Fashion Queens.....or Easter Seesters

Easter morning, circa 1959
I'm on the left, with my 2 older sisters and next door neighbor

When I was little and would complain about not having something, my dad would say "I complained about not having any shoes, until I saw a man without any feet". Nice advice, but I wonder what he was thinking when he and my mom sent me off to church in my new Easter dress with these shoes.......tennis shoes with no laces!?!? I wonder what my play shoes looked like.....

Bus Stories

My friend, MoverMike, drives a school bus and sometimes he writes a 'Yellow School Bus' story on his blog. That got me thinking about my own experiences with buses.

Way back in the old days when I worked at a bank, I rode the city bus to work everyday. One morning my dad called me, waking me up. Yikes, I thought...I had overslept...sleeping through my alarm clock. "Gotta go, daddy", I said. Then ran to my closet and got dressed, without even taking a shower. I ran the 1-block to my bus stop and hopped on the bus. Everyone looked different to me. You see, when you ride a city bus every day, so do other people. So you see the same people every day. But these people were different. When I got to the bank, I walked into a dark office. I was there an hour early.

But my favorite story happened to my friends Kim, Jeff, and me. A group from the bank played volleyball every Tuesday evening. Afterwards we would go to the local watering hole for pizza. One particular Tuesday the party eventually ended up at Kim and Jeff's house. Since I knew it would be a late night, I planned on spending the night. We must've had a little too much wine to drink, because the next morning our brains were foggy and our movements slow. We were running a little late getting ready for work, with one bathroom between three people. Dashing to the bus stop, we waved down the bus as it appeared to be passing us by. Huffing and puffing, we climbed on the bus and moved towards the rear. As Kim and I searched our purses (and Jeff his wallet) for our passes, we felt tiny little eyes staring at us. Then we heard giggles. Looking around slowly at the 30 or so miniature heads, we realized we were on a school bus.

Those were different days. I wonder if my friend MoverMike would've picked us up on his school bus. Probably not.

Is my job boring, or am I boring?

A few years ago I was talking to a woman I had just met at a friend's party. She asked me what I did for a living. I told her my husband and I had a furniture refinishing business. "Oh...can you make a living at that?" she asked. Not only did I think that was a really rude question....I thought it was a really stupid question. Maybe I should have said "No, this is my hobby. I really make my money as a prostitute." Or...."No, this is just my cover. I'm really a major drug dealer". Or...."No, I only do this because I don't make enough money at my real job....selling Happy Meals at McDonald's for minimum wage."

I guess maybe I didn't make my job sound exciting enough. I know people who can talk about eating a sandwich and make it sound like a thrilling adventure. But my mother taught me that it's not nice to brag about myself to people. I guess mom was not always right!

After my encounter with the woman at the party, my husband and I decided we would make up an occupation for the next time we met someone new. He was going to be a Motivational Speaker, loosely based on a Chris Farley character on SNL. He practiced his spiel with some friends and was so convincing that one friend almost hired him until her husband said "It's just pretend". Then one day we found out that a real motivational speaker moved into our neighborhood, so he nixed that idea.

OK, now what? We hadn't met anybody new who would be rude enough to ask "Can you make a living at that?", so we forgot about it for awhile.

Then one day on the golf course, we were playing with a couple of guys we did not know. They were in the hi-tech industry and asked what we did for a living.

"I'm a doctor" I said.

"Really?" one asked, looking interested, and sidling up next to me.

"Yeah, I'm a furniture doctor. I fix furniture" I replied.

"Heh, heh.......", then off they went down the fairway, looking for their drives.

They Ride Horses, Don't They?

When I was a little girl I asked my dad if I could have a horse. He told me....."sure....when my ship comes in". My brother and I thought he really had a ship, and would wait daily for it to come in, carrying my pony and his Red Rider BB Gun. One day, we went to the beach, and my dad pointed out a big ship in the horizon. "See, there it is" he said. We wondered why it was taking so long for it to come in.

Needless to say, my dad didn't have a ship, and I didn't get a horse. But I never stopped dreaming about one.

I watched all the TV shows with horses in them....Bonanza....My Friend Flicka....Mr Ed. When I grew up, I rode horses at the local stables. That was way before liability insurance skyrocketed and you could actually rent a horse at a stable. My secret dream was to meet a real cowboy and live on a ranch. Imagine my excitement when it almost came true.....or so I thought.

I met my faux cowboy when I was 34 and he was 39. But wait, let me back up a bit.

I lived in LA in the early '80's, where I had a good friend who also loved horses. Every Saturday morning, we'd get in the saddles and run freely through the woods, reliving our childhood fantasies of being Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. Unfortunately, she moved to the east coast and I was without a riding companion. Until.........

Until......the ski club I belonged to got a group together to take horseback riding lessons. Every Friday night for 2 months we'd meet at the stables by Magic Mountain and learn the fine points of horsemanship. One night a new guy showed up to class. I had seen him at the ski club meetings and on a couple of ski trips, but I did not know him. The next week, I broke my tail bone while roller skating at Venice Beach, so my riding was put on the back burner.

Now, fast forward a few weeks. This young cowboy asked me out on a date, and we went putt-putt golfing. Golf, he told me, was his....ahem...second favorite sport. As soon as I healed and was able to get back in the saddle, we joined my fellow riding students for an afternoon ride. As the horses were beginning to cantor, my friend's stirrup broke and I accompanied him back to the barn. As we approached the barn, the horse decided to roll over, with him still in the saddle.

For some reason, he was reluctant to get on a horse after that. But he still rode with me from time to time. They were short rides. They were walks, actually. But that didn't matter. The guy seemed to love horses. I had met my cowboy.

Now fast forward a few more months. I moved back to Portland, and he came with me. One of the first things I did was open the Yellow Pages to find the phone number of the old stables where I used to ride. "How about next Saturday?" I would ask him. "Ummmm......I was thinking about golfing on Saturday" was his reply. Every time.

I'm not sure if it was before or after I had the wedding ring on my finger that he said "There's something I have to tell you. I really don't like to ride horses".

What?!?! Had he been leading me on, just like my dad with his ship?

"Why did you pretend to like horses?" I asked him.

"Well, you pretended to like golf" he replied.

Hmmph. Now 23 years later, I really enjoy the game of golf. And my horse?.......now I'm waiting for my ship to come in.

Where did they think we were all the time?

When my nephew was 13 years old, he had open heart surgery. Thank goodness his mother, my sister, had good medical insurance. Many people do not. It was a routine doctor's check-up that discovered the irregularity in his heart beat. Since they live on the other side of the country with no other relatives close by, one of my sisters and I flew out to offer our support.

The surgery went well, and within a day, he was anxious to get moving. I imagine that's what 13 year old boys must be like. His mom, brother, step-father, a couple of friends, and two aunts spent many hours in his hospital room playing games and making him laugh. But what he really wanted was some fresh air. A couple of days we took him in his wheel chair down the elevator to an outside courtyard for a picnic lunch.

Now, this is a very good children's hospital. One of the best in the country. Another wing of the hospital is separated by an underground tunnel. One day, while my nephew was napping, everyone wanted to get something to eat at the other wing. We had gotten tired of the hospital food we had been eating for the past few days. We didn't want my nephew to wake up all alone, so I decided to stay in his room. When he woke up, he wanted to know where everyone had gone. Being 13 years old, he said "let's go find them".

So, I put him in his wheel chair and off we went. Down an elevator, though a darkened tunnel, up another elevator, and across a lobby. When we finally met up with the others, we laughed all the way back to his hospital room.

After about 4 days, my sister and I had to fly home. As we were wheeling my nephew to an elevator, a nurse walked by and asked where we were going. "I'm taking my son downstairs so he can say good-bye to his aunts", my sister said. "Oh, no", the nurse replied. "He just had heart surgery. He's not supposed to leave the floor."

Oops.

I'm happy to report that fourteen years later, my nephew is happy, healthy and doing well, despite our shenanigans.

This is for Stwo...or whoever else finds this funny

Stwo, you commented on my Junk Jivin' post that you found a brand-new pair of overalls with a 'free' sign on them. Can you beat this purchase by my niece and sister-in-law?

Junk Jivin'

I've had a week of slams from Ann Coulter followers.....and opened up my family saga to complete strangers, so I thought I'd break for something lighter. This time, I'll expose my husband's family quirks.

My husband's family is the Master of Yard Sales. The Junkin' Giants. They know how to find a good deal, and how to turn some one's useless throwaway into a treasured gem. I don't know how they have the knack for doing it, but they do. It's a badge of honor to find a good deal and brag about it. And I'm not talking about tacky stuff. I mean good stuff. 1950's patio furniture by the side of the road with a "Free " sign attached. Old cars. Bikes. Antique furniture. A barn full of old beauty salon equipment. If it's broken, they fix it. If they can't use it, they'll give it to someone who can.

They don't do this because they can't afford to buy nice things. They do it....well...they do it because they can.

Family gatherings in their upstate NY hometown always include an afternoon of what they call 'Junkin'. We all hop in cars and set out to find the best deals at the local second hand shops, antiques stores, and yard sales. The first time I went on one of these excursions, I followed his sisters around....picking up tips....learning the trade. I learned that you dig through the stuff that no one else wants. That's where you find the gem....something that was overlooked. Something you can tell others later on "I got it for two bucks!"

One of the last Junkin' excursions before my mother-in-law died was one I will remember the most. My husband was driving the car, with his mother in front with him, and his two sisters in the back seat with me. We were heading down 15th Street on our way to the highway, when the two sisters shouted out in unison "Stop the car! There's a yard sale!" We stopped in front of a white house with chairs, tables, and a sofa on the lawn. My in-laws scanned the yard and then spotted the boxes on the porch. That's it! That's the good stuff. The five of us pulled clothes and other items out of the boxes, oohing and aahing our finds. After about 10 minutes a man appeared at the door. "How much is this?" my 80 year-old mother-in-law asked, as she held up a cashmere sweater. The man eyed each one of us slowly. "This isn't a yard sale" he said. "I'm just moving in".

What we remember....or don't...

It's funny how the mind works. We believe things we want to believe, sometimes to justify our own actions, sometimes to help us cope with issues. This often happens in politics, but it also happens in everyday life.

For 30 years, my sister-in-law insisted that her father refused to walk her down the aisle at her wedding, because she got married in a catholic church. Years later, an old 8mm film showed up at a family reunion, showing....yep....the proud father escorting the young bride down the aisle.

I had my own moment of altered memory a few years ago; however, I like to call it my stolen memory. That's because I can't believe my mother and her 5 children would all have the same wonderful memories if they were not true.

It all started with my dad. When he wasn't drinking, he was a delightful person. Everyone liked him. He was always bringing home an assortment of interesting characters, much like you'd bring home a stray animal (although he did his share of that as well. But that's another story). His many friends that filled our home had names like Big Bob, Fat Bob, Shorty, and a woman we called Honey. Her real name was Ruby, but we didn't know that. Her husband called her Honey, so that's what we called her. Then, there was a man I'll call Mr. X. I won't reveal his real name, so as not to embarrass his family. Mr. X was a like a favorite Uncle to us. Partly because he had a funny name, and partly because he was so much fun to be around.

To this day, whenever we have family get-togethers, we laugh about stories about my dad's friends. And everyone has a story about Mr. X. We all remember big pots of spaghetti and berry picking. Mr. X worked with my dad and it seems like he was always at our house after work, making spaghetti or just playing with us. He would take a week's vacation in the summer and take us kids berry picking so we could earn some extra money. My older sister, the competitive one in the family, would race him to see who could pick the fastest and make the most money. Not wanting her to win, Mr. X would eat a sandwich in one hand and pick berries with the other.

We eventually lost contact with Mr. X, but we never forgot him. A few years ago, I saw his name in the Obituaries. I called my mom. We have to go to the funeral, I urged her. It was a nice ceremony, with lots of talk about what a fun guy he was (my mom and I nodded our heads in agreement), and how he was such a family man. What?!?!? He had a family?!?! You mean, we weren't his family?!?! I asked my mom if she had ever met his wife. Well, once or twice, she told me. After the ceremony, we searched for one of his daughters, who appeared to be about my age. We had to tell her how much her father meant to us. "Hello, I'm Mrs. A" my mom said. "Your dad worked with my husband, Mr. A. He came to our house every Friday night and made spaghetti". Blank stare from the daughter. She didn't know who we were. Had not even heard of our name.

I couldn't believe it. Mr. X was such an important part of our lives, but we didn't mean anything to him.

Now my family has one more thing to laugh about when we have get-togethers. When we talk about Mr. X, we add that we made him out to be the person we wanted him to be. Because that was what we wanted to believe.