Santa Steps In

My brother has been reading my posts, and we were recently discussing our traumatizing childhood event over roller skates.

It begins with a question: How can you keep up with your friends when your parents are constantly holding you back? Living in southern Turkey was bad enough what with only three English-speaking television shows. My sister, brother, and I were forced to play outside, come up with our own diversions, and play with our friends. Normally, that wouldn’t be too bad, but this one particular summer it seemed as though all our friends had roller skates while we had none. Nothing can be more pathetic than having your friends skate down the street while you run after them.

Of course, my parents felt that they had a good reason for ruining our lives. They insisted that skating was too dangerous. Indeed, my friends had all sorts of bumps, bruises, scrapes, sprains, and assorted markings of every size. Our area had no sidewalks, so kids skated on the uneven roads dodging cars. Any little stone could be a hazard and pitch you forward onto an oncoming car. Kids soon discovered that at the end of the road, you could skate in the medical center’s ambulance lot. There the concrete was smooth, and the ambulances warned you with a blast of the siren to get out of the way when they had to leave or return. My parents felt that having to get out of the way of a speeding ambulance was dangerous, too. “If your friends jumped off of a cliff, would you?” they asked. “No,” I said thinking that was a dumb question. My friends didn’t jump off of cliffs. They roller skated in an ambulance lot.

Having had enough of our pleading, puppy-dog faces, my mother said she would get us skates. I should have been suspicious because my mother didn’t usually cave in so easily. What my mother produced was one pair of red, plastic skates to be shared among the three of us. Our friends had the real metal skates. You placed your heel against the back support with the straps to hold it in, your toe in the brace, and then tightened it with a key so it didn’t slip apart. Ours didn’t even have a key – just an extra yellow strap. To make matters worse, we were not allowed out of mom’s eyesight with the skates. We had to practice on a patch of hard dirt in our yard until she was convinced we knew what we were doing. If my parents were out to stunt our social growth (as I long suspected), these plastic skates were the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes.

The summer faded, school started, and the plastic skates were forgotten. This was not because of the weather. We never got snow in our area of Turkey. We put them away because the whole joy of skating was sufficiently killed and buried. But as luck would have it, the forces of nature came together to create a miracle. Kris Kringle, aka Santa Claus, got wind of our dire situation. Kids may be starving in China and begging in India (as my parents constantly reminded us), but he had deemed our embarrassing predicament as worthy of utmost attention.

That was why on Christmas morning, three special packages were waiting to be ripped open. To our everlasting surprise, we were presented each with our own pair of roller skates. We were so surprised that we just stared at the lids of the boxes. The picture on the lids showed not just any skates but real, honest-to-goodness boot skates. After this pause, we opened the boxes and pulled out our skates. The skates for my sister and I were white leather while my brother had black. Without any hesitation we slipped them on (even though we didn’t have on any socks) and began gliding on the carpet of the living room. Santa had totally come through. He had brought us from the deepest despair to the highest peak of delight. And no way was I prepared to give my parents even the least bit credit. I gave credit only to the Spirit of Christmas which had somehow managed to roll over their heads, back up, and roll over them again. I did say a hearty thank you to them, though, mostly so they wouldn’t get mad and take the skates back.

Skating with our friends made up for the emotional torture.

From the Amazon to Home: A Journey in Easy Steps

I just finished reading River of Doubt. The book was lent to me by Laurie, and it chronicles the travels of Teddy Roosevelt in South America. A truly remarkable journey, it reminds readers just what kind of man was Roosevelt. The expedition suffered many hardships almost right from the start. As I read the book, I imagined myself taking the journey with today's modern conveniences, imagining what it must have been like for Roosevelt and the rest of the expedition. However, an important point is made by Roosevelt's son Kermit. He explains it is when conditions worsen, that a person's true self comes out. I guess that leaves me out.

Caveman and I had the same reaction when we read about trips up Mt. Everest. We both imagined what it might be like to go - even just up to Camp 1. When Everest came out at our IMAX theater, we went with enthusiasm. However, as soon as they showed climbers crossing a crevasse with nothing more than a regular aluminum ladder, a rope, and oversized boots, we both looked at each other and said, "NO WAY!"

A few weeks later, Caveman suggested that maybe we plan an extended hiking trip. I suggested the Appalachian Trail. He asked if there were one closer to home. I explained that there was the Colorado Trail. He was very keyed up about it until I bought a book about the Colorado Trail complete with photos by John Fielder. Caveman responded, "So what's the Appalachian Trail like?"

So Caveman now wanted to plan a trip out East complete with supplies sent ahead, places to camp, and sites to see. Then he read A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson chronicling one saga on the Appalachian Trail. At one point in the story, an intrepid hiker jettisons his gear before even making the trailhead. Caveman hasn't brought up the hike since.

Sometimes we even have difficulty in Vegas. There was the time I wore new tennis shoes on the trip and developed blisters on my toes. The heat was 107 at 7:00 in the morning. I know this because our room had a view of a bank's thermometer flashing the temperature. Caveman insisted on walking to every casino on the strip in order to get their free coupons. I limped behind complaining of the heat and my feet. This brought out Caveman's superior male attitude forged millions of years ago in the primordial soup. He pointed out that with just a little imagination, he could "feel the cool breezes coming off the mountains." I pointed out that the cool breeze was the air conditioning coming out of the casinos to lure in gamblers (or gambol"ers" as was our case). I wished to be lured in, even reeled in, and at this point I would have gladly given all my money to put my ass down on a chair for an hour and drink. To make matters worse, with every free coupon, I won! Caveman became indignant that the the Gambling Gods were rewarding the person who didn't really want the coupons.

I say sometimes we have difficulty in Vegas because Caveman and I both agree that the next Vegas trip was the best ever. That's the trip where the Rio screwed up our room and so they gave us one their penthouses for a night. Talk about luxury! The bathroom was bigger than the room we eventually got. And in the penthouse, they don't post signs that say, "Please reuse your towels if possible to conserve water." The penthouse people get fresh towels even if someone else has to go without ice cubes in their drink. We even asked what it would cost to have it for another night, but the hotel refused. It seems that by checking our casino cards, the casino noted that we had not gambled during that 24 hour period. Like a couple of hicks, we had stayed in the room the whole time simply admiring the marble, the carpeting, and the big screen TV. The room was given only to big gamblers, or in our case, temporary lodging.

And I guess, that kinda sums up the travellers we really are. We are willing to see extreme locations as long as we can do it from the window of a comfortable vehicle or watch a documentary on the Travel Channel in the comfort of our own home.

Bus Rides and Crows

Dandy Girl recently had her first bus ride, and it reminded me of the infamous bus ride story in my own family.

My sister sister announced at the dinner table that she and my brother wanted to walk to the bus stop alone. “No.” My sister pointed out that I got to walk to my bus stop alone. "No." My sister begged. My mother saw that this was going to go on all night so she agreed with a sigh . . . and some warnings. “No going off with strangers, stay on the sidewalk, pay attention, . . .”

Of course, my mother had no intention of letting them go by themselves. Breakfast the next morning was eaten excitedly as my brother and sister anticipated their certain independence. My mother said goodbye to them and closed the door, letting them begin their march towards the bus stop. Only moments later the door reopened and my mother set off after them keeping a safe distance.

True to their word, the pair of them headed straight for the bus stop and made no detours, talked with no strangers, and stayed on the sidewalk. Arriving early, they stood talking and were oblivious to the fact that my mother stood only a few feet away listening to their conversation.

“Look at those birds.” My brother was pointing to a line of crows that were perched on a telephone wire.

My sister looked upset, “You know what those are. Those are mom’s birds.” My brother looked puzzled. “You know. Mom always says, ‘a little bird told me’. Those are mom’s birds spying on us.” Picture them throwing rocks towards a telephone line. You can guess that not one throw came even close.


Other kids began arriving, so they stopped with the rocks. Soon after that, the bus came and they boarded. My mom went home satisfied that they were okay. When the two of them got back home, my mom asked them about their day. They told her that they had done exactly as she told them and had no problems catching the bus.

“Yes, I know you did what I said. My little birds told me,” my mother said with a smile. Then her voice became just a little more stern. “But they asked that you not throw rocks at them. It only makes them mad.” The pair of them stood shocked. The birds had told on them! They promised to never try to hurt her birds again.

I had to explain that one to them later.

A Wonderful Summer Day

Sorry that I haven't posted on my blog for awhile. Now that school is out, I've managed to catch up on gardening, paperwork, visiting friends and family. As my good friend Laurie pointed out, it means I have a real life, and I don't have time for my virtual one. Of course, she's the self-proclaimed Blog Whore.

The truth is that blogging is a great way to procrastinate. So when I was blogging, I was really avoiding doing schoolwork. Now the truth is out! With summer here, there's been nothing to put off. But I swore I would start blogging again.

Actually, Laurie came over today with her daughter. She is soooo sweet and adorable (the daughter, not Laurie - see Blog Whore above). Her daughter is very precious, but Laurie assures me that she is not always so. Oh well, she is sweet for me, and I get to spoil her. We managed to pick some apples and bake an apple pie. We also picked some cherries and plums. There was a nice breeze and it felt good for us to sit on the patio. Good friends, good food, yes, a wonderful summer day.