NAP Time

Back when I had four very small children and life could be a little overwhelming with the demands of motherhood, household repairs and needs, financial struggles, with few friends or family, I was someone's pet project, but didn't realize it until many, many years later.

I can't precisely remember how I got involved initially, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with being appointed as recording secretary for our neighbourhood association's monthly meetings.

We met in a church social room with fellow neighbours who were concerned about the transition of our depressed older neighbourhood (most homes, including ours, were built in the late 1800's and early 1900's), where some pristine homes were next door to dilapidated rental units with absentee landlords, or had vacant lots that became temporary illegal dump sites demanding immediate attention.  We'd lost some key businesses in the area -- most significantly, the cattle stockyards -- and the ripple effect was felt both economically and culturally.  The area was changing, but we felt that we were on the cusp of the renaissance of South Omaha, and looked forward being part of a positive change with our growing family.

Most of the members of the association were retired senior citizens who were long-time homeowners.  We were on the opposite end of the spectrum when we arrived a few years earlier. We were in our twenties, had two small boys and more on the way, and had just bought our first home that needed significant repairs and improvements -- none of which we knew how or could afford to undertake.  But we were a happy, if at times chaotic, home and we were on track with a good life plan.

I remember that one of the senior women in the association asked me to join her at one of her upcoming meetings across town for the National Association of Parliamentarians (NAP), so I could be the best possible recording secretary for the meetings.  I remembered using Robert's Rules of Order back in high school when Stephen and I were part of the Model United Nations Club, and later on committees in college, so I was at least familiar with how a meeting should run and how minutes should be recorded.   And so I accepted.  She drove us both in her Crown Victoria to the country-club reception room where the NAP meeting was filled with about 25 older men and women all dressed in business attire.  They were attending to a speaker who was addressing the ways to make an amendment to a motion after it had been moved and seconded, according to Robert's Rules of Order Newly Revised. 

Then the entire group was quickly rearranged, and got engaged in a spirited mock meeting led by an authoritative ruddy-faced chairwoman wearing a polyester pant suit and fake pearls who enthusiastically employed flip charts, an extendable pointer, fat magic markers writing in black and crossing out in red, and a large, solid, mahogany gavel.  She guided select members who had been given a small scrap of paper telling them what to call out when prompted.  Some were purposeful distractions which were immediately called to order, others were additions and amendments to the original motion which required a precise orchestration of protocol to be addressed, and some were points of personal privilege, calling for a vote, or a variety of parliamentary procedures to bring a mock resolution to final approval or rejection.  Each action provided a lesson within a lesson on how to properly run a meeting and get stuff DONE, impartially and without prejudice.

They had me immediately with "The chairman has not recognized you to speak, sir, sit down!" I think it was the NAP's version of "You can't handle the truth!" I  was completely and utterly enamoured with the entire process.  There were rules, and people had to follow them.  No room for confusion, self-doubt, no letting a blow-hard take over a meeting, or someone bully a topic or disrupt the agenda.  Oh Robert, you and I were about to become very good friends.

So with elderly Mrs. Anderson, I'd attended a few meetings, earnest with enthusiasm and interest.  At one meeting the group ceremoniously presented me with an expensive (for me) fat edition of Robert's Rules of Order Newly Revised, sending me home with a few minor homework assignments.

But one time I had to cancel.  There was a scheduling conflict with the neighbourhood gal who was babysitting for me, and I wasn't able to get away for the next meetings and lessons.  But this group made sure to hire another responsible mother, and even paid for her services to ensure that I'd be able to attend in the future.  They arranged it all for me.  So I continued to go.

The lesson meetings were wonderful, efficient, tidy.  Everything that was accomplished was done  methodically, without frustration, and with reason.  And before I knew it, after a few months I was standing in front of 13 members of the group leading my own mock meeting and hearing murmurs of "she'd have no problem with the testing", "waive fees" "extra tutorials".

The next thing I knew, I was given study guides, a NAP membership card, and a 3-ring binder of booklets to take home with a plastic laminated quick-reference guide for handling motions and amendments.  Even the materials were efficient, and I carried them with pride to another NAP member's house in the affluent neighborhood of Dundee, where we sipped iced tea in her opulent sun porch while she circled my notes with her gold-plated Cross™ pen.  It finally dawned on me that I was being groomed for the Parliamentary Law exams to become a Professional Registered Parliamentarian.  They want me to actually accomplish something more;  I would have credentials!

But then life suddenly got very hectic in those early years.  The youngest of our four, Olivia, became seriously ill and required our undivided attention; we eventually had to move to another city; I had to stop going to the meetings and lessons, resign from the neighbourhood association, and we uprooted from our life in Omaha for a little while.  My group of mentors was very understanding.  

It wasn't until just recently, that it occurred to me that these mature, senior women (and men) probably saw me as a good candidate to 'become something' under their guidance, and support. There I was, a young woman with a gaggle of small children in a run-down area of town in a 'fixer-upper' home, with no extended family or other support system.  Someone who they probably saw going nowhere fast.  I now suspect they were collectively trying to give me a foot up with opportunity -- arranging and paying for child care, buying membership dues, purchasing educational materials, driving me to meetings and lessons, and giving tutorial support to make sure I was following up with the studies, leaving no room for failure because of excuses.  I'm glad I was naive at the time, but looking back now with this realization, I am pleased to think about the kindness they extended to me, and glad I accepted and embraced it.   I really, thoroughly enjoyed it all, and still employ what I learned to this day. 

I secretly look forward to the time when I can bang a gavel with authority and confidence during a meeting and call out, "The Chair does not recognized you, SIT DOWN!"

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.

The weakest Links

In Omaha, we lived in the neighborhood called Spring Lake and our house was across the street from Spring Lake Park which was home to one of eight municipal golf courses throughout the city. Not being golfers, and knowing very little about the game, we didn't take advantage of the 9-hole course until one spring day when we found a complete set of men's golf clubs complete with a bag at a garage sale for ten dollars.  Neither of us had ever swung a club before, but this was a bargain!  Sold!

When we got it home, we opened all the pockets, pouches, zippers and compartments and emptied its contents to find it to be a complete outfit with woods, irons, tees, a variety of balls, a putter, and a new green fly swatter.

Stephen took out the flyswatter and set it aside.

"Oh, wait."  I stopped him.  "The flyswatter is for the 9th hole interlude when you're playing an 18 hole course." I said dismissively while quickly making up a story on the spot.

He paused and looked at me.  "HUH?"

I explained that I'd seen my dad play a dozen times with Norton Company guys, and the fellows always have flyswatters in their bags for the 9th hole--the half way point in the game.  They take out the flyswatters and swat each other on the fanny while they take a beer or scotch break. "It's some silly ritual that goes way back to Scotland-- like paddling at rush week in fraternities."  Stephen put the flyswatter back in the golf bag, obviously and rightfully skeptical.

Over the next several months we'd visited the Spring Lake course several times with Stephen's set of clubs.   The green fee was only three dollars if you didn't rent an electric golf cart, so it was an inexpensive pastime for us, close to home, and such a pleasant way to spend an afternoon or early evening outside.  Eventually, we purchased a used ladies set in iridescent aqua green at a different garage sale for me, and I found a pair of fabulous ladies white patent-leather golf saddle shoes with one saddle in red and the other in blue.  They cost a dollar at the thrift store and I loved them.  They were fun, shiny, vivacious, my size, and, most importantly, my price. When I wore them on the green I felt like I was wearing Dorothy's ruby slippers.  Finally, we were both completely outfitted, and we started to enjoy playing regularly with the challenge of a 33 par game at Spring Lake and improving our game!

Stephen's boss, Ken,  heard that he was learning and playing the sport and invited him out to his club in West Omaha to spend a Saturday on his 18 hole private course.  Stephen accepted, and I reminded him about the fly-swatter--and stressed that you didn't want to be the LAST one to take out your swatter at the 9th hole, since then YOU would be the one everyone else got to swat!  Stephen was still skeptical, but left it in his bag.

Before the weekend tee time arrived, I called Ken at work and explained what I had told Stephen about my flyswatter gag, and asked Ken to play along at the 9th hole, asking Ken to be the first to whip out a flyswatter and start 'a-swatting'!  Surely, if Stephen saw his BOSS doing this silly ritual, my story would be validated, and Stephen would become part of the knowing few.

I wish the outcome had become fodder for a very amusing story of hilarity to be shared for years to come over beers at the club-room bar. Unfortunately, like other tests of character among people who have encountered us, Ken failed this one, and revealed to Stephen that it was just a gag long before their golf game even started.

Later, that summer, we'd been invited to visit my sister's family in Tennessee.  Unlike us, their entire clan is sports oriented, gifted, and superior in skill, but for once we now shared a common interest with our newly developing golf talents.  We'd been improving on the links, and we had all our own equipment so we brought them along for this visit.  Finally, a common bond between the husbands, and an opportunity for 'girl-time' out on the course.

My sister and her husband were members of The Country Club, complete with privileges to the outdoor swimming pool, club room, restaurant, and 18 hole golf course.  During our visit, we'd planned an afternoon of golf for the ladies and sitting poolside with beer for the fellows while all our kids splashed and played.

Judy got a golf cart (more luxury!) and we approached the first tee.  Judy wore a light-weight sporty golf short-set with the appropriate golf-themed logo on the shirt and coordinating soft-leather, sneaker-like, golf shoes.  Since the average July temperature in central Tennessee is 90 degrees with stultifying humidity, it was an appropriate wardrobe both for the weather and the country-club environment.  Suddenly, my flashy patent-leather, pointy-toed, golf shoes turned from magical empowering ruby slippers to two remnants from a vaudeville wardrobe chest, and my feet became heavy and clown-like causing me to self-consciously trip on the cleats at the first green creating a short rent in the turf.  Judy scolded me reminding me that they were the members there.  My madras thrift-store golfing "skort" suddenly changed from how I'd thought of it -- light-weight summer sportswear -- to a scratchy woolen kilt, fit for winter in the Scottish Highlands, sitting heavy on my hips in all its patches and gaudiness.  I looked at Judy then looked down at myself seeing what she saw, and it was just then that I realized that I was probably an embarrassment for her. 

Well, I'll show her.  I set up my ball, chose an arbitrary club from my faded plaid golf bag with its cracked leather straps and sent that first ball soaring down the par 4 green and sunk the ball in three.  She was impressed, and said as much out loud!  I was going to be okay, after all.

But my game steadily declined from there.  I was self-conscious, Judy was impatient. I was hot and sweaty, while Judy became more and more terse as my strokes increased, my balls went wayward, and other club members closed in on our slowing progress.  Having only played 9 holes before, by the time we were at the 18th hole I was exhausted, dehydrated, and humiliated.  Soon after the 11th hole, Judy played the remainder of the game in awkward silence and stopped keeping score.  When we finally finished what felt like torture right down to the last stroke at the 18th hole, she returned the cart, folded the score card into a very small square and pocketed it, and we joined the gang poolside.  Stephen stood to greet us, and saw my hot, sweaty, dejected face and Judy's obvious disappointment.  We didn't even get to shower.

I guess to some degree we all fail tests of character at some point in our lives. That was the last game of golf I've ever played.

The Jugular Vein

In 1985 we'd been living in our house in Omaha for a couple of years. We had the typical complaints that anyone else would have with an older home needing constant repairs, little money, two small children, and all of our extended family living over a thousand miles away. But we were merrily getting along, and welcomed distractions of every kind. Especially company!

Stephen's younger brother, Tim, flew out on a one-way ticket to visit us. We had a spare room to put him in and looked forward to having an extra man around the house to help with repairs or entertain the boys so we could dig in to some bigger projects. We showed him the highlights of Omaha, shared meals,  played games and tried to be fun hosts.

After a week-long visit closed in on two and threatened toward three, we asked Tim what his plans for a return flight were. He confessed he had none. Since his limited handy-man skills contributed little to our concerns, and I began to feel the burden of another person to keep happy in the home, I suggested it was time for him to return home.

Stephen was in the Air Force at the time and it was nearing the U.S. Thanksgiving holiday weekend, so we decided that we'd drive Tim back to Massachusetts in our car and have a quick visit on a long holiday weekend with our families. So we loaded up the car with the two boys in their car seats with Tim in-between. We were facing approximately 24 hours covering nearly 1,500 miles in our compact Ford Escort together.

By the time we'd traveled over 400 miles non-stop, we were in Illinois. We had been in the car about 6 hours since we'd left in the early evening after Stephen had already put in a full day of work. He was tired, tired of driving, and we all needed a break.

Traveling from Omaha to Massachusetts is pretty much a straight shot. Our house was less than a minute from interstate 80, but driving along from Nebraska through Iowa, and much of Illinois at night is monotonous, at best, with little to look. Mile after dark mile took its toll, and Stephen was forced to exit and we found ourselves in a remote intersection where there was a boarded up service station.

And just like where all good horror stories begin, we wearily got out of the car to stretch and get some bracing cold middle-of-the-night late-November air. Since the boys were asleep, we stayed close to the car and just stretched and walked around taking deep breaths, and swinging our arms out windmill style to get the circulation going and our minds alert.

Tim bounded off into the dark.

After a good 5 minutes, I offered to drive again, but feeling rejuvenated, Stephen declined my offer and we assumed our travel positions and Stephen started the car. He suggested we'd need gas soon, and we'd swap then. A quick check on the boys in the back seat, still sleeping, we tooted the horn to alert Tim that it was time to go. And we waited.

And waited

And waited.

Stephen revved the engine, and tooted the horn again.

Then we saw it. There in the beam of the headlights was Tim running full speed back to the car with the white hot look of sheer terror on his face. We knew immediately there was trouble; big trouble. Tim reached the car, never slowing, and stopped dead at my closed and locked passenger door.

He grabbed at the door handle and frantically lifted it up and down with his face close against the window pleading for us to let him into the car. We both screamed back at him, "Get in! What's going on? What happened?"

But he insisted with fierce intensity that he get into the front seat. "Open the door, NOW! Let me in, let me in." continually snapping the handle up and down. Our panic immediately escalated. I was certain someone else was going to emerge from the dark bearing a weapon at any moment so I screamed back, "Just get in the BACK!"

Tim would not relent, and looked at me dead on, pounded on the window and said, "Open the FUCKING door." Clearly this ordinarily mild-manner young man was absolutely terrified, and I saw it and shared it. As I pulled on the lock latch he pulled on the outside door latch at the same time and the door just jammed up. Now it wouldn't open. Meanwhile, Stephen is banging on the steering wheel and demanding to know what was going on.

Defeated, Tim leaped to the back passenger door, swung it open and lunged into the car. Stephen stepped on the gas and we slowly rolled forward "Tim, What or who is out there? What happened?" but he still wouldn't tell anything, but instead pried himself forward between the two front seats, and flipped down my sun visor.

WHAT? I could NOT understand in the sped-up frantic scene how in the world this made any sense and told Stephen, "GO! JUST DRIVE! GET US OUT OF HERE, NOW!"

Not finding what he wanted Tim said, "OH SHIT!" and slammed the sun visor back up into position and grabbed the rear view mirror sharply adjusting its angle and contorting his neck to see his reflection while he was still nearly prone between the two seats.

Tim's door remained open, but Stephen drove to the edge of the parking lot to the driveway entrance under the street light and stopped and turned to us.

We just sat there and watched as Tim inspected his face, head, neck and hairlines. Had he been attacked? Had he taken a bad hit of acid in the dark? We had no idea, and were truly frightened. Apparently satisfied with what he saw in his reflection, Tim relaxed. He collapsed into the back seat, again, between the two sleeping boys in their car seats.

"It's okay." he said.

"What the Hell was that?" Stephen and I said nearly in unison. Tim closed his door and said, "It's okay, you can go." And just sat there. "No, no, no" Stephen said, "You scared the shit out of us, what happened out there?"

Tim calmly explained that when he'd bounded out into the darkness, he'd gone out behind the dark boarded up building to relieve himself, but got caught up in some tall grasses and in his attempts to become untangled had felt a cut from a wayward piece of barbed wire on his neck.

We immediately looked at Tim's neck and there was a small scratch with a slightly raised welt surrounding it.

Tim genuinely thought he'd sliced open his jugular vein and was going to bleed out right there in the cold at this abandoned service station while Stephen and I sat in the car, unaware, in the parking lot. Hence his terror and panic to return to the car, get to a mirror (my sun visor had none), and see the gaping wound and aortic spurts of blood. But it wasn't; it was just a scratch that raised a welt. In 1/2 an hour, there'd be nothing to see.

Completely consumed with relief that we weren't all about to be bludgeoned, and our children taken in some horrific bloody mass murder, Stephen and I laughed. We laughed loud, and hard. We caught our breath, looked again at Tim's wound, and laughed louder and harder.

Tim was not amused; in fact, he became furious.

We apologized, and explained our point of view of the entire event. If only he'd just stopped and said something! Unforgiving, he turned his back to us, gazed out the rear window and we continued on our way. Tim sat that way for nearly the remainder of the trip. Since he had no driver's license, he contributed nothing to help with the long drive ahead, and now, he refused to even speak to us. The miss-spent adrenalin would keep us alert for several hundred more miles, and it only took a glance in the rear-view mirror at Tim's dejected reversed position to keep us entertained.

Eventually, the road took all we had, and by the time we'd reached Pennsylvania, we were too tired to be safe drivers, so we decided to take a hotel room for several hours to nap. Still angry with us, Tim waited silently while we booked the room, unloaded the boys, and settled ourselves in. He finally joined us in the room where he promptly put himself to bed.

The next day we arrived in Massachusetts. When we delivered Tim, we were invited to Stephen's mother's house for Thanksgiving dinner where she and Tim lived. They shared the home with other women who stayed in for the meal and Stephen's sisters and their families joined the crowd. It was a full house.

After the meal was cleared and people settled in for the evening, someone asked Tim how the trip was. Stephen and I looked at each other, curious how Tim would recount the Jugular Vein incident off highway 80, but he said nothing! So Stephen and I offered our version. We described the frigid November winds whipping across the plains, the endless ribbon of highway, the lighthearted car games, all leading up to that fateful decision to stop in the middle of the night at the foreboding desolate abandoned gas station, what dangers lurking in the surrounding grasses of the Midwestern plains soon to be revealed.

Everyone was riveted. Stephen described the scene as if he were making a pitch for a Hitchcock movie. He let their fearful anticipation grow, and BAM! drives it home with a gripping and accurate portrayal of Timothy racing out of the dark, and with fevered pitch, we both replay the fresh scene with all its intensity for the gap-jawed crowd around the living room. Tim sat silently.

At the denouement, we described Tim's wee scratch, slight welt, and our overwhelming relief of raucous laughter with raucous laughter fully expecting everyone else in the room to join in.

Cricket.

Cricket.

Cricket.

No one laughed. In fact, the room was silent. Tim sat rigidly. His sister put her hand on his knee and quietly said, "That must have been really frightening, I'm very sorry that happened." And everyone turned to look at us as we were still breathing heavily and wiping our tears from laughing and giving such a fabulous performance of the previous night's events, still raw and fresh. Wait? What? Are they frowning? Is that displeasure? One of the women in the house stood and said, "I really don't see how that's funny at all." and the room slowly and silently emptied until Stephen and I were left sitting alone.

This happened in 1985. We didn't get invited back for Thanksgiving again by anyone until 2001.

The Cheese Stands Alone

As the Winter Solstice approaches, I sorely miss the company of friends.

While we lived in Omaha, our house was in a constant state of controlled chaos with major repairs and do-it-yourself projects, children, toys, pets and company. For most families, the holidays would create even more havoc, but for us it didn't seem to. Both Stephen's family and my family all lived back East in Massachusetts or other far away places in the country so we rarely saw extended family at holiday time. Our situation in Omaha with our growing young children allowed us to continue some combined family traditions and create new ones of our own.

As winter solstice arrived, we made candles in the traditional pioneer dip-the-wick method. We used these candles on December 21 as the shortest day of the year grew increasingly dark and we rejected the use of any artificial light--which included opening the refrigerator door! It was interesting as we all noticed that as the day progressed and sunlight grew dim, we all gathered closer and closer together into one room. By the time Stephen arrived home from work, the house would be completely dark and we'd find ourselves around the dining room table, reading, snacking (no cooking was done on Solstice), or sharing some simple family activity by candlelight. Most times, Stephen would share stories of his days as a young refugee from Cyprus which captivated the kids' interest.

When we moved to New Jersey, we continued this tradition, but expanded it to include the new friends we'd made through Andrew's participation as a drummer in a Bag Pipe band. We enjoyed this new circle of friends so much that we started a Summer Solstice celebration that we could have outdoors and include more people. We'd invited over 25 people, and I prepared several Greek recipes from Stephen's family to lay on the buffet tables set up on a large deck off the kitchen.

Since Summer Solstice is the longest day of the year, the party lasts much longer than Winter Solstice, so by the time sun had set it had been a long evening of eating, laughing, and visiting. But the highlight of the party was to be the traditional Cypriot cheese dish called Saganaki. A generous portion of Haloumi cheese--imported from Cyprus--cooked in a shallow dish, doused with Brandy, ignited, and quickly extinguished by squeezing a lemon over the flame. It's very dramatic, everyone yells "OPA!" when the flame ignites, and we enjoy the savory warm melted cheese with home-made pita breads.

Throughout the evening, I had been describing this event to heighten everyone's anticipation for it. Few had seen it before, and were keen to experience it. When the moment arrived, I went to the kitchen and prepared the special pan and heated the specially prepared (expensive) wedge of cheese. I pre-measured the precise amount of (expensive) brandy. The children gathered around as everyone expectantly waited on the deck outside. I gave the ceremonial lemon to one of the kids and asked that it be delivered to a new acquaintance who was expecting her fourth child any moment and seemed to sit quietly by herself most of the evening. I wasn't confident that she was enjoying herself. I asked that the lemon be cut in half.

As the kids and I paraded the blistering hot pan out to the deck in front of all of our guests, I poured the brandy over it and with great flourishing gestures, Stephen struck the match to ignite it.

Nothing.
No flame.
No "OPA!" Silence.
Stephen struck another match.
Nothing.

We dashed back to the kitchen and splashed more brandy over the cheese, quickly came back and Stephen repeated his performance.

KA-BOOM!

The cheese and pan were immediately and completely engulfed in flames and everyone shrieked! I gestured and shouted to the woman with the pre-cut lemon to quickly pass it over, but the had kids neglected to ask her to cut it in half. It was still whole.

Now realizing what was necessary, she asked for a knife, but the only one immediately available was a plastic picnic knife so with that she proceeded to saw away at the lemon rind, while I barked "Hurry-up!" at her. "I'm trying." she timidly replied though frantically attacked it . The knife promptly broke and only cut a small incision in the lemon.

By now the cheese was bubbling and the pan was nearly too hot for my oven-mitted hand, so I snatched the lemon from her, and tried to squeeze what juice I could from the small cut over the towering flame while everyone watched in horror.

The pan was too hot, the flames were too high; I shoved the lemon back at her and screeched at her to "CUT IT IN HALF!" as Stephen presented his Swiss Army Knife from his pocket. He struggled to find the correct blade in the same panic-stricken manner of a victim who is being chased down in a parking garage and finally gets to their car, but has to find the correct key on the crowded key ring before the killer catches up. While we all watched in slow motion frenzied anticipation for her to reveal two lemon halves, I held the inferno at arm's length not noticing as the flaming molten cheese slid out of the pan over the deck railing and onto the grass down below. Everyone promptly ran to that side of the deck and watched as the cheese undulated and its flames slowly died while singeing the surrounding grass.

They applauded.

A bargain can cost a high price.

While living in Omaha, Nebraska, we were raising four small children, so we frequented neighbourhood garage sales and thrift stores to help cut costs on clothes and toys. My favourite was a highly organized department thrift store on 24th street in South Omaha, where I would usually visit once a week and seek out the youth clothing section (25 cents for kids' trousers!), the kitchen section, (20 years later, I'm still using the same 10 cent potato peeler), and scout for other bargains. Between the thrift store and garage sales, we rarely purchased new clothing or toys that were quickly outgrown.

One Saturday at a garage sale a Mary Kay cosmetics rep was selling off all of her discontinued color samples which consisted of hundreds of individual one-time use eye makeup shades in various colors, aspirin sized blister bump packages of one-time use lipsticks, dozens of mascara brush wands, and blush colors ranging from bright pink to dark brown for every complexion and skin color. It cost $2.00. What little girls ages 4 and 6 wouldn't LOVE to play with an endless supply of makeup without fear of mother's scolding for using her treasured expensive beauty products? I snatched it up for Kathryn and Olivia.

After a particularly long afternoon, I stretched out on the couch and invited the kids to amuse themselves for awhile, suggesting I just needed to lay my head down for a little bit. Four children amusing themselves didn't offer a quiet, peaceful setting for a light cat-nap, so I told the girls to get their newly acquired 'make-up kit' and give me a makeover, while I just laid quietly under their gentle brush strokes. They got to work, I got some peace and quiet, and before I knew it I was fast asleep.

Satisfied with the results, the girls left me snoozing on the couch and found something else to do, and much later I was awoken hard by the door bell. Startled, I jumped up and went to the door where I met an acquaintance delivering some papers for an up-coming neighborhood association meeting. She abruptly handed them over, paused for several moments meeting my eyes, and off she went. I was taken aback by her brusque attitude, and watched her quickly leave.

It wasn't until I'd shut the door, and walked down the hallway back into the house passing a mirror when I saw the Mary Kay vision I'd become. My entire eyelid area was deep purple, with enough mascara on my lashes to put Tammy Faye Baker to shame. Flaming red-blushed cheeks of two different shades--one for each side- were even sporting a black beauty mark for effect. Since I'd just woken up, my hair was tousled and the lip-stick quite smudged.

I know why she hurried off, but to this day, I wonder what she thought, and even more, what she told.