Lost Loafer

For many years, in the family I grew up in, there were only girls. After a few pregnancies, when my mom would announce she was expecting another, invariably people would ask, "Think you'll get a boy this time?" In all, five daughters were born to my parents and the hope for ever having a boy seemed dismal. But when I was almost ten years-old, my parents had their sixth and final child: a boy.

For a mother of six children, getting ready for church on Sunday mornings was an incredible task. No matter how much preparation of bathing, washing and ironing was done the night before, Sunday mornings were still chaotic for Mom.

Dad, on the other hand, would get himself ready and then go sit in the car, parked on the street in front of the house, and honk the horn until the rest of us were sent out, one by one, after passing mom's approval for our appearance being Sabbath Day worthy. Having claimed ignorance on how to curl hair, put on a child's tights, buckle little Mary Janes, or select matching ribbons, Dad had excused himself from being any sort of help with dressing five daughters on a Sunday morning.

But with the birth of a boy, things changed. Mom committed to him a special task: before he could go out to the car on Sunday mornings, he was in charge of dressing Steven. Dad complied with this request and accepted the challenge to dress one child for church each week. So on would go Steven's Sunday shirt, pants, tie, shoes, socks and belt. A quick slick of the hair with a comb and voila - one of mom's six children was ready for church.

Once ready, he and Steven would go out to the car and with the little toddler boy sitting on his dad's lap, they would honk the horn until the girls made their way to the station wagon as well.

One particularly special Sunday, the morning process had gone about as crazy as usual, except a little worse. Dad could find only one of Steven's church shoes. Since this was a semi-annual conference meeting Sunday, Mom was particularly stressed that we all look especially nice. With the added pressure and the seemingly helpless nature of Dad and Steve, Mom finally concluded in exasperation, that if they could not find the missing shoe, Steven would have to wear his old shoes to church.

Digging through closets and under beds, Dad and Steven had spent quite some time searching for the AWOL shoe. But even with the unforeseen delay, they still easily beat Mom and five daughters to the car that morning.

After the 15 mile drive to our chapel, as we piled out of the station wagon, one of my sisters noticed Steven's feet, "Hey! How come Steve is wearing one church shoe and one tennis shoe?" Mom threw an icy glare at my dad, "Roger!?"

Dad quickly explained, "The boy has two good church shoes. Why would I put two old shoes on him? This way everyone knows we have purchased nice church shoes for him, but we only could find one of them today."

Sweet Suckers and Green Boats

DH and I are often amazed at how easy going S2 can be. He is so kind and good-natured, you have to wonder if he is for real. We have noticed that he will do most anything to make someone else happy.

One day he was enjoying a sucker he had received earlier that morning from the teller at the bank. A slightly younger neighbor girl came over to S2 on the front lawn and expressed some interest in the sucker. S2 slid it out from his pursed lips and handed it to her. Without a moment's hesitation, she stuck it directly in her own mouth. S2 stood there briefly and then walked over to me sitting on the front steps. I told him that it was very nice of him, but he did not have to give up his sucker. He replied that it was okay and that he didn't really want it anyway. Then his bottom lip started to quiver and he ran up the stairs into the house. I followed soon after to find my four-year old uncontrollably crying in the living room for the sadness of a lost-forever sucker.

Even as a ten-year old, S2 is still often thinking more about others' feelings than his own. This week he has been working with his dad to build a boat for the Cub Scout Rain Gutter Regatta. S2 had shown me a picture of a yellow boat earlier in the week that he wanted to copy. However, when S2 and DH brought it in the house, freshly painted from the garage, his boat was green.

On the way to the store to buy some stickers for the boat, I asked S2 why he changed his mind on the color for his boat. He replied, he had told dad that green was the color he wanted to paint the boat. I wasn't convinced that was really the color he wanted. But with each question, S2 repeatedly assured me that he loved his boat, and he loved the color green, and it was exactly what he wanted.

When I pressed further, knowing that he had probably gone along with the only color readily available in the garage so as to make DH's job easier, he firmly stood his stance. "Mom, I love green! It's just what I wanted. We are so lucky that was the only color we had, because green is my third or fourth favorite color!"

I think I could learn a lot from S2, because I am not nearly easy going. For example, no one has ever heard me confess, "I love senselessly dirty clothes. I love to do extra loads of laundry because someone wears something for 4 minutes and then throws it on the floor. It is really my favorite thing! It's exactly what I always wanted."

How's that sound? Are you convinced? Yeah, me neither.

NYC: Alien Sightings and MetroCard Malfunctions

New York City is a favorite vacation destination for DH and me. We've been several times and enjoy taking our friends with us as well. On those trips we play the knowledgeable, know-the-city-like-the-back-of-our-hands, tour guides. Truthfully, DH is the real tour guide, I just tag along to eat cheesecake and do some shopping.

We are also expert on doing NYC on a budget. Which means no shopping at Burberry, standing in line for hours at Times Square for discount theater tickets, and rarely taking a taxi anywhere. When we first arrive in the city, we each purchase a multiple day, unlimited ride, MetroCard. This way we can rely on the NYC transit system and our two feet for virtually all our travel needs. While it is my opinion that the Subways in the Big Apple are generally confusing and crowded, with DH's impeccable sense of direction, they are more than doable.

On a trip a few years ago, we brought several couples along with us including Janna and Troy. (You remember Father Love, right?) They were enjoying the long weekend trip, but Janna had routinely struggled with her MetroCard. Somehow the timing of swipe and then walk through the turnstile had eluded her completely. More than once she had improperly swiped only to bruise her hip, slamming into one of the metal rotating arms of the turnstile. She'd swipe, bruise, swipe, bruise again, and then start swiping furiously. At some point she'd get a valid swipe, but in her fury, would miss her chance to enter through the turnstile. By this time, we would all have long since passed the seemingly simple test of MetroCard usage and were lined up waiting for our train.

Once the MetroCard was successfully swiped to travel in a certain direction, it could not be reswiped for 15 or 20 minutes. So Troy would have to go back to the turnstile and through the bars hand Janna some coins, and lovingly talk her slowly through the MetroCard vending machine process, so she could purchase a one-time use MetroCard and, hopefully, gain entrance to the Subway platform with the rest of us.

If this had happened once, it would be funny. But this exact scenario occurred numerous times throughout our trip. And it seemed the bigger hurry we were in, like if our Subway was already approaching the platform, the less likely Janna would be able to successfully maneuver the turnstile requirements in time to catch the train. But we were all on vacation, not racing to a job interview, so we didn't mind too much.

On Sunday morning of this particular trip, we were making our way back to the hotel from church. As we went down into the Subway tunnel we were reminded that there is at least one time when the New York City Subway looks like a ghost town. That is Sunday mornings. As we neared the silent platform, Janna and I were right next to each other at parallel turnstiles. Suddenly Janna's screaming voice echoed, "Debbie! Look! It's..." and then she started to furiously swipe and attempt to walk through the turnstile. Banging her hips one after the other, in her futile attempts, she did not slow down her swiping efforts. After each swipe, she'd look up and shout, "It's...oh my gosh!" She would then again bang a hip on an unmoving bar. Undaunted, she'd swipe again, "I can't believe... there is..." and again, a jam. "That guy..." she swiped, "...from TV..." another bang.

I had managed to make it through the turnstile without incident, and looking around to see what Janna was loudly freaking out about, on the nearly empty Subway platform, just as Janna, still stuck on the other side of the entrance, finally spilled out, "...from 3rd Rock..." I looked up to see John Lithgow passing right in front of me. He tipped his head slightly with a polite greeting while trying to hide his smile. I replied with a big grin and a thoroughly enunciated, "Hello," as he passed. Our exchange was not more than a few seconds.

Once again, Janna was permanently stuck at the turnstile and after we all quietly (except for Janna) watched John Lithgow walk away, we finally handed her a few quarters so she could purchase another Get-Out-of-Jail-Free MetroCard.

We thought we had lost sight of the famous alien, until our train approached. As we hopped on, we noticed a few cars ahead of us, Dr. Dick Solomon had boarded the very same train. At each stop a couple of us would peer through our train's open doors to see if he had exited yet. We continued this little game all the way from Lincoln Square to Times Square. Finally, our lookout team spotted him leaving the train. "Should we exit too?" we wondered. "Or should we give the poor celebrity his space?" While debating our options, the doors of the Subway closed. With our decision made for us, we looked up at a map to see when our own exit, which should have been near, was approaching. Just then DH, the Tour Guide, shouted, "Hey that was our stop too!"

The missed exit automatically meant more walking (in our church shoes) than we had planned, or trying to get Janna to pass through the turnstiles again. We opted for the Sunday stroll.

The Church of Free Glazed Donuts

For many years in Iowa my dad was the leader of our church "branch," as our little congregation was called. In those days, it was common for congregations of our faith to hold yearly fund raisers to raise money for local church activities. One year, it was decided that our branch would sell refreshments along the route of a well-attended annual summer state-wide bike race.

The church members did much to prepare for the large undertaking. We were a small group so everyone's help was needed. There were signs to make, tables to haul, refreshments to purchase, and a stand to man in anticipation of the hungry and thirsty bikers.

A very cool and shady location along the bike route was selected. With beautifully painted signs posted along the route, tables set up with an array of refreshments, and plenty of beverages on tap, early one Saturday morning, our congregation stood ready to service the athletes.

As the Iowa summer sun rose, we were more than pleased with our selected sunless spot we had nicknamed Shady Grove for the day. The heat and humidity intensified and we were confident our green grass and well treed refreshment stand would be the one selected over any other by the bikers. In fact, we began to worry we might be too successful. Had we purchased enough goods? Would we sell out in only an hour or two and have to pack up early?

Soon the first bikers were spotted. We ran to the edge of the street to see their bikes coasting down the hill before us and swoosh, they flew past our stand and coasted half way up the next hill before they started furiously pedaling again. Unfortunately, they were not the only bikers that day to forgo a rare easy coast halfway up the next hill. And so the day continued with most bikers by-passing Shady Grove nestled, yes among the trees, but also at the valley of two rather sizable hills.

At the close of a long, disappointing day, after everything was cleaned up and accounted for, we realized that our fund raiser had barely broken even. A few extra goods were returned to suppliers, but some perishables were considered a loss. Among those perishables were boxes and boxes of glazed donuts. One of the church members offered a large freezer in which to store the dozens and dozens of donuts.

For the rest of the summer, Sunday afternoons were a little different. After church services concluded, all the children ages 1 - 18 were invited out on the side lawn, where we were greeted with several boxes of freshly-thawed donuts. Taking no regard for being in our Sunday best, we gobbled up the sticky sweet treats with delight.

One Sunday a traveling church authority had come to visit our branch from several miles away. He happened to have brought a couple of his young teen-age sons with him. When services had concluded, like clockwork all the kids went directly outside to await the no longer surprising dispersal of treats.

My dad made a quick appearance to supposedly check on things. The two visiting boys had also made their way outside and stood on the edge of the lawn a bit bewildered at the boxes of donuts lined up and the children freely taking the confections by the handfuls.

Quickly noticing their wide eyes my dad stepped alongside them and offered, "You boys seem a bit surprised. Everything all right?" "Yes sir," they responded. "It's just..." "Then my dad pressed, "Don't they do this at your church?" "No sir," the boys responded slowly shaking their heads, unable to take their eyes off the lawn filled with children and donuts. Not willing to let such easy targets off so easily, my dad continued, "Really? Huh. All the kids here get free refreshments after church every week. Just ask 'em." And then he abandoned the amazed boys and ran off to sneak his own handful of complimentary sugary pastries.

Cell Phone Aids Teen in Reaching Superstar Status

Ever since S1 started high school last fall, DH and I have been adapting to parenting a growing teen-ager. Changes in our rules began with extending his bedtime by two hours. In addition, his new found manhood afforded him other privileges as well. We let him fly across the country for spring break to visit friends in Florida, he got his Learners Permit to drive a car, and we bought him a cell phone.

With all these new found opportunities, S1 has handled them with surprising care and maturity. Except for one time. Not long ago, S1 was sitting in class when his cell phone, which he claims he thought was set to silent mode, started playing a very loud, nifty little tune. Not even initially aware that it was his offending phone, his pants sang the not-so-original musical selection for almost a full minute. With no one quickly silencing the singing cell, the teacher was not impressed.

Finally, S1 caught on as to his musical pocket and was able to silence the noisemaker. The instructor questioned, "Who's cell phone was that?" Never able to tell a lie, S1 quickly admitted, "It was mine."

The consequence for a noise-making cell phone in her class is well-known, even celebrated. "Well class," the teacher responded, "Do we know what that means?" A cheering room of 15 and 16 year-olds started waving their arms in the air. With everyone in smiles, she reminded S1 of the clear policy and then confirmed, "You do understand?" "Yes, I do," he obediently replied, with a hint of a smile. "They'll be here tomorrow then, right?" she verified. S1 agreed, "Yep tomorrow, no problem."

S1 exited with the other students when the bell sounded a few minutes later. But he did not sulk out in shame for disobeying a class rule. Instead, he was accompanied by classmates giving him high fives, exaggerated thumbs up, and chummy pats on the back. They were all eager for the punishment scheduled to be delivered tomorrow.

Being chastised for having a ringing cell phone at school was not the penalty. Not even close. Delivering the promised goods the next day to his class was no penance either. Explaining to his mom, on a night when she was doing payroll for four restaurants, that she needed to stop everything, drive to the grocery store before it closed, and purchase 33 glazed donuts (one for every student in the class as well as the teacher) - that was the punishment.

Unable to drive himself, and with no more than $3.75 in his wallet, this discipline was clearly not for the now famous S1. The only person suffering this consequence, was yours truly.

On the following day, yours truly let the teacher know that she did not appreciate a policy that creates a celebrity out of the offender and causes havoc at home. The teacher said to yours truly, welcome to parenting a high schooler.

Thanks to Carol for the inspiration for today's blog.

One Last Jab

Apparently, the word has gotten around that DH can not be trusted at the local Bob's Big Boy. Yes, we are all a bit embarassed. As if he didn't learn his lesson 20 some years ago. And now I promise this is the last time I will mention it. Sorry, honey, just had to get in one last comment. The book is closed. Done. Finito.

A Cash Cow

Every now and then I start to get melancholy for the years I spent growing up in Iowa and Pennsylvania. In those days, if there were any towns with people, stop lights, or businesses, my parents managed to live as far away from them as humanly possible. We usually dwelt somewhere on the edge of town, over the hill from a field full of stinky cows. And when the wind blew, even the slightest bit, we were reminded as to who our neighbors were.

Living in such rural areas, typical part-time jobs were difficult to come by. My senior year in high school, I landed a coveted job at the County Market and bent over backwards to make sure I was the best cashier they had, so as to not jeopardize my minimum wage position.

My younger sisters, however, were not so fortunate. With no McDonald's or car wash in town at which to seek employment, they were forced to be more creative, or desperate, depending on how you looked at it.

As an Agriculture Economics scholar, my dad always had the beat on local agriculture opportunities. One day he came home with a profitable pile of crap. It wasn't really crap, not literally. It smelled much worse. It was a 5-gallon bucket reeking of rotten cow that he firmly planted on the front porch.

Then he called all the girls outside. With the last screen door bang, we were finally lined up along the railing with our noses in an exagerated pinch so as to mitigate the odor as well as show our disdain for the interuption.

Standing above the bucket, Dad explained that he was able to attain this pile of used cow magnets for free from a nearby butchering facility. The used cow magnets had been salvaged from old dairy cows' stomachs. After some explaining, we understood that every dairy cow had one of these 3-inch missle shaped magnets crammed down their throats to permanently settle in one of their stomachs. Then, for the lifetime of the cow, the magnet would keep small metal pieces of barbed wire, and nails, and who knows what else from wearing holes in the cow's stomach lining. Typically, when the old dairy cows were finally butchered, the used magnets were discarded.

In a moment of pure genius, Dad realized we could clean of the metal shavings and cow guts that coated the magnets and sell them back to the local dairy farmers at $2 a pop. New cow magnets at the time cost double that, so there was a potential for quick sales and good profit

At this point, I loudly excused myself, overly stating I was late for work at my real job.

My sisters balked at the idea of cleaning the powerful, stinky, slippery magnets, but without any other options, after a few days, they finally dug into the bucket. Slowly, at first, they began scrubbing the bodily remnants and carefully removing the metal pieces that stuck like super glue to the powerfully strong magnets.

Amazingly, they got very good at the chore and were soon easily making much more per hour than the $3.35 I received from the grocery store.

Soon we had cow magnets in various stages of cleanliness, filling buckets across the porch and yard. In fact, they were so prolific, when Grandma Terry came to visit, she managed to snag a few and crochet covers for them. They made the dandiest refrigerator magnets ever! You could put a semesters worth of school art work under one of those and it held as firmly as if you had nailed the papers to the fridge.

But mostly those crocheted cow-turned-refrigerator magnets held my sisters' lists. Lists of how many cow magents they had cleaned, multiplied out to determine how many dollars they had earned. My meager County Market checks were held up by the thin, cheap magnets that came with the phone book advertising the town plumber.