It's what you learn after you think you know it all that counts.

Some people learned everything they need to know in Kindergarten.  It has taken me a lot longer. 

When I was eleven, my sister and brother were already grown and out of the house, off on their own. I was the last one at home to join my folks when they took their annual holidays or weekend getaways.  With the precision, efficiency, and ranking of a military bivouac my folks had a familiar routine to prepare the camping equipment, chuck box, boat, tent equipment, and the one allotted piece of luggage per person.  For an upcoming trip, I knew that Dad would be home early from work, and we'd be leaving promptly at 3 p.m.  Somehow, I'd lost track of time, and before I knew it, I heard the garage door open, announcing his arrival.  I grabbed my suitcase and hustled it out to the car, and came back into the house where my mother gave me a few last-minute tasks.  Right on schedule Dad announced, "Let's GO!" and went out to the idling car with trailer in tow.  With my mum sitting shotgun, the dog panting and full of anticipation in the back seat, they began to pull away. Wishing I had just one more minute to put on my sneakers, but without time to even find them, I knew it was now or never, and ran after them down the street.  Dad slowed a little for me to jump in the moving car and we were off.  My entire vacation, I had just a pair of bedroom slippers to wear on the shores and campgrounds of northern Michigan.

Lesson learned: Promptness.


When I was very young, I was with my mother driving home during a cold steady rain in downtown Detroit at rush hour.  At a gridlocked intersection, we sat through several cycles of red/green lights while people stood at a corner bus stop just a few feet from our car.  As we waited our turn to get through the traffic light, an older woman rapped on my window, startling me.  Not knowing what to do, my mother calmly told me to open my window and see what she wanted.  Dripping, the woman stood looking at us, then leaned in slightly and asked for a ride.  Wide-eyed, I quickly looked at my mother and again back to the woman, while my mother cheerfully asked where she was going and then told me to unlock the back door so she could get in and sit in the back seat.  During the long ride, this elderly, soft-spoken black woman described how she took the bus daily, for two hours, to an affluent Detroit suburb to do housecleaning.  That day, with the traffic issues, she'd missed one of her bus connections.  My mother listened, drove her to the neighborhood, which was well out of our way, and then we went home, arriving too late for supper and long after my bedtime.  I sat silently during the long detour, while my mother and the gray-haired woman chatted. After we'd left the woman off, I asked my mother why she'd done that.  She simply remarked, "To be nice."

Lesson learned:  Kindness 


In high school in central rural Massachusetts, I worked two jobs.  One was as a respite provider for a large family who had a teen daughter with autistic-like developmental disabilities.  My job was to provide companionship to Michelle so other members of the family could be relieved from those demands, which often required constant attention.  Michelle and I usually found ourselves in the bustling kitchen, coloring, piecing jigsaw puzzles, painting fingernails, working clay, or helping with simple tasks for the family's meal preparation (It was at that table that I learned how to peel and chop an onion, and to this day EVERY time I cut into an onion, my memory takes me back to the Leroux family kitchen. Lesson learned: onion chopping).  For two or three hours, several days each week, she and I would keep company and I'd guide her through the job of setting the supper table for this large family -- routine was an important aspect for her in our afternoon activities.  For dinner, the family would gather, sometimes as many as ten of them.  I would often join them as they shared the events of their day, ate the meal, and worked as a family for clean-up, while including both Michelle and me in conversation, laughter, and routine.  The contrast to my quiet home (just my Mum, Dad and me those years) was glaring as this busy household of ten interacted with each other every single night.

Lesson learned: Family loyalty and devotion.


When Stephen and I lived in Omaha Nebraska in our early years together, he was soon to be transferred to Illinois to attend meteorology school for his job as a weather forecaster.  At the time, we were young, active members of the Unitarian Church, and enjoyed many opportunities for friendship and social outlets.  In the congregation we had several friendships, some still lasting to today.   At potlucks, meetings, and various church events we had become friendly with a couple who learned about our impending (though temporary) move; we would be gone for six months before returning to Omaha.  They took us aside, and sincerely offered their home to us for a few days when we came back and would need to get settled again.  It was a huge relief to us, and we kept in touch with the couple while we were away in Illinois.  Shortly after our arrival back in Omaha, exactly as anticipated, we sought out this couple and inquired about when we could take them up on their offer.  She was a doctor, and he was a lawyer, so we hoped to coordinate with their busy schedules.  To our surprise and disappointment, they decisively rescinded their offer, giving thin excuses.  We were left standing gap-jawed with few immediate options.  It all worked out for us, but it left an indelible impression.

Lesson learned: Integrity


Another member of our church called me shortly after we'd bought our home in Omaha saying we were practically neighbors, and invited me to visit with the kids anytime.  I was needy and eager for friendship and a companion, and so Hilma Lathrop immediately became our surrogate grandmother.  Welcoming our pop-in visits for tea, spontaneous shopping trips, and captivating us with her life stories and practical home-making skills, she embraced our children, and found humour in all things.  With me, she shared her recipes, wisdom, and heart.  One important recipe she shared was her long-time family soap recipe.  When I was washing my hands at her kitchen sink, I remarked at how wonderful the bar of soap felt, and she dismissively waved her hand and said, "Oh, that's just plain soap I make."  Astounded, I asked for the story, and she explained how it was made, and offered me a lesson.  For the following month, I collected bacon fat and beef drippings in a five-pound coffee can, and had the basic necessary ingredients to make a batch of soap for our every cleaning need.  From that first lesson, I've been making our own soap ever since.

Lesson learned: resourcefulness helps frugality.


My mother was smart funny.  Not practical funny.  She never played practical jokes, though she was often the victim of them in our household. She never insulted to be amusing, but had a clever, sharp sense of humour.

When my folks moved to Cleveland Place, there were several renovations and improvements to be made, most needing a lot of elbow grease and a fierce work ethic.  She thrived on both.  At some point in years past, the pantry's wooden counter tops had been covered with Formica and glued down  with black mastic.  It was a mean chore to remove and strip, but worth it as it revealed a warm chestnut-colored wood surface.  They eventually used this area to make bread and pastries for the Bed and Breakfast. Over time, excess flour filled the small cracks between the old boards.  When our cousin Max, who had lived in Cleveland Place for several years before my folks, was in the pantry he noticed the improvements and admired their work, appreciating the effort to return the counter and cabinet underneath to the original wood.  My mother called him over, opened the wide cabinet door, and showed the interior of the cupboard where large tubs of flour and staples were stored.  She then guided him to look closely at the wood surface that had been hidden beneath the Formica for so long.  As Max bent over and peered closely at the countertop, my mother quickly and purposefully slammed the cupboard door, sending a cloud of flour dust up into Max's face.  My mother took her work and cleaning very seriously, but she also very easily found humour.

Lesson learned: Look for humour and enjoy the laughter.


When Stephen and I were exploring the endless opportunities that New York City offered when we first moved to the area, we were dazzled by the lights, activities, street shows, spontaneity and random encounters each trip unveiled.  One crowd that attracted my attention was surrounding a quick-paced three-card monty game set up on a cardboard box.  As the dealer flipped and tossed cards, he asked spectators to point out where the hidden Queen had landed.  One man bet $10 and found her, and was awarded $10 more.  Many placed bets, and they usually won.  The lively game and crowd activity was a distraction, but I was amazed that I knew EVERY single time where the Queen was, no matter who in the crowd was betting.  I could have been winning money all that time! Before I knew it, the dealer pointed right to me and asked me where I thought that elusive Queen card was.  I knew, pointed to the card, and he exclaimed that I was RIGHT! He turned over the card to reveal the Queen, and, chagrined, told me I'd just won TWENTY dollars!!   I was immediately overcome with giddy excitement, and extended my hand to accept his $20 bill, but he held it up and cautioned that I had to prove that I had my own twenty to make it a legitimate bet.  No problem -- I was a winner! I quickly reached into my pocketbook and pulled out a twenty dollar bill -- the ONLY money we had that day -- and presented it.  As the dealer pinched my bill between his finger and thumb, Stephen leaned into my ear, and firmly and seriously said, "Do. not. let. go. of. that. money." so I pulled it back out of his firm pinch and said, "Thank you very much" as Stephen pulled me out of the crowd.

Lesson learned: Don't let excitement surpass common sense.


Last year we were visiting and working with Stephen's siblings in Massachusetts while settling their deceased mother's estate.  When we'd done all that we could we left their company and headed back to Canada, but just 10 miles away I realized I'd left behind a black leather glove.  Not just any glove, but a buttery Italian leather with a cashmere lining, of special sentimental value; our cousin Peter had given it to me as an elegant accessory.  It was a lovely gift, and typical of Peter's generosity toward me and our family.  Since Peter had died just earlier that year, the gloves were quite dear to me.  We immediately called back to the others to ask about it and explained why they were special.  Stephen's older sister, Anne, found it and to my relief said she'd mail it to us in Canada, saving us from turning back.

After several weeks with nothing in the post box from Anne, I asked about it, assuming with many things on her mind during that sad time, she'd simply forgotten about it.  But Anne again assured me that she'd send it that month.   Yet, now it's spring, and we've heard nothing back from her, no mail, no call back, no explanation, no glove....nothing.  Naturally, that leaves me entirely bewildered since it's really a keepsake more than a winter accessory -- one whose special value I had made very clear.
   
Lesson Learned: Keep your promises.


We like family games.  Board games, dice games, trivia, general knowledge, strategy, word games.  For Christmas one year, Olivia gave us a fun group party game she simply made out of wide rolls of cash register tape.  The premise is that everyone who has a paper roll starts by writing a short descriptive sentence at the top edge of the paper and passes it to the person seated next to them.  That person is then given one minute to draw a picture depicting the sentence.  When time is up, the initial sentence is folded down to be hidden, and the paper roll revealing only the drawing is passed to the next person, who looks at the drawing and composes a sentence describing what they see.  After one minute, the roll is passed on to the next person so at anytime there is only one drawing or one sentence showing.....and so on until all the rolls have been passed all around the entire group of four or more.  Then the tape is unrolled and hilarity ensues as all the drawings and sentences are revealed and the unavoidable misinterpretations are shared.

We played this game on Boxing Day with my dad, Wallace, who, once the rules were explained, demanded, "How do you WIN?"  Also joining the game was Dad's wife, Anna, Anna's adult son George, and his girlfriend Evita. Anna got an egg timer from the kitchen, and full of anticipation we started.  Olivia wrote a sentence, the hourglass was turned -- a minute goes by FAST!-- next in the circle, Anna took the paper and pencil and drew the picture -- this is becoming a fast-paced game -- "TIME!"  Next was Dad, who interpreted Anna's sketch and wrote down his sentence and passed the paper roll to George.  As the timer began dropping a minute's worth of sand, George carefully read what Dad wrote, and extended his hand to receive the pencil.  Time is of the essence, but Dad slowly looked at the pencil, and with raised eyebrows he slipped it into his shirt pocket, and quietly said, with a mischievous smirk "This is my pencil."

Lesson learned: Keep competition fair.



I've learned a lesson about learning lessons: you often learn them when you least expect them.

"Take two and see me in three days"

My folks were tough.  When the three of us children were growing up, we weren't allowed to complain.  Illness and injury received scant sympathy, unless we were in agonizing pain or on our death bed with a serious ailment -- for which eggnog was the typical prescribed remedy.  Injuries were met with "tape it up" and illnesses "just wait 'til the fever subsides." Everything had three-day waiting period before actual medical attention was considered.  Until she was in treatment for lung cancer, my mother never spent a day in bed with a complaint, and no affliction ever kept Dad from his duties until a case of shingles in his seventies.

As parents, Stephen and I tried to be more reasonable; we listened to our children's health concerns, tried to validate and reassure them, and treated them with whatever attention the condition required, whether minor or life threatening.

Our daughter Kathryn has her own special family medical file, however.  An often silent observer and companion to Olivia's frequent hospitalizations, ambulance trips, emergency room visits, and complicated procedures, she became knowledgeable about medical protocol and diagnosis. She developed a kind of hypochondria, announcing the onset of a terminal case of a variety of diseases, requiring immediate attention by a specialist.  We'd insist on the family "three day waiting period," during which a recovery would miraculously occur.

When she left home and took one of her first apartments in the big city, she showed she had a flair for decorating and furnishing tastefully on a limited budget.  When we first visited, we saw her bookshelves neatly filled with both classic and contemporary authors, and DVD sleeves tidily set to one side. Handmade pottery and artwork was displayed with throw pillows, adding a cozy touch to the couch along one wall.  We took note of a neatly arranged fan of colorful printed materials on the living room floor, just as one would arrange a pile of magazines on a coffee table.

It was a pleasure for us to see our daughter so self-assured and happy in her new home, beginning her venture into independent adulthood. We imagined her lying on her floor perusing her magazines full of fashion, home decor, celebrity gossip, and so on. But when we looked closer, we realized they weren’t even magazines at all. Each one was a booklet or glossy pamphlet that represented a different disease:  Diabetes and YOU; Understanding your Pituitary; Advances in Glaucoma Treatment; Handling your Headaches; Carpal Tunnel Syndrome: CTS; Controlling Irritable Bowel Symptoms; How to deal with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome at Work, and more. Free from our dismissive health care approach, she was finally able to explore her many dormant but deadly conditions.


Several years ago, Stephen experienced an acute case of hiccups.  It was during a long road trip from New England to Nebraska, on a side trip to Niagara Falls.  We'd been driving for most of the day and arrived at the parking area at nearly midnight.  We'd hoped to see the dramatic falls at night, since our only previous visit years earlier had been during the day.  Unfortunately, the nighttime fog was especially thick, and thoroughly obliterated any view of the waterfalls.  Disappointed, we crept along a side road hoping to catch a glimpse of any lights on the water, but the fog was as unrelenting as Stephen's frustrating case of hiccups, which after two hours was making him nauseated.

The fog was so thick we couldn’t see any road signs or even the lines on the road. Stephen inched forward, craning over the steering wheel trying to see anything at all, while hiccuping painfully and noisily. Eager to relieve him from his distress, I suddenly burst out shrieking, "STOP!!!!"

And he did!  He slammed on the brakes in complete panic, we lurched forward against our seat belts.  The tires screeched as he desperately scanned the foggy road for whatever danger we had just avoided, certain we'd narrowly escaped cascading over the actual waterway, running over an unseen tourist, or worse.

"Jesus Christ, WHAT?  What was it??" Stephen asked, intensely alarmed. I brightly replied, "Oh nothing, I just wanted to help you stop hiccuping! And look, it worked!"

It did work.  But he was mad for three days.

Fifteen Minutes

We were famous for a few minutes.   Our family of six was seated and posed in our tiny Lincoln Nebraska living-room, including our dog Scout, while the newspaper photographer silently took numerous shots of us.  A few days later we were on the front page of the city newspaper in vivid color.  It was an odd feeling to immediately recognize our own faces looking back from behind the little acrylic window in the box at the gas station that held the daily paper.

I bought the morning paper, and a few extra, and shortly after I got home, the phone started ringing.  The first call was from the pet shelter who wanted to donate dog food for Scout.  Several more supportive calls came offering money, babysitting services for our four children, group meeting times and places, and groceries.  Lots and lots of groceries.  We were overwhelmed by strangers' generosity and compassion.

We only spent a year in Lincoln.  We rented an apartment just a few blocks away from Stephen's work.  His boss had strongly suggested that a move to Lincoln would be a real gesture of Stephen's commitment and loyalty to the company, and consequently possibility for better opportunity and a secure future with them.

Previously, we had been living in Omaha for several years -just an hour's drive from Lincoln. We owned a very old home and had dug in, probably far too ambitiously and well beyond our capabilities, making improvements and renovations ever since we'd settled in and where we planned to raise our family.  But life changed very quickly and it all started with a little girl's nosebleed.

After a series of dramatic events, we discovered that our youngest daughter, Olivia, had an unusual blood disease that required frequent hospitalizations, often in isolation, sometimes in critical care, and usually required several day's stay. It was a routine we were forced into like many families who have major medical issues.  Our situation was not unique, it was just unique to us and we were managing as best as we could; Stephen had a decent job with medical insurance, and other than the long daily commute to Lincoln in a fairly reliable vehicle, we muddled through.

But then, we had to move to Lincoln.

We knew we had no possibility of selling the house in Omaha in its condition, so we shut it down, and made the 'commitment to the company' by moving close to Stephen's work and taking a year-long lease for an apartment in Lincoln that would allow pets and larger families.  We traveled back and forth on weekends to continue working and making improvements on the house, either for a potential buyer, or for our future in Nebraska. 

Three months later, Stephen was fired.* 

Things got more difficult, but mostly just financially.  We had a mortgage to cover, monthly rent at the apartment, and suddenly astoundingly astronomical hospital, medical, and doctor bills.  Someone at the Lincoln newspaper got wind of our story and thought it was a good human interest piece reflecting the concerns of those with middle income and rising health insurance costs.  We were featured since we suddenly had no job and no health insurance with serious medical costs and so we became the headline story, above the fold, on a weekday, in a Midwestern city newspaper for a day. Our fleeting moment of fame.

It took several years of treatments, countless hospitalizations and procedures, and surgery before Olivia was finally in full remission and considered cured.  Those difficult years are ones I often look back on to measure how we've come along, and remember those who we encountered along the way --many leaving lasting impressions that in some ways have influenced who we are.

One elderly lady who had been living for several years in a senior citizen apartment complex called and invited us to her storage area in the basement of her building.  In there, she had her own grocery store.  She had rows of peanut butter jars, carefully arranged varieties of dried pasta and cans and jars of pasta sauces, boxed potatoes, neatly categorized row upon row of canned beans, vegetables, fruits and soups.  Her son had built floor-to-ceiling two-by-four shelving all around her 6 foot by 8 foot allotted space and in there she had been storing surplus foods that she'd been purchasing ever since she'd moved in.  For ten years.  She explained she often invited people who were in situations like ours to visit with her.  She was a child of the depression, and found that if there was a sale on something at the grocery store, she was compelled to bring extra home for someone who could use it.  We left, very gratefully, with several bags of premium groceries for four growing young children.

We were reminded of this generous woman and her orderly and methodical ways of charity many, many years later.  When we were doing some routine grocery shopping we noticed an elderly woman with several plastic shopping bags at the entrance to the store who appeared to be waiting in the cold for a ride.  After we'd finished our own shopping and headed out to our car, she was still there.

We asked if she was expecting a ride or needed one --it was cold!  She meekly suggested that she needed one, so Stephen immediately collected her bags, took her arm and we gave her a ride home which wasn't far from the store.  When we got to her senior citizen apartment housing complex, Stephen carried her many grocery sacks in one trip and escorted her to her very small apartment while I waited in the car.

There she'd stashed what Stephen described as at least ten years of grocery purchases.  However, these were all in bags, sacks, and indistinguishable piles of disarray and chaos.  She invited Stephen in to her apartment and he set the bags of her most recent purchases among countless others of identical non-identifiable shape and abandon. She expressed her gratitude for the transportation, offering a generous contribution for our gas and the effort. Stephen left empty-handed but wide eyed with the contrast of a memory from a fairly similar scenario from years past.  Two senior women, compelled to purchase more than they themselves could use or needed, but with entirely different intent.

A couple in Omaha offered us a day free from parenting and providing.  She called in the morning, offering to take the three kids to the park and a variety of activities for the day, and returned with them tired and ready for bed at then end of the day providing soup and home made bread for supper.  It offered us a chance to sit quietly, at home, taking several naps with a very ill child, worry-free from the needs of others and meals.  It was a short, unexpected, and very appreciated respite that I often recall.

When our car broke down, our teen babysitter's family offered us their second vehicle so we could get around Omaha in winter until ours was repaired.  An older friend offered us her credit card to pay for the repairs, knowing her bill would take a month to arrive, and we could take another to pay her.

A friend at church, a plumber by trade, helped in a most generous way with labour, advice, skill, and services when we moved back into our Omaha home from Lincoln after a year of shut off water and frozen pipes.

There were a lot of people who helped us along in a variety of ways during those short years, but we try not to dwell on the hardship; it's much more pleasant to remember the generosity of others, the details of laughter and friendship, the gestures of kindness.

I hope to always remember those who are kind and understand those who are not.




* Since another family in the company who had a terminally ill child was fired at about the same time, I'll always believe that the reason for the firings was because of the health insurance costs for the small company.  I also suspect that Stephen's boss felt that his strongly suggested move to Lincoln (for a family of six needing proximity to a children's medical facility.) would be rejected and Stephen would resign.  Oh--the wisdom of hindsight.

It only hurts when I laugh

We've all been asked the question.

Some of us take no time in coming up with the answer.  Some have several choices for their reply. Others have to really think about it, but eventually can find a suitable response.  Very few are stumped.

What is your most embarrassing moment?

The question is typically asked in a group setting, usually a party, so you have to choose your response carefully so you don't reveal too much about what causes you embarrassment (it might backfire on you later), or tell something you've done that you might not be proud of, or share part of your character that you might not want people who you're not very well acquainted with to know about you.

I have a few responses, but it's more a list of embarrassing things that I've said than done.  And now, faithful blog reader, you're preparing yourself for a humorous accounting of the gaffes, faux pas, blunders, and misspeaks that have rolled off my impetuous tongue in the course of these long years of adulthood.

Not a chance.

I think that inappropriate laughing is a better topic for this blog entry. Really!  Think about it. How many times have you been asked the question at a cocktail party?

"When was the worst time that you laughed inappropriately?" 

Imagine it, several of you are gathered around someone's living room with a drink, a small napkin with a puff pastry or stuffed mushroom that's too hot to eat--you know it, because the last one you ate scorched the roof of your mouth and you've been nursing it with an ice-cube from your drink for several minutes. People exchange topics about the work that they do, their kids' comings and goings, travels they've made--some guests you may know, some you're just getting acquainted with.

You've probably already pegged some of those who you don't know very well.

Type A:  The person who asks you a question, and before you've finished your response, they're answering it for you with the answer that they really wanted to give if you'd asked THEM the question.  For example,  "Have you ever been to California?" and you respond with "Well, funny you should ask, I've just been a few months ago, and found it to be much colder than I expected for this time of yea...." but they interrupt, and begin to tell you about their experiences in California, and you realize they really didn't care about your answer at all--they just had an agenda to start non-stop talking.

Type B:  The person who is everyone's very best friend, and knows everyone else in the room.  They find out something about you in some capacity, feign genuine interest in something that you're discussing, and promise you something in the future like:
a follow-up lunch
a book they'll put in the mail about the subject your discussing that they picked up at a yard sale but can't quite finish.
a telephone call with some information that would be pertinent for you to pursue

but you never hear from them again and you realize they are a big phony--so by now you spot them early on.

C:  The know-it-all.  Enough said.  Some esoteric subject has been brought up that piques your interest, and perhaps you know a few facts, but big mouth in the room, knows-it-all.  Or does he?

D:  Drinky McGluggerton.  He's just there for the alcohol;  he's actually amusing until he's had too many, at which point he becomes a little grouchy and frumps himself down in the Barcalounger (tm) in the corner and watches everyone else with a combative eye as the evening drags on.

But then the question is popped.  Has it ever before?  I doubt it.  Let's pretend it just has.
  
"When did you last laugh most inappropriately?"


My mother was a terrible offender.  But to her defense, and probably for most of us, an outburst of inappropriate laughter is usually an involuntary expression of stress or relief--(see The Jugular Vein blog entry)  --but not always.

When my mother was in a grocery store parking lot one cold wintry day after a freezing rain, she spied a woman who was pushing her heavily laden grocery cart out of the store to her vehicle.  The unaware woman hit a patch of ice, and the cart went wayward, while her feet went out from under her causing her to fall to her knees while keeping her grip on the cart.  The poor woman slid the entire length of the parking aisle flailing her legs to try regain her footing on the icy-slick pavement, but with no success.  By the time the cart came to a stop, and the woman could stand again, with torn stockings and bloodied knees, my mother was hysterical laughing.

Many years ago, we'd gone out to Bennett Lake in Fundy National Park.  We had an absolutely gorgeous wooden combination canoe-sail-row boat.  The Aphrodite.  It was very heavy, but the three of us (I was 13 at the time) could manage it well, and my parents could manage it with a bit of a struggle between the two of them.  Wally, would bark commands expecting an immediate and efficient response in action, while unloading the canoe and all its accessories from the top of the car until finally launching it into the water.  After several outings, we had a pretty good routine, each of us executing our job with the timely precision of a military mission.

Until one afternoon at the water's edge.  We were going sailing.  While I was setting the leeboards, Dad was righting the mast, and my mother tied the boom.  Something happened at this point, and the boom came down on Dad's head with an audible, and sharp CRACK!  Expletives were abundant, and my mother was immediately convulsed with laughter, which elicited even more expletives. 

After the tweety-birds stopped circling around Dad's head, we resumed our duties, and Dad returned to the rigging, when

CRACK!

it happened again.  Loud.  Hard. The angry sailor's vicious vocabulary was considerably more verbose.  My mother was unable to catch her breath from uncontrollable laughter.  It wasn't that she thought that it was funny, I'm quite sure it just was her coping mechanism. 

In our early days of home ownership in Omaha, we had a large Linden tree in the front yard that had several large, broken, and dangerous limbs that needed to be brought down.  At the time, we didn't have the standard set of homeowner tools like a tall ladder, a chain saw, or other necessary equipment to do the job safely or properly, but we were concerned that some of the dangling branches might come down and hurt someone.  Stephen drove our car up into the yard and stood on the roof to get a better look at them, and indeed, they were precarious limbs.

I advised him to just jump off the roof of the car, grab hold of the branch, and drop down with it as it should easily break off.  This was not good advice.

Stephen sprang off the roof of the car with the grace of an Olympic parallel-bar athlete, grabbed the diseased tree branch with both hands and stopped in time and motion for a few seconds when

SNAP!

the branch did break easily, but poor Stephen fell to the ground FAST and landed on his back completely knocking the wind out of him rendering him breathless and dizzy.  My immediate response should have been to rush to his side for assistance, but I didn't simply because I became helpless with a fit of manic hysterical laughter that I absolutely could not control.  Stephen was not amused.

(Remember when Mary Tyler Moore couldn't help herself at the funeral for Chuckles The Clown? )

Then there was a time when Olivia was in the hospital.  It was just one of several lengthy and successive stays when she was most sick several years ago.  The nursing staff knew us, and enjoyed Olivia--she was a model patient; she didn't cry, scream, or struggle during painful and invasive treatments, didn't demand toys or television or games, and tolerated the needles better than most adults.

An unfamiliar nurse came into her room one afternoon with a series of hypodermic needles to draw blood, and administer several medications through Olivia's IV.  She set the lot of the needles on Olivia's bedside table and turned her back to set up the procedural equipment when Olivia took on of the syringes and inadvertently inserted it directly through her hand---syringe on her palm side, the needle poking out the back of her hand.  Olivia calmly looked up at me from her bed and in a quiet monotone voice recognizing trouble held out her hand and said, "mummy?"

I laughed at first, because it was so incredulous that the thoughtless, careless, nurse would leave these syringes within Olivia's reach, and also because it looked so bazaar!  This strange anachronism of a small child's hand run through and through with a gleaming hypodermic needle filled with poison.  Certainly, not a laughing matter.

I think the next time I'm asked "What was your most embarrassing moment?" I'll return with the question "First, tell me when was the last time you laughed inappropriately?"  I think it will be a better conversation.

Either that, or I'll reply, "A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants." And see what happens.

Ramblin' on.

In a few days, I'm about to embark on a cross-country trip West for a few weeks with Kathryn to attend my nephew Allyn's wedding.  

As I prepare, it calls to mind other trips I've taken over the years- some reckless, some well-planned, others risky, most every one a good memory. An especially memorable one was our family move in the early 90's from Omaha to New York City.......

Begin jiggly memory swiggles as seen on television for comedic subjective recollections....

Cue Narrator as camera pans a suburban Midwestern street featuring neighbourhood children on shiny bicycles or kicking a bright red ball.  Capture summertime trees in full bloom--birds chirping.  Zoom in on smiling woman placing tidy square boxes, matching suitcases, and cat-carrier into a gleaming white vintage sedan, while four young children file into the vehicle followed by romping yellow-Labrador dog.


Aside from the obvious stresses that moving creates from uprooting and starting fresh, I always enjoyed the adventure-- both as a kid and as an adult.  When I was growing up, my family moved seven times and I attended 7 different schools, including two high-schools.  In our adult lives, Stephen and I moved a few times as jobs changed and his education and career changed course.  When he got out of the Air Force in the 80's we had a home and were well settled assuming we'd remain in Omaha indefinitely, but the unexpected loss of his job in the 90's prompted a move from Omaha back to the east where he was starting a new job.

We were hard pressed to leave friends and our lifestyle in Omaha, but financially it was the only option since it was a particularly rough time in our lives then.  We had four young kids, and our youngest, Olivia, was pretty sick with a blood disease that required frequent hospitalizations.  This new job would offer everything we needed most, an income, very good health insurance accepting a pre-existing health condition, paid moving expenses, and the sale of our beloved but rundown home that had exhausted both our skill and finances for all its needed improvements.

Stephen had posted his resume on the internet, and was found by a consulting company based out of Washington D.C. that offered information technology consultants to big name corporations.  He accepted the position through e-mail and a phone calls. 

Having flown ahead of us, Stephen was settled in at The Marriott Marquis hotel in Times Square, Manhattan,  where he was already given a consulting assignment.  Justin, Andrew, Kathryn, Olivia, Scout the dog, Mittens the cat, a few suitcases and some other fragile belongings that we didn't trust to the moving company followed over the next several days in our four-door 1964 Rambler sedan.  Our travel budget was extremely tight having little cash, a small available balance on a credit card, and a small-chain gas card, so we packed in a sack of egg-salad sandwiches to keep us well fed along the road and each of the kids got some money for the trip to spend on their own.  Our adventure was about to begin!

Unfortunately, our departure day fulfilled the predictions for continued rain throughout the Midwest.  Mittens the cat had to forfeit his leash so it could be used to operate the windshield wipers.  For the duration of the rain, who ever sat in the front passenger seat was responsible for pulling the leash that was attached to the wipers, strung through the driver's side wing-window, and across the front of the dashboard. The wipers worked by a failing vacuum pump, so for each pass they had to be manually lifted across the windshield and would drop by their own weight.  It stopped raining when we got to close to Saint Louis, Missouri--approximately 450 miles later.

We traveled south-east through Kansas, St. Louis, and Kentucky so we could visit my sister's family in Tennessee where we planned to stay for a night or two. It was a familiar trip we'd made several times before without any problems.   This time, in Kentucky, we had a small one-- we simply ran out of gas.

Now, before I go on, I should mention that this Rambler was a fabulous car:

Cut to vintage film advertising for the AMC RAMBLER CLASSIC SEDAN automobile while narrator describes the attributes of such a fine vehicle. 

Our Rambler had four doors, a capacious trunk, (Stephen installed rear seat belts for each kid) a powerful V-8 engine that truly hummed, and a brand new brake job with four new 'budget' tires.  Except for a rear-end accident that happened a few month prior, the body was actually in very good shape; it was dull, but not rusted out anywhere except under the driver's floorboard which was only noticeable in torrential rain when water would enter from under the floor mat.  (The driver that hit the Rambler and crumpled its back-end didn't have insurance, so we got a body shop to bang out the worst of it, and make sure the trunk would close and lock.) Oh, and the fuel gauge didn't work.

So, I made a minor error in mileage/gas estimation based on the odometer reading.  We were doing fast high-way driving, and the engine just drank the gas as we hummed along.  So we sat on the side of the highway and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

We sat in the stultifying summertime Kentucky heat and humidity for about thirty minutes (no cell-phone in those days!) hoping a state trooper would soon stop, but instead a very nice non axe-murdering/rapist saw our distress and stopped.

Resume jiggly memory swiggles as camera pans the length of a brand new candy-apple red Dodge Ram Truck slowing down, merging onto the shoulder, and stopping in front of the disabled Rambler.  Cut to close-up shot of driver, as played by Robert De Niro, exiting vehicle and approaching the driver's door of the Rambler.

Our rescuer asked if we needed assistance, and I suggested we'd only run out of gas.  He promptly said he'd tow us to the next exit and produced a brand new tow strap, attached it, instructed me how to steer/brake, while being towed, and just like that we had a full tank and running engine at the nearest service station within 20 minutes!  Crisis averted.


(I still think it was Robert De Niro, actually.  He looked just like him--mole and all--had a mild accent--defined to neither New York or the South.  His truck appeared to be brand-new and expensive.  At the gas station, he made sure the engine started after the tank was filled giving advice to put a little gas on the carburetor to get it primed to start up again.  We shook hands, and he wished us good luck on our trip.  Thanks Bob!)

We made it to Tennessee without further incident, and visited for a few days, also without incident!  Back on the road again, we traveled as far as Pennsylvania, and took a hotel room.  I wanted to be fresh, well rested and ready for our anticipated arrival and meeting up with Stephen in New York City the following day.

But the next day, it was hot.  Very hot.  Traffic congestion increased and slowed as we got closer and closer to the city.  The temperature climbed outside, and as it got hotter outside the Rambler's gauge indicating the engine temperature began to rise--my growing indigestion matching it.

When we reached The Holland Tunnel, I barked at the kids to roll up the windows and lock their doors.  I suddenly felt very vulnerable with our Nebraska license plates, very old car, open windows, and full clam-shell car-top-carrier a beacon announcing to all New Yorkers that we were Nebraskan hayseeds ripe for the picking.

On the approach to The Holland Tunnel, we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the car steadily overheating, as we inched along with windows closed.  I turned on the heat to pull some off off the engine, but it was too hot to bear; we had to open our windows, and I directed the vents to blow the heat down toward our feet.  Our poor Scout was panting heavily, but remained ever patient, and we noticed we'd stopped hearing Mitten's plaintive mews from his carry-box since we left the hotel room earlier that morning.

Cut to cartoon footage of heavy machinery/boilers/steam vents/ pressure valves/factory warning horns all at peak levels about to burst with gauges and indicator needles intensely vibrating at the highest measure of DANGER/RED zones!

In those days, the toll for the Holland Tunnel was three dollars.

Sound Ahooga Horn featuring cartoon face with bulging dollar-sign eyes shooting in and out.

I had just under two dollars left from our exhausted travel budget, and panicked when I saw the toll amount sign.  I asked the kids to fork over any money they had left from their spending allowances, which brought us just a few cents short.  I desperately ordered them to check the seat cushion cracks and under the floor mats for more and they miraculously generated enough coin to match the toll fee.

As we pulled up to the booth, I handed over a dollar bill and the remainder in coin and pennies.  The intensely dis-interested and bored toll-taker pointed with her open hand heaped with our offered coinage, to the dirty, cracked plastic sign that read: NO PENNIES.  I shrugged, and said, "I'm really sorry, it's all we have."  She looked at me, with my sweaty hair plastered to my face, peered in the car to see the panting dog, the four red-faced sweaty kids, then looked at the steam gently rising from the hood of the Rambler, and blankly said, "just go."

Music Cue:  From The Wonderful Wizard of Oz--Optimistic Voices--played as Dorothy and her friends head toward The Emerald City from the Poppy Field.   Camera widely pans the Rambler as traffic parts, the tunnel opens wide, wind blows cooling air through the vehicle and obvious relief takes over as we relax and anticipate the sights of New York City; our final destination.  Jane brightly re-grips the steering wheel with renewed energy.

We're gonna make it!  We sail under the Hudson River through the tunnel and emerge onto Canal Street where we're greeted by stopped-dead traffic.  Horns honking, city stinking, people sweating, cars at a stand-still, visible exhaust waves rising intensifying the heat.  I holler out my window to the pedestrian traffic, "Which way to Times Square?" and several people all point in the same direction.  We turned the corner, and go.

We travel slowly in city traffic, block by block, light by light.  The car is visibly, dangerously, overheating by now, and I see several  parking opportunities and choose a open lot facility near 36th and Broadway and pull in. 

A cheerful lot attendant, all smiles, approached the car with a paper ticket in his outstretched hand obviously expecting the exchange of car keys and ticket, but he stopped short when he spied Scout, panting heavily and slightly foaming at the mouth from near dehydration.  His welcoming smile quickly faded and he said I could not leave the dog with the car.  I explained to him that we'd be right back, we'd leave all the windows wide open, he was on a leash attached to the inside of the vehicle posing no danger;  he was just a good, but very hot dog!  I reached down to the passenger side floor board to retrieve the cat box while the kids gave Scout some water, and saw poor our poor Mittens.  His flat body, eyes closed, his tongue sticking out, and all four feet splayed out wide.  My stomach lurched.  I'd killed our cat by turning on the heat to pull it off the overheating engine and sending it down to the floor right where his travel box was. I immediately felt the crushing guilt of murder by heat exhaustion. 

Quickly deciding it was not a matter to deal with right then, and certainly not wanting any of the kids to see,  I shut the door, and we walked to the hotel asking the lot attendant the right direction to Times Square.

We five chained hands, and walked the width of the sidewalk and within just a block or two, came upon a crew with a film camera taking footage of the bustling pedestrian traffic.  How exciting!  We'd only been in New York City a few short minutes and we were already experiencing the sights, sounds, excitement of activity on the street!  As we approached the squatting cameraman, something came over me.  Perhaps it was whimsical relief and exuberance at having made it this far but not quite knowing what was still ahead, I broke grips with the kids' hands, pulled them forward and close and with wide arms and beaming face stood in front of the camera man, looked directly at the lens, and exclaimed, "HELLOOO, WE'RE FROM OMAHA, NEBRASKA!!"

The cameraman took his face off the eyepiece, bent his head around the camera, looked at me, scowled, returned to his eyepiece, while his crewman with monotone repetition stated, "Keep filming, keep filming, keep filming." and sharply gestured to me that we pass and continue on our way.  We did.

We reached the Marriott Marquis, inquired at the front desk for Stephen's room, and proceeded up the glass-front elevator to the 34th floor. We were hot, tired, sweaty, stressed, road-weary, thirsty, and we all looked it in the highest degree.

Switch to slow motion: imitating the scene from Reservoir Dogs in view of a long hotel corridor,  five Chrysostoms walking abreast.

We knocked on the hotel room door, but Stephen wasn't there!  My heart sank.  Now what?  We waited just a few moments when he emerged from the hallway, carrying his lunch in a paper sack--at long last, we were all re-united! We sum up the excitement of day's events; car trouble, dog trouble, money trouble, (I whispered to him about the cat trouble.) and we settle the kids into the air-conditioned hotel room giving them full mini-bar privileges, while Stephen and I return to the Rambler.

I tell Stephen how I killed the cat, and we'll have to find a vet or something to properly dispose of him.  At the car, we find Scout to be resting comfortably on the length of the back seat and we retrieve him on his leash and collect the cat box.  But wait!  There's movement!  Mittens is ALIVE!!  Oh joy!  I didn't kill the cat, I only nearly killed him! 

Stephen drove us back to the hotel, emptied our luggage from the clam-shell car-top carrier and then strapped it onto the trunk so the car would fit down the ramp to the underground garage beneath the hotel.  He handed the keys to the attendant giving our room number, and we wouldn't see the car again while we lived in Manhattan.  (When we retrieved the car weeks later, the parking fees were far more than the car was even worth.).

We wanted Scout to relieve himself in every way possible before taking him to the room, but the city proved too distracting for him, so we went up the glass elevator without result.  Good Scout, sweet, simple-minded Scout; a true Nebraskan dog.  The only stairs he had ever experienced were in our home in Omaha.  He'd never been in bodies of water, bustling city streets, lobbies, corridors, elevators jammed with impatient people.  He was a good , mild-mannered family dog, and he went willingly into the elevator, sat when we told him to as the elevator filled with hotel guests and their luggage. The Marriott Marquis has an open lobby to the 49th floor, and the glass sided elevators look out on it as they go up and down. Scout was fine until we began to ascend and the floor outside the elevator dropped away.  His eyes widened, his paws and toes outstretched, claws gripped the carpet.  He did NOT like this experience whatsoever.  His blood pressure got so high, he had a slight nose-bleed--this was one stressed dog. Shortly, the elevator doors opened letting some people out and others in.  We continued upward.  Again the car stopped, but Scout saw his opportunity, and bolted.  He would not come back into the elevator.  We let it go without us and pushed the button for another car.  When an empty one stopped Stephen pulled Scout's leash, coaxing and encouraging him to join us.  He refused.  Stephen pulled his collar firmly, commandingly.  Scout let out a quiet, low, sad growl.  No, he just won't do it.

We were only at the 26th floor, so we took to the stairwell.  He can handle stairs and steps!   We began our way, but the stairs all had open risers which Scout's little brain just could not comprehend, so he refused that option as well.  Stephen was forced to carry that fool dog up each remaining flight to our floor.

When we were all finally together again in the cool comfort of the hotel room, we enjoyed the sights of Times Square from high above the city. The cat curled up, happily re-hydrated, the dog safely on firm ground, the kids wide-eyed with anticipation of the weeks and adventures ahead full of pop and goodies from the mini-bar.

I'm sure the kids all have their own jiggly memory swiggles of this adventurous trip featuring a calm, beaming, generous mother with good hair, and sweet voice.  But they can tell their own version.