A few weeks ago, Sarah, my daughter, brought me a dog to “look after” for a bit. John, my grandson, is happy as a clam to have him here with us, but I have had my doubts.
Taz is an English bull dog that was given to Sarah by the owner because he had an eye problem that the vet wouldn’t work on because Taz has a hole in his heart making the eye surgery too risky. Indeed, the doctor didn’t give Taz long to live. Sarah, always an easy mark when it comes to four legged critters, took him in. That was over two years ago. And I’m happy to report that he’s doing well. And after only a few weeks, I want to get the sticker that says “Who rescued who?” and put it on my car.
His claim to fame is that he plays a mean game of soccer. He arrived here with one toy – a beat-up partially deflated soccer ball. And he is the original ball hog. No passing from him. It’s his ball by golly and if you try to take it, well, let’s just say he’s as stubborn a bulldog as you’ve ever meet.
I love to play soccer and wish I had a big yard so we could run around. As it is, I’ve wounded myself twice as we play in and around a picnic table, an antique Z, and two bicycles. It’s a little crowded, but it’s what we have. We make do.
Until the other day. Apparently, Taz decided to explore and poked his big fat head under the fence near my neighbor’s orange tree. And he snagged one that was growing on a branch quite low to the ground. It’s so big that I thought it must be a grapefruit, but its bright orange color gave it away. My Dad would have said it’s a Texas orange since, of course, they grow everything bigger and better in Texas than we do in CA. Regardless, Taz loves having two soccer balls and actually seems to prefer the organic one as he will let me have the old dirty rubber one if it looks like I might get close to the orange one.
Shortly after his escapade, which reminded me that his name is after all a short form of Tasmanian Devil, he decided to scoot all the way under the fence and go for a visit. Problem! My neighbor doesn’t have a gate, so Taz found himself FREE once he escaped from my enclosed area. Fortunately, my neighbor had company visiting who saw the escape and alerted me. I was able to coax Taz back into my tiny yard with his soccer ball. And then I had to barricade the fence line with trash cans and a fold out cot pending a trip to Home Depot for some more permanent means of keeping him in.
I wasn’t negligent. Really! If you could see the distance between the bottom of our wooden fence and the ground and compare it to Taz’s girth, you would say – any observant person – would say there’s no way that big Telly Tubby of a dog could get under there. But by looking at him, you’d also think he wouldn’t play soccer very well either, but I’m here to tell you differently. When I kick the ball, he can get from the back door, down the driveway, to the gate in little more than a split second – leaping over any obstacles like a gazelle before bracing himself to come to a screeching halt – ball back in mouth, looking at me with a victorious grin as if he’d just made a goal in the World Cup.
Sadly, though, he realized today that the organic soccer ball was indeed edible and decided to consume it. Interesting enough, he only ate the inside, the pulp, and left the rind as a souvenir, I guess.
Gotta get me a yard!
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Drama with ESL
My journey to the world of ESL was a circuitous route that started when I began hosting international students. Back then, we called them foreign exchange students, but I guess the term “foreign” has become politically incorrect. Nonetheless, they came from “far away places with strange sounding names,” and the gypsy in me was intrigued: no – more than that – I was entranced.
My belief in the value of drama in the classroom, however, came directly via a non-stop do not pass go epiphany. But I get ahead of myself.
My very first exchange student was from Italy – Guiseppe, although he introduced himself as Joseph. He was shy and not at all what I’d expected. Nor was he much like the rest of his group who were flamboyant and outgoing. Years later, I had the pleasure of visiting him at his home in Turin – or Torino – where I was treated like long last family. He went with me to Rome where a friend of his, who introduced herself as a Roman, took us on the most amazing bicycle tour of the city where we saw all of the tourist sights and much that wasn’t in the guidebooks.
My very first female exchange student was from Japan – Kyoko. She was as fragile as a traditional Japanese doll, yet she was very high-spirited and fun to be around. I also had the pleasure of visiting with her in her home outside of Osaka. Her mother and a couple of sisters took me on a wonderful tour of the northern mountainous region of Honshu. There’s nothing quite like seeing a place with a native as your personal tour guide.
But it was another Japanese student who convinced me that drama was an effective teaching tools years before I knew anything about teaching. He was young, about 18, and his name was Hideaki. And he was terribly, terribly shy. By then I was volunteering in the classes, and I felt so bad for him. He never raised his hand. He almost seemed to cower in his seat always near the back. Even at home, he was reluctant to say much and hardly ever joined in any of our family activities even though my son, John, was almost the same age.
After a week or two on a hot July evening, I found myself not particularly excited about having to dress up three teen-agers and myself and go to the Halloween party the school was giving for the exchange students and their families. And I was getting impatient. My daughter and I were ready long before the two boys who were ensconced in the downstairs bathroom where – it turned out – John was busily transforming Hideaki into some kind of motor cycle tattooed gangster type. “Come on, you guys!” I said knocking on the door. And I had just turned away from the door when it flew open and someone jumped out with a karate kind of yell and landed in a grasshopper pose and darn near scared the daylights out of me. Brandishing a rubber knife he lunged at me and growled menacingly.
When we got to the party, Hideaki’s classmates did not recognize him – not because of the make-up job, but because he was in character. He was just not himself. When the music started, he was among the first to ask a girl to dance. Can one use the word vivacious for a boy? He was “ON.” And his classmates were stunned. No one could believe that this was the shy almost backward boy who’d been in class that very morning.
I was amazed. And the most amazing thing was that the change was permanent. The next morning at breakfast with the make-up off and the music only a memory, he was talkative and engaged. He spoke to everyone. He asked about making plans for the week-end. He was changed. And though I wouldn’t realized it for some time, I was changed, too.
For my colleagues:
Several years later, a former colleague of ours, Penny Bernal, and her friend, Lonny Hewitt, took four classic plays and rewrote them for the ESL student. And I ran into Penny this summer. It seems they’ve combined the four plays into one book Cool Classics and she graciously gave me a class set which I would like to share with you. They’ll be in the tutoring center later this week. And if you’d like any help getting started, just let me know.
My belief in the value of drama in the classroom, however, came directly via a non-stop do not pass go epiphany. But I get ahead of myself.
My very first exchange student was from Italy – Guiseppe, although he introduced himself as Joseph. He was shy and not at all what I’d expected. Nor was he much like the rest of his group who were flamboyant and outgoing. Years later, I had the pleasure of visiting him at his home in Turin – or Torino – where I was treated like long last family. He went with me to Rome where a friend of his, who introduced herself as a Roman, took us on the most amazing bicycle tour of the city where we saw all of the tourist sights and much that wasn’t in the guidebooks.
My very first female exchange student was from Japan – Kyoko. She was as fragile as a traditional Japanese doll, yet she was very high-spirited and fun to be around. I also had the pleasure of visiting with her in her home outside of Osaka. Her mother and a couple of sisters took me on a wonderful tour of the northern mountainous region of Honshu. There’s nothing quite like seeing a place with a native as your personal tour guide.
But it was another Japanese student who convinced me that drama was an effective teaching tools years before I knew anything about teaching. He was young, about 18, and his name was Hideaki. And he was terribly, terribly shy. By then I was volunteering in the classes, and I felt so bad for him. He never raised his hand. He almost seemed to cower in his seat always near the back. Even at home, he was reluctant to say much and hardly ever joined in any of our family activities even though my son, John, was almost the same age.
After a week or two on a hot July evening, I found myself not particularly excited about having to dress up three teen-agers and myself and go to the Halloween party the school was giving for the exchange students and their families. And I was getting impatient. My daughter and I were ready long before the two boys who were ensconced in the downstairs bathroom where – it turned out – John was busily transforming Hideaki into some kind of motor cycle tattooed gangster type. “Come on, you guys!” I said knocking on the door. And I had just turned away from the door when it flew open and someone jumped out with a karate kind of yell and landed in a grasshopper pose and darn near scared the daylights out of me. Brandishing a rubber knife he lunged at me and growled menacingly.
When we got to the party, Hideaki’s classmates did not recognize him – not because of the make-up job, but because he was in character. He was just not himself. When the music started, he was among the first to ask a girl to dance. Can one use the word vivacious for a boy? He was “ON.” And his classmates were stunned. No one could believe that this was the shy almost backward boy who’d been in class that very morning.
I was amazed. And the most amazing thing was that the change was permanent. The next morning at breakfast with the make-up off and the music only a memory, he was talkative and engaged. He spoke to everyone. He asked about making plans for the week-end. He was changed. And though I wouldn’t realized it for some time, I was changed, too.
For my colleagues:
Several years later, a former colleague of ours, Penny Bernal, and her friend, Lonny Hewitt, took four classic plays and rewrote them for the ESL student. And I ran into Penny this summer. It seems they’ve combined the four plays into one book Cool Classics and she graciously gave me a class set which I would like to share with you. They’ll be in the tutoring center later this week. And if you’d like any help getting started, just let me know.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Wardrobe Malfunction
In a bit of a hurry today, I grabbed a new bra, tore off the tag, threw away both of the little pieces of plastic that held it on cause I hate to find them lying around, put it on followed by a tank and a blouse and ran out the door. Before I got to the freeway I was thinking how uncomfortable I was. In the front, where the wires meet, it was digging into my chest. I’m sure that must be how a heart attack feels.
Not a stranger to heart issues or the acid reflux stuff that often mimics them, I tried to calm down. And I got on the freeway trying to tug at the offensive wires a bit to little avail. I don’t think I was paying much attention to the traffic cause I kept going over and over in my head trying to figure out what bra I had put on. It was a twin pack special deal from (I’m embarrassed to admit) Walmart. But, hey, it’s a name brand and getting two on the same hanger was a real deal. My point is, I’d worn the other one before and never felt like I was being embraced by a python.
By the time I reached my off ramp, I was seriously considering going braless for the day. I am, after all, nothing if not a child of the 60s. Still, now that I’m in my sixties I can’t quite imagine what my students would think. And, unfortunately, though I’d layered a couple of tops, neither one of them provided that much coverage. So, I tried to convince myself this was indigestion. And to help it out, I drove thru McD and bought a hot tea.
When the tea didn’t seem to help, I took a detour thru the local shopping area and ran into the drug store where I bought some Tums. I briefly looked around for a bra, but the closest bet I could find were tank tops with a skimpy kind of thing sewed in. I decided that might be worse than braless. So, I chewed up a couple of Tums and told myself I was feeling better. Not.
Got to school, parked nearby, snagged a big pile of books that I needed to return to our little library, and sprinted most of the way to the office hoping to find a female with a safety pin. Having already rummaged thru my trunk, I figured there must be a better Girl Scout amongst us who really would be prepared. I found a sewing kit, contact lens cleaner, and q-tips, but no safety pin.
Off the elevator at the 4th floor and down the hall only to find the office dark and a little note saying it would be closed until 11:45a. As my class meets at 11am that wasn’t going to work. And, of course, I had left my wad of keys in the car so I couldn’t even get into my office although I was fairly certain I have didn’t have a safety pin there either.
Knowing I couldn’t carry the bunch of books all over campus, I decided to leave them in a stack in the nearby ladies room and hope for the best. What can I say? I was so uncomfortable by now that I just didn’t care much.
Back down to the second floor, which, at Cal State, is ground level at one end of Academic Hall where I spied a friend teaching in one of the computer labs. Desperate, I opened the door, interrupted her lecture and motioned for her to come out. I must have looked awful because she didn’t hesitate. Sadly, she didn’t have a safety pin either. She offered to ask her female students, but as half the class were men, I opted out.
Not too far away, in the big courtyard, there’s a coffee cart and the woman who owns it and I have become friends over the years often running into each other at the nearby Nordstrom’s Rack while getting in some retail therapy. I knew she’d understand and her cart is not far from the little store on campus which I was 90% sure didn’t carry sundries, but… Eureka! She had 3. I grabbed them all and went in search of the nearest restroom
Cheap bras, for some reason, are made of thick material, so once I untangled myself from the lycra python I could hardly get the safety pen thru the fiber. My plan was to use two and sort of make an extension which ought to relieve the pressure in the front. Finally got both thru the fabric and hooked to the other side. My fix didn’t provide much of an extension, but an inch would have to do.
Of course, now that I’ve got this mickey mouse extension in place, I have to figure out a way to get the bra back on. So, I go over the head like a sweater. Wrong. That wasn’t going to work. In the process, one of the safety pens quickly came open and stabbed me.
Gently unhooking both of them, though I wanted to scream, I put the bra on conventionally except instead of closing it with hooks, I fastened it with safety pens. And adjusted the girls and – yes – it was possible to breathe. I could feel the color returning to my face. Whoops, one came undone again. Still calm, while wanting to scream bloody murder, I simply dug it out of my flesh and decided to go with one – the one that seemed to be the stronger of the two.
Finally on my way to class, I returned the smaller of the three pins along with the monster that kept attacking me and wouldn’t stay shut. After grabbing a folder I needed from my car I ran into a friend and shared a laugh. She knew I was on my way to teach my English thru Music class and suggested it probably wasn’t the day to demonstrate the bunny hop. After telling me to “hang in there,” she left and I walked carefully on to class looking much more confident than I felt.
Fortunately, the students were presenting today. So all I had to do was call names and make some notes as one group after another shared a bit about the musical that had been assigned to them: Les Miserables, The Sound of Music, Grease, Cats. If I recall, it was about halfway through Memories that I felt a sudden loosening and realized that the one and only remaining safety pen had given up the ghost.
Thanking Allah for my folder, as I have many Saudis in my music class, I clasped it to my chest while I reminded the students of their assignment for next week and shooed them out of the door. Of course, two or three wanted to gab and must have wondered why I wasn’t my usual talkative self.
Finally, when the last student had picked up the last book bag and sauntered out the door, I locked it, checked the shades which had been drawn so we could show videos, and tore my clothes off. Yanking the lycra python off, I discovered that the pin had not only come open, it had broken in two. And I stared at the pieces, my plan for a safety pin extension now completely thwarted.
So, I changed tactics. It’s a cheap bra, I figured I ought to be able to stretch it out a bit, so I tugged and pulled and twisted before bravely putting it back on. As I did, I loosened the straps as far as they would go. My tugging and this loosening seemed to help and I was able to get back out to my car and even get thru my next class, but not before I noticed that I’d drunk my McD tea without putting the teabag in the cup. Not that I was distraught or anything!!!
In a bit of a hurry today, I grabbed a new bra, tore off the tag, threw away both of the little pieces of plastic that held it on cause I hate to find them lying around, put it on followed by a tank and a blouse and ran out the door. Before I got to the freeway I was thinking how uncomfortable I was. In the front, where the wires meet, it was digging into my chest. I’m sure that must be how a heart attack feels.
Not a stranger to heart issues or the acid reflux stuff that often mimics them, I tried to calm down. And I got on the freeway trying to tug at the offensive wires a bit to little avail. I don’t think I was paying much attention to the traffic cause I kept going over and over in my head trying to figure out what bra I had put on. It was a twin pack special deal from (I’m embarrassed to admit) Walmart. But, hey, it’s a name brand and getting two on the same hanger was a real deal. My point is, I’d worn the other one before and never felt like I was being embraced by a python.
By the time I reached my off ramp, I was seriously considering going braless for the day. I am, after all, nothing if not a child of the 60s. Still, now that I’m in my sixties I can’t quite imagine what my students would think. And, unfortunately, though I’d layered a couple of tops, neither one of them provided that much coverage. So, I tried to convince myself this was indigestion. And to help it out, I drove thru McD and bought a hot tea.
When the tea didn’t seem to help, I took a detour thru the local shopping area and ran into the drug store where I bought some Tums. I briefly looked around for a bra, but the closest bet I could find were tank tops with a skimpy kind of thing sewed in. I decided that might be worse than braless. So, I chewed up a couple of Tums and told myself I was feeling better. Not.
Got to school, parked nearby, snagged a big pile of books that I needed to return to our little library, and sprinted most of the way to the office hoping to find a female with a safety pin. Having already rummaged thru my trunk, I figured there must be a better Girl Scout amongst us who really would be prepared. I found a sewing kit, contact lens cleaner, and q-tips, but no safety pin.
Off the elevator at the 4th floor and down the hall only to find the office dark and a little note saying it would be closed until 11:45a. As my class meets at 11am that wasn’t going to work. And, of course, I had left my wad of keys in the car so I couldn’t even get into my office although I was fairly certain I have didn’t have a safety pin there either.
Knowing I couldn’t carry the bunch of books all over campus, I decided to leave them in a stack in the nearby ladies room and hope for the best. What can I say? I was so uncomfortable by now that I just didn’t care much.
Back down to the second floor, which, at Cal State, is ground level at one end of Academic Hall where I spied a friend teaching in one of the computer labs. Desperate, I opened the door, interrupted her lecture and motioned for her to come out. I must have looked awful because she didn’t hesitate. Sadly, she didn’t have a safety pin either. She offered to ask her female students, but as half the class were men, I opted out.
Not too far away, in the big courtyard, there’s a coffee cart and the woman who owns it and I have become friends over the years often running into each other at the nearby Nordstrom’s Rack while getting in some retail therapy. I knew she’d understand and her cart is not far from the little store on campus which I was 90% sure didn’t carry sundries, but… Eureka! She had 3. I grabbed them all and went in search of the nearest restroom
Cheap bras, for some reason, are made of thick material, so once I untangled myself from the lycra python I could hardly get the safety pen thru the fiber. My plan was to use two and sort of make an extension which ought to relieve the pressure in the front. Finally got both thru the fabric and hooked to the other side. My fix didn’t provide much of an extension, but an inch would have to do.
Of course, now that I’ve got this mickey mouse extension in place, I have to figure out a way to get the bra back on. So, I go over the head like a sweater. Wrong. That wasn’t going to work. In the process, one of the safety pens quickly came open and stabbed me.
Gently unhooking both of them, though I wanted to scream, I put the bra on conventionally except instead of closing it with hooks, I fastened it with safety pens. And adjusted the girls and – yes – it was possible to breathe. I could feel the color returning to my face. Whoops, one came undone again. Still calm, while wanting to scream bloody murder, I simply dug it out of my flesh and decided to go with one – the one that seemed to be the stronger of the two.
Finally on my way to class, I returned the smaller of the three pins along with the monster that kept attacking me and wouldn’t stay shut. After grabbing a folder I needed from my car I ran into a friend and shared a laugh. She knew I was on my way to teach my English thru Music class and suggested it probably wasn’t the day to demonstrate the bunny hop. After telling me to “hang in there,” she left and I walked carefully on to class looking much more confident than I felt.
Fortunately, the students were presenting today. So all I had to do was call names and make some notes as one group after another shared a bit about the musical that had been assigned to them: Les Miserables, The Sound of Music, Grease, Cats. If I recall, it was about halfway through Memories that I felt a sudden loosening and realized that the one and only remaining safety pen had given up the ghost.
Thanking Allah for my folder, as I have many Saudis in my music class, I clasped it to my chest while I reminded the students of their assignment for next week and shooed them out of the door. Of course, two or three wanted to gab and must have wondered why I wasn’t my usual talkative self.
Finally, when the last student had picked up the last book bag and sauntered out the door, I locked it, checked the shades which had been drawn so we could show videos, and tore my clothes off. Yanking the lycra python off, I discovered that the pin had not only come open, it had broken in two. And I stared at the pieces, my plan for a safety pin extension now completely thwarted.
So, I changed tactics. It’s a cheap bra, I figured I ought to be able to stretch it out a bit, so I tugged and pulled and twisted before bravely putting it back on. As I did, I loosened the straps as far as they would go. My tugging and this loosening seemed to help and I was able to get back out to my car and even get thru my next class, but not before I noticed that I’d drunk my McD tea without putting the teabag in the cup. Not that I was distraught or anything!!!
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Awesome
As many of you know, I make my living teaching English as a Second Language. Teaching came about as a mid-life career change and it has been a joy. And my students never fail to amaze me. And when they’re not amazing, they are, at least, amusing.
At the moment, at CSUSM, we’re all getting ready for the International Fair, a day in which many groups showcase their talents and share their lives. Last year, my students decided to do body art and it was hugely popular. The line at our booth never let up as students waited to have some fancy Oriental calligraphy painted on them.
Being fairly wise, my students who were taking part, a mixed group of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean had decided it would make sense to make templates and then one could just fill them in, rather than having to create a new design for each person. So, they carefully designed and then cut out various words that they thought might appeal to the other students: happiness, luck, joy. Of course, they also decided we needed to be enthusiastic about our school, so they created a CSUSM template and a cougar which turned out to be one of the most popular patterns. They also decided they needed some modern themes.
Fast forward to this year. I dug out the templates I’d saved and encouraged this year’s group to come up with some others and, perhaps, reinforce the ones we had. After just a few minutes there was a low giggle going about the class. And when I asked to be let in on the funny, they showed me a template labeled “awesome.” Modern indeed. And I said, so what’s funny?
After some time, they stumbled around and tried to explain to me that “awesome” is a slang word and doesn’t exist in Chinese, so whoever originally drew this one had put two characters together which kind of translated into the idea of awesome, but read rather strangely. Sensing more was afoot, but somewhat satisfied I just let the class continue their efforts.
When the class met the next time, the same twittering went around the room when this card was shown to a fellow who’d been absent. Finally a couple of the Chinese women told me we couldn’t use it. The class chimed in – some pretty much in agreement and some who said it was fine. Still, I knew something more was going on and I pushed for an explanation. None was forthcoming. The young man who’d been absent, though, had something to say. He’d been in my class the year before and, apparently, had drawn this design. And he was prompt to defend it. As busy as we were, I let it go again.
Until the class met the third time to continue this project – the International Fair now less than a week away. And, somehow, the awesome template had made its way back into the stack of patterns we are going to use this year. When one of the young Japanese fellows noticed it, he pulled it out and gave it to me and said, somewhat solemnly, we can’t use this one. I’ve had him in one of my more academic courses and knew that he respected me, so I was really perplexed and I asked why – again.
He sort of looked down at his feet while that same giggling started again going around the room and bouncing off one another as some fought to hold back their laughter and others just couldn’t. Before much longer, one of the younger Chinese boys (technically a man, but barely) came close to me and mumbled under his breath, “It says “f*king awesome.” Before I could help myself I repeated what he had said which caused the entire class to just about roll on the floor. Afterwards I could truly report I was ROTFLMAO.
At the moment, at CSUSM, we’re all getting ready for the International Fair, a day in which many groups showcase their talents and share their lives. Last year, my students decided to do body art and it was hugely popular. The line at our booth never let up as students waited to have some fancy Oriental calligraphy painted on them.
Being fairly wise, my students who were taking part, a mixed group of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean had decided it would make sense to make templates and then one could just fill them in, rather than having to create a new design for each person. So, they carefully designed and then cut out various words that they thought might appeal to the other students: happiness, luck, joy. Of course, they also decided we needed to be enthusiastic about our school, so they created a CSUSM template and a cougar which turned out to be one of the most popular patterns. They also decided they needed some modern themes.
Fast forward to this year. I dug out the templates I’d saved and encouraged this year’s group to come up with some others and, perhaps, reinforce the ones we had. After just a few minutes there was a low giggle going about the class. And when I asked to be let in on the funny, they showed me a template labeled “awesome.” Modern indeed. And I said, so what’s funny?
After some time, they stumbled around and tried to explain to me that “awesome” is a slang word and doesn’t exist in Chinese, so whoever originally drew this one had put two characters together which kind of translated into the idea of awesome, but read rather strangely. Sensing more was afoot, but somewhat satisfied I just let the class continue their efforts.
When the class met the next time, the same twittering went around the room when this card was shown to a fellow who’d been absent. Finally a couple of the Chinese women told me we couldn’t use it. The class chimed in – some pretty much in agreement and some who said it was fine. Still, I knew something more was going on and I pushed for an explanation. None was forthcoming. The young man who’d been absent, though, had something to say. He’d been in my class the year before and, apparently, had drawn this design. And he was prompt to defend it. As busy as we were, I let it go again.
Until the class met the third time to continue this project – the International Fair now less than a week away. And, somehow, the awesome template had made its way back into the stack of patterns we are going to use this year. When one of the young Japanese fellows noticed it, he pulled it out and gave it to me and said, somewhat solemnly, we can’t use this one. I’ve had him in one of my more academic courses and knew that he respected me, so I was really perplexed and I asked why – again.
He sort of looked down at his feet while that same giggling started again going around the room and bouncing off one another as some fought to hold back their laughter and others just couldn’t. Before much longer, one of the younger Chinese boys (technically a man, but barely) came close to me and mumbled under his breath, “It says “f*king awesome.” Before I could help myself I repeated what he had said which caused the entire class to just about roll on the floor. Afterwards I could truly report I was ROTFLMAO.
Friday, April 4, 2014
BFF
Yesterday I went to brunch with my dear friend, Fran, and she brought some pictures of her first born's recent wedding which brought the conversation around to the "good ole days" when we first met and married and had our kids.
We met at work so it wasn't odd that our conversation went back and forth to the world of work and, at some point, I mentioned how jealous I used to be of my sister-in-law, Mary Lou, who watched my first born when I had to go back to work. I've often thought if I'd have stopped to figure out all of the costs, I probably wasn't very far ahead by working, but it was the choice I made. And it was one I regretted every single day when I had to drop him off.
And as I told Fran yesterday, I don't know how Mary Lou managed. She had a little boy just a few months older than mine. It was like having twins. I used to marvel at her. They were always fed and clean and dry, but more than that, they all seemed happy. Her oldest wss only about four and wasn't yet in school, so she really had her hands full. I can't even imagine.
She and I became close during our pregnancies - her second, my first. We were married to brothers and their family lived nearby and were quite close. Most of my family was around, too, but they were much younger and not into the "married with kids" thing yet, so it was logical, I guess, that this shared journey would bring us together. And Mary Lou didn't have any siblings, so that probably contributed. In fairly short order, then, we became BFF and though we'd drifted apart the last few years after I remarried and her husband retired, we managed to get in a "quick" phone call every now and then which inevitable turned into an hour long visit.
It would be safe to say that Mary Lou knows me as well as anyone on the planet and there is nothing that I couldn't and haven't shared with her. And vice versa.
So, this evening, I can hardly breathe. I don't know how to function. I don't know what to do. I want to talk with my best friend and tell her how awful I feel, but I can't.
When her husband called me this afternoon, I knew it was bad news, but I never dreamed would never have guessed what he'd called to say. Sadly, a mutual friend has been quite ill, and I thought he might be calling about him. No. Perhaps even more sad is the fact that one of his younger sister's is battling cancer. I thought he might be calling about her. No.
No. No.
No.
He was calling to tell me that his wife and my best friend had died this afternoon. OMG!
I want to call Mary Lou and tell her awful this feels, but I can't. She's gone. I want to scream. I want to throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum like a two year old. I want to hear her voice.
Please call someone you love today and tell them how much they mean to you.
We met at work so it wasn't odd that our conversation went back and forth to the world of work and, at some point, I mentioned how jealous I used to be of my sister-in-law, Mary Lou, who watched my first born when I had to go back to work. I've often thought if I'd have stopped to figure out all of the costs, I probably wasn't very far ahead by working, but it was the choice I made. And it was one I regretted every single day when I had to drop him off.
And as I told Fran yesterday, I don't know how Mary Lou managed. She had a little boy just a few months older than mine. It was like having twins. I used to marvel at her. They were always fed and clean and dry, but more than that, they all seemed happy. Her oldest wss only about four and wasn't yet in school, so she really had her hands full. I can't even imagine.
She and I became close during our pregnancies - her second, my first. We were married to brothers and their family lived nearby and were quite close. Most of my family was around, too, but they were much younger and not into the "married with kids" thing yet, so it was logical, I guess, that this shared journey would bring us together. And Mary Lou didn't have any siblings, so that probably contributed. In fairly short order, then, we became BFF and though we'd drifted apart the last few years after I remarried and her husband retired, we managed to get in a "quick" phone call every now and then which inevitable turned into an hour long visit.
It would be safe to say that Mary Lou knows me as well as anyone on the planet and there is nothing that I couldn't and haven't shared with her. And vice versa.
So, this evening, I can hardly breathe. I don't know how to function. I don't know what to do. I want to talk with my best friend and tell her how awful I feel, but I can't.
When her husband called me this afternoon, I knew it was bad news, but I never dreamed would never have guessed what he'd called to say. Sadly, a mutual friend has been quite ill, and I thought he might be calling about him. No. Perhaps even more sad is the fact that one of his younger sister's is battling cancer. I thought he might be calling about her. No.
No. No.
No.
He was calling to tell me that his wife and my best friend had died this afternoon. OMG!
I want to call Mary Lou and tell her awful this feels, but I can't. She's gone. I want to scream. I want to throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum like a two year old. I want to hear her voice.
Please call someone you love today and tell them how much they mean to you.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Pecan Pie
In my fairly usual rush to get ready for the holidays, some things have gone missing. The realization started before Thanksgiving as I was planning on making some pies – the family chocolate pie from my Aunt Estelle’s recipe and our famous pecan from a recipe of unknown source. And as I thumbed through the recipes I’d found in the cigar type box that originally held Christmas cards, I had come across three handwritten pecan pie recipes. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, the store I went to right before Thanksgiving was out of pecans, and I couldn’t muster up the energy to go to another, so Thanksgiving has come and gone and the family had to make do with store bought pecan pies.
Not wanting store bought pies for Christmas, I rummaged around and found the index cards that, not surprisingly, had not made it back into the cigar box-come-lately-recipe holder. It was only today that I really looked at the recipe cards and realized they were written by three different people. The handwriting on each was distinctive: one was written in my mother’s rather fanciful printing, not as elegant as her beautiful cursive, but still showing clear evidence of years of penmanship in school, an art so sadly lacking today; the second was written in my oldest sister’s sort of practical cursive, not as flowery as one might expect, but lovely nonetheless; and the last was written in my barely legible print.
I think graphologists, those who study “the relationship between handwriting and the character of the writer,”(1) might label me schizophrenic if they could see it as I note that my E in pecan and pie resembles a cursive capital letter without the adjoining loop while my e in eggs looks like a lower case cursive letter. Oy vey!
Back to the box – not realizing that I hadn’t returned the recipes to the box, I looked there first and discovered yet another index card in yet another person’s handwriting. This one, I don’t recognize. I think it’s my youngest sister’s hand, but I’m not positive. Still, it makes sense that I wouldn’t be as acquainted with Shelly’s handwriting as I am with my mother’s or Carol’s.
Writer that I am, I had to sit and put some thoughts about this on paper which means that the pecan pie remains unbaked. But there are questions to be posed. Why are there so many recipe cards for the same pie? I look for answers in the details. Two are carefully encased in plastic, three calling for 1 cup pecan meats, mine calling for 1 C pecan pieces. One calls for 1 cup red Corn Syrup (Karo), a second asks for 1 Cup red Corn syrup with no brand specified, a third lists 1 cup corn syrup [Karo] without mentioning the color, and the last says 1 C dark karo using the brand as the noun and adds (I bottle makes 2 pies). Given that I come from a very large family, I’m sure that last note was a welcomed addition.
But the questions I have about these recipe cards does not address the larger question which is where are my two "real" recipe holders. One is some kind of stainless steel and looks like a file for larger index cards. The aforementioned index cards are all 3x5. And the stainless steel is stuffed with papers of all sizes, many torn out of magazines, a few hand-written fairly neatly on the smaller index cards, and some, if I recall correctly, are written on "regular" 8 1/2 x 11 inch notebook paper. But here the details are not important. The important thing is that I haven't found that box since I moved and unpacked over a year ago. And I've no idea where this cigar box came from.
The other "real" recipe holder is a green plastic box full of Betty Crocker recipes with lovely pictures that I somehow inherited from my mother-in-law. Years later, I found one just like it on e-bay and purchased it for my daughter. Of course, I could borrow those recipes from her, but I'd still like to know where MINE went.
All of this chatter about recipes would make one think that I cook a lot, and that would be wrong. I cook as seldom as possible and am not particularly fond of the practice. I simply cook to eat - a practice that I am very fond of. And now you might think I would be sharing the infamous pecan pie recipe, but I'm not going to. Family secret - although how it has remained so having been written down four different times is beyond me. The one I would share is our truly remarkable recipe for homemade ice cream. It's to die for. Indeed, it's so wonderful that we simply refer to it as, "The Recipe." Sadly, it's in the missing recipe box! Hopefully, it will turn up before summer.
Did I mention the killer fudge?
( http://handwritingfoundation.org/graphology-history)
Not wanting store bought pies for Christmas, I rummaged around and found the index cards that, not surprisingly, had not made it back into the cigar box-come-lately-recipe holder. It was only today that I really looked at the recipe cards and realized they were written by three different people. The handwriting on each was distinctive: one was written in my mother’s rather fanciful printing, not as elegant as her beautiful cursive, but still showing clear evidence of years of penmanship in school, an art so sadly lacking today; the second was written in my oldest sister’s sort of practical cursive, not as flowery as one might expect, but lovely nonetheless; and the last was written in my barely legible print.
I think graphologists, those who study “the relationship between handwriting and the character of the writer,”(1) might label me schizophrenic if they could see it as I note that my E in pecan and pie resembles a cursive capital letter without the adjoining loop while my e in eggs looks like a lower case cursive letter. Oy vey!
Back to the box – not realizing that I hadn’t returned the recipes to the box, I looked there first and discovered yet another index card in yet another person’s handwriting. This one, I don’t recognize. I think it’s my youngest sister’s hand, but I’m not positive. Still, it makes sense that I wouldn’t be as acquainted with Shelly’s handwriting as I am with my mother’s or Carol’s.
Writer that I am, I had to sit and put some thoughts about this on paper which means that the pecan pie remains unbaked. But there are questions to be posed. Why are there so many recipe cards for the same pie? I look for answers in the details. Two are carefully encased in plastic, three calling for 1 cup pecan meats, mine calling for 1 C pecan pieces. One calls for 1 cup red Corn Syrup (Karo), a second asks for 1 Cup red Corn syrup with no brand specified, a third lists 1 cup corn syrup [Karo] without mentioning the color, and the last says 1 C dark karo using the brand as the noun and adds (I bottle makes 2 pies). Given that I come from a very large family, I’m sure that last note was a welcomed addition.
But the questions I have about these recipe cards does not address the larger question which is where are my two "real" recipe holders. One is some kind of stainless steel and looks like a file for larger index cards. The aforementioned index cards are all 3x5. And the stainless steel is stuffed with papers of all sizes, many torn out of magazines, a few hand-written fairly neatly on the smaller index cards, and some, if I recall correctly, are written on "regular" 8 1/2 x 11 inch notebook paper. But here the details are not important. The important thing is that I haven't found that box since I moved and unpacked over a year ago. And I've no idea where this cigar box came from.
The other "real" recipe holder is a green plastic box full of Betty Crocker recipes with lovely pictures that I somehow inherited from my mother-in-law. Years later, I found one just like it on e-bay and purchased it for my daughter. Of course, I could borrow those recipes from her, but I'd still like to know where MINE went.
All of this chatter about recipes would make one think that I cook a lot, and that would be wrong. I cook as seldom as possible and am not particularly fond of the practice. I simply cook to eat - a practice that I am very fond of. And now you might think I would be sharing the infamous pecan pie recipe, but I'm not going to. Family secret - although how it has remained so having been written down four different times is beyond me. The one I would share is our truly remarkable recipe for homemade ice cream. It's to die for. Indeed, it's so wonderful that we simply refer to it as, "The Recipe." Sadly, it's in the missing recipe box! Hopefully, it will turn up before summer.
Did I mention the killer fudge?
( http://handwritingfoundation.org/graphology-history)
Monday, August 12, 2013
What Your Car May or May Not Say About You
FMRO (For Mature Readers Only)
“What Your Car May or May Not Say About You”
On Yahoo’s finance page a while back there was an article titled “What Your Car Says About You.” It was from Forbes and dated October ’09. In Forbes’ highly intelligent fashion, it reports that driving a Bentley indicates that you’re wealthy. Gee! Now there’s a revelation. A bit less obvious, it says that Buick owners are stodgy. As two thirds of them are apparently over 55, that may be a safe bet, although I personally would take issue at being labeled stodgy simply because I am over 55. Indeed, I’m well over 55, but then again, I’d never buy a Buick.
My Dad used to have one, though, when I was little. The model was called a Roadmaster. And at the time, he wasn’t much more than a whipper snapper. According to Wikipedia, “Between 1946 and 1957, the Roadmaster was Buick's premium and best appointed model.” Maybe he just had good taste. Wikipedia goes on to say, “The 1953 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, Model 79-R, was the last wood-bodied station wagon mass-produced in the United States.” Buick made a Woodie! I didn’t know that. According to The Old Woodie web site, “In their heyday, woodies were often the most expensive cars offered by a manufacturer and many tallied impressive sales figures.” I didn’t know Buick made a Woodie and I didn’t know a Woodie was expensive, but I do know a Woodie was not stodgy. I can’t imagine the Beach Boys ever thinking of themselves as stodgy.
If you own a Chevy or a Ford, I’ll have to explain my numbers a bit because according to Forbes, 25% of you (13% of Chevy drivers, 12% of Ford) don’t use the internet. That’s an amazing finding. But if you find yourself in that category, I can help. I can teach you to use the internet in about 20 minutes. And you’ll be hooked in less than an hour. Trust me on this. I came into the tech world early on, but I came kicking and screaming, but it’s SO fun. Not as much fun as driving a 4 speed ohc, but fun.
Truthfully, though, I’m no techie. I’m not a computer expert at all, but I do fancy myself as something of a car expert. And therefore I can take issue with much of the Forbes’ report. I fancy myself a car expert precisely because I am over 55 which means that I cut my teeth on the muscle car - in my case, the GTO. Fond memories, yet just the other day, I saw what may be my favorite bumper sticker of the decade: “Officer, I wasn’t speeding. I was qualifying.”
I don’t know where the Forbes’ author hails from, but the data he cites was gathered by a San Diego based “market research outfit.” Now that is hard to believe. In other parts of this country, the car you drive may reveal something about you, but in California, you are what you drive! And I think, like the GTO “… we’re really looking fine!”
Really old Ford folks joke about how early on in the 20th century, you could buy a Ford in any color you wanted – as long as you wanted black. And it seems to me these days that we’ve gone back to that. There are hardly any cars of color today. My girlfriend used to drive her father’s Mercury and it was pink. Another friend had a ‘57 Chevy with turquoise fins. And I drove my Dad’s two-toned green ’55 Pontiac. Cars came in colors.
When I got older and was in the market for my GTO, I wanted to buy a yellow one, but my husband wouldn’t have it. He liked the orange Judge model that came out in ’68 or ‘69, but frankly I thought it was a bit garish. Besides, the body style was round and ugly. It looked like a hunchback to me. We settled on the much more stylish l-o-n-g ‘67 burgundy model.
I learned how to drive in that old two-toned green Pontiac of my Dad’s, but my friend taught me how to drive a stick in his dark blue ’66 Mustang. It was a three speed on the column. He hardly flinched when I ground the gears: my definition of a nice guy.
When we got our GTO, my husband said I could figure it out. It was a four speed in the traditional H pattern. And the gearshift was located between the bucket seats where it belongs. The only pointer he gave me was to pay attention to the tachometer. He said I shouldn’t let the engine go into the red zone. And off I went.
It wasn’t until he went on his first ride with me a couple of weeks later that I actually got it right cause I asked him:
When do you ever get to 4th gear?
He looked at me a bit quizzically.
You see 2nd gear wound up to about 2400 rpm and the red line wasn’t until 2500. So, I’d been driving on the freeway in second gear for some time. Whoops.
My husband did flinch when I’d grind a gear which is why I asked my friend to teach me in his car, but once I learned, my husband used to love to watch me race folks – especially guys. He’d even egg me on.
Come on, Sherry, you can do it.
Get over there – indicating the right lane where cars are supposed to park. And he’d watch the lights for me.
OK. Ready?
The guy driving the other car would look and me and kinda smirk. And I’d just smile. Then he’d rev his engine and I’d rev mine. The light would change and off we’d go – clutch out, gas pedal to the metal, ease up a bit so you don’t just spin the tires. Winner.
In all modesty, it was hard for anyone to beat me. Pontiac’s 400 cubic inches produced over 350 hp and as the song says about the little deuce coupe, it really could catch rubber in all four gears. According to Wikipedia, “It was a muscle car classic of the 1960s and 1970s era. Although there were earlier muscle cars, the Pontiac GTO is considered by some to have started the trend with all four domestic automakers offering a variety of competing models.” According to me, it was just pure fun.
Cars aren’t much fun anymore. Although I test drove a Dodge the other day with a Hemi and my grandson said he’d never seen me grin so much.
Another friend of mine used to have a little sticker on his dashboard that pretty much summed up my sixties driving experience for me: gas, grass or ass – nobody rides for free.
I wrote this in 2010 just as “General Motors officially announced the end of the Pontiac brand.” On November 1, the headlines read, “Pontiac dealership agreements expired yesterday, marking the official end for GM's 84-year old.” I should look so good at 84. 10/31. Damn. Halloween will never be the same for me. And GM will never be the same. Period.
(http://finance.yahoo.com/family-home/article/107938/what-your-car-says-about-you.html?mod=family-autos)
(http://www.oldwoodies.com/welcome.htm)
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