This summer I did not go anywhere. Usually this is not the case. After the school year ends, there is this need to just hop in the car and take off for a while. I play tunes on the radio or CD or listen to books-on-tape. I read by the pool or in my room, and I watch free HBO for a week or two before bed. I visit friends in other states, in-laws, or fellow genealogists and researchers. I see tourist places and stop at mom-and-pop cafes for good food. Some trips Caveman will join me or a friend, but usually I go alone.
There was the time, however, that I offered to take my dad with me. He was interested in everything I had uncovered about the family and wanted to see old family homesteads. What can you say to that? No, Dad! I'd rather poke hot needles in my eyes than take you with me for two weeks trapped in a car!
"Sure! It'll be fun!"
So we're in Nebraska (too far for either of us to walk home, but close enough to send someone packing with a cheap Greyhound ticket) when Dad says, "Hey, do you mind if I play one of my tapes?"
"Of course not. Go right ahead." Whereupon Dad pulls out Slim Whitman's Greatest Hits on the Pan Pipe.
Where are the needles???
There is the Dad humor added from time to time just to make things fun. "Hey, Liz, see that cemetery to your right?"
"Yeah."
"Guess how many people are buried there?"
?
"All of them!"
Guess what? He survived and is not buried among them.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
A Very Different Birthday
Yesterday, my teammates threw an intimate gathering to celebrate my birthday. It was very pleasant to get together, catch-up, and have a good laugh. We began this year throwing each other small theme birthdays during our lunch hours. I won't get into all the details but will summarize as such:
One thing was interesting. The tarot card was the picture of a young child looking through some gates as if longing to go in. It represented either a) quit being an elitist and go in; or b) except that you want to do your own thing. In the past I had learned that if you want something done, do it yourself. Now that I have a wonderful support group at work and in my personal life, I realize that I do not have to do it all. They are wonderful group with so much from which I can learn and grow.
The whole day was absolutely wonderful from beginning to end.
- party 1 - all of us with eye patches and birthday boy in a pirate hat
- party 2 - all of us with leis and birthday girl in a coconut bra
- party 3 - all with Tinkerbell tiaras and a game of Pixie Bingo
- party 4 - all with cans of silly string and me with a Spiderman action figure to stick in my car windows.
I am blessed with a wonderful team that fits well. That doesn't happen often. We all love a good laugh, but can support each other.
Caveman came. At first I thought he was going to be his usual quiet, retiring self. I was pleasantly surprised that after awhile he loosened up and infused the group with his own style of humor. He is great with puns, and was able to throw out a few. He also got a chance to see some of the humor that my friends have. He enjoyed Laurie's impression of a dog barking underwater. That and a can of silly string loosened him up.
After the party Caveman, Laurie, Donna, and myself went to see a local tarot card reader who happened to have the same unusual last name as myself. She certainly had the same intensity that all of my family seems to have. That intensity can, of course, be used for good or evil.
Of course, I had to show familial support by paying for a tarot reading. Some of the reading was a direct hit (need more "real sleep" because I over-analyze everything). Some of the reading was a bit general (a worthwhile project will be coming up). Hey, I'm the project queen. Everything is a project to be done in my mind. However, I'm supposed to let go of some of that over-thinking.
One thing was interesting. The tarot card was the picture of a young child looking through some gates as if longing to go in. It represented either a) quit being an elitist and go in; or b) except that you want to do your own thing. In the past I had learned that if you want something done, do it yourself. Now that I have a wonderful support group at work and in my personal life, I realize that I do not have to do it all. They are wonderful group with so much from which I can learn and grow.
The whole day was absolutely wonderful from beginning to end.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wild Dog
I mentioned in a previous blog that I have an Australian cattle dog. Cattledog.com states that a lot of experimentation went on in coming up with a dog that was perfect for herding cattle in the Australian outback. They tend to be a mix of Highland collie, dingo, kelpie, and dalmatian. Cattle dogs are ranked #10 in intelligence behind other herding dogs like Australian shepherd and border collie.
Caveman and I were watching a special on the dingo on Animal Planet. Our dog had sooo many similar features. She has white socks on her forelegs with the unmistakable dalmatian spots. Her ears are floppy, but when she lays back you can see how big and pointy they are. Very similar to the dingo and kelpie.
And smart! She's so smart it's scary. We've had to make sure to provide her with toys that will keep her occupied. One toy is a Kong ball. It's solid rubber and odd-shaped so that it bounces in weird directions. It has a hole in it so that you can put treats inside for the dog to try to get at. Our dog will toss it down the stairs, go get, it, bring it back to the top, and toss it again until the treat comes out. It doesn't take long. One time she took it out to our deck and threw it down onto the patio. The treat came out instantly.
We have one plush toy shaped like a tree with holes in it. It has three chipmunks that hide in the tree. The dog loves to quickly pull the chipmunks out. She has a plush cow with velcro appendages. She rips the head, legs, and arms off then waits for you to put them so she can do it again. She has a plush duck with lots of plush eggs that fit inside the duck. She loves to try to get all of them out beating each previous time.
On top of that, she has an immense number of stuffed animals that she loves to play with. If we're not there to play throw and catch, she will toss the stuffed animal up in the air and catch it in her mouth. She also loves to lay on her back with a toy in her mouth. Then she grabs it between her paws, tosses it in the air, and catches it between her paws.
She loves to walk although she can't stand seeing other dogs around. Her favorite place to walk is by the creek. The creek comes from down the foothills. It has lots of trees and grassland and is home to a fair amount of animals that come down from the mountain searching for food and water - tons of snakes, insects, rodents, and also deer, raccoon, fox, and skunk. Once I saw a coyote stalking through the grass. Then he stopped, pounced, and scooped up a mouse.
When we go on our walks, my dog acts just like that coyote. Those ears don't miss a sound! Every rustle must be investigated. And that is how she came upon her first field mouse. She heard a rustle, sniffed, saw a mouse scurry, she ran after it . . . it was gone. Dived under something it did, and my dog was left to keep on walking.
Each time we have walked the paths along the creek, her instincts have sharpened. She will hear a rustle and all four legs will leave the ground to land at the spot where the sound originated. If the mouse scurried to a different spot, another quick bound brought her to that spot. Woe (or whoa!) to the person holding onto the leash.
Her first mouse, she landed on top of. It squealed, and I'm not quite sure who was more surprised. My dog just froze, and I pulled her away. She kept looking back to the spot, but I dragged her through the rest of her walk.
Her second mouse was not so surprising to her. She pounced on it, scooped it up in her mouth, and brought it out of the grass. "Put it down!" I yelled, and she did. It just lay there. I'm not sure how it died. Either her weight crushed it, she broke it's neck (even though she had simply scooped the whole thing with her mouth), or it died of fear. She didn't protest when I pulled her away - mainly because some other dogs were walking by. Over my shoulder I hear that owner say, "Put that down, don't eat it." I knew some lucky dog got a free surprise.
Her third and fourth mouse were caught on the same day. She was certainly getting more skilled even though I was trying to keep her on a shorter leash. She seemed to find them everywhere now. The accuracy of her leaps was astounding, catching them on her first leap and routing them out of their holes with her nose. She scooped these mice more quickly, harder so that their little necks were broken instantly.
During this time, I watched with both fascination and horror. The fascination came from watching her speed and agility. It came from understanding that her eyes ears were attune to everything around her. I saw how quickly her primitive dingo instincts kicked in. "Hey, Mom, see? I could live on my own if I had to." The horror came from seeing the dead mice even though I knew that the dog was doing what dogs do.
The fifth (and hopefully last) time she pulled one right out of the grass next to me with no trouble at all - at least for her. For the mouse it was trouble aplenty. This time she shook it by its neck before I pulled her away. Each catch seemed to be getting less gentle and more ferocious.
It's time to start taking her somewhere else no matter how much she pouts. She'll have to settle for dominating her plush animals.
Caveman and I were watching a special on the dingo on Animal Planet. Our dog had sooo many similar features. She has white socks on her forelegs with the unmistakable dalmatian spots. Her ears are floppy, but when she lays back you can see how big and pointy they are. Very similar to the dingo and kelpie.
And smart! She's so smart it's scary. We've had to make sure to provide her with toys that will keep her occupied. One toy is a Kong ball. It's solid rubber and odd-shaped so that it bounces in weird directions. It has a hole in it so that you can put treats inside for the dog to try to get at. Our dog will toss it down the stairs, go get, it, bring it back to the top, and toss it again until the treat comes out. It doesn't take long. One time she took it out to our deck and threw it down onto the patio. The treat came out instantly.
We have one plush toy shaped like a tree with holes in it. It has three chipmunks that hide in the tree. The dog loves to quickly pull the chipmunks out. She has a plush cow with velcro appendages. She rips the head, legs, and arms off then waits for you to put them so she can do it again. She has a plush duck with lots of plush eggs that fit inside the duck. She loves to try to get all of them out beating each previous time.
On top of that, she has an immense number of stuffed animals that she loves to play with. If we're not there to play throw and catch, she will toss the stuffed animal up in the air and catch it in her mouth. She also loves to lay on her back with a toy in her mouth. Then she grabs it between her paws, tosses it in the air, and catches it between her paws.
She loves to walk although she can't stand seeing other dogs around. Her favorite place to walk is by the creek. The creek comes from down the foothills. It has lots of trees and grassland and is home to a fair amount of animals that come down from the mountain searching for food and water - tons of snakes, insects, rodents, and also deer, raccoon, fox, and skunk. Once I saw a coyote stalking through the grass. Then he stopped, pounced, and scooped up a mouse.
When we go on our walks, my dog acts just like that coyote. Those ears don't miss a sound! Every rustle must be investigated. And that is how she came upon her first field mouse. She heard a rustle, sniffed, saw a mouse scurry, she ran after it . . . it was gone. Dived under something it did, and my dog was left to keep on walking.
Each time we have walked the paths along the creek, her instincts have sharpened. She will hear a rustle and all four legs will leave the ground to land at the spot where the sound originated. If the mouse scurried to a different spot, another quick bound brought her to that spot. Woe (or whoa!) to the person holding onto the leash.
Her first mouse, she landed on top of. It squealed, and I'm not quite sure who was more surprised. My dog just froze, and I pulled her away. She kept looking back to the spot, but I dragged her through the rest of her walk.
Her second mouse was not so surprising to her. She pounced on it, scooped it up in her mouth, and brought it out of the grass. "Put it down!" I yelled, and she did. It just lay there. I'm not sure how it died. Either her weight crushed it, she broke it's neck (even though she had simply scooped the whole thing with her mouth), or it died of fear. She didn't protest when I pulled her away - mainly because some other dogs were walking by. Over my shoulder I hear that owner say, "Put that down, don't eat it." I knew some lucky dog got a free surprise.
Her third and fourth mouse were caught on the same day. She was certainly getting more skilled even though I was trying to keep her on a shorter leash. She seemed to find them everywhere now. The accuracy of her leaps was astounding, catching them on her first leap and routing them out of their holes with her nose. She scooped these mice more quickly, harder so that their little necks were broken instantly.
During this time, I watched with both fascination and horror. The fascination came from watching her speed and agility. It came from understanding that her eyes ears were attune to everything around her. I saw how quickly her primitive dingo instincts kicked in. "Hey, Mom, see? I could live on my own if I had to." The horror came from seeing the dead mice even though I knew that the dog was doing what dogs do.
The fifth (and hopefully last) time she pulled one right out of the grass next to me with no trouble at all - at least for her. For the mouse it was trouble aplenty. This time she shook it by its neck before I pulled her away. Each catch seemed to be getting less gentle and more ferocious.
It's time to start taking her somewhere else no matter how much she pouts. She'll have to settle for dominating her plush animals.
Friday, June 6, 2008
I Earned It
This year I decided to join MENSA. I looked up the calendar of events at my local chapter, and it seemed interesting. Once you're a member, you have access to more than just the calendar of events. One page tries to describe the typical mensan. Most are social and few are hidden in their rooms. All of them tend to be individualist and are bright, although not in every area. Only a handful are annoying.
So with this in mind, I attended my first function. It was a coffee/breakfast at a local deli. Caveman came with me as family members are encouraged to attend. It was nice, every day chitchat over coffee, and Caveman was pleasantly surprised. One person did mention that they didn't have a phone after discovering it was tapped, but I didn't think anything about it. I mean mensans tend to be bright, so it's to be expected that some are politically active and on a List.
The next function was a group discussion on the topic of Personal Freedom. Now even though their were some ideas I did not agree with, I found the discussion to be quite stimulating. However, I was surprised at the number of comments about phone tapping, email reading, library book checkouts, and overall government spying.
This got me thinking.
1. Are they all paranoid? Never let it be said that I do not over think things. I have reached a point where I can no longer read a newspaper without my blood pressure skyrocketing. I just get upset about everyone and their stupid antics. But, I never thought about the government being after me personally. I thought they had it in for everyone equally.
2. Is the government really after them? I mean some of them were probably active in their college days during the Vietnam War, but I'm betting that most went into a white collar type of life where being blacklisted in the 60's is a badge of honor. Then again, it's not like your average BubbaJoe is going to pull off some plan to overtake the government.
* On a side note - Ever read those articles on America's dumbest
criminals? My favorite is the one where this guy tries to rob a
jewelry story by throwing a cinder block at the window. The
window was made of that special material, so the cinder block
bounced back, hit the guy in the head, and knocked him out. The
police came and found him there on the sidewalk. He was arrested.
So maybe the government's time is better spent following mensans.
3. What's wrong with me? I mean, am I not good enough for the government that they can't spy on me? a.) My bank accounts aren't being accessed. Just because I spend my savings like a drunken sailor on Home Depot products, does not mean I can't be as good a threat as anybody else. Maybe all those plants I purchased will put out a noxious smell to render people unconscious while I take over. b.) My phone isn't being tapped. Okay, so maybe one teammate and I call each other during the finale of The Biggest Loser to discuss how great everyone looks after losing 100+ pounds. Maybe that's our secret code for something. c.) No one with dark suits and glasses has questioned me about what books I'm reading. Okay, maybe it's because the last book I checked out was Ramona the Pest. Everyone knows Ramona was subversive.
I discussed this topic of mensan paranoia with Caveman after the two of us attended another event and the mention of phone/computer tapping came up. "I always thought all intellectuals were paranoid. You included. It comes with the territory," Caveman contributed.
"I know I have my worries, but really, what am I paranoid about?"
"Well, airport security for one."
True. "But, you always say you're not a real intellectual. You're paranoid." I thought I had scored a point there. Not only is Caveman brighter than he lets on, but he can't bear to throw any receipt away because he's paranoid the government might want it for taxes. He once kept a receipt for dog food even though we don't claim the dog as a dependant.
"My dad was paranoid, so I come by my paranoia honestly. You earned yours."
I guess that means I belong with the right group.
So with this in mind, I attended my first function. It was a coffee/breakfast at a local deli. Caveman came with me as family members are encouraged to attend. It was nice, every day chitchat over coffee, and Caveman was pleasantly surprised. One person did mention that they didn't have a phone after discovering it was tapped, but I didn't think anything about it. I mean mensans tend to be bright, so it's to be expected that some are politically active and on a List.
The next function was a group discussion on the topic of Personal Freedom. Now even though their were some ideas I did not agree with, I found the discussion to be quite stimulating. However, I was surprised at the number of comments about phone tapping, email reading, library book checkouts, and overall government spying.
This got me thinking.
1. Are they all paranoid? Never let it be said that I do not over think things. I have reached a point where I can no longer read a newspaper without my blood pressure skyrocketing. I just get upset about everyone and their stupid antics. But, I never thought about the government being after me personally. I thought they had it in for everyone equally.
2. Is the government really after them? I mean some of them were probably active in their college days during the Vietnam War, but I'm betting that most went into a white collar type of life where being blacklisted in the 60's is a badge of honor. Then again, it's not like your average BubbaJoe is going to pull off some plan to overtake the government.
* On a side note - Ever read those articles on America's dumbest
criminals? My favorite is the one where this guy tries to rob a
jewelry story by throwing a cinder block at the window. The
window was made of that special material, so the cinder block
bounced back, hit the guy in the head, and knocked him out. The
police came and found him there on the sidewalk. He was arrested.
So maybe the government's time is better spent following mensans.
3. What's wrong with me? I mean, am I not good enough for the government that they can't spy on me? a.) My bank accounts aren't being accessed. Just because I spend my savings like a drunken sailor on Home Depot products, does not mean I can't be as good a threat as anybody else. Maybe all those plants I purchased will put out a noxious smell to render people unconscious while I take over. b.) My phone isn't being tapped. Okay, so maybe one teammate and I call each other during the finale of The Biggest Loser to discuss how great everyone looks after losing 100+ pounds. Maybe that's our secret code for something. c.) No one with dark suits and glasses has questioned me about what books I'm reading. Okay, maybe it's because the last book I checked out was Ramona the Pest. Everyone knows Ramona was subversive.
I discussed this topic of mensan paranoia with Caveman after the two of us attended another event and the mention of phone/computer tapping came up. "I always thought all intellectuals were paranoid. You included. It comes with the territory," Caveman contributed.
"I know I have my worries, but really, what am I paranoid about?"
"Well, airport security for one."
True. "But, you always say you're not a real intellectual. You're paranoid." I thought I had scored a point there. Not only is Caveman brighter than he lets on, but he can't bear to throw any receipt away because he's paranoid the government might want it for taxes. He once kept a receipt for dog food even though we don't claim the dog as a dependant.
"My dad was paranoid, so I come by my paranoia honestly. You earned yours."
I guess that means I belong with the right group.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
We have a mother bird and some new babies this week. Mama made a nest conveniently located in the crook of a downspout. It's safe from cats, birds, and our dog. The eaves shade the nest and keep off the rain. We noticed mama sitting on the nest intently, rarely leaving for a break. And then a few days ago, I noticed an empty shell on our deck and Mama was MIA. "Oh, no!" I thought the worst, so I reached up and grabbed the nest to see and found TWO very healthy baby birds. "Oh, no!" I bet now because I touched the nest, Mama will have nothing to do with them. I quickly put the nest back and moved out of the way. Sure enough, much to my releif, Mama arrived to feed the babies.
For some reason, I just feel bad for any hurt little animal. I don't like to see them suffer. Of course, that doesn't apply to ants in the house. They're getting sprayed. It doesn't apply to moths in the house, either. I suck those critters up in the vaccuum. I figure spiders are somewhat useful, so I keep one or two of those around. Termites - gotta go. Last year some yellow jackets took up residence in our backyard, and I got stung. Those buggers were nixed. Pretty much most insects can go. Mice and rats would have to go if I found any around. I don't have much use for worms, but we have an uneasy peace. They don't fly around, and I don't roll in the mud after it rains.
But except for those, I feel bad for all the OTHER animals when they get hurt.
Most times my feelings of animal injustice extend to fiction writing. As friends know (and I've mentioned in a previous blog) books like Sounder, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Charlotte's Web drive me up the wall.
But anyhoo, Mama bird and babies are doing just fine.
For some reason, I just feel bad for any hurt little animal. I don't like to see them suffer. Of course, that doesn't apply to ants in the house. They're getting sprayed. It doesn't apply to moths in the house, either. I suck those critters up in the vaccuum. I figure spiders are somewhat useful, so I keep one or two of those around. Termites - gotta go. Last year some yellow jackets took up residence in our backyard, and I got stung. Those buggers were nixed. Pretty much most insects can go. Mice and rats would have to go if I found any around. I don't have much use for worms, but we have an uneasy peace. They don't fly around, and I don't roll in the mud after it rains.
But except for those, I feel bad for all the OTHER animals when they get hurt.
Most times my feelings of animal injustice extend to fiction writing. As friends know (and I've mentioned in a previous blog) books like Sounder, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Charlotte's Web drive me up the wall.
But anyhoo, Mama bird and babies are doing just fine.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Back to Blogging
I promised my friend Laurie that I would get back to blogging, especially now that school is almost over. Yahoo!
Unfortunately, school isn't over yet. We still have two days to go. While it is nice to know that soon we will go from working 24/7 to sleeping 24/7, each remaining day must be carefully navigated like an obstacle course with harrowing traps.
To make matters more interesting, the air conditioning unit on our side of the building went out. So I had to navigate the course in 80 degree heat with 22 stinky 11-12 year olds in a cramped room. At lunch time I had to leave and drive around the block blasting the air in my car. By 2:00 in the afternoon, I thought they had it fixed and that I could feel a breeze. That turned out to be an hallucination brought on by heat stroke.
As soon as I got home, I turned on the air conditioner in my house and laid down on the bed. Caveman followed me upstairs to see if I was ok. I wasn't. I was highly irritable and hot. I explained my day trapped in a hot room with hot, stinky children and I wanted to not be hot.
"I'm fine. I think the house is perfectly comfortable."
"You've been in your office in the basement. Of course you're fine. I need a chance to cool down."
"Maybe you have a temperature."
"I'm hot on the outside, not on the inside."
"Are you sure?"
He was smiling benignly which translated means he was unaware that he was in imminent danger. I was hot, Hot, HOT! Only imagine the exclamation point as a dagger because I was considering stabbing him to drive home the point. (And that reminds me that I could back over him in the driveway if given the opportunity. But I digress.)
He let me know he was off to play poker with his buddies and to call if I needed anything. I took a xanax and went to sleep on the sofa in the living room where it was much cooler.
Needless to say, the Love of My Life is alive, I'm feeling much better today, and the air conditioneer in my classroom is working. Two more days to go.
Unfortunately, school isn't over yet. We still have two days to go. While it is nice to know that soon we will go from working 24/7 to sleeping 24/7, each remaining day must be carefully navigated like an obstacle course with harrowing traps.
To make matters more interesting, the air conditioning unit on our side of the building went out. So I had to navigate the course in 80 degree heat with 22 stinky 11-12 year olds in a cramped room. At lunch time I had to leave and drive around the block blasting the air in my car. By 2:00 in the afternoon, I thought they had it fixed and that I could feel a breeze. That turned out to be an hallucination brought on by heat stroke.
As soon as I got home, I turned on the air conditioner in my house and laid down on the bed. Caveman followed me upstairs to see if I was ok. I wasn't. I was highly irritable and hot. I explained my day trapped in a hot room with hot, stinky children and I wanted to not be hot.
"I'm fine. I think the house is perfectly comfortable."
"You've been in your office in the basement. Of course you're fine. I need a chance to cool down."
"Maybe you have a temperature."
"I'm hot on the outside, not on the inside."
"Are you sure?"
He was smiling benignly which translated means he was unaware that he was in imminent danger. I was hot, Hot, HOT! Only imagine the exclamation point as a dagger because I was considering stabbing him to drive home the point. (And that reminds me that I could back over him in the driveway if given the opportunity. But I digress.)
He let me know he was off to play poker with his buddies and to call if I needed anything. I took a xanax and went to sleep on the sofa in the living room where it was much cooler.
Needless to say, the Love of My Life is alive, I'm feeling much better today, and the air conditioneer in my classroom is working. Two more days to go.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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.
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.
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