up the tree. By the time the tree got picked up again, Mac was back in the hole. After 6 or 7 times of this, Mac got set inside of his tree swing until the tree was planted.
Mac's mom,
Maggie
Around the time Mac was 5 or 6, we had Thanksgiving dinner at my parent's house. My grandparents- the ultra conservative ones that I've referred to as The Shrews- were present. For some reason, in the middle of dinner- and I swear to this day my brother put Mac up to it- Mac started singing. My grandmother asked what he was singing and in a loud clear voice he repeated this much of the song "there's a skeeter on my peter, whack it off!" Silence followed. Then my brother and my Sam of the time were in hysterical tears, the grandparents were appalled and scolding me, my dad was trying to not crack up laughing because my mom would kill him, my mother and I were mortified, and Mac just kept on eating sweet potatoes, oblivious to it all.
When Mac was around 4 or 5 years old, my mother had beautiful African Violets that she raised. They were in pots in the house. If you aren't familiar with these flowers, I should let you know they are REALLY hard to grow. They're a finicky flowers, hard to nurture and fickle, too. She worked hard with these and seemed to have a knack for them. Now, Mac was raised to "know better" about things and he was also told the word "no" so he knew not to touch certain things, house plants being one. But for reasons unknown to this day, Mac didn't like the flowers. None of us knows why and of course he doesn't remember. He would purposely dump those flowers on the rug. He would up end the pots, splat on the carpet. My mom would get so pissed and threatened to even spank him but that didn't cure it. That child managed to toss 'em on the floor so many times that he killed them all. And she could never get African Violets to grow for her again, after that. Curious....
When Mac was three years old, my parents decided to plant a tree in the back yard. Mac decided to "help." He took his little shovel outside and watched Daddy-O and my brother dig a hole to put the tree in. They made a pile of dirt. Mac would take shovels full of the dirt and throw it back in the hole. Evey scoop they threw out, a half a scoop went back in. Finally my brother got him going int he right direction with it- dirt OUT of the hole. Then Mac eyeballed the hole and decided it was just his right size so he plopped his butt in it. He would move. The tree was big enough it took Daddy-O and Bro both to lift it, so they would set the tree down, take Mac out of the hole, set him down and pick up the tree. By the time the tree got picked up again, Mac was back in the hole. After 6 or 7 times of this, Mac got set inside of his tree swing until the tree was planted.
Mac's mom,
Maggie
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Mac stories #1
When Mac was in kindergarten, I sent him to a Catholic school because it was the only one in the city that had all day Kindergarten (even though we were United Methodists). Mac was smart and board and needed to be occupied and encouraged.
I got a call from the principal one day, that I needed to come to the school immediately for a parent/ teacher conference. As in RIGHT NOW.
When I got to the school I found Mac, in his little uniform, sitting outside of the office, swinging his legs. He looked at me and smiled.
I went in the office and the principal said Mac had been doing something inappropriate on the playground at lunch. She called him in and then told me that he was teaching the other children how to play Blackjack during lunch recess. Then he would beat them and take their milk money. He had about $8 in coins in his pockets and stashed in his lunch box... with his deck of cards.
I know she wanted me to be appropriately chagrined, and I was. I had no idea what to say. he had been gambling at school! He was teaching other children to gamble! He was taking their money! She asked him what he had to say for himself. He said, "I don't cheat. And I don't know why you're made. Catholics play BINGO. Blackjack isn't that much different."
Ummmmmmmmmmmmm, oh god!
She looked and me, all aghast and appalled, and said, "What you do have to say about that?" I said, "Well, he does have a point."
Mac's mom,
Maggie
I got a call from the principal one day, that I needed to come to the school immediately for a parent/ teacher conference. As in RIGHT NOW.
When I got to the school I found Mac, in his little uniform, sitting outside of the office, swinging his legs. He looked at me and smiled.
I went in the office and the principal said Mac had been doing something inappropriate on the playground at lunch. She called him in and then told me that he was teaching the other children how to play Blackjack during lunch recess. Then he would beat them and take their milk money. He had about $8 in coins in his pockets and stashed in his lunch box... with his deck of cards.
I know she wanted me to be appropriately chagrined, and I was. I had no idea what to say. he had been gambling at school! He was teaching other children to gamble! He was taking their money! She asked him what he had to say for himself. He said, "I don't cheat. And I don't know why you're made. Catholics play BINGO. Blackjack isn't that much different."
Ummmmmmmmmmmmm, oh god!
She looked and me, all aghast and appalled, and said, "What you do have to say about that?" I said, "Well, he does have a point."
Mac's mom,
Maggie
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Disney meme
Which Disney film is your favorite?
Beauty and the Beast
Which Disney "Princess” Disney Film is your favorite?
If I understand the question, my favorite Princess Disney film would be Sleeping Beauty since Aurora is my favorite Princess
Which Disney film makes you cry the most?
Believe it or not, Up.Which Disney film makes you the happiest?
Mary Poppins.
Which Disney film has the best music?
Aladdin
Which Disney film has the best love story?
There's something sweet, almost kind, about Beauty and the Beast
Who is your favorite Disney Princess?
Aurora from Sleeping Beauty
Who is your favorite Disney Prince?
The Prince in Sleeping Beauty
Who is your favorite Disney animal sidekick?
Phil (voiced by Danny DeVito) in Hercules. He was the Satyr.
First Disney movie you saw?
Mary Poppins at the drive in with my parents
Were you frightened by any Disney Films?
Probably Bambi
Who is your favorite Disney main character animal?
Mickey of course!
Which Disney movie do you dislike?
Tarzan or Pocahontas
Who is your favorite villain?
Truly, Disney villains have always been my favorite so I can never decide between Malificent or Cruela de Ville
I love the music from so many so this is a tough one. I think "Ain't never had a friend like me" from Aladdin, performed by Robin Williams, has some of the most amazing lyrics in a Disney film ever!
Thanks Jimmie Earl for the meme!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Can I go outside and play?
When people my age, like me, talk about "playing outside as kids" I find that today's youth look at me like I'm crazy. Kids at Alcatraz equate playing outside as kids as committing acts of vandalism or beating up other kids. My own kid doesn't even have fun memories of going outside to play with all the kids in the neighborhood and using nothing but his imagination. I remember him wrinkling his nose at the idea of going out to play.
Back when I was a kid, oh yes, this is a back in the day story, we were outside all the time. We were outside in all seasons, even in the wintertime.
In the winter we would go sledding, make snow forts, have snowball fights, make snow angels. We would even walk the 4 blocks to the city park so we could shoot down the most awesome hills on our plastic disc sleds.
Spring, summer and fall were a completely different world. Sometimes we would play house or school in the old barn. Or just make believe of some sort since it had a loft which could be a tower in a castle or the surface of the moon or anything else. We played Barbies on the side porch . We played basketball on a slab. We chased each other with sticks fashioned as guns or swords, yes, even us girls. We rode out bikes everywhere for all reasons or no reason, even if we had nowhere to go. Hell, sometimes we just played in the dirt or laid in the shade under the spirea bushes. We climbed the cherry trees in the back yard and ate the sour fruit until we were about sick. We sang songs, did dances and made shows as la Rooney/ Garland style out on the back stoop. We played in the sandbox. We rode our skinny plastic skateboards down hills for speed- tiny boards with no grips and rainbow colored plastic. We put pennies on the train tacks then hunted their squashed flattened selves in the weeds near the tracks. We flattened cardboard boxes and played our boom boxes and we learned then practiced break dancing.
When it rained we still played outside, unless there was lightening. Otherwise we splashed in the puddles, ran through it, stood under rain gutters that flowed like mini Niagara Falls onto our heads, raced drinking straws in the street gutter, and even rode our bikes in the rain to splash each other, enjoying the mud that would flip up our backs due to the fender -less bicycles. We could turn open umbrellas upside down, let it fill with raindrops, and with a friend, the two of us holding each side, would fling the water on an unsuspecting fellow neighborhood kid who happened by.
But as dusk approached, that was when all the action really began. At the gloaming, when the fireflies flashed their lights, when we could hear the misquotes wings humming their night songs, that was the world where we, the kids of the neighborhood, reigned as kings and queens. The Game began.
One porch was Base. Usually it was the neighbor's house rather than mine because they had two porches. We used the east porch so no one inside the house would be bothered by our antics. As the dusk rolled in, we all knew it was time, and came out of our homes, flocking to the porch like homing pigeons. There were about 14-18 kids at any given time. Friends of friends, new kids moving in and the old out, we call came together, the darkness our beacon. The Game continued and evolved, kids out growing the Game, younger ones old enough to finally play. The Game went on for years, different players, but always the same Game.
Someone was declared IT, usually by their own shortcoming. Everyone would scream "not it" and the last person to yell was IT. And if there was a discrepancy, one round of rock/paper/scissors was the final defining factor, no arguments. IT counted to 100 and everyone scattered to a hiding place. The length of the block, only the north side, was fair. The Jones's had the misfortune of living on this side of the street and after a scathing run in with Mrs. Jones we felt it would be in our collective best interests to make their house, yard and property completely off limits. Everything else on that side for one block, was fair game, from the curb to the ally. If you were found across the street, you were automatically made IT.
When IT hit 100, the hunt was on. If you were physically tagged before you got home to base, you were the new IT. If you were IT you couldn't guard the base- you had to go on the hunt. No fair calling "all-ie all-ie in free" unless someone was hurt. A call of "all in" meant someone new was IT. Or we would all make it free to base and we would start again. This went on well into the dark night, for hours- at least until 10pm!!! We hid and then when found, ran for our lives, with IT hot on our heels, feet pounding, the scattering and a flurry of frenzied bodies all racing for safety and freedom. Hot breath on the back of your neck as you were 20 feet, 10 feet, 1 more foot to reach the mecca. Sometimes you made it, other times... the role of IT was bestowed upon you, in your sole possession, your temporary cross to bear. And the only way to shed it was to haul ass during the next round.
We all had our favorite hiding spots. Sometimes we hid alone, sometimes we hid with a friend. But, if you hid together, it was every man for himself if you were found together.
Our parents ended the Game nightly. The sounds of our parents' cries, a cacophony of our names being called blending into music carried on the humidity of the night air, brought the Game to a close each evening. We all just emerged from our spots like spirits rising from the graves and trotted to our homes, calling our "see yous" to each other. If you were in mid chase, then the summons home signified your lucky day: you were no longer running for freedom or you were no longer IT.
The gloaming was gone. The streetlamps were aglow, casting their hazy halos on the dark pavement below. We went home to bathe, to bed, to watch TV, we all went home to do something different except we ALL went home to wait. To wait for the morning sun's first light to free us, so we could take over the outdoors, to go out and play, to do it all over again.
Mags
Back when I was a kid, oh yes, this is a back in the day story, we were outside all the time. We were outside in all seasons, even in the wintertime.
In the winter we would go sledding, make snow forts, have snowball fights, make snow angels. We would even walk the 4 blocks to the city park so we could shoot down the most awesome hills on our plastic disc sleds.
Spring, summer and fall were a completely different world. Sometimes we would play house or school in the old barn. Or just make believe of some sort since it had a loft which could be a tower in a castle or the surface of the moon or anything else. We played Barbies on the side porch . We played basketball on a slab. We chased each other with sticks fashioned as guns or swords, yes, even us girls. We rode out bikes everywhere for all reasons or no reason, even if we had nowhere to go. Hell, sometimes we just played in the dirt or laid in the shade under the spirea bushes. We climbed the cherry trees in the back yard and ate the sour fruit until we were about sick. We sang songs, did dances and made shows as la Rooney/ Garland style out on the back stoop. We played in the sandbox. We rode our skinny plastic skateboards down hills for speed- tiny boards with no grips and rainbow colored plastic. We put pennies on the train tacks then hunted their squashed flattened selves in the weeds near the tracks. We flattened cardboard boxes and played our boom boxes and we learned then practiced break dancing.
When it rained we still played outside, unless there was lightening. Otherwise we splashed in the puddles, ran through it, stood under rain gutters that flowed like mini Niagara Falls onto our heads, raced drinking straws in the street gutter, and even rode our bikes in the rain to splash each other, enjoying the mud that would flip up our backs due to the fender -less bicycles. We could turn open umbrellas upside down, let it fill with raindrops, and with a friend, the two of us holding each side, would fling the water on an unsuspecting fellow neighborhood kid who happened by.
But as dusk approached, that was when all the action really began. At the gloaming, when the fireflies flashed their lights, when we could hear the misquotes wings humming their night songs, that was the world where we, the kids of the neighborhood, reigned as kings and queens. The Game began.
One porch was Base. Usually it was the neighbor's house rather than mine because they had two porches. We used the east porch so no one inside the house would be bothered by our antics. As the dusk rolled in, we all knew it was time, and came out of our homes, flocking to the porch like homing pigeons. There were about 14-18 kids at any given time. Friends of friends, new kids moving in and the old out, we call came together, the darkness our beacon. The Game continued and evolved, kids out growing the Game, younger ones old enough to finally play. The Game went on for years, different players, but always the same Game.
Someone was declared IT, usually by their own shortcoming. Everyone would scream "not it" and the last person to yell was IT. And if there was a discrepancy, one round of rock/paper/scissors was the final defining factor, no arguments. IT counted to 100 and everyone scattered to a hiding place. The length of the block, only the north side, was fair. The Jones's had the misfortune of living on this side of the street and after a scathing run in with Mrs. Jones we felt it would be in our collective best interests to make their house, yard and property completely off limits. Everything else on that side for one block, was fair game, from the curb to the ally. If you were found across the street, you were automatically made IT.
When IT hit 100, the hunt was on. If you were physically tagged before you got home to base, you were the new IT. If you were IT you couldn't guard the base- you had to go on the hunt. No fair calling "all-ie all-ie in free" unless someone was hurt. A call of "all in" meant someone new was IT. Or we would all make it free to base and we would start again. This went on well into the dark night, for hours- at least until 10pm!!! We hid and then when found, ran for our lives, with IT hot on our heels, feet pounding, the scattering and a flurry of frenzied bodies all racing for safety and freedom. Hot breath on the back of your neck as you were 20 feet, 10 feet, 1 more foot to reach the mecca. Sometimes you made it, other times... the role of IT was bestowed upon you, in your sole possession, your temporary cross to bear. And the only way to shed it was to haul ass during the next round.
We all had our favorite hiding spots. Sometimes we hid alone, sometimes we hid with a friend. But, if you hid together, it was every man for himself if you were found together.
Our parents ended the Game nightly. The sounds of our parents' cries, a cacophony of our names being called blending into music carried on the humidity of the night air, brought the Game to a close each evening. We all just emerged from our spots like spirits rising from the graves and trotted to our homes, calling our "see yous" to each other. If you were in mid chase, then the summons home signified your lucky day: you were no longer running for freedom or you were no longer IT.
The gloaming was gone. The streetlamps were aglow, casting their hazy halos on the dark pavement below. We went home to bathe, to bed, to watch TV, we all went home to do something different except we ALL went home to wait. To wait for the morning sun's first light to free us, so we could take over the outdoors, to go out and play, to do it all over again.
Mags
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Book memories
Because I am bibliophile, one of my favorite things in the whole wide world to do is spend a day in a used book store, listening to the rain outside and drinking Starbucks coffee while just browsing. I love that. I always check out a library when I go on vacation as part of my sight seeing excursions. I love Barnes and Noble- this is one of my favorite places in the world. I usually have three or four books going at one time. I can't name a favorite book because there are too many to choose from, same with trying to list a favorite author.
I grew up living 1 block from the public library and by the time I was age five I would walk to the library alone, with my mom standing on the side walk in front of our house watching me the whole way. The librarian would walk outside and watch me cross the street and I was then entering my own childhood version of heaven.
I would read anything and everything I could get my hands on. When I was in junior high school I got a job working at used book store for 4 hours on Saturday mornings. Then when I was in high school, I landed what was then my dream job- working in the children's department of the local library. I loved that job and worked there for 6 years. I then worked at a public library in the town where I went to college for 2 years and I worked in the campus library for a year. Yes, total nerd.
But my love of books has continued. I still love children's books. My son had the biggest collection of books of any child, enough to start our own library, and I started reading to him while he was womb residing. Bedtime would take an hour at night because we had to read a stack of bedtime stories. Whenever I feel down and sad, I love to read kids' books- they make me smile no matter what. Some favorites I think complete every child's library are The Napping House, Where the Wild things Are, Good Night Moon, The Giving Tree, Amelia Bedlia, The Day Jimmy's Boa ate the Wash, King Bidgood's in the Bathtub and He won't get Out, Green Eggs and Ham, Max's Chocolate Chicken, Hegedy Peg, Christina Katrina and the Box, Angelina Ballerina, Alexander and the terrible-no good-very bad day, and A pocket for Corduroy. Obviously, this list can go on and on and on. And these are just my picture book favorites.
My own personal book collection is quite extensive, even with all the books I sold for cash when I first moved back here to Civilization. Friends told me they are not helping me move my books again- I had 48 boxes when I got back here from the Wild West. One time when I moved everyone was so sick of moving these boxes they wrote messages on the boxes. Where I had written "books" friends add "Another box of *books*" or "more fucking *books*" or "another damn box of *books*"... uh, yeah.
Because I've been under the weather all this week and something I'm supposed to do it be quiet which is hard for me, I've decided to take myself to a book store this weekend. While my wallet isn't up to the Barnes & Noble challenge, I'm going to hit the Half Price Book shop to browse. It will be a great way to spend the day- books and Starbucks. Just about perfect...
Book nerd,
Maggie
I grew up living 1 block from the public library and by the time I was age five I would walk to the library alone, with my mom standing on the side walk in front of our house watching me the whole way. The librarian would walk outside and watch me cross the street and I was then entering my own childhood version of heaven.
I would read anything and everything I could get my hands on. When I was in junior high school I got a job working at used book store for 4 hours on Saturday mornings. Then when I was in high school, I landed what was then my dream job- working in the children's department of the local library. I loved that job and worked there for 6 years. I then worked at a public library in the town where I went to college for 2 years and I worked in the campus library for a year. Yes, total nerd.
But my love of books has continued. I still love children's books. My son had the biggest collection of books of any child, enough to start our own library, and I started reading to him while he was womb residing. Bedtime would take an hour at night because we had to read a stack of bedtime stories. Whenever I feel down and sad, I love to read kids' books- they make me smile no matter what. Some favorites I think complete every child's library are The Napping House, Where the Wild things Are, Good Night Moon, The Giving Tree, Amelia Bedlia, The Day Jimmy's Boa ate the Wash, King Bidgood's in the Bathtub and He won't get Out, Green Eggs and Ham, Max's Chocolate Chicken, Hegedy Peg, Christina Katrina and the Box, Angelina Ballerina, Alexander and the terrible-no good-very bad day, and A pocket for Corduroy. Obviously, this list can go on and on and on. And these are just my picture book favorites.
My own personal book collection is quite extensive, even with all the books I sold for cash when I first moved back here to Civilization. Friends told me they are not helping me move my books again- I had 48 boxes when I got back here from the Wild West. One time when I moved everyone was so sick of moving these boxes they wrote messages on the boxes. Where I had written "books" friends add "Another box of *books*" or "more fucking *books*" or "another damn box of *books*"... uh, yeah.
Because I've been under the weather all this week and something I'm supposed to do it be quiet which is hard for me, I've decided to take myself to a book store this weekend. While my wallet isn't up to the Barnes & Noble challenge, I'm going to hit the Half Price Book shop to browse. It will be a great way to spend the day- books and Starbucks. Just about perfect...
Book nerd,
Maggie
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mother's Day- a tribute
I was thinking about my mom recently and since it's Mother's Day I thought I would share my current remembrance.
My mom was pretty much "mom" like when I was growing up. She wasn't what you would call cool and she wasn't June Clever, but she was a good mom. All the kids in the neighborhood liked my mom. She let all us kids just be kids. She listened to us, she never batted an eye if my brother and I wanted to bring friends home for dinner or to spend the night. One day she came home from work to find 9 of us watching a movie in the living room and fixed enough spaghetti for dinner to feed all of us.
Mom baked cookies and made sure we did our homework. She tolerated our loud music, the front door banging- though in the summer by July she would be known to scream "either go out and stay out or come in and stay in but STOP BANGING THAT DAMN DOOR", and our constant barrage of visiting friends. She never stopped the games of tag until it was too dark to see at night. As long as we cleaned up our dress up mess or made sure the sprinkler was turned off, we could make messes and play with the garden hose as much as we wanted.
My mom was our mom and didn't try to be our pal and buddy. And as an adult, looking back, I love that even more about her. We had chores and if they weren't done she yelled. We had rules to follow and if we didn't, we could get a smack with the wooden spoon on the butt. We were expected to be respectful, to not sass, not talk back and if we we jerks, she wasn't afraid to heap on the guilt and ground us. Mom worked outside the home so we all had to do our part. She was also pretty in tune with what was going on at our schools and in the community. Again, it wasn't so she could be "cool" but because it was her job to know as her role as our parent. She didn't try and dress like a teenager either. She always looked nice but she did look like a mom- you know what I mean by this!
Now I want to clarify, my mom wasn't backward but she didn't try to act like a teenager or make fun of our music or clothes or verbiage. She didn't try to act like a teenager but she knew stuff. She was the manager of a retail store while I was in high school and this store had MTV on all the time so she was pretty familiar with music of my generation, which were the big hits of the 1980s, often thought of as an oxymoron in and of itself. Now, again, she knew the music, liked some of it, hated more of it, but tolerated it whether she was at work or whether is was blowing out of speakers at home.
As I'm telling you all this you probably have a pretty good picture of my mom- a nice, understanding, kind woman from small town Midwest. And you're probably wondering why I'm making sure you know that my mom was an excellent mom but very much "mom" like... I have a reason!
So it might come as a surprise that my mother had a favorite song and a favorite video. Well, okay, maybe not that she had a favorite song- lots of moms have a favorite song. But, I'm including the link here of my mom's all time favorite song and video- OF ALL TIME. When this came on the radio or TV, she would run in the room and blare it and dance around. Ummmm, yeah. Seriously. She really did. If it came on the radio when we were in the car, she blasted it. Even when she became unable to walk without her cane, she would still crank it up and "chair dance". I. AM. NOT. KIDDING. Even thinking back on it now, it still cracks me up and leaves me shocked and surprised. Really. I'm not kidding- this was her favorite song and video. Enjoy!
My mom was pretty much "mom" like when I was growing up. She wasn't what you would call cool and she wasn't June Clever, but she was a good mom. All the kids in the neighborhood liked my mom. She let all us kids just be kids. She listened to us, she never batted an eye if my brother and I wanted to bring friends home for dinner or to spend the night. One day she came home from work to find 9 of us watching a movie in the living room and fixed enough spaghetti for dinner to feed all of us.
Mom baked cookies and made sure we did our homework. She tolerated our loud music, the front door banging- though in the summer by July she would be known to scream "either go out and stay out or come in and stay in but STOP BANGING THAT DAMN DOOR", and our constant barrage of visiting friends. She never stopped the games of tag until it was too dark to see at night. As long as we cleaned up our dress up mess or made sure the sprinkler was turned off, we could make messes and play with the garden hose as much as we wanted.
My mom was our mom and didn't try to be our pal and buddy. And as an adult, looking back, I love that even more about her. We had chores and if they weren't done she yelled. We had rules to follow and if we didn't, we could get a smack with the wooden spoon on the butt. We were expected to be respectful, to not sass, not talk back and if we we jerks, she wasn't afraid to heap on the guilt and ground us. Mom worked outside the home so we all had to do our part. She was also pretty in tune with what was going on at our schools and in the community. Again, it wasn't so she could be "cool" but because it was her job to know as her role as our parent. She didn't try and dress like a teenager either. She always looked nice but she did look like a mom- you know what I mean by this!
Now I want to clarify, my mom wasn't backward but she didn't try to act like a teenager or make fun of our music or clothes or verbiage. She didn't try to act like a teenager but she knew stuff. She was the manager of a retail store while I was in high school and this store had MTV on all the time so she was pretty familiar with music of my generation, which were the big hits of the 1980s, often thought of as an oxymoron in and of itself. Now, again, she knew the music, liked some of it, hated more of it, but tolerated it whether she was at work or whether is was blowing out of speakers at home.
As I'm telling you all this you probably have a pretty good picture of my mom- a nice, understanding, kind woman from small town Midwest. And you're probably wondering why I'm making sure you know that my mom was an excellent mom but very much "mom" like... I have a reason!
So it might come as a surprise that my mother had a favorite song and a favorite video. Well, okay, maybe not that she had a favorite song- lots of moms have a favorite song. But, I'm including the link here of my mom's all time favorite song and video- OF ALL TIME. When this came on the radio or TV, she would run in the room and blare it and dance around. Ummmm, yeah. Seriously. She really did. If it came on the radio when we were in the car, she blasted it. Even when she became unable to walk without her cane, she would still crank it up and "chair dance". I. AM. NOT. KIDDING. Even thinking back on it now, it still cracks me up and leaves me shocked and surprised. Really. I'm not kidding- this was her favorite song and video. Enjoy!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Extra, Extra, read all about it!
When I was a 10 years old I got a paper route. I was the youngest person to ever have a route. And I loved it. I always collected on time and paid the paper back for what I sold and I did it on time. I tried to sell subscriptions and there were always contests sponsored by the newspaper for all sorts of prizes, and I usually did well.
I didn't have the sort of route where I could ride my bike and toss papers on the porch. I had terrible aim and could never hit the porch, to start with. I could hit pets, people, flower beds and if there was a body of water from a puddle to a kiddie pool my hurled paper would land there no matter what. And I had lots of older people on my route who would like the paper placed in a certain spot. Rather than riding my bike place to place, I would walk my route. I left papers in mailboxes, between doors, on a table on the porch, and for one lady I even opened the door to her sun porch and left the paper on her recliner.
My customers were really nice folks. I had a 5 block walk or bike ride before I ever delivered my first paper, which at age 10 wasn't a big deal. The paper was an afternoon one so I would get home from school and get my papers and take off. Sometimes one of my parents would pick me up and have my newspapers along and leave me at the start of my route. I had about 48 customers and a few businesses on my route. Because I was a girl and because I was so young, the customers on my route were pretty protective of me. If I was running "late", which means I wasn't late but didn't have their paper delivered by the usual time, people would call my folks to ask if I was okay, not to complain.
I had customers who would have cups of cocoa ready for me in the winter. I had people who baked me treats and would give me after school snacks on a daily basis. Christmas time was a huge haul because I got presents, money and baked goodies. Because I couldn't ride and deliver, there was a couple at the beginning of my route who let me park my bike on their porch and I would loop around and get it when I was done. One couple had video game system and we didn't have one at home so they would let me play anytime. The man who owned the gas station would make "bets" with me for glass bottles of Pepsi. I got presents on my birthday. I had a few people who would fix me breakfast because Saturday was a morning edition so I would have breakfast with different folks. So, I had some really nice people on my paper route.
Except for one.
Mr. James Gardner.
He was mean. Really really mean. First, he had a yippy dog that he didn't tie up. Sometimes it chased me. Other times it was blocking the porch so I couldn't get the paper in the right spot and then he would call the circulation department and complain about me. Sometimes his dog even chewed the paper and again Mr. James Gardner would call the office and complain about me. He was difficult to collect from. He dodged me when possible or pretended to not be home. When I finally could corner him he would always want to pay me with $100 bill that he knew I wouldn't have change for. Then when I left him several notes that I would cancel his paper service since he didn't pay me, he would go to the newspaper office and pay his bill, then complain that I never knocked on his door. He never tipped. Papers had to be delivered by 5:30 pm during the week and one time I remember I was late because the papers were late (It was a halt the presses day in a small town!), and he got his paper at 5:38 pm and he had already called and complained to the office- and was standing on his porch yelling at me. He would look for any excuse to yell at me. I talked to his neighbor once and he could see me and then he yelled at me for not being quick enough. Are you getting the picture he was a mean guy? I was just a 10 year old little girl. Really, what a jerk, right?
Well, I lost it. I was 10 or 11 years old at this point and I just lost it. I was on time, I wasn't running late. There was nothing unusual going on. All I did was try to collect payment for the paper. And it happened. He yelled at me, telling me he didn't get a paper the night before and he wanted a discount. Well, I knew I had left him a paper. One, because I just KNEW I had, and two, if I hadn't he would've called and complained and I didn't get a complaint notice. I told him he was wrong and I couldn't give him a discount, but I would get him a yesterday paper and have my parent's bring me back with it in about a half an hour. Then he started yelling at me and that's when it happened:
I yelled back. I was shaking. I think I said something along the lines of: "You're a mean man and I'm never going to deliver your paper again!" And I ripped up the newspaper into bits and I threw the pieces at him, and turned and ran away.
I stormed down the street all indignant and mad. I was shaking. I was upset. And by the time I got to the gas station across the street I was in tears. The guy who owned the station had watched what happened and was trying not to laugh. I was crying because I was mad, because I thought I would be in trouble and lose my job, because I thought my parents would be mad because I was disrespectful to an adult, because I had never treated another person like that in my life, because the adrenaline was gone.
Well, the gas station owner gave me a soda and listened to my story. He knew Mr. James Gardner was a mean and crotchety old man. He knew the guy was trying to not pay me and complained all the time. The owner told me it would be okay and for me to deliver the rest of my papers and then go on home and tell my parents what happened. I took off and did the rest of my route.
When I got home my parents already knew what happened. The gas station owner called and filled them in. My parents knew the trouble Mr. James Gardner had always given me. My mom had already called the newspaper office and they talked. The knew the trouble he had given me. And the gas station owner had called the paper office in my defense. I got to keep my job.
I didn't get in trouble, though my parents did tell me that might not be the best way to handle problems in the future. But the good news: I never had to deliver him a newspaper again.
Years later I found out that the gas station owner knew what happened because he could see and hear the altercation, and the three mechanics who worked for him were all watching and listening, wrenches in hand to come down the block and save me if need be. And they had just cheered for me and howled with laughter. It became a neighborhood legend- and people asked me about it all the next day, and still talk about it now: remember the day the little girl with the huge newspaper bag ripped up the neighborhood terror's, Mr. James Gardner, newspaper and let the wind blow the bit to places unknown, leaving him red faced, and sputtering with a yippy dog in the background, who had to walk to the convenience store to get the paper from then on?
Your former newsie,
Maggie
I didn't have the sort of route where I could ride my bike and toss papers on the porch. I had terrible aim and could never hit the porch, to start with. I could hit pets, people, flower beds and if there was a body of water from a puddle to a kiddie pool my hurled paper would land there no matter what. And I had lots of older people on my route who would like the paper placed in a certain spot. Rather than riding my bike place to place, I would walk my route. I left papers in mailboxes, between doors, on a table on the porch, and for one lady I even opened the door to her sun porch and left the paper on her recliner.
My customers were really nice folks. I had a 5 block walk or bike ride before I ever delivered my first paper, which at age 10 wasn't a big deal. The paper was an afternoon one so I would get home from school and get my papers and take off. Sometimes one of my parents would pick me up and have my newspapers along and leave me at the start of my route. I had about 48 customers and a few businesses on my route. Because I was a girl and because I was so young, the customers on my route were pretty protective of me. If I was running "late", which means I wasn't late but didn't have their paper delivered by the usual time, people would call my folks to ask if I was okay, not to complain.
I had customers who would have cups of cocoa ready for me in the winter. I had people who baked me treats and would give me after school snacks on a daily basis. Christmas time was a huge haul because I got presents, money and baked goodies. Because I couldn't ride and deliver, there was a couple at the beginning of my route who let me park my bike on their porch and I would loop around and get it when I was done. One couple had video game system and we didn't have one at home so they would let me play anytime. The man who owned the gas station would make "bets" with me for glass bottles of Pepsi. I got presents on my birthday. I had a few people who would fix me breakfast because Saturday was a morning edition so I would have breakfast with different folks. So, I had some really nice people on my paper route.
Except for one.
Mr. James Gardner.
He was mean. Really really mean. First, he had a yippy dog that he didn't tie up. Sometimes it chased me. Other times it was blocking the porch so I couldn't get the paper in the right spot and then he would call the circulation department and complain about me. Sometimes his dog even chewed the paper and again Mr. James Gardner would call the office and complain about me. He was difficult to collect from. He dodged me when possible or pretended to not be home. When I finally could corner him he would always want to pay me with $100 bill that he knew I wouldn't have change for. Then when I left him several notes that I would cancel his paper service since he didn't pay me, he would go to the newspaper office and pay his bill, then complain that I never knocked on his door. He never tipped. Papers had to be delivered by 5:30 pm during the week and one time I remember I was late because the papers were late (It was a halt the presses day in a small town!), and he got his paper at 5:38 pm and he had already called and complained to the office- and was standing on his porch yelling at me. He would look for any excuse to yell at me. I talked to his neighbor once and he could see me and then he yelled at me for not being quick enough. Are you getting the picture he was a mean guy? I was just a 10 year old little girl. Really, what a jerk, right?
Well, I lost it. I was 10 or 11 years old at this point and I just lost it. I was on time, I wasn't running late. There was nothing unusual going on. All I did was try to collect payment for the paper. And it happened. He yelled at me, telling me he didn't get a paper the night before and he wanted a discount. Well, I knew I had left him a paper. One, because I just KNEW I had, and two, if I hadn't he would've called and complained and I didn't get a complaint notice. I told him he was wrong and I couldn't give him a discount, but I would get him a yesterday paper and have my parent's bring me back with it in about a half an hour. Then he started yelling at me and that's when it happened:
I yelled back. I was shaking. I think I said something along the lines of: "You're a mean man and I'm never going to deliver your paper again!" And I ripped up the newspaper into bits and I threw the pieces at him, and turned and ran away.
I stormed down the street all indignant and mad. I was shaking. I was upset. And by the time I got to the gas station across the street I was in tears. The guy who owned the station had watched what happened and was trying not to laugh. I was crying because I was mad, because I thought I would be in trouble and lose my job, because I thought my parents would be mad because I was disrespectful to an adult, because I had never treated another person like that in my life, because the adrenaline was gone.
Well, the gas station owner gave me a soda and listened to my story. He knew Mr. James Gardner was a mean and crotchety old man. He knew the guy was trying to not pay me and complained all the time. The owner told me it would be okay and for me to deliver the rest of my papers and then go on home and tell my parents what happened. I took off and did the rest of my route.
When I got home my parents already knew what happened. The gas station owner called and filled them in. My parents knew the trouble Mr. James Gardner had always given me. My mom had already called the newspaper office and they talked. The knew the trouble he had given me. And the gas station owner had called the paper office in my defense. I got to keep my job.
I didn't get in trouble, though my parents did tell me that might not be the best way to handle problems in the future. But the good news: I never had to deliver him a newspaper again.
Years later I found out that the gas station owner knew what happened because he could see and hear the altercation, and the three mechanics who worked for him were all watching and listening, wrenches in hand to come down the block and save me if need be. And they had just cheered for me and howled with laughter. It became a neighborhood legend- and people asked me about it all the next day, and still talk about it now: remember the day the little girl with the huge newspaper bag ripped up the neighborhood terror's, Mr. James Gardner, newspaper and let the wind blow the bit to places unknown, leaving him red faced, and sputtering with a yippy dog in the background, who had to walk to the convenience store to get the paper from then on?
Your former newsie,
Maggie
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Madder than a wet hen
When I was a teenager I was actually a pretty good kid. There was little 'drama' from me as one might expect from a teenage girl. But I had a healthy respect for my parents and I liked my freedom they gave me. I also liked having a phone in my room and a car to drive back and forth to school and work- they giveth and they taketh away. So I didn't sneak out of my house, didn't drink, didn't lie about where I was going, didn't take drugs... I was a boring and just generally a good kid. I tell you this because what follows is out of the ordinary behavior for me...
I was not a morning person and to be honest, I'm still not. If I can wake up naturally, then I'm fine... but when having to wake up to an alarm clock- well, I have never been one to do so gracefully. My mother figured out that I was not the Princess of Happiness in the morning so she never got out of bed until we were gone. And she didn't have to be at work until 8:30 or 9 am so why should she get up and frolic with the Queen of Darkness at 6:30am if she didn't have to? And she didn't have to because my father, on the other hand, had to be at work around the same time my baby brother and I had to be at school, so dad was sort of our "morning parent" if you will.
One morning when I was in high school, a sophomore or a junior, I was feeling goofy in the morning. Who knows why I was in a good mood? And I was feeling ornery and for some reason decided I was going to play a practical joke on my mother. I have no idea what possessed this behavior in me but I... well, I... I took black electrical tape and taped down the ON handle on the sink sprayer. Ummm, so whomever turned on the water faucet next would get a shower. And my brother and father both saw me do this. And they snickered.
So fast forward the rest of the day... and boy oh boy was I in trouble when I got home.
Apparently, my mother sort of... re-arranged her morning routine and for whatever reason there is, she got fully dressed for work and did her hair and makeup before she ever went to the kitchen. I remember thinking when I did it she would only have a wet robe or wet pajamas so it wouldn't be a big deal. But for some reason that was not the case. And she was ready to walk out the door to go to the office, all dressed up, when she turned on the spigot. And got soaked. And not just her clothes, but her hair and her face. to the point where she was late to work because she had to re-do her hair and make up AND change clothes. And was she ever PISSED.
She called my father at work and sputtered and swore and yelled about what her son had done. Dad, I find out later of course, was trying to keep from laughing and told her it wasn't her son, who was the typical jester of the house, who did it. I guess, according to what I learned later, is that mom was about twice as furious as she laid into dad, blaming him. When he finally got a word in edgewise and told her it wasn't him.... there was silent fuming on the other end of the phone. Mom hung up. Dad thought he was going to be short one child.
I have to admit now that I don't remember what punishment I got, if any- probably just yelled at or grounded, but to this day I remember how mom couldn't believe that I was the one who would do such a thing. Everyone else hears this story and howls with laughter- I still do giggle at it. And until her dying day my mother never found "the funny" in this situation.
My dad and brother were always pissed that they didn't think of it first.
Best practical joke I ever played,
Maggie
I was not a morning person and to be honest, I'm still not. If I can wake up naturally, then I'm fine... but when having to wake up to an alarm clock- well, I have never been one to do so gracefully. My mother figured out that I was not the Princess of Happiness in the morning so she never got out of bed until we were gone. And she didn't have to be at work until 8:30 or 9 am so why should she get up and frolic with the Queen of Darkness at 6:30am if she didn't have to? And she didn't have to because my father, on the other hand, had to be at work around the same time my baby brother and I had to be at school, so dad was sort of our "morning parent" if you will.
One morning when I was in high school, a sophomore or a junior, I was feeling goofy in the morning. Who knows why I was in a good mood? And I was feeling ornery and for some reason decided I was going to play a practical joke on my mother. I have no idea what possessed this behavior in me but I... well, I... I took black electrical tape and taped down the ON handle on the sink sprayer. Ummm, so whomever turned on the water faucet next would get a shower. And my brother and father both saw me do this. And they snickered.
So fast forward the rest of the day... and boy oh boy was I in trouble when I got home.
Apparently, my mother sort of... re-arranged her morning routine and for whatever reason there is, she got fully dressed for work and did her hair and makeup before she ever went to the kitchen. I remember thinking when I did it she would only have a wet robe or wet pajamas so it wouldn't be a big deal. But for some reason that was not the case. And she was ready to walk out the door to go to the office, all dressed up, when she turned on the spigot. And got soaked. And not just her clothes, but her hair and her face. to the point where she was late to work because she had to re-do her hair and make up AND change clothes. And was she ever PISSED.
She called my father at work and sputtered and swore and yelled about what her son had done. Dad, I find out later of course, was trying to keep from laughing and told her it wasn't her son, who was the typical jester of the house, who did it. I guess, according to what I learned later, is that mom was about twice as furious as she laid into dad, blaming him. When he finally got a word in edgewise and told her it wasn't him.... there was silent fuming on the other end of the phone. Mom hung up. Dad thought he was going to be short one child.
I have to admit now that I don't remember what punishment I got, if any- probably just yelled at or grounded, but to this day I remember how mom couldn't believe that I was the one who would do such a thing. Everyone else hears this story and howls with laughter- I still do giggle at it. And until her dying day my mother never found "the funny" in this situation.
My dad and brother were always pissed that they didn't think of it first.
Best practical joke I ever played,
Maggie
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Childhood Flashback- A Day Moon
It was summer time, between my freshmen and sophomore year in high school. My mother was sitting on the sun porch reading a book. I was at the neighbor’s house, one house away, with my BFF (who isn't a BFF- I have no idea what happened to her...anyway!). We were on the front porch at her house, talking. It was hot, we were bored and trying to figure out what to do. We were listening to the radio and singing along, of course.
A car goes by, with the music blaring and a bunch of boys waved at us and drove on. We knew them from school and of course we immediately giggled, and started talking about them- they were a year old than me, in a grade above. They drove by again and again, circling the block. Each time they would wave or yell something at us. They weren’t being rude or gross- politically incorrect yeah, but no nasty name calling or asking for sexual favors. Just things like “hey baby” or “ooooo sexy” or “looking good”.
A car goes by, with the music blaring and a bunch of boys waved at us and drove on. We knew them from school and of course we immediately giggled, and started talking about them- they were a year old than me, in a grade above. They drove by again and again, circling the block. Each time they would wave or yell something at us. They weren’t being rude or gross- politically incorrect yeah, but no nasty name calling or asking for sexual favors. Just things like “hey baby” or “ooooo sexy” or “looking good”.
About the 5th or 6th time they passed, things were a little different. BFF and I had figured at some point they would stop and hang out- that was just what kids in our small town did. BUT… this time when they came by, they slowed down… and one of the boys mooned us! He hung his lily white butt out the window and mooned us, plain as day, in the middle of the afternoon. They sped up and took off.
BFF and I were speechless, then we about died laughing. We howled and laughed until the tears poured down our faces. Then my mother yelled at us to come over to her. We walked to my house, a whole 100 yards away, still giggling. She was curious to see if we could tell her what was so funny. She knew the boys had been driving by, she could see that, but she didn’t know about the mooning. As we started to tell her, here came the car of boys again. And once again, they MOONED us. This time my mom got a full view. All three of us were laughing hysterically. The car came around a third, and final, time. My mom had come out of the shadows of the sun porch and when the boys ‘dropped trou’, she was right there, applauding and laughing- BFF and I clapped too, giving them a standing ovation. The boys were caught and drove like a bat out of hell down the road, trying to get away, thinking they were busted since there was an adult there.
A day moon.- who wouldda thought?
White moon shining,
Maggie
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