Category: Family

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Lancient History

Too Hot

the outside lane

One of my strongest recollections from childhood is of being overly hot.  It seemed like I was always hot.  Of course, what I am remembering is the heat in Granny’s house through humid, Alabama summers.  I am remembering how hot it was in her unairconditioned kitchen, and how she would stand over her stove sweating as she fried cornbread and pork chops in cups of Crisco, and cooked canned green beans to limp deaths.  It must have been ninety degrees in that kitchen, or more.

Most of my memories of Granny come with a sheen of perspiration across her upper lip.  It was hot.  I think she was only pretending to hate for me to slip ice cubes down the back of her pants.

Hot inside, we would go outside into the domain of the mosquito.  Since mosquitoes love nothing so much as a nip of me, I would be generously hosed down with OFF! bug spray, until I was tacky with the stuff, making the dirt from the mostly sand and soil yard cling to me–and forget trying to wipe the dirt off.  That just made bug spray mud.  

Granny’s porch wasn’t much cooler than the house, but at least sometimes the air would stir, or you could get up a bit of a breeze on the porch glider.

There was a window unit in my dad’s old bedroom, and Granny would turn that on for me, but I would still end up so hot that my sweat would stick me to the topside of the goldenrod, polyester bedspread.  It did help me develop the skill of being very, very still. 

See, in order to get full benefit of that window unit, I had to perch on the edge of the double bed on my knees, stretching my torso and neck up so that I could catch the cold air on my face.  Move an inch back or down and it would just blow the top of my scalp.  Move a fraction of an inch forward and I was in the floor.  Stillness.  Zen.  But not quiet.  I could medidate to the sound of a window unit air conditioner like most people can medidate to the sound of a brook.

I was thinking about that last night, lying awake under the ceiling fan, just a little bit too warm.  Texas is hotter than Alabama, but lacks the wet, wool blanket of humidity I grew up in.  And thank goodness.  I hate being hot.

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Inside Lane, music, Thor

Colorful Muzak

the outside lane

Thor and I were on the way to meet Granddaddy for lunch today, and a song came on NPR that I remembered from my childhood Friday afternoons spent in the breakroom of Mom’s bank branch.  See, she worked until 7pm on Fridays, and I was far too young (and stupid–major candidate for the Darwin Awards, this one) to be at home alone from 3 until 7, so the bus driver would drop me off at her bank on Fridays.  I would check in with her, walk down the strip mall to the Pancake House, have a bowl of chicken noodle soup and more crackers than are healthy for a person, and stare at a print of God making shame fingers out of a cloud at a small boy whose kite had become tangled in a tree.  From there, it was back to the bank and straight into the breakroom, where I would entertain myself with homework, the funny papers, comics, and cleaning up the supply room until it was time to go home.

As you can imagine, I heard a lot of Muzak.  Hours and hours of Muzak styled in the 70s, based on the Top 40 of the 50s and 60s, with some Disco thrown in for good measure.  Mom would tell me the names of songs, when she’d come back to check on me, and tell me how popular they were.

I want you to know, I felt SO SORRY for her!  None of her songs had any words, and they all sounded almost exactly alike.  It was years before I discovered that Georgie Girl had lyrics other than the ones made up for the Kissing Barbie, Barbie Doll (whose lips you would color with a stamper, and whose in-back button you would push to make her head tilt into a kiss, leaving a perfectly shaped Barbie lip stain on whatever her rosy mouth met.  “Hey there, Barbie Girl, wearing cherry lipstick…”)

That made me remember sitting in our house in Colorado (so, somewhere between ages 2 and 4) and wondering when my mother had turned into color, since she was black and white in her own childhood.

Weren't all of the 40s black and white?

 

I wonder what Thor will misconstrue?

What he has not misunderstood is which is the better:  In or Out of school.

Yesterday, Aunt Jamie asked him if he was excited to go back into school tomorrow.  He said yes, then followed up with the caveat, “But I’m more excited to get out.”

Counting Blessings, Economics, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Friends of Mine, Howling Sea Lane, Inside Lane, OWS, Politics

Let Them Eat Cake

the outside lane

I really do think about how fortunate I am frequently.  My grandparents grew up with so little it is mind boggling.  They grew up in rural Alabama and Florida at the height of the Great Depression, in areas untouched by Restoration, having to give up educations in order to make livings.  My Granddaddy never learned to read.  How those men and women managed to carve out lives for themselves that included being home and car amazes me.

My parents grew up with a little more than their parents had, but my mother can remember wearing clothes made out of feed sacks, and they grew or hunted for much of what went on the table.  The children in her family also worked very hard before and after school to add to the minimal income of a soldier’s salary.  I don’t think there was anything my grandparents were prouder of, than my uncle’s achievements at the Citadel.  His education was (rightly) a crowning glory to them.

I grew up with exponentially more than either of my parents had.  We were decidedly middle class, but since I was an Only and had grandparents who were generous with me, there was enough of a disposable income that I had things in my childhood that many other kids my age didn’t see until they were teens.  During our leaner years, I never knew there was any lack.  We used layaway, which I just thought was exciting.  My mom made a game of finding the least expensive items possible, and when I was old enough to care about labels and designers, we would go on a veritable safari through the Fashion district warehouses to find either what I wanted, or something so close to it it didn’t matter, and we NEVER paid anything close to retail.

But, we also never had to make a choice between milk and a winter coat.

I do a lot of my shopping for Thor at Ross and WalMart (shh, Lisha, you didn’t read that) where I can keep him pretty well set for 3-4 months at a time for under $75, including shoes.  Now and then, we’ll shop Target, whose prices are higher.  Shorts at WalMart?  $3–$5 a pair.  Shorts at Target?  $7–$12.  Same goes for the clothes of the adults in our family.  I find the best I can, for the least amount of money.  And no one has ever accused any of us of looking cheap.  I defy you to tell me Thor ever looks anything other than well put together.  Point of maternal pride there.

We had a space of time when it was to our financial benefit to buy Brand X products at the grocery store, but I have never had to make a choice between milk and a winter coat for my child.

I was walking home from Thor’s school today, shivering in my layers, and passed a little boy of about eight, wearing nylon track pants that were two years too short, a tshirt and a light hoodie.  There was a good three inches of space between the hem of the pants and the top of his ankle socks.  He was huddled into himself, eyes on the ground.

I’ll be honest, my first thought was, “How did his mother let him out of the house like that?! Those pants come nowhere near fitting!”  My second thought was, “Shame on you.  He might not have a mother, and that might be the best he has.”  My third thought was, “Or his mother got tired of waging the clothing war every morning and told him to just dress himself-wear whatever he wanted-freeze to death if that would finally make him happy.”  I hope it was the latter.

I’m glad I carried it through, though, because it tells me I am not completely out of touch.  It tells me that I remember that there are parents out there, who after paying the rent and the utilities, have to sit down and look at what is left over and make HARD decisions about whether to buy food or diapers.  I remember that there are people working three jobs just to be able to buy both.  I remember that there are people whose children will never be quite warm enough, quite full enough, or have quite enough of their parents’ attention, because those parents are working so hard to provide the minimum.

There is a disconnect between the unspoken caste system in this country, and it sounds something like this:  They have no bread?  Let them eat cake.

In the modern vernacular it would sound like this:  They can’t afford disposable diapers?  Let them use cloth.

And it sounds good, doesn’t it?  Cloth is an ecologically sound choice–doing something great for the baby’s bottom, the earth, and your purse all at the same time?  Awesome!  But you know those parents who are having a hard time affording diapers?  I’m betting they don’t have washing machines, or the money to plunk down on diaper services, and have you ever tried to find a daycare center that would allow you to pack cloth nappies for your baby?  Good luck, Marie.  Ain’t happening at LaVerne’s Kids ‘n Play, which is probably about what these parents can afford.

The truth is that some people will work all their lives, and work hard, and because of circumstances beyond their control (national economy, industry booms and busts, slight shifts in policy, misconduct in high places) will never do better than watering down the milk to make it last longer.

The truth is that there are some mothers whose husbands have been laid off, who are now expressing breast milk for the whole family because that’s all there is–I knew that mother.  Well, the one I knew was married to a guy who got laid off and never went back.  She fed me pancakes made with breast milk before telling me the truth of their situation, and then I cried all the way home.  My tears did her a fat lot of good, but I didn’t have anything else to give her.  Except diapers–and when I gave her the diapers, she told me how she had been making those last longer.  And that was another drive home in tears.

She was able to find benefits, though, and she has worked her keister off to get an education while working from home, caring for three kids as a single mother.  And she has carved out a life like my grandparents did.  She is a vital part of the American Dream.

We have to remember that for every lazybones trying to grift and bilk, there is an honest citizen just trying to get by.  And those people are too busy to get in front of the cameras and tell you the problem.  They don’t have time to complain.  Think about that:  A life so hard that complaint is a luxury.

To me, the OWS movement has been about remembering those people.  And I am thankful to everything holy that our family has the means to do a little something now and then, and that I am married to a man who always says yes when I want to give, and that I have a little boy who is already thinking about sharing with those who have less.

And that I never have to think about it when I need to go buy some milk.  Which I need to do today.

Family, Lancient History, School

Queen of the Damned Elementary school

the outside lane

I like the November trend of people posting their daily thanksgivings on Facebook.  I started mine today, and I’ve decided to go a full year with it.  It is healthy and healing to be thankful, even for the smallest of things.

Today, walking home from Thor’s school after a lengthy conversation with him about migration patterns and why geese honk (a whole flock flew overhead and buzzed us like Maverick and the Control Tower and all I could think was, “Please!  No goose poop!” have you seen the size of goose poop?!) I was struck by the weather and the wet grass and suddenly remembered waiting for the bus in elementary school.  Since we weren’t on the bus route after second grade, my mother had bribed paid the bus driver (who lived about a mile from our house) to pick me up and drop me off.  I would hang out in our front yard, waiting, twirling, dancing, singing, whatevering at the top of my lungs.  I had a self to entertain, you understand.

Our neighbor across the street took pity on what he perceived as my boredom, and started coming out every morning to let down the wooden swing that hung from a huge oak tree in their front yard.  I would swing until the bus arrived, then hop on board and watch Mr. Meadows tie the swing back up to the branch.  When they were in season, he would allow me to pick one pomegranate from his shrub every day, and I would carry that to school in my backpack, pretending I was Persephone and the school bus was taking me from my place as Princess of Spring in mother’s fields into the Underworld of elementary school, where I was Queen of the Damned.  Clearly, Thor’s dramatic tendencies are genetic.

I loved our neighborhood in Virginia.  Trees and water, and a hundred elderly people for me to visit and have dote upon me.  It was funny–I was talking to my therapist about growing up in neighborhoods with no children, the other day.  Then, I realized I had grown up in neighborhoods with plenty of kids, I just wasn’t allowed to play with any of them!  I couldn’t play with Michelle, who lived 2 houses down, because she had called Mr. Landing an old bastard.  I couldn’t play with Jenny G because my parents were unsure of her parents.  I couldn’t play with Jenny J (whose grey gingerbread house had actual heart cutouts on the shutters–I loved her house) because she was allowed to play with Jenny G.  I could play with Lisa and Tina until they walked into our home unannounced twice, and my mother put an end to their desire to come near our front door.  Chester and Darren were out on my terms.  Darren had held me down while Chester put caterpillars in my hair–I wasn’t going to play with them ever again.  Boys!  Although, Darren had an awesome swingset and would play Underdog with me.

There was also a neighbor at the end of the block, who had something like 8 kids.  I can’t remember why I didn’t play with them, but it probably had to do with Jenny G. or Michelle (who I secretly loved, and who snuck me into her house to watch Saturday Night Fever.)

I wonder how much of elementary school Thor will remember?  If any of our walks to class will register in his memory.  At the very least, I hope the impression of how much fun we’ve had will remain, and he will have a blanket feeling of goodness surrounding this period of his life.

Family, Reviews, sports, swimming

Love, Laughs, and Laps

the outside lane

I did see this quote on the internet, which means it could very well have come from Abraham Lincoln and not Maurice Sendak, but given that warning, it still meant something to me to read this quote attributed to Maurice Sendak: “Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, ‘Dear Jim: I loved your card.’ Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, ‘Jim loved your card so much he ate it.’ That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”

C.S. Lewis, in his book on love, writes of loving someone so much you want to eat them up.  “Love you?  I am you!” Is one of the expressions he uses to convey that feeling.  I know that feeling well.

That is the feeling that makes me kiss the soles of my son’s feet, and that spot on my husband’s forehead, right between his eyebrows.  It is the feeling that compells me to growl like a beast and pretend to gnaw up Thor’s neck, while he giggles and howls, and to blow fantastic raspberries on my B’s belly.  It is the feeling that inspires bone cracking bear hugs, awesome tickle fights, and the best laughter on earth.

The boys went off on a Man-Trip with Granddad this past weekend, leaving me all alone.  I was delighted when they came home.  I missed them!  I think Thor might have missed me a little because he grabbed me, sniffed my hair and said, “I don’t know how you smell so good!” before running off again. 

And my wish for all you readers today, is that you love someone or something so much that you want to eat them/it*. 

While they were gone, I thought to catch up with my movie watching.  You know, the shows they wouldn’t want to watch anyway (or that Thor isn’t old enough to screen.)  You know what I ended up watching?  The Godfather.

I’d never seen it before, and since I’ve fallen so hard for Boardwalk Empire, I thought maybe I should view the –er– godfather of all mobster movies.  It was funny how much of the dialog I knew, just from the social vernacular.  I half quoted Marlon Brando’s opening monologue along with him (something else I can’t do when the boys are at home–act out the movies as they go.) 

I’ll be honest, I thought the first fifteen minutes were awful and boring.  It didn’t get good until they shot Vito Corelone, and then I was interested.  No, then I was hooked and I really enjoyed the rest.

I also watched Bad Teacher on Saturday.  As black comedies go, that one was pretty funny.  I do wish people would stop trying to make Justin Timberlake The Actor happen, though.  He is hilarious on SNL, but otherwise, he is strictly Disney style.  Really.  Watch that video.  God bless him.  He tries.  But he succeeds at making great music.  Anyway.  Bad Teacher=Okay Movie.

In other news completely, this is my  new lap swim toy:

90010 Combination Sport Count Ring

It’s a lap counter for swimmers–looks huge, doesn’t it?  Nope.  It fits on your finger like a secret decoder ring!  It is so cool, y’all.  I was swimming this morning, watching the timer while I stroked, and pretending I was a spy who had planted a device and was swimming away as the countdown ran.  That lasted me two laps before Sweet Child of Mine came on my mp3 player and I had to concentrate on not playing air guitar underwater.  I am that nerd.

 
What do you think about when you work out?  I have to entertain myself.

*Don’t really eat anyone, okay?  That’s not mentally healthy.