tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74052900778891616582024-03-05T15:28:13.159-08:00Writing Your MemoriesEveryone would love to find a journal or diary of their ancestors. Some of you have, but…..Where’s yours?
Many people neglect recording their own history and that of their immediate family. Many do not have the time to start or know where to begin.
We know history is written by the victor, but it is the history…the story…of the common person that is most important. There are many untold stories that need preservation. It is important that these memories continue to live.Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-26227272069364522182021-04-10T13:54:00.000-07:002021-04-10T13:54:38.362-07:00Southern California Genealogy Society's 2021 Virtual Jamboree<p> Registration is open, and there are two tracks and multiple ways to choose the lectures you desire. AND, what is great about it...you can view the lectures more than once for several months. Each track as well-known speakers, including Internationally known speakers and some from other countries.</p><p>See: <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="http://GenealogyJamboree.com">GenealogyJamboree.com</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsaGJChzQ_zfMjuGwvfVh8wb-LFDPKzvowx9b0tXBokAjhTtfodkrroSnR3XaTabK7Kw9gCMTkbtPc1wasBJSXNAlRGf0_XXYfjzzawuoGxDOWlyUnm52IkxOqwOCOeYQ7V_BG_AF8RTp/s647/The+Genes+in+Your+Family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsaGJChzQ_zfMjuGwvfVh8wb-LFDPKzvowx9b0tXBokAjhTtfodkrroSnR3XaTabK7Kw9gCMTkbtPc1wasBJSXNAlRGf0_XXYfjzzawuoGxDOWlyUnm52IkxOqwOCOeYQ7V_BG_AF8RTp/w154-h200/The+Genes+in+Your+Family.jpg" width="154" /></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b style="font-weight: bold;">The Genetic Genealogy </b><b>track </b>is June 4 and 5 </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">(Friday and Saturday. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The STANDARD Registration includes 6 liver lectures and 10 recorded lectures of your choice. The PLUS Registration gives you access to all 20 recorded lectures! These lectures can be viewed through October 3, 2021!</span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Join me for my presentation on Autosomal DNA: Finding Common Ancestors with or without a Chromosome Browser.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><span> </span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq17QT0k4_lkCPBVmZUWuUVqNsUVn1EP8F6WBv6ELbKRoPFp89_r8jmGsnsh07lOZ5-cd72S_i9aF97EbeXzkqOaOlHkLembTacbLD4I6hJFzdAW6VuugUThV85TloIOetvx8ayH1xuwoP/s647/The+Stars+in+Your+Family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq17QT0k4_lkCPBVmZUWuUVqNsUVn1EP8F6WBv6ELbKRoPFp89_r8jmGsnsh07lOZ5-cd72S_i9aF97EbeXzkqOaOlHkLembTacbLD4I6hJFzdAW6VuugUThV85TloIOetvx8ayH1xuwoP/w154-h200/The+Stars+in+Your+Family.jpg" width="154" /></a></b></div><b><br />The Genealogy track</b> is June 11 and 12 (Friday and Saturday). There are 51 speakers from the US, Canada, Ireland, Israel, and the UK. The STANDARD Registration includes 6 live lectures and 20 recorded lectures of your choice. The PLUS Registration gives you access to all presentations.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p><br />And, then...there are other Special Events which will occur between the above two tracks (Monday -Thursday, June 7-10). Check back at the website for more. However, these are listed:</p><p>Show Specials, Prize Drawings, Exhibitors, Product Q & A, Round Tables and Social Hours. </p><p>Join the fun!</p><p>See you there,</p><p>Emily </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-49276171874515955882019-05-13T19:06:00.001-07:002019-05-13T19:06:22.433-07:00Former Writing Class Member Publishes Memoir<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am very proud to announce that Mary Pacios has completed her memoir entitled <i><b>Memoir of an Unintentional Feminist</b></i>. She first attended my writing class in Portland (Oregon) for seniors to write their childhood memories and family stories years ago, feeling it would help with her writer's block. Since then we have become good friends.<br />
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May 5th, she had her book signing! Family and friends gathered in Portland to view some of her art and have her read from her book. Several of her photos are included in her book as well as family pictures from earlier years.<br />
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I was pleased to meet her editor Margaret, and her nephew, John. A few pieces of her art appear above us.<br />
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Mary's book covers several decades beginning just after World War II, highlighting the the difficulties of a young woman who had to leave school due to pregnancy to marry her childhood sweetheart. A few years later with three children, she divorces and puts herself through college, majoring in art. Her life and travels from Massachusetts to California to Oregon reflect the times of many women.<br />
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She was an anti-war activist during the Vietnam War; a spokesperson for the first San Diego, California anti-war teach-in; and a co-founder of Ecology Action, environmental organization.<br />
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<b>To quote from her book:</b><br />
"Mary struggles to find a balance between environmentalism and her art. Unjust treatment by 'true crime' writers and the sensational media coverage of her childhood friend's death drive Mary to examine her own past and search for the truth surrounding her friend's murder."<br />
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Mary is also the author of <b><i>Childhood Shadows: The Hidden Story of the Black Dahlia Murder</i></b>.<br />
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I do recommend that you read both!<br />
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Enjoy!<br />
Emily</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-68982348772661034492018-02-26T12:23:00.002-08:002018-02-26T12:23:22.347-08:00SCGS Jamboree has a writing conference<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">In its 49th season, the Southern California
Genealogy Society is having another wonderful conference for genealogy and
genetic genealogy held at the Los Angeles Marriott Burbank Airport Hotel, 2500
Hollywood Way, Burbank. Early Bird Deadline registration is April 14th
and Advance Registration ends May 12th , so save your place now! This is
one of the best conferences you will attend, and there are classes for all
experience levels and even for people who are not genealogists. All days
run from 8:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The Exhibit Hall opens Thursday, and admission
to it is free all three Days! Find a wide variety of vendors, along with
their sales. (Sometimes I hang out at the <a href="http://www.familytreedna.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #771100;">Family Tree DNA</span></b></a> booth, so drop by.)<br />
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This year has over 140 classes with over 85 speakers as well as one-on-one
research help. Three categories will help you in a variety of fields for
your family history. There are three conferences in one!<br />
<br />
<b>The 6th Annual Genetic Genealogy Conference, May 31, 2008 </b>(and
squeaks into June 1st) entitled Link Through DNA is, of course, my favorite. In
these classes you can learn not only the basics of DNA testing, but more
advanced techniques from some of the industry's leading speakers. There
are hands-on DNA Workshops as well.<br />
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<b>The Family History Writers Conference, May 31</b> entitled Love Your
Family Legends includes presentations on writing, publishing and preserving
your genealogy along with reaching into the next generation to assure your work
will continue. The speakers will also cover the tools you need to finish
your work.<br />
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<b>The 49th Annual Genealogy Jamboree, June 1-2</b>, will help you Unlock Your
Lineage with some renown speakers in the field. Learn the basics along
with many tips and tricks, and explore how to break through those brick walls.<br />
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See the <a href="http://www.genealogyjamboree.com/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #771100;">Jamboree website</span></b></a> for the full
schedule. A mobile app is available. There are discounts for SCGS
Members and for multi-event registration.<br />
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<b>HINT: </b> Notice anyone familiar on the advertisement
above? Yes, I am speaking and would love to have you attend my classes so
I can meet you!<br />
<br />
<b>My topics:</b><br />
<b>Finding Answers through Your Autosomal DNA Test</b> (Thurs, May 31st,
8:30-9:30)<br />
<b>Comparing Testing Companies and Understanding DNA Tests</b> (Workshop,
Friday, June 1st 8:30 to 12:00)<br />
I will be on the <b>Ask the Experts about DNA and Genealogy</b> panel
(Friday, June 1, 5:00 to 6:00 pm)<br />
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I do hope to see you there!<br />
Emily<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-86906410622409734232017-07-16T09:02:00.000-07:002017-07-16T09:02:37.593-07:00My Wednesday Family <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Valerie decided to write an introduction to her many stories for the
memoir class, and the following is the result. Although it is very nice her to
include me in her introduction with such kind words, I deny it all! LOL<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">INTRODUCTION<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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MEMOIR WRITING CLASS</h1>
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MY WEDNESDAY
FAMILY<o:p></o:p></h1>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">PORTLAND, OREGON<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This memoir is dedicated to our
beloved teacher Emily Aulicino and to all my memoir mates: past, present and
future.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In July of 2012, I apprehensively
walked into a room at the Woodstock Community Center for my first memoir
writing class. I had no idea what to expect or what kind of people I would
encounter. The only thing of which I was certain is that it was a class for
seniors 55 plus-old people just like me. I have always liked to write, but that
was not my primary motivation for seeking out this venue. I was just beginning
the process of integrating back into a more active life style after a ten-month
forced hiatus spent recovering from a severely fractured femur in my right
arm. Due to my prolonged inactivity and isolation
from the real word, I had about lost my mind. At this point, I was simply
looking for something to do. The original plan was to take an eight-week
session and then move on to greener pastures. That obviously did not happen. Five
years later, I find myself sitting in the same seat in the same room, with some
of the same people I met that very first day. I call this group my Wednesday
Family, and what a blessing they have all been! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Throughout the years, I have had the
honor of sharing my Wednesday afternoons with an extraordinary group of amazing
people that not only have enriched my life, but also helped me evolve into a
better version of myself. The compassion, empathy, and acceptance of this group
have allowed me to safely navigate the murky waters of the past and re-emerge
into the sunshine of the present day. Their unbiased viewpoints and loving
support have given me the courage to develop a clearer more realistic positive
perspective of past events. My memoir mates’ life experiences and wisdom have
empowered me move forward, and I now think beyond the regrets and “what ifs”
that plagued my life for so many years. I will always be grateful for their
contributions big and small and for touching my life and heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our teacher, mentor, and dear friend
Emily is the glue that holds our group together. She is our foundation, our
cheerleader, our parent when we get rowdy and need to be refocused on the task,
our preposition police, and so much more. For years, she has unselfishly
dedicated her time to introducing countless people to the art of memoir writing
so that their memories can be preserved and passed on to future generations.
What a priceless and precious gift! Emily’s insight, knowledge, life
experience, her passion for the process, and guidance inspire us all as writers
and people. She is the master gardener of memoir writing class. We could not do
it without her. We love and appreciate you Emily and thank you for all you do
and for caring enough to keep the group going! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the other great benefits of
memoir class is the lunches. The morning class meets from 10-12 p.m. and the
afternoon group from 1-3 p.m. From 12-1 p.m., both classes congregate at a
local establishment to share an afternoon meal. It is great fun, and there are
many lively and interesting conversations going on all at the same time,
punctuated with constant bursts of laughter. The morning crew is just as
diverse and remarkable as the afternoon gang, and it is a joy to be able to
spend time with them. Because of these lunches, both groups have morphed into
one big extended family. We have all become so much more than just a memoir
writing class! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">People come to memoir writing class
for many different reasons. Each person brings with them their own unique
voice, perspective, and agenda. The presentations range from chronological
histories to humorous anecdotes that have us laughing nonstop to tear jerking
tragedies that break our hearts and humble us as human beings. This class is
our safe haven where one can confess their deepest darkest secrets and face
their demons surrounded by love and support. You will always be embraced, never
judged, nor criticized. This group knows more about me than my own family does.
I trust them unconditionally. I can be vulnerable with them, and that is rare
for me. An indescribable bond forms between the participants that is
irrefutable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Many times, at the beginning of a new
session, Emily asks us all to introduce ourselves and give a brief synopsis of
our backgrounds. She also asks us to explain why we are taking the class and
what we hope to accomplish. I cannot remember what I said that very first day
five years ago, but I hope I did not embarrass myself by saying I was bored and
looking for something to do! It may have started out that way, but it has
become so much more. Five years later, I am finally able to answer that
question. Yes, I like to write, and it gives me the creative outlet I desire.
The process stimulates me intellectually, and at my age that is vital to my
mental well-being, but those are not the main reasons. I am able to say beyond
the shadow of a doubt that for me writing these memoirs is about uncovering and
rediscovering my own personal truth. It’s about the process of becoming
“unplugged” from certain past events. I am here to free myself so that I can
live out my remaining years with a new lease and outlook on life. I am here to
make peace and to forgive myself for my mistakes. I am here to re-create my past
so that I will be remembered and not be forgotten. I am here to unveil the real
me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I recently read an article by Dr.
Terrie W. called, “Where do you live? “Terrie is a career Naval emergency room
doctor, an accomplished author, an ultra-marathoner, and my best friend from
high school. She recently suffered a
series of major health setbacks almost dying three times. This set her on an
intense soul-searching mission as she pondered what was holding her back from
accepting and embracing her new normal in life after being forced to give up so many of the things she
loved to do. She wanted to give up and even contemplated suicide. She had never
been a quitter but felt hopeless and defeated. As a child, she had been raised
to believe that if things looked bleak then they were worse than you imagined
and to expect a bad outcome. Terrie fell
into this rabbit hole and could not find her way out. She wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“There are three places we live but you can ping pong between
them faster than a ping pong ball. There is the past, present and future. Most
people live mostly in the past or future completely by passing the present. “<span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She goes on to explain that we let
past negative experiences and lessons cloud our minds, our judgment, and our
decision-making abilities. For many of us, our past is like quicksand dragging
us under, repeatedly sabotaging our progress. As a result, for many, the
present gets lost. Terrie calls it being “stuck.” For Terrie, her near-death
experiences forced her to refocus on positive energy only and getting ‘’unstuck”
from the past. She ended her article with a great quote from Lazarus Lake that states,
“Each moment in life only happens once.” Terrie follows this with a weighty question,
challenging her readers, “You don’t want to miss that moment, do you?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After writing this article and
identifying the albatross around her neck, she started making great progress.
Reading her blog was my “aha moment”, and I finally understood the benefits of
memoir writing for me personally and for my family pedigree, present and
future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Memoir writing class helps me come to
terms with my own personal truth and enables me to relegate the negativity of
past to the past where it belongs. I put it on paper, read it to the class, and
it frees me to close the book on that chapter of my life. It is a release and
allows me to move forward. I have learned to live in the “here and now” and not
to be held hostage by my past mistakes and poor decisions. I forgive myself! My
memoirs are my gift to future generations. If one person is impacted, then I
will have made a difference. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why do I write? I want future generations to see me for my humor,
intelligence, creativeness, and zany multiple personalities. I want to share
with them my remarkable journey working with incarcerated youth. I want to send
the message that no one should ever judge a book by its cover. Open the book
and read it. You might be surprised. It just might be the best book you ever
read! I want people to know that I made many mistakes and some horrendous
decisions along the way, but eventually I learned my lessons, turned things
around, and am a better person because of it. Failure is a great teaching tool
and part of life. Without failure, there can be no success. I own my mistakes
and make no excuses. The most important message I want to impart is that life
isn’t always fair, but that each moment is a precious gift. Find the humor in
every situation and turn those lemons into lemonade!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My Wednesday family is a remarkable
assemblage of diversity at its best. I am blessed to be part of this amazing group.
I wish everyone could be lucky enough to have a Wednesday family like mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">July 11, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you, Valerie. No doubt you have inspired others to write their stories!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Best wishes,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Emily</span></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-66495088570652402022017-05-26T19:52:00.000-07:002017-05-26T19:52:26.650-07:00MOTHER’S DAY 2017 - A DAUGHTER’S REMORSE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<o:p></o:p></h1>
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PORTLAND, OREGON </h3>
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<o:p></o:p></h2>
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Wikipedia
defines Mother’s Day as “a celebration honoring the mother of the family, as
well as motherhood, maternal bonds and the influence of mothers’ in society.”
It is a day for juvenile and adult children to show their moms their
appreciation. This can take many forms: gifts, shared meals, cards, phone calls
or, nowadays, the ever so popular text message. For most, it is a time filled
with joy and happiness, but for many of us, it is bittersweet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Saturday,
May 13<sup>th</sup><o:p></o:p></div>
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<sup><br /></sup></div>
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On
Saturday morning, my Portland based daughter and family arrived on my doorstep
bearing gifts and to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day. My son-in-law had a large
flowering potted plant in tow, and it was exquisite. My granddaughters Sloane
5, and Sawyer 2, knew the way to grandma’s heart, and each had a container of cupcakes
from the Fat Bakery. I had barely finished saying thank you to the girls when
they bolted for my kitchen table each taking a seat. “Can we help you eat your
cupcakes <b>NOW</b> grandma?” There was an
urgent emphasis on the word now. “What a
great idea,” I replied to the delight of two grinning children. We all agreed
that they were delicious. The adults chatted for a bit while the now sugar-hyped
girls rearranged grandma’s house. I felt honored, loved, and appreciated. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sunday,
May 14<sup>th</sup>-Mother’s Day<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Although
this is typically a day of celebration, for those of us who have lost our moms,
it is a time to remember and revisit our relationship. It is a day filled with
memories and in some cases, harsh realities. It is a period of deep reflection
often resulting in opening the floodgates and releasing tidal waves of guilt, regret,
and raw emotion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I woke up
Sunday morning with mom on my mind and immediately went into my office in
search of my favorite picture of her. As I ate breakfast and sipped my tea, I
stared mesmerized by her image as tears cascaded down my cheeks. My heart ached
with longing and monumental regret. When I was younger, I didn’t comprehend the
depth of her love or appreciate how blessed I was to have her as my mother. My
journey through life and the wisdom and insight it has bestowed upon me has
provided me with clarity and insight. I
now know that my mom loved me unconditionally with every fiber of her being and
every breath she took, even the last one. I asked myself if Mom could say the
same thing about me as a daughter. I didn’t like the answer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My
relationship with mom was complicated, or so I thought. I now realize that it
was me that made it that way, not her. I loved her dearly, but I didn’t want to
be like her or end up the way she did. She was dependent on dad financially and
emotionally. Her life revolved around her husband and children. She never
wanted or needed more. She seemed content in her little cocoon. My parents
never traveled. As kids, we did take family summer vacations, but mainly to
neighboring states and nothing too exciting or out of the ordinary. They had no
sense of adventure. Mom never set foot on an airplane. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dad died
in 1985, and mom’s heart and spirit were forever broken. She became reclusive.
She had no real friends. She sat in the house day after day, year after year
only leaving to go to the grocery store or walk the dog. She existed. My
brother and sister lived nearby and frequently visited her. They were able to
coax her out of the house for holidays and family celebrations. She became
deeply depressed. The house began to show signs of neglect and over time fell
into a state of disrepair. She didn’t care. She had lost hope. The dog began to
potty in the house. Most of the time, she didn’t even notice. All offers to
help were vehemently rejected. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In August
of 1997, I flew from Wenatchee, Washington to Great Neck, New York for mom’s 80<sup>th</sup>
birthday. I had not seen her in 12 years due to my financial situation
resulting from my divorce. I was shaken at the site of my childhood home masked
by the overgrown jungle of weeds and grass. I was overwhelmed by the stench as
I stepped inside to what smelled like a public urinal. My gag reflex almost got
the best of me, and in the middle of all this, stood mom. She was skin and
bones; a mere shadow of her former self. She grabbed me and surprisingly hugged
me with the strength of a world-class weight lifter as she cried with joy. The
sparkle returned to mom’s eyes as her four children gathered in their childhood
home to celebrate her birthday. As I boarded the plane to return home, mom,
begged me to stay. I couldn’t. My job and my kids were back in Wenatchee. It
broke my heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few
short months later in April of 1998, I got a call that mom was in the hospital.
She had fallen in the house and had spent two-three days on the floor before my
sister had found her. Because of her physical condition and the unsanitary
state of her surroundings, the state intervened and declared her a neglected
senior thus making her a ward of the state. Our family was removed from the
equation, losing all say in medical matters and her well-being. It was a
devastating blow to all concerned. After she recovered enough, she was shipped
to a state run nursing home. After one day there, she asked my sister who was
visiting, if she would ever be able to return home. My sister replied no. My
mom hugged my sister, kissed her and said goodbye. She closed her eyes and
died; finally at peace for the first time since the day dad had left her. The
last years of her life should have been happy ones. They were not. Her children
had failed her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My biggest
regret in life is my failure as her daughter. Why had I turned a blind eye to
the situation? Why did I think that my dysfunctional life and struggles were so
much more important than she was? I had a million excuses over the years: I
lived on the opposite coast; my own life was a mess. For years after the divorce,
I struggled as a single mom to make ends meet thus resulting in my 12-year hiatus
from her life. I thought I was doing my part by faithfully calling her every
Sunday and talking for hours. How could I have been so arrogant, stupid, and
wrong; I now ask myself?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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At the
time Dad died, I was living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and I did invite mom to
live with me. The kids and I would have loved that. She wouldn’t even consider
it, and I just figured maybe it was too soon. In 1986, we were transferred to
Wenatchee, and I was a coast away from mom. On numerous occasions, I begged her
to come spend time with me and the kids. My brother and sister offered to bring
her. Again, she would not even consider it.
After I got divorced in 1992, mom made me a very generous offer. She
said that if the kids and I moved in with her we could live rent-free, and, in turn,
she would deed the house over to me. The house was worth over a million dollars
so it was enticing, but not practical. My kids were happy in Wenatchee, and my
counselor had advised me against any more trauma in their lives after the
divorce and being abandoned by their dad. My son was a junior in high school
and a varsity athlete. Uprooting him
would have been devastating. So, I stayed in Wenatchee for my kids’ sake and
left her alone and miserable. How could I have been so callous?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After my
mom’s death my aunt, her older sister, told me that that several times mom had
confided in her that she could count on her Valerie to rescue her from the
filth and squalor that had taken her prisoner. She told my aunt that Valerie
would never let her live in these conditions. It broke my heart because I did.
I beat myself up on a daily basis for my failure, as a daughter. It is the albatross
around my neck. It will follow me to my grave. I know the old cliché that says
“I did the best I could at the time,” but the truth is I didn’t do the best I
could! I could have, should have done better. I failed the one person in this
world who loved me more than life itself – just as I love my kids and
grand-kids. Mom, I am so very sorry. You were the best mom I could have ever asked
for, and I know that now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My
three-grownup children all have families of their own while juggling demanding
careers. I understand this “been there, done that”. It is the way it is these
days for most families. While this is their time to shine in life, it is also
important to take a step back and realize how precious life is and how suddenly
it can slip away. Don’t assume that the people in your life know how you feel
about them. Honor and appreciate them every day even if only in thought or with
a small gesture or kind word. Remember that people get old, but they still need
to be loved and not forgotten. Moms are one of life’s greatest gifts, and in my
opinion, they should be declared a national treasure. Nobody is ever going to
love you like your mom! Don’t take your mom for granted the way I did. Being
old isn’t easy, believe me I know and someday you will too! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
May 22, 2017<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-84675481483853089832017-04-25T13:18:00.000-07:002019-08-23T13:17:08.707-07:00The Visitor from the Beyond<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Another </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">wonderful
story from a member of my writing class. I realize not everyone is a
believer, but there are so many of these stories that I'm not sure how they can
be doubt. Even I have had some unexplained phenomena as well as my mother
and my son. Not everything has a clear explanation, but I do know that
we, as humans, do not have all the answers and keeping an open mind is always
the best. Enjoy this wonderful piece.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">HE VISITOR FROM THE BEYOND</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> 1985-1998</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Preface: </b>I Valerie S., (surname withheld), being of sound mind and body and never haven partaken in the recreational use of any mind-altering drugs past or present, do hereby delclare that the events you are about to hear are real.</span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania</b> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">— One of the most defining and
devastating moments of my life occurred on the morning of Feb. 18<sup>th</sup>,
1985. At 6:30 am the merciless ringing of the phone jolted me awake from my
heavy-eyed dreamland. The unsteady, sobbing voice on the other end was my mom
telling me that my father had passed away. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>True to himself, my dad died on his
own terms—at home, in his own bed, and next to his beloved, Alice, his wife of
48 years. He was 76 years old. That year a deadly pneumonia virus had brutally
swept through the country killing hundreds in its wake among them my dad. That
day the world as I knew it ceased to exist, and the once steadfast walls of my
foundation crumbled beneath me. It would take me years to sort through the
rubble and destruction and find the strength to move forward and make sense of
my life again. I soon learned that I would not be alone as I navigated the
murky waters on this tumultuous journey. Support and guidance would come in the
form of a familiar and prudent visitor from the beyond.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Great Neck, New York </b></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">— In June of 1985, I returned to my childhood
home for a visit. I barely recognized my mom. In the four months since Dad’s
death she had lost weight and had become frail and lifeless—her energy and
sprit depleted. She was an empty shell of her former self. The once animated,
feisty, red-headed-blue eyed Irish woman I called mom was gone.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> She reminded me of a small,
scared lost child. It was heartbreaking. The second night of my visit as my
three children peacefully slumbered in the next room, I crawled into the
security of my childhood bed and quietly cried myself to sleep. At one point in
the night, I gently stirred as I heard the familiar creaking of the bedroom
door as it opened. I assumed it was just mom checking up on me as she did when
I was a child so I rolled over to continue my fitful sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Then I heard the squeaking of the bed springs and realized that
someone was sitting on my bed. I presumed it was mom needing to talk so I rolled
over to an upright position. It was not mom, but Dad. It was my Dad. I
literally threw myself into his arms expecting air and a vanishing vision.
Instead, his arms encircled me and held me tightly. It was real. Dad was
actually there. He was solid and warm. I put my head on his chest and could
hear his heart beating. He was dressed in his favorite outlandish paisley-print
shirt—the one that mom despised. I checked his shoes, and as always, they were
buffed and polished to a high sheen. I could smell the scent of lingering stale
cigarette smoke on the fabric of his clothes. The aroma of recently consumed
coffee drifted from his breath. He lovingly stroked my hair while he repeated
his pet name for me, “My Wallerie (Valerie with a W), my Wallerie.”<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We talked for what seemed like hours. He said he had already
looked in on my children, and they were sleeping peacefully. He related that
mom was tossing and turning unsuccessfully trying to rest in their marital bed.
He asked me to watch over her and assured me that he would be around whenever I
needed him. I watched him leave the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I awoke the next morning with a happy heart, but in a state of
confusion. My Dad’s fragrance still permeated the room and was now on my
nightclothes. Had I been dreaming? My bed covers were askew, and on the spot
where Dad had rested, there was an imprint. It had been real after all. I kept
this encounter to myself not wanting to upset anyone and realizing how crazy it
would sound if repeated. Three months later, my husband’s work transferred us
to Wenatchee, Washington. I was forced to move to the opposite side of the
country from my mom just nine months after our loss of Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Wenatchee, Washington — </span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Since
relocating, things on the home front had gotten worse. My abusive husband’s
drunken rages had increased in frequency and escalated. Many nights, unable to
rest, I would wait until everyone was asleep and quietly slip from the house. I
aimlessly roamed the streets enjoying the solitude of night and the obscurity
provided by its cloak of darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One evening as I approached the elementary school, I caught sight
of a shadowy- silhouette propped against the chain link fence of the
schoolyard. It appeared to be a man smoking a cigarette. Unnerved by his
presence, I crossed to the other side of the road. Suddenly, a glow radiated
from his being, and I heard him say, “Wallerie, it’s Dad.” Stunned, I remained
frozen in place unable to move until a mysterious magnetic force compelled me
across the divide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Crying, I found myself submerged in Dad’s warm comforting embrace
and mesmerized by his soothing words of wisdom. We sat on the wet dew laden
grass and chatted until the sun began to rise in the sky. My heart was full and
happy as Dad sent me home in time to greet my awakening children.<span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My husband was already in the kitchen and eyed me suspiciously, as
I appeared. He interrogated me as to where I had been, why the seat of my pants
was so wet, and why I reeked of cigarette smoke. I just smiled and went up to
wake the kids for school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dad came to visit me regularly for many years. He always seemed to
sense when I needed him, and he never failed me. Sometimes I would see him in a
crowed mall, a store, a parking lot, or a park. Dad had the magical gift to
make time stand still. Everything and everyone would become frozen in time and
motionless around us. Dad would spend the lapse in time, dispensing his sage
advice and encouraging me to be a warrior and not a victim. He wanted me to
take a stand and believe in myself just as he always had. He urged me to be
hopeful and not hopeless. Then suddenly time would resume, and the movement
around me would coincide with dad’s covert departure. These are to this day
some of my most treasured moments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In 1998, my mother passed away, thirteen years after Dad’s death.
She was 80 years old. She may not have died of a broken heart, but she
definitely died with one. Finally, Alice was on her way to be reunited with the
love of her life. Shortly after mom’s funeral, dad paid me a visit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the years, thanks to his support, guidance, and
encouragement, I had been able to get my children and myself out of our abusive
situation. By this point in time, I had been divorced for seven years, had sole
custody of the three kids, owned a small home, and was gainfully employed by
the Wenatchee School District. My children were thriving and so was their
mother. With the help of my dad, I had finally turned a corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This particular evening, I felt compelled to return to the
schoolyard where Dad and I had our first Wenatchee encounter. He was there
waiting as I approached and after a warm embrace we exchanged pleasantries and
caught up on the children’s activities. Dad said he wanted to show me a very
special place, and he reached for my hand. I found myself standing in the midst
of the most beautiful garden I had ever seen. It was breath-taking and hypnotic
at the same time. The sweet floral fragrance was magically alluring and
soothing. It was like a sea of beautiful colored flowers and lush green foliage
interspersed with divine fountains of cascading waters. Carefree residents
meandered through plush and vibrant landscape laughing, smiling and conversing.
They donned flowing white robes. There were men, women, and children. The
magnificent garden was punctuated with exquisite white marble statues. It was
the most peaceful place I had ever been.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The sun shone brightly, but I was neither hot nor cold. As I took
it all in, my Dad continued to lead me down a path lined with magnificent
life-like figurines. Dad finally halted at a spot that gave us a full view of a
stunning pool of light blue water. There was a radiant woman sitting on a bench
singing a beautiful mesmerizing melody. It took me a second before I realized
it was mom. I wanted to run to her, hold her in my arms. Dad held me back. “She
can’t see you or hear you—no one here can.” He continued, “I wanted you to see
our new home and how happy your mother is. This is how I want you to envision
us every time you feel sad or miss us. This is where we will all eventually be
reunited as the Southard clan once again. Yes, Wallerie, this is Heaven.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I found myself back in front of the school. For the first time
since I lost my beloved father, I felt whole. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Dad never visited me again. Thinking
of them both now evokes a feeling of contentment and puts a smile on my face.
They are where they belong-together. Their love story continues.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After this, I finally mustered up the courage to share my
encounters with my sister. As I told my tale, she listened intently never
giving me a hint at what she might be thinking. When I finished, she let out a
monumental sigh of relief and confided that dad had visited her too on multiple
occasions. She too had been to heaven to see mom! Maybe we were not crazy after
all, but if we are, then at least we can blame it on genetics! Until we meet
again Mom and Dad! Love you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Epilogue: </b>On Sept. 23, 2011, John Blake authored an editorial for
CNN discussing the phenomena of paranormal encounters with people who had died.
He gave what happened to my sister and me a name—crisis apparition. He
explained, “A crisis apparition is the spirit of a recently deceased person who
visits someone they had a close emotional connection with usually to say
goodbye. Although such encounters are chilling, they are also comforting. These
encounters suggest that the emotional bond often transcends death and is not
erased.” </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It happened to me, and it is my reality! </span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Valerie S.</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">April 19, 2017</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-10206792619491521382017-01-31T10:23:00.000-08:002017-01-31T10:49:21.658-08:00RootsTech, Feb 8-11, 2017 Salt Lake City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7-_JkmTFFhWY-aMT7aSm3KhtPKZbIJ5Nzdyri_Byctxbe6UrxZ8Un5pa1-_6VgctbORVIo0z1paioGtRgPOkdVs_Snl4DSrxQ7v4i53zpTebfF4ec0qmmvsxk4Yiu0K3xqR3OGG5YPEm/s1600/rtbadge_speaker-2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7-_JkmTFFhWY-aMT7aSm3KhtPKZbIJ5Nzdyri_Byctxbe6UrxZ8Un5pa1-_6VgctbORVIo0z1paioGtRgPOkdVs_Snl4DSrxQ7v4i53zpTebfF4ec0qmmvsxk4Yiu0K3xqR3OGG5YPEm/s1600/rtbadge_speaker-2017.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
RootsTech is just around the corner, and many of you may be going.<br />
<br />
I will be presenting on writing your childhood and family stories and on the basics of using DNA for genealogy.<br />
<br />
For those planning to come, here is my schedule. Stop by and say hello!<br />
<br />
Feb 9 Thursday - 12:00 - MyHeritage Lunch, Room 355B<br />
<br />
Feb 10 Friday - 1:00 to 1:30 p.m. - <b><i>The DNA Q&A</i></b> at MyHeritage book, booth RT17<br />
<br />
Feb 10 Friday - 4:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. - <i><b>Writing Your Childhood Memories and Family Stories</b></i>, Room 155D<br />
<br />
Feb 10 Friday night - After party at the Marriott City Creek Grand Ballroom<br />
<br />
Feb 11 Saturday - 3:00-4:00 p.m. <i><b>Supercharge Your Research with DNA</b></i>, Room 150<br />
<br />
<br />
I will have a few copies of my book with me, but must sell them outside of the conference. Please designate which book is of interest: <br />
<i><b>"Memoing" Your Memories: A Simple Technique for Writing Your Family Stories</b></i><br />
<i><b> Genetic Genealogy: The Basics and Beyond</b></i><br />
<br />
You can email me to bring one for you, also. This way, I am selling it here and just delivering it. Email: aulicino (at sign) hevanet (dot) com<br />
<br />
AND...most importantly, you can download the schedule and all the handouts for free by adding the <a href="https://www.rootstech.org/rootstech-2017" target="_blank">RootsTech 2017</a> app to your smart phone. (Just scroll to the bottom for the app or find it in the App Store on your phone.<br />
<br />
Enjoy,<br />
Emily<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-26003930719953352732017-01-19T00:16:00.001-08:002017-01-19T00:19:18.392-08:00Smart Phones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Isn't it just like our children to push us into the 21st Century. Our writing group found this story hilarious, and no doubt Dede's inflections kept us roaring. Thank you for sharing Dede! Enjoy, everyone!<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Smart Phones<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Christmas day brought us kicking and screaming
into the modern world of social media. Our daughter Joni gave each of us a
smart phone. We have been resisting getting one while declaring our preference
for our old tried and true flip phones. To tell the truth we are technically
challenged. The new ones came with cases, charging wires, batteries, and a tiny
little instruction book. They could do anything a computer could and also had
GPS capability. We wouldn't have even considered new phones but Jerry's case had
worn out and was no longer made while mine had recently taken a trip to the
county jail with one of my grandsons and try as I might I couldn't get it
released. But that's another story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I hadn't been too happy with the new one I got
from Jitterbug, it wasn't living up to its advertisements. They say their
phones are simple enough for even an old person and big buttons. I wasn't
having much luck with mine. So, I had been talking about changing phones. After
oohing and awing and thanking Joni we looked at each other with misgivings.
Joni reassured us that she would teach us to use them we began the adventure of
punching buttons and cursing. After activating them she explained how to use
them. It seemed crystal clear. Just swipe the phone and see all the pictures of
different functions, then just press what you want the phone to do. OK we tried
it out and everything worked just fine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The next day while sitting in our matching old
people recliners, clutching our shinning new phones we tried to make some calls.
Oh boy, what fun. I swiped and swiped and Jerry swiped up, down, and with
vigor. Nothing happened, <u>nothing</u>. luckily Jerry had his flip phone still
working so we called our ever-patient daughter for help. It turned out we had
missed a step in our eagerness to learn. You tap the phone twice then swipe it
she reminded us. Oh, and don't forget to set up your contact list was her
cherry sign off. So, we got the phones on and spent the rest of the time
setting up our contacts. I entered home phones, mobile phones, addresses and
even e-mail addresses. Needless to say, after doing that we agreed to wait
another day before doing anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Another day came and with it much frustration. At
least we were both doing the same thing and could help each other. "How do
you do this, and what does this thing mean?" echoed through our living
room. Plus a few, "blast it I will have to start at the beginning again,"
and "I hate this phone". Trying to send messages with our new numbers
went smoothly but trying to retrieve their messages was, pound the phone
frustrating. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Next, we tried the camera out. Jerrys took a nice
picture and he snapped happily away taking pictures of the TV, fireplace, his
feet and so on. Mine was stuck on taking picture after picture, close up of a
horrible looking old lady whose face got angrier and angrier as I kept trying
different things to change the camera away from selfie mode. I was in despair
seeing myself so close up and looking down which ages you ten years. I did
finally find the delete button and got rid of fifteen pictures. Time out. I
said, I'm not touching that thing again today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Another call was made to Joni and she cheerily
agreed to come over after work and help us out, by then we had tried some other
things and failed but we were getting used to some of the functions. Have you
looked at the instruction book she asked? The book is a little 3"x4"
thing with, (get your reading glasses out) tiny print. A minimum amount of
instructions is covered. Things went well after she spent some time with us. We
were confident and bragged to each other how we had learned so quickly. I guess
all that yelling, pounding, and cussing was soon forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Alas someone told Jerry that he could press a function
and just speak into the phone and it would do anything he wanted. Good he said;
I'm tired of texting. He decided to try it out by calling me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">"Call Dede" he said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">"I don't understand you", a nice lady
replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Again he said "Call Dede", same result.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Time after time he repeated himself, with the
lady saying over and over "I can't understand you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He started saying rude things to her and cursing
her. From the kitchen where I had retreated I suggested he just hang up and
forget it. Oh no, he was determined, "Call Dede", "Call
Dede" getting louder and angrier, followed me downstairs to my haven in
the basement. I don't know what finally happened, and I didn't ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Every day brings a new challenge but we are more
comfortable with our phones. The other day Joni brought me a Bluetooth for my
car so I don’t have to pull over to answer a call, sounds great, you just push
a button! I don't know----<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Dede K.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Jan 2017<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-83656936052519058262016-12-04T19:42:00.000-08:002016-12-04T19:42:11.202-08:00THE 1979 CHRISTMAS NIGHTMARE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Another true story by our writing class' best humorist! And you thought the holidays were stressful! Thank you for sharing Valerie!<br />
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"> </span><b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">THE 1979
CHRISTMAS NIGHTMARE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The story you are about to
hear is true! The names have <b>not</b>
been changed to protect the innocent. The actual events, which are about to
unfold, all transpired in the god forsaken town baptized Palestine, Texas. This
abyss is located 120 miles southeast of Dallas and 150 miles northwest of
Houston. One might say that it is the Texas rendering of the Bermuda Triangle.
What could possibly bring a person to such a place you ask? I blame my wedding
vows for this predicament:” for better or worse, in sickness and health, till
death do us part.” Apparently, this encompasses your spouse’s transfers for his
company to unimaginable black holes of civilization. Let the nightmare begin!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The joy of the holiday
spirit had permeated the house throughout and it had been transformed into a
magical Christmas Disney wonderland. That year the entire Mickey and Minnie
Mouse posse of characters enthralled my two little elves ages 5 and 20 months. The
tree was bedecked with miniature plush replicas of: Mickey, Minnie, Donald,
Daisy, Goofy, Pluto, Huey, Louie, Dewy, and of course the two little culprits
Chip and Dale. Underneath the tree, the Disneyland Express could be seen and
heard chugging its way around the perimeter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The children cuddled
against me as we sat on the couch in front of the crackling roaring fire for
our traditional Christmas Eve reading of Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer and ‘Twas
the Night Before Christmas. The little ones then hung their stockings with care
in hopes that Santa would soon be there. The customary cookies and milk were
lovingly placed on the hearth and the little angels were now nestled down in
their beds while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">There were still Santa
duties to be done. The presents were strategically placed under the tree and
the stockings were filled to the brim as the children would soon see. Mama in
her kerchief attempted to retire for a long winter’s nap, when all of a sudden
there arose such a clatter, my scared son flew into my bed to ask what was the
matter. I told him it was Santa out by the tree and that he needed to be quiet
so he crawled into bed with me. When the child was finally asleep, I slipped
out of the room to investigate the source of the commotion and what to my
wondering eyes did I see, but my drunken husband passed out on top of our new
fallen Christmas tree! Obviously, he had overindulged in Christmas spirits at
the office party. After a quick recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, I made a
grisly discovery. There were dismembered Disney character body parts strewn
everywhere – arms, legs, heads, torsos, and tails. The scene resembled a horror
movie. Perhaps my inebriated husband had suffered an insatiable attack of the
munchies. Then there he was standing in the corner with part of Pluto hanging
from his mouth. The mass murderer had been caught in the act. The dog did it!
Explaining this catastrophe to the kids was my biggest concern at that moment
in time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Securing a body bag, the epic
bulk extrication began. With all evidence removed from the scene of the crime,
the next phase was mass cremation. The lovely town of Palestine did not have
garbage service, so at 2:00 a.m. I was in the backyard at the burn barrel
committing what surely must qualify as some sort of sacrilegious act. Somehow,
I had the strange feeling that I had just been inducted into the Manson Family.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Returning to the living
room to recreate some semblance of Christmas, the husband was removed from the
tree and placed not so gently in bed. With the tree returned to its original
vertical stance, the presents were rearranged and wrappings and dents repaired.
Suddenly the unquestionable sound of a retching dog resounded in my ears. Now
what? Undigested pieces of Santa cookies were spewing from his mouth along with
some Pluto’s legs and Mickey’s head. Is this Christmas ever going to end?
Another round of cleanup had to be launched.
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">At 5:30 Christmas morning,
mama had not yet been to bed. The stirrings of excited children were heard
throughout the house. My son bounded into the living room and stared in utter disbelief
at our now barren tree. “Where are all my Disney friends?” he demanded. This
was going to have to be the performance of a lifetime! Then baby sister added
to the festivities by uncontrollably crying over her defunct tree. With both
tykes nuzzled in my lap, I told them about other children in the world that
didn’t have any ornaments for their tree and how sad that made them. Santa
wanted all children to be happy. The story continued with all little ears
hanging on every word. I continued. “Santa woke me up last night and told me
how proud he was of both of you and how special you were. He asked me if he
could take the ornaments from our tree to hang on the trees of children who
didn’t have any. They would wake up Christmas morning and be so surprised. It
would be a present from the two of you delivered by Santa.” My beaming son gave
me his high five of approval and the children simultaneously sprang from my lap
rambunctiously ripping open their presents. That started the family tradition
of donating ornaments and toys to less fortunate children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">At 6:30 a.m. the 24-pound
turkey was placed in the oven. We were sharing our holiday dinner preparations
with friends and the turkey and pumpkin pies fell into my domain of
responsibility. The children remained in the living room gleefully entertained
by their new toys. Suddenly my son started to scream. I rushed into the living
room to see what was the matter. In the middle of all the presents stood the
dog, bent over emitting unpleasant substances from both ends. The kids were
crying so I explained that the dog must have eaten something that upset his
stomach. If only they knew! This never-ending Christmas nightmare was getting
old fast!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The husband finally showed
his mug around 11:00 a.m. He was a sight to behold with tree burn all over his
face. He complained about having a headache. There may have been some sarcastic
retort on my part about wishing reindeer had pranced on his head. Due to my age
and failing memory at this writing, I am unclear on that precise point. Pies
were completed and placed on the table waiting for the turkey to be done. At 12:30,
it was time to remove the bird. Upon opening the oven door, I was surprised to
find an unheated oven and a stone cold turkey. The oven element had failed.
Dealing with a bad cold, my sense of smell was nonexistent that day. Standing
there holding a foil pan housing a 24-pound turkey an unforeseen development
took place. The bottom of the pan gave way and Tom turkey fell to the floor.
Stunned, I found myself looking through now bottomless pan at the spectacle of
my dog greedily licking his new found best friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The dog was immediately
banished to the garage for his own safety, and the chaos continued. Realizing
the uncooked pies were now MIA (missing in action) from the table, a full
investigation ensued. At that moment, there was the sound of uncontrollable giggling
wafting from the dining room. There they were my two little angels from heaven
finger painting on the pristine white walls with uncooked pumpkin puree. Is
Christmas over yet? HELP!!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">What else could possibly
happen? As though on cue my husband entered and with great concern for only
himself asked, “When is dinner? I’m hungry.” The till death do us part segment
of my wedding vows rushed through my head as I started to step toward him.
Concerned for his safety, I joined the dog in the garage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Finally, I thought there
might be an infinitesimal shred of hope that this miserable day might end.
Guess again! My son’s bellows quickly
shattered that dream. “Mom the toilet won’t flush, and it’s throwing up poop
all over the floor.” The concept of sewers was foreign to the inhabitants of
Palestine. This would not be a simple plunger fix. This was a dirty job, but it
had to be done. Armed with a shovel and a special unclogging tool, I made my
way outside to the sceptic field of dreams. I was fashionably decked out in all
things rubber: gloves, boots, poncho, and mask. Thus began the archaic dig to
uncover buried treasure. After two hours, the dastardly deed had been
triumphantly accomplished. Then the most unbelievable Christmas magic unfolded
right before my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I was covered in poop from
my head to my toe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I found myself wishing for
some new fallen snow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It had been one hell of a
day, I want you to know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When up in the sky there
appeared such a sight <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It was a shooting star
with a very bright light<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> I made my wish and decided to call it a night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">As I disappeared into the
house you could hear me exclaim<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Merry Christmas to all and
by this time next year, I hope to be SANE!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">--Valerie S.</span></div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-52353716516182360802016-12-01T17:11:00.001-08:002016-12-01T17:11:26.704-08:00THE JOYS OF GETTING OLD <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 20pt;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20pt;"> </span>Another wonderful slice of life from a member of my writing class. Many of us can relate to this one, and if not, put it in your pocket as someday it will all ring true to you! Enjoy!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> THE JOYS OF GETTING OLD</span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last week my
son-in-law was lamenting the decline of his aging Honda Pilot. Its speedometer
had logged over 100,000 miles. The tires needed to be replaced for the third
time. The air conditioner was sporadically blowing a fuse. The transmission was
in need of a $2,500 plus service overhaul. Over the years, it had been a
dependable and trustworthy family member. It had reliably transported the clan
on their copious outings and adventures. It had safely delivered both their
daughters home from the hospital. This automobile was an essential member of
the household. Now the car was getting up there in years and beginning to
exhibit signs of wear and tear requiring more service visits and more money. My
son-in-law’s conclusion, “We need a new car!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I could totally
identify with this vehicle and its physical and cosmetic decline. Hell, I am this
vehicle! Unfortunately, trading myself in for a new and improved version is not
an option open to me. Since the list for
the joys of getting old can be correlated to the movie titled “The NeverEnding
Story,” I will stick to the highlights as I see them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I fondly
remember the good old days when I could hold my liquor. College consisted of
boundless keg parties and for those of us with palates that were more
sophisticated, Ripple and Mad Dog were our poisons of choice. Recently, I was
shopping in Safeway and stopped to taste Champagne samples offered by a vendor.
There were three varieties available with one being a $100 Parisian brand and
the other two, progressively cheaper. I started with $100 kind. I was given a
sample in a diminutive plastic cup and smugly chugged the few drops. Instantaneously
it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I was well on my way to being inebriated. I
declined the offer of more tasters and spent the next 30 minutes in the store
trying to clear my foggy brain so I could drive home.” How pathetic,” I thought
to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Speaking of
not being able to hold my alcohol anymore, heck I can’t hold my water either!
My most pressing thoughts anytime I leave home are bathroom locations. Let us
not forget the recurrent nightly bathroom excursions! Too bad you can’t earn
frequent flyer miles for this malady and at least be looking for bathrooms in
tropical exotic locals!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another
drawback of aging is shrinkage! It reminds me of back in the 80’s when my
children placed a large colored flexible sheet replica of an object or
character in a heated oven and it would reduce to a small hard form. They were
aptly baptized Shrinky Dinks. The same phenomenon has happened to me sans the
heat as a catalyst. My three-plus inch loss in stature has earned me the
nickname “Shorty” from my, now taller than me, grandchildren. Reaching higher
than the second shelf in my kitchen cabinets has now become a futile mission
without the aid of a step stool. My once powerful, well-toned body has lost
most of its muscle mass leaving me to live in a squishy sack of osteoporosis-ravaged
bones. My five-year-old granddaughter finds it very entertaining to make my spongy
skin wiggle and jiggle like jello. Are we having fun yet, Shorty? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember
as a kid that one of my favorite cereals was Rice Krispies: Fill the bowl, pour
the milk, and listen to the magic cereal snap, crackle and pop! Now days, to
get the same sound effects all I have to do is walk! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As you age,
memory starts to fade. I constantly find myself searching for some misplaced
item. I ransack my house only to find the missing culprit right in front of me
in plain sight or, as in the case of my cell phone last week, in the recycle
bin! Don’t ask! It gets worse as your diligently seek the lost item and then
suddenly can’t remember what it is you are looking for—a double whammy! Now
what was I saying? I forgot—never mind!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My social
life has definitely changed because of my advancing years. I find myself
spending more time going to doctor appointments than I do having lunch with my
friends. What is even more distressing is that some weeks I use my medical card
more than my debit card. I actually think I have more doctors than I do friends
on Facebook! Now that is depressing! It is sobering life moment when you have
to accept the fact that your new BFF’s name (best friends forever) is fiber!
How do I love thee—let me count the ways!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another big
change for me in my twilight years revolves around my sense of style. My
fashion credo simply stated: If it’s not
the big C (comfortable) then it’s not for me! My old age idea of a sexy
negligée are sweats at least one size too big! Evening wear attire consists of
jeans, sneakers, and a clean sweatshirt. Well ironed clothes—gone! My thinking
on this is: If I don’t iron my clothes
then people will think that my crinkly attire and wrinkled skin are all part of
my effort to put together a fabulous matching ensemble. Besides, ironing my
face would be painful! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Physical
changes abound, and every day it seems like you have to adjust to a new normal
for your body. Your aging teeth are clinging to life, and the dentist has
banned you from eating anything sticky, chewy, hard, or sugary. Your once
dazzling white smile has a grayish yellowish tinge. Glasses are your new best
friend when you can find them. The phrase “What did you say?” becomes a daily
part of your life as you struggle to adjust to hearing loss. What you hear and
what is said is not always the same thing. Someone says, “Do you want to go to
dinner?” Your reply,” You really think I am looking thinner?” Hearing loss can
be difficult in social settings even with a hearing aid; background noise can
totally isolate you from the social interaction. Your once unblemished skin is
now host to a variety of alien growths and age spots. When your five-year-old
granddaughter asks if you are part leopard you have no other choice but to
smile sweetly and growl! I often find
myself relating stories about some old folk that I encountered or observed. Then
reality sets in and I feel obliged to fess up and explain to the listener that
these oldsters were my age. Then I feel better until the next time when I end
up doing the same thing all over again! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I took out
my driver’s license the other day and realized that I now actually look like
the worst picture of me ever taken. I must need new glasses because that just
can’t be! That woman is old! Say it can’t be true! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As my
grandparents and parents aged, they fell into rigid routines of doing
everything at the same time every day. I found it amusing and monotonous as a
younger person! Well, guess what. I have become them! I eat my meals exactly at
the same time every day. I go to bed 11 p.m. sharp and rise at 6:30 a.m. I go for daily walks at a designated time.
They would get upset if something disrupted their schedule, and I have become
the same way. I have lost a lot of my spontaneity. I addictively crave the
comforts and safety of my routines and my home. I must add that I have lived
alone for the last 20 years and am sure that has been a major influence on my
lack of spirit of adventure. Stepping out of my comfort zone gets harder and
harder for me with each advancing year. When I was younger, I promised myself
that becoming old and boring would not be an option. I was so wrong!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Would you
like some cheese with your whine Shorty? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I could go
on and on about this subject, but I won’t. This last leg of our life journey is
often referred to as the “Golden Years.” Frankly, on some days they feel more
like the “Rusty Years.” They are golden from the standpoint that at this
juncture you get to sit back and witness the fruits of your labor. You watch
your adult children with pride and love as they follow and fulfill their own
dreams. Then a lightning bolt moment
strikes, and they grace you with the greatest gift of all–grandchildren. An Irish saying puts it all into perspective,
“Children are the rainbow of life. Grandchildren are the Pot of Gold.” Therefore,
I can honestly say that yes for sure these are my golden years! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And by the
way, Squishy Shortsuff prefers chocolate with her whine!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-- Valerie S.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Nov. 15, 2016</span></span></div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-23927871006738619562016-11-17T21:55:00.003-08:002016-11-17T21:55:58.055-08:00REMEMBERING JEANNE RIVERS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The following is one of my writing class members remembering another classmate for her coming memorial. Jeanne died of cancer earlier this month. </div>
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A building in Portland (Oregon) was named after her for the work she did for others. It is unusual for a a person to be living and have an ediface named in their honor. She was very modest about it, and after another class member and I spotted her name emblazed upon the multi-story building, we pressed her for the story behind the naming. She complied and admited that she was indeed the same Jeanne Rivers.</div>
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It is unusal for me to post this type of writing, but she was very special to our community and to our class. Anne has captured a wonderful view of this grand lady. Thank you Anne.</div>
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REMEMBERING JEANNE RIVERS<o:p></o:p></div>
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I
didn’t know Jeanne well, but I remember chatting with her briefly as we pulled
out our car keys after Emily Aulicino’s writing class at the Woodstock
Community Center. When she mentioned having worked on Skid Row we discovered an
acquaintance in common. Jeanne had been on the Hooper Detox team scooping up
the inebriated who were out of control or comatose on the streets of Portland’s
inner city. Sister Kate St. Martin had practiced her nursing skills among the
hotel dwellers around West Burnside. Among that idiosyncratic community their
paths often crossed. Jeanne offered to lend me her copy of the book* that Kate
and Ron Talarico collaborated to write about Kate’s Burnside encounters. I
appreciated the insight it gave me into a unique ministry that was Kate’s, but
also Jeanne’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Jeanne
wrote with the same ironic and clear-eyed wit that characterized her
conversation. Her tangible descriptions allowed her listeners to accompany her
in walking back into her memories. Two of her childhood stories stand out in my
recollection. In one she recreated her family’s camping out in the hop fields
around Mt. Angel, Oregon as they brought in the harvest as migrant laborers. As
a little girl she tagged along wherever her family could find work. The second
chronicle was of her wading into the swampy waters of Lake Oswego on a hot
summer day (that just happened to be the day World War II ended) under the
indiscriminate supervision of her older sister. Only the inner tubes to which
three of them clung had any experience with floating or swimming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
have already missed Jeanne’s vibrant presence amidst our writing group. She has
left a bright legacy of relationships behind her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
--Anne
C.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
*<u>Fire in the Dark: Making a
Difference in the World</u> by Ron Talarico<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-53545073566559357892016-10-06T17:32:00.001-07:002016-10-06T17:32:51.604-07:00 UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL-WORKING IN A MAXIMUM SECURITY CLASSROOM<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Most everyone supports the premise that teaching is one of
noblest and most important professions. At the age of 21, I embarked on my
chosen career path as a high school Spanish and English teacher in the small
town of Brasher Falls in upstate NY. During this interval, I added a Master’s
Degree and an administrative certificate to my resume. Years later on the
opposite side of the country in Wenatchee, Washington, I found myself endowed with the
dubious title of “correctional educator.” This change required an additional
endorsement -- special education. For 20 years, I would practice the art of
teaching at the Chelan County Juvenile Justice Center, a maximum-security
facility.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It didn’t take me long to discover that this new direction
came with its own set of specialized demands, challenges and mandates set forth
by the Department of Corrections. My traditional classroom management style of
the past would not be effective in this environment. It was like entering
another world -- a subculture of society. I felt like I had become the
Cinderella of the educational biosphere, “Cinderella do this, Cinderella do
that.” People often asked me if I was an authentic teacher, and my fellow
colleagues in the “real” schools did not show me the respect I deserved. At
times, I felt professionally ostracized and devalued just like Cinderella.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Most
teachers enter their building through the main entrance. Not me! Every morning
I had to stand outside a secure metal-monitored door and push a buzzer. I would
be asked to identify myself and required to hold up my county issued ID for the
camera. After this routine, the door would stridently buzz and unlock. The
beastly gate required all my upper body strength to tug it ajar. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It would then magically slam shut behind me
with a deafening and chilling clanking clamor. I had to repeat this procedure
at two more doors before I was in the actual bowels of the edifice. A short
hallway brought me to my first destination -- the control room or as it was
fondly known: the command center. Inside this room were the switches to every
door and camera in the building. Its strategic placement and elevated stature
gave it a panoramic view of all zones. The darkened one-way glass contributed
to its ominous appearance. I then pushed a buzzer and a metal drawer would
slide out delivering my keys and the daily roster.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My keys did
not give me access to my classroom. Once again, I had to push a buzzer and have
the door opened for me. I was virtually locked in my room and needed to buzz to
exit, too. The unlocking instruments were strictly for my desk, cupboards,
closet, and the interior office area. Everything had to remain locked at all
times. My room was crafted from ceiling to floor with bulletproof glass windows
on two sides and drab institutional yellowish cinder blocks on the others. It
was like working in a fishbowl-on display at all times. The room was outfitted
with multiple cameras scrutinizing your every action. The space was also wired for sound meaning
that someone heard every word uttered. Four bright red buttons tactically
placed added a much-needed pop of color to this bland background. They were
smartly embossed in bright white letters that said PANIC providing yet another
possibly lifesaving resource if needed. Next order of the day was to retrieve
my two-way radio from the inner office. I was required to have it on my person
every minute that I was in juvenile -- another lifeline. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mundane items
that most teachers take for granted like pencils, paper, staples, paperclips,
pens, etc. now had new monikers -- deadly weapons and instruments of
destruction. Writing utensils were used in several stabbings of inmates and
staff during my resident stay. To minimize the risk, I was required to
personally hand out and retrieve individual pencils. If they needed sharpening,
I did it. If the lead went missing at any point then the student was obligated
to crawl around on the charcoal color carpet to find it. If that did not
happen, the students were removed one at a time from class and searched. Being
caught with the evidence resulted in a three-day confinement to their room. Pencil
lead can be used to stick in veins and tag cells. During art class, the kids
were handed a clear plastic container of assorted supplies. An inventory of the
contents was prominently displayed on the front. I had to regulate this constantly
and recount every item in the box upon its return. It was very time consuming.
If anything came up missing, the kids knew the drill. Gang Graffiti antics was always
a concern. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I previously
mentioned the evils of staples, paperclips and paper. Staples and paperclips
could be used to pierce veins or other body parts such as eyes or ears or used
as a last resort to keep holes open for tongue and nose rings etc. They could
also be adeptly fashioned into makeshift tattoo devices and therefore not
allowed in the classroom. Paper was my archenemy.
We had to have it to do our work, but it was the catalyst for my biggest source
of classroom disciplinary infractions. Tagging or defacing a paper in any way
resulted in a time out and loss of school points for the day. Consequently, that
affected their overall program score in detention and resulted in the loss of
certain privileges. Missing corners or other torn off pieces meant a classroom </span>lock-down<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and staff search. These could be used to exchange phone numbers, make
threats or plot heinous crimes within the facility.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nothing left
the classroom with the kids. At first, I naively let them borrow books but soon
found out that they would be desecrated with graffiti, sexual slurs or even
ripped apart and used to back up the toilets and flood their cells. I learned
that lesson the hard way. One thing I did not have to fret over was inappropriate
dress. Inmates were required to wear a hospital scrub like uniform. The boy’s
was a dark drab army green while the girls donned a dowdy </span>khaki<span style="font-family: inherit;"> tan. Everyone
wore a short sleeve white cotton tee shirt under their top and white socks
sheltered their feet. Shoes were deemed potential weapons and banned. During
the winter months, the building remained quite cool and the kids sat in class
shivering while trying to do their schoolwork. I always felt guilty wrapped
cozily in a warm sweater. When I first
started the journey, the students were allowed to wear sweatshirts but after using
them to clog toilets, choke staff and other inmates and for self-harming
purposes they took on the nomenclature of dangerous liability and the privilege
of warmth relegated to the past. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Something as
simple as taking my class to the computer lab always turned into a big,
involved production. I had to make a request and wait until staff was available
to escort us the 10 feet. It required being buzzed in and out of both rooms.
The computer lab was similar in design to my classroom with the bulletproof
glass and </span>cinder-block<span style="font-family: inherit;"> walls, mirroring the same color scheme. I jokingly asked
one time if a gun had ever made it into the secure area and was surprised by
the response. “Yes! Several times.” Eventually
they were recovered during a cell search. Many knives and other contraband
occasionally circumvent the intake process too. “The staff member glibly added,
“You may not be as safe as you think back here.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Custodial staff
uniforms consisted of jeans, blue-collared polo shirts imprinted with the
justice center logo and sneakers. They also donned the required utility belt
housing mandated items. They were issued embossed navy blue sweatshirts.
Although I was employed by Wenatchee School District, I was operating on the
county owned property of the Justice Center and the </span>inter-agency<span style="font-family: inherit;"> agreement
between the two entities required me to comply with all rules, regulations and
mandates set forth by Juvenile. Therefore, I was given a dress code which was
similar to staff, but it allowed me the flexibility of not wearing the exact
same thing every day. It made it easy to get ready for work, and I loved the
causal and comfortable attire. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The innards
of the detention edifice were windowless. It was like working underground.
There was no natural light to brighten your day just the oppressive glare of
fluorescent. The minute you set foot in the building, you felt cut off from the
outside world, isolated -- quarantined. There was no stepping out for a breath
of fresh air or the touch of the sun to warm your soul. The fortress seemed
impenetrable. The classroom itself was an anomaly in comparison to its stark
surroundings. It was like an unexpected oasis. It was typical of what you would
see in a “regular” school setting. There were the standard student desks, overflowing
bookshelves, student artwork plastering the walls and motivational posters
purposefully placed. It was bright, cheery, warm, cozy, colorful and most
importantly welcoming and comfortable a direct contrast to the rest of the
monotonous institution decor. The students loved classroom #2. Every one of them,
in some way, had contributed to the </span>ambiance<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and with ownership came pride. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is
also the teaching component that needs to be addressed. My coed charges ranged
in age from 8-18. Most of them were academically-behaviorally challenged
requiring serious remedial intervention. Those that still actively enrolled in
school were provided their own work. This last group was the minority. For the
majority I was required to design individualized </span>curriculum<span style="font-family: inherit;"> based on their
performance levels derived from a battery of tests. Many of my students were in
special education and I was responsible for revising their IEPs (Individualized
Education Program) while they resided in my program. Trying to get parents down
to the juvenile facility for IEP meetings was a nightmare. The average class
size was around 14, but fluctuated on a daily basis. The faces changed
constantly. Some kids were there for two hours before going to court and being
released and others remained for months on end. It was like a revolving door --
round and round, in-and-out, in-and-out. There are also many interruptions to
deal with during school time. Staff is constantly calling for kids to go to
court, or to meet with lawyers and probation officers. More of the in-and-out,
in-and-out syndrome. It is very disruptive and impedes the already questionable
focus of others. All communication is done via the two-way radios. This
frequent chatter is another problematic concertation buster that you learn to
endure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon
departing at night, my morning routine is reversed. I enter the inner office
and secure my two-way radio. I check to make sure my desk, closet, cupboards,
and office door are locked. I then buzz my door, approach the control room,
deposit my keys, and school points sheet in the waiting drawer. I retrace my
footsteps and buzz through three doors, and each time the aftermath of the
banging metal clamor resonates through my body. Finally, out on the street I
take a deep breath of fresh air and remind myself how lucky and thankful that
at the end of the day I am able to regain my freedom and go home to my family.
My students are not as blessed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The working
environment of a correctional educator is definitely unique. You are constantly
juggling your teaching duties with the safety and security demands dictated by
another agency. It is an extreme sport, of sorts, with danger lurking around
every twist and turn. There is never a dull moment and no two days are ever the
same. It is addicting. How many people can say that after 20 years on a job? In
the end, all I can say is that yes, I would do it all over again in a
heartbeat. I do not regret one moment of that amazing experience. I loved that
job, and it made me a better human being. I was blessed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A special
thanks to all my students. I will never forget you! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">August 14,
2016<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you Valerie for sharing a very interesting and unique teaching position. It surely makes my teaching experience a cake-walk!</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-85338568760478682632016-09-03T17:26:00.000-07:002016-09-03T17:26:07.226-07:00I AM FROM ST. JOHNS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I asked my writing class a few years ago to do a poem about themselves. Although the poem is called an I Am Poem, it is not the same as you often find on the internet.<br />
<br />
Sharon H. has submitted her poem to the blog, but what is even more wonderful is that a copy of her poem was posted on five windows of a building in front of a bus stop in her neighborhood. What an honor and what a statement about this wonderful neighborhood in times past.<br />
<br />
Several members of the writing class met her for lunch and to view the poem. Below is a photo of Sharon and the store front rendition. Below is the full poem. I hope you enjoy it as much as the class did.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I AM FROM ST. JOHNS</div>
<br />
I am from the wrong side of the cut.<br />
The place where two powerful rivers meet<br />
beneath the majestic bridge that frames St. Johns<br />
The same bridge my mother threatens to jump from<br />
when I misbehave.<br />
The same polluted rivers that tempt me<br />
on hot summer days.<br />
<br />
I am from the working man's end of town<br />
where the drums of the Salvation Army Band on the corner<br />
drown out the western music blaring from the beer joints<br />
I am from the smoke of the mills,<br />
of ship's horns blowing in the quiet of night<br />
to signal the bridge tender<br />
A place where men carry lunch boxes<br />
and women wear house dresses.<br />
<br />
I am form World War 2, March of Dimes,<br />
paper drives, rations, and 3 Roses whiskey.<br />
I am Pug, the skinny girl with freckles and braids<br />
named for her twin in the funny papers.<br />
I am the first grandchild backward, awkward and mismatched.<br />
Entertained and spoiled by bachelor uncles who smoke<br />
Camel cigarettes and shoot craps at family gatherings.<br />
<br />
I am from Saturday matinees with<br />
Filipino babies impaled on Japanese bayonets and<br />
Sunday drives with Japanese children playing<br />
behind barbed wire.<br />
I am from double Bubble gum, penny licorice, roller skates with keys and<br />
handball played off the bricks of James John grade school.<br />
I am from skinny legs with skinned knees<br />
barefoot in the dry summer grass<br />
barefoot in the warm summer rain.<br />
Of robins and earthworms in the newly spaded garden<br />
The quiet hum of honey bees in the sun and<br />
angry roaring bumble bees in glass coffee jars<br />
<br />
I am from the delicate Trillium growing on the dense forest floor<br />
on Dixie mountain.<br />
I am from the cold clear water from grandma's witched-well there.<br />
I am from sweet goats milk I drink to fatten me up and<br />
bitter tea made from Oregon Grape root to keep me healthy<br />
I am from milk toast and Ovaltine, served with<br />
cod liver oil and iodine.<br />
I am from white bucks, kick pleats and horseshoe bangs.<br />
<br />
I am from Western swing playing on the polished Philco console<br />
on Saturday afternoons while supper cooked.<br />
Playing again on Saturday nights with grownups<br />
dancing on the faded linoleum floor.<br />
Songs and guitar music flowing as fast as the alcohol<br />
All seen from behind the cracked bedroom door.<br />
<br />
I am from summers spent in saltwater and sand<br />
with tide pools of starfish and sea anemone which close<br />
at the touch of my toe.<br />
I am looking for agates and swimming in the surf.<br />
I am fishing for shiners from the mooring basin and<br />
waiting for the changing tide.<br />
I know the changes -- low tide, slack tide, high tide.<br />
I see rust and corrosion, fog and mist, South and North jetties.<br />
I hear diesel engines thumping as they pass the buoys<br />
tossing and clanging in the chop.<br />
I see Fishermen watching and waiting at the Yaquina Bay bar.<br />
I hear Sea gulls squawking, fighting for fish scraps on their return.<br />
<br />
I am from the canneries on the waterfront that<br />
spew their waste into the bay<br />
their smell defining the small fishing town of Newport<br />
I am from shucked crab, clams and hotcakes for breakfast<br />
thick white slabs of halibut, and salmon every day<br />
fried, pickled, creamed, poached, and smoked<br />
gorging all the while "the little children in China starve"<br />
<br />
I am from "set up straight", "it's snowing down south", "slick as snot"<br />
and "hotter than a sheriff's pistol".<br />
I am from unions, solidarity and equal rights<br />
An injury to one is an injury to all<br />
I am form fair and square.<br />
I am form St. Johns<br />
<br />
Sharon H.<br />
Feb 2011<br />
James John Grade School 1942-1950<br />
Roosevelt High School 1950-1954<br />
ILWU Local 8 1980-1999<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahGXFWcYhwiZynWvmLVSbu4lV2mq-8JQMhoJxugZ_sFlzH5-yVHNjR-Xt93rzz0TM4VGtEELhvNmFH1RH_MM4aXBPx-DCJPN_BgMQp_aMZJgJeNbMJS31zqzKfCZYBdan53SXj7Wgc3ne/s1600/Sharon+and+I+Am+Poem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahGXFWcYhwiZynWvmLVSbu4lV2mq-8JQMhoJxugZ_sFlzH5-yVHNjR-Xt93rzz0TM4VGtEELhvNmFH1RH_MM4aXBPx-DCJPN_BgMQp_aMZJgJeNbMJS31zqzKfCZYBdan53SXj7Wgc3ne/s320/Sharon+and+I+Am+Poem.jpg" width="299" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Thank you Sharon for a look at the past in your neighbor.<br />
Emily<br />
3 Sept 2016<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-9831272348193498502016-08-04T20:37:00.000-07:002016-08-04T20:37:24.041-07:00THE BAD DAY AT WORK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="border-bottom: solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 4.0pt 0in;">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We’ve all
had our bad days. When you are having a difficult time, just reread the
following story submitted by Valerie, a member of my writing class. AND…can you imagine the job she jumped into
after this one!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE BAD DAY AT WORK</b></h2>
<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">Wenatchee,
Washington 1991</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Having a bad day at work goes with
the territory; ask anyone. There is one particular day that I will never
forget. It was beyond bad! It was a nightmare and unfortunately, I was
wide-awake for the entire ordeal. At the time, I was employed by EPIC, an early
childhood agency that provided daycare programs for low-income migrant families
in the Wenatchee area. I served in a dual capacity…facility director and
preschool teacher… at the Applewood location. As director, I was required to be
on site from opening until close which was from 5:00 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. I was
also in charge of supervising the staff of eight. There were seven daycare
providers and one cook who also filled in wherever needed. The children ranged
in age from one month to five years, and our enrollment this particular month
was 45 little angels. Let’s just say for better or worse, everything and
everybody depended on me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My alarm
went off at my least favorite time of day 3:00 a.m. I peeked out the window to
discover that we were under attack by a torrential downpour that appeared to
have taken up permanent residence. I hoped that this was not an omen for how
the rest of the day would go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By 3:45 a.m.,
I was in the Applewood parking lot and realized that I had forgotten my
umbrella. I got drenched! My key would not cooperate, and I couldn’t unlock the
door to the building. I stood in the driving rain for five minutes trying to
finagle the stupid mechanism. Finally, success! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I dripped
and squished my way down the hall to my office and was promptly greeted by the
blinking red light of the message machine. Two of my staff had called in sick,
and the cook was going to be an hour late which meant hungry, cranky kids to start
the day. Was this day over yet? I felt the start of a headache coming on, and I
was shivering and cold from being wet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the
next hour, the rest of the staff meandered in and grumpily protested as I
informed them of the need to combine rooms due to the staffing shortage. I almost
had a full-blown mutiny on my hands when I explained that breakfast would be an
hour late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At 5:00 a.m.
the sleepy eyed children began to congregate. They usually arrived and were greeted
by a nutritious hot breakfast, but not on this day. Within ten minutes, the
building exploded with bawling and tantrums coming from every nook and cranny. Was
5:15 a.m. too early to drink, I wondered? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I scurried
from room to room trying to put out the fires before the flames engulfed us
all. Two of my staff threatened to leave. I started to sneeze and could feel
the beginnings of a cold coursing through my body. My head felt like it was
about to split open. Thoughts of fleeing surged through my mind. I reminded
myself that according to maritime tradition the captain goes down with his
sinking ship if all else fails, and we were sinking fast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By 6:45 a.m.
breakfast was being served, and the morning’s mayhem seemed to be subsiding…or
so I thought. At my post in the preschool room, I noticed that several of the kids’
oatmeal bowls had blue specs in them. Upon closer observation it became evident
that something that should not be there was in their cereal. I quickly grabbed
the affected bowls despite the irate objections of the children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">OMG!</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> It was blue gravel from our aquarium. I knew
exactly who did it. “<b>LEE,</b>” I
bellowed. “”<b>FRONT AND CENTER-NOW! </b>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lee was the
class scoundrel and 9 out of 10 times the instigator of all classroom
disasters. Lee appeared with two empty milk cartons in hand. “Where is the milk
Lee?” I impatiently inquired. He pointed to the fish tank, which was now a
murky white color. By the time I made it to the tank the other students were
gathered around crying that their “fishies” were going to die. Grabbing the
net, I blindly stabbed into the milky waters hoping against all odds to snare a
fish. No such luck. We put a stopper in the sink and cup by cup, we emptied the
tank and eventually recovered all six of the missing “Nemos” to the delight of
the kids. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We then
moved the fish into a large clear bowl until we could properly clean the
aquarium for their return. If any of the fish were lactose intolerant they
would soon be dead for sure. Crisis averted for now!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Next, I
faced the task of cajoling the irritated cook into remaking oatmeal for the
preschoolers. Was this day ever going to end? Is it time to go home yet? The
clock read 7:30 a.m. You have to be kidding! My pity party was interrupted when
a small voice inquired, “Teacher, where did the fish go? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">”Fish?
What?” I looked at the bowl, and it was empty. “<b>LEE.”</b> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes
teacher” he brazenly replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<b>Where are the</b> <b>fish?”</b> I demanded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“In the
ocean,” he retorted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<b>What ocean, Lee</b>?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“In there, “and
he pointed to the bathroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Realizing
that their beloved pets had been flushed down the toilet, the reaction was
instantaneous. First one child burst into tears, and that led to a spontaneous
combustion of sobbing grieving little ones with one exception. Lee was writhing
on the floor convulsed by a fit of laughter. My headache now blossomed into a Category
5 tropical storm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally,
placated from their fish disaster, we settled onto the rug for story time. Teacher’s
helper for the day has to select the story. I consulted the chart and today of
all people it was Lee. Wonderful! Lee made a beeline to the shelf and returned
grinning like a Cheshire cat with book in hand. I had a bad feeling about this.
He had selected “A Fish out of Water.” I nonchalantly took the book and began
reading. Lee enjoyed every word…the rest of the class not so much. For the
others it was the catalyst for another round of waterworks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Snack time
did little to lift the dampened spirits of the miniature mourners. It was
naptime, and with any luck that would give me a few moments to try to regain my
now quickly dissolving sanity. The snivelers went down without a fight,
exhausted by their harrowing morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As the
angels peacefully slumbered away, I made a disturbing observation. Several of
them were scratching their heads as they slept. A feeling of dread washed over
me. “Please, not today,” I lamented. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”
After the kids awoke, my helper and I donned our latex gloves. Armed with
tongue depressors we did a lice check on everyone in the room. We had a
full-fledged lice-a-thon in progress. A lice check in the other rooms confirmed
my suspicions that our infestation had taken on global proportions. My skin
began to feel creepy crawly, and I began scratching and itching everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Being a
provider for the low-income migrant families, we could not send the children
home, but were required to treat them on site. We had no medication available.
We needed 40 boxes. I retreated to my office and started calling establishments
in search of the needed number of cartons. My third call paid off, and I found
a store that had the number needed in inventory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Driving to
my savior’s destination, I itched and scratched all the way. Upon arrival, I
made my way back to the pharmacy, and there they had a shopping cart full of
the treatment waiting for me. As I wheeled the lice-mobile to the front of the
store, people stared at the contents and stepped back from my cart, providing them
with a comfortable buffer zone. I felt like shouting “Lice can jump 10 feet you
know,” even though I knew it wasn’t true! I wanted them to suffer too! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I
unloaded the 40 boxes of RID onto the conveyor belt the lady in front of me
gasped in disbelief and got as far away from me as possible. The people behind
me went to another line. When it was my turn, the cashier stopped to put on
rubber gloves. It was downright embarrassing and humiliating, and I was sure
that Lee was responsible! It was a lousy situation for sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back at the
center, we spent the rest of the day washing heads and using the nit combs. Next,
we sanitized the mats and thoroughly vacuumed and laundered all the blankets.
My staff were not happy campers and threatened to quit every 10 minutes. I
shared their pain and wanted to abscond just as much as they did…maybe even
more! By 6 p.m. all the kiddos had been picked up, and I spent another four
hours cleaning and disinfecting. I had arrived in the darkness of morning and
fittingly left in the blackness of the night. It had been a day of gloom and
doom from beginning to end, and in five hours, I would get to do it all over
again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a day
from which nightmares are born, and one I never want to repeat. I fell into bed
and dreamed of super-sized lice taking over the world, dead fish, and yelling
“LEE!” The only positive out of the entire escapade was that I did not get
lice. Two weeks later, I quit when Wenatchee School District offered me a
teaching position at the juvenile center. Writing this memoir is making me
itchy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">August 1, 2016<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Enjoy!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Emily</span></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-7371079978419689832016-07-25T00:58:00.002-07:002016-07-25T00:58:52.820-07:00MY SACRED SPACE <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is power in poetry. It can tug at our heartstrings, make us laugh, and heal our souls in ways that prose cannot. Speaking in short terms, it allows the space for the reader to fill the gaps based on their own experiences, taking on personal meaning, not unlike the individual's interpretation of works of art.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The following poem was written before Sue B. joined the writing class. As the result of a discussion with her, we concluded that writing an introduction for each poem would provide some background, a setting, or explanation as to why she was moved to write about a particular event. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Introduction </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Recently
it was Mother’s Day, and I wished I could have looked forward to it and enjoyed
it as many women and men do. Unfortunately, I couldn’t as my mother was an
alcoholic and a raging one at that. All thru my childhood and later when I was
an adult, and especially after my father died when I was 5, things got rough for
myself and my siblings. (As a matter of fact, I do not believe I even met the
real person my mother was – or became – until 6 months before her death when
she became so incapacitated she was no longer able to obtain alcohol by herself
– and thus was dried out by her doctors, and I met this sweet woman I had never
met before.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But
especially during my childhood, she was quite the emotional abuser, and her
mood swings were vast and her meanness differed widely depending on the time of
day and how much she had had to drink. Often she was very harsh in her
judgments, “Well, if you have to say you’re sorry for doing it, you wouldn’t
have done it in the first place….” Didn’t leave much room for self-acceptance,
self-forgiveness, and self-love – much less any of that for others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
so I do not have any loving poems written to my mother, or for her, rather she
was the inspiration for several poems I have written during my continual
healing journey toward my own self-love and wholeness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
MY
SACRED SPACE <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"> I have a place within me</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> it is my sacred space </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">It holds my thoughts, my dreams, my songs</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> no one else's - it is mine and I like it that way,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> in fact - I demand it that way</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">It holds no one else's hopes or truths or joys - just mine</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> so why would anyone else want to take it from me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Oh I speak not of the joy of sharing scared space with</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> loved ones - the hold circle of communion - </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">I tell of the opening of the soul without its permission</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">The incision of a scalpel, so small but sharp, the rendering</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> of my insides without even my permission</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"It is not your right to ask me why or even question how.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> Just accept it as my right since I am so big and you</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> are so small, and obviously don't even know right</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> from wrong."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">But I knew....somehow the little voice inside of me remained and </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> whispered always...."That is a lie. You have the right to your</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> insides, your emotions, and the scared space is yours alone </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> (and mine.)"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">But the knives they did not cease, they sliced thru every day, and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> soon my feelings became the playground of the high and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> mighty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">I was taught the games to please and pleasure the giant</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> (Give her what she wants and maybe I'll get out of this alive!)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">But still the abuse went on, year after year, lie after lie,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> and a part of me slowly began to believe...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">The only good, the only use I have is the playground of this</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> might giant, I have no right to my own emotions, my </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> own scared space</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">My use is to take what she gives me and heal her wounds,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> and sing when she is sad, and laugh when she is mad</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> (to get her out of her ill humor)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And cry when she needs to vent her anger</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> (so she knows she has hurt someone in her pain)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"Oh God" I cry, "Not again, will this never cease?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">It never did, and so I grew up and moved away, and became the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> perfect fool for any and all kings, giants, or anyone with</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> a scalpel</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Yes, I learned my lessons well, keep a smiling face, never let</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> anyone know how you fell, and above all else never, never</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> say no.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">For how could the jester jest if she was in a bad mood or laugh</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> and sing and play the fool if she is having a bad day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"No, you do not have the right to your own emotions,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"> keep them at bay, </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 15.6933px;">especially</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"> when you are on duty every single day."</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"Now be a good jester, people pleaser, whatever, dance and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> sing and play, I need my mood uplifted."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And so it went day after day, year after year....</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> but the little voice within me refused to die</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And quietly its message continued to echo within the scarred and </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> scared passages inside...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"You have the right, the right to your own feelings and emotions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> It is your scared space and mine to share our communion."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And somehow thru the years, thru much giving and loving, and my</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> accepting, the message is ringing clearer and clearer</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Yes, I have the right to my own feelings, my own love, my</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> own laughter, my own giving</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">I give to whom I please, I love whom I please</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> and I know what is you and what is me</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">There is no blurring of the boundaries</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> I know who I AM and stronger and stronger</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And I know who you are outside my healthier</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> walls of self-esteem</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">In fact, I'm okay, I'm growing stronger day by day</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> and I do what I damn well please</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
There is no more open door to my insides, my emotions,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
to do what you will</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I have my own feelings now</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
to do what I will</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
And the little voice inside which has always </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
been my friend....</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I have signed a pact of peace, love</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
and acceptance</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
And we often sit in communication</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
laughing, playing, giggling</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Safe within our scared space of joyous</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
holy communion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Thank you for sharing with us Sue!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"> Enjoy!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Emily </span></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-46292445232019876882016-05-17T20:58:00.000-07:002016-05-17T20:58:35.722-07:00GRANDMA’S AFTERNOON DELIGHT<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoTitle">
Portland, Oregon 2016</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I am an old woman that lives a very generic, vanilla type
lifestyle. I am not wild, adventurous, thrill seeking, or crazy. Well, the jury
may still be out on that last one. The only swinging I have ever done in my
life is on an actual swing at a playground as a child. Even my daily diet is
repetitive, bland, and lackluster. I have always been extremely modest and
conservative. I get up at 6:30 a.m. sharp every morning and go to bed at 11:00 p.m.
every night like clockwork. I walk my dog three miles a day, rain or shine. A
wild day for me would consist of eating a large ice cream cone with sprinkles
on top in place of dinner, drinking a glass of wine, and staying up past
midnight. Jellybeans and Peeps are my guilty pleasures. My life could be aptly
compared to watching grass grow. By the way, sadly, my grass died last summer. I
miss my grass! Most of the time, my life
is routine, unimaginative, predictable, and downright boring. The afternoon of May 5, 2016 certainly proved
to be an exception to the above premise. That Thursday my life bore a striking
resemblance to a scene taken straight out of a sleazy romance novel and I,
Grandma, was the sexy seductress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
This is how it all began, and I promise to tell the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The city of Portland received a $10,000 grant from FEMA to
provide and install 400 Flash-Shake-and-Wake smoke detectors for its hard of
hearing and deaf residents. The State of Oregon notified me of this opportunity
since I am already in possession of a phone for the hearing impaired provided
at no cost by a government agency. I
went online and completed the required application. A Certification of
Eligibility documented by a professional was also required to complete the
process. I printed it off and presented it to my audiologist for his signature.
I am deaf in my right ear due to a disease called otosclerosis. I have lost
almost 70% of the hearing on the left side. I do wear a hearing aid in that ear
and for the most part, it makes me functional in social settings. I also read
lips. At night I remove my aid and sleep on my left side. As a result, I am
incapable of hearing anything including the “wake the dead” decibels produced
by my alarm clock or the smoke detector. If either goes off, my dog dances on
my head to let me know. Therefore, I
jumped at this opportunity. It would not only give me piece of mind, but my
kids as well. They fret over me living alone and not being able to hear alarms.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I was notified by email that I had been approved to
receive the special system and that two firefighters would arrive at my home on
May 5th at 1:00 p.m. to install the equipment. A home safety audit would also
be conducted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
As promised, the firefighters arrived promptly at 1:00 p.m.
As I watched them “strutting their stuff” up the path, my heart skipped a beat.
They both looked oh so “fine” in their uniforms. As the hunks got closer to my
door, I had to catch my breath! They introduced themselves as inspectors
McDreamy and Studmuffin. Up close and personal they were so Hunky Dunky
Do!!! Oh if I was only forty years
younger. I had to reel my wandering mind back into reality. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Inspector McDreamy spoke in an extremely loud voice that I was
sure everyone within a mile of my house could hear. “<b>DOES A HARD OF HEARING PERSON LIVE HERE?” </b>With a dumbfounded look on my face, I
nodded in the affirmative and pointed to myself as a form of identification.
“Smooth move Grandma,” I thought. I knew I still had some game left somewhere,
and I desperately needed it now! He continued speaking at glass breaking
decibels, and I decided to go with the flow and take some Aleve later for the
headache he was giving me. The sensual buzz was gone; negated by the decibel
situation. It just was not very romantic at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I escorted my men friends into my boudoir to set up my
system. I tried to remember the last time I had had two hot men in my room at
the same time. The answer had the same effect as getting a bucket of cold water
dumped on my head. NEVER! OMG, I am so
boring. I was determined that I would not let this opportunity slip through my
fingers! Enthusiasm renewed, I was more than happy to comply with the
firefighters’ next request when he said, “<b>WOULD
YOU PLEASE LIE DOWN ON THE BED FOR US?”</b> He did not have to ask me twice,
and I feverishly leapt onto the bed almost missing my intended mark. He was still yelling, but that was a small
price to pay for the anticipated outcome. Quickly I took an inventory to make
sure I hadn’t hurt myself in my overzealous leap for love. Nothing broken, I
gazed up into their smoldering seductive eyes. The look sent shudders throughout
my body. I thought to myself, “Grandma, this is your lucky day!” I could hear
angels singing and fireworks going off. I lay on the bed in absolute bliss in a
sense of anticipation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The firefighter placed the bed shaker under my mattress.
He activated it and asked in his outdoor voice<b>, “CAN YOU FEEL THE VIBRATIONS?” </b>I shook my head no. He continued
to move the shaker in different positions and persistently inquired, “<b>CAN YOU FEEL IT NOW? HOW ABOUT NOW?”</b>
The answer was still negative. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel the
undulations. I encouraged myself by silently chanting, “Go Grandma, Go
Grandma.” My impure thoughts were making me feel so uncatholic and unchaste. However,
look at the bright side, not in a million years did I ever imagine that I would
be laying on a vibrating bed on a Thursday afternoon with two hot firefighters
standing over me. At my age, it doesn’t get any better than that. I can dream, can’t
I?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Unfortunately, I felt nothing and began to wonder if my
body was half-dead. In the end, we placed the shaker under my pillow. The
firefighter must have sensed my frustration and offered up the excuse that the
mattress was probably too thick. They say as you get older everything on your body
hangs to the south. In my case some of my body has left the country! Now all I
have to look forward to is shaken senior syndrome or whiplash from the
vibrations of the shaker under my pillow. So much for Grandma’s Afternoon
Delight. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The bedroom scene played out we moved on to the safety
check. The firefighters complimented me on my orderly home and talked about
some of the hoarding situations they had seen. “Really guys? We just shared an
intimate rendezvous in the bedroom and all you want to talk about is my orderly
house? I mused. The story of my life! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Before they left, I asked them to take a selfie with me. Good naturedly they agreed. We got up close
and personal, and I felt my sensual buzz reviving. I explained that the picture
was for my senior memoir writing class –proof that I was not fabricating this
story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Inspector McDreamy then asked in his outdoor voice, <b>“ARE ALL THE SENIORS IN YOUR MEMOIR CLASS
LOOPED?”</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Quizzically I replied, “Looped? Heavens no! The last class
of each session we bring food, but other than that the only substance we
consume is water.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
He laughed and said, <b>“LOOPED
AS IN A HEARING LOOP WIRE RUN AROUND THE ROOM HOOKED UP TO A MICROPHONE FOR THE
SPEAKER. IT ENABLES PEOPLE WITH HEARING AIDS TO HEAR MORE CLEARLY.”</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I let out a big sigh of relief as I replied, “In that case
I can honestly say that no one in my class is looped!’ See memoir mates--I
always have your backs!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
As they left, they hugged me and thanked me for a fun
time! I knew I still had game! They said I was one of the nicest women they had
ever met. I asked them to put it in writing as proof, and they did. I was going
to bring it to class, but my dog ate it! Bad dog! This is the true story of Grandma’s almost
afternoon delight! Maybe next week I will call the police department and see
what they can do for Grandma! Until then, back to living the life of an old
lady! <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
--Valerie S. May 9, 2016<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I hope all of you enjoy this, our writing class sure did!</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Thank you Valerie!</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Emily</div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-59403762992073831072016-02-23T12:04:00.002-08:002016-02-25T10:44:01.626-08:00The Elephant Ladies and the Original Sports Stadium Wave<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Did you ever wonder about how college students entertained
themselves at losing football games? About the crazy ideas inspired by youth
and liquid refreshments? Did you ever consider the origin of a very famous
audience participation activity that has become internationally known in team
sports? Well, other sources claim the glory, but this is the real story behind
The Wave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Guest blogger, Don M., a member of my writing class, was gracious to share his
story...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It was September 1972, and I was an 18-year-old freshman at the University of Washington. One the reasons that I attended the college was to watch the football games that I had heard on the radio and had watched on TV but had never attended.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">I not only attended the game, but in a few years, I would be part of initiating something that people see every day at stadiums throughout the world. It was the original stadium wave where the crowd stands up in unison to create a wave-like motion throughout the stadium. The UW student section also witnessed a herd of Elephant Ladies along with the wave.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Several so called "cheerleaders", like crazy George of the Oakland Athletics baseball team in 1981, claim to have actually organized this phenomena, but just like <i>Animal House</i>, the movie about a rowdy college fraternity, it was a bunch of drunken students that actually started the famous sports stadium wave. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">I'm surprised that the 10,000+ students during the 1973-74 Husky Football season have not risen in unison to tell the world about the famous Sports Stadium Wave's actual conception.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">After the 1972 Sonny Sixkiller era, a Cherokee Indian Quarterback, the team went into several losing seasons before Don James was hired as the football coach in 1975. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The students kept chanting, "Fire Jim Owens! Fire Jim Owens!" They even wore buttons to promote the firing of then Coach Jim Owens.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Rob Weller, the lead cheerleader, now a reporter for the Home Garden Network, wanted to quiet the drunken student crowd form yelling at Coach Owens. Weller and the cheerleaders controlled the angry crowd with laughter from the student section by creating and seeking amateur comic routines from anyone and everyone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">One of the most requested routines was created by one of the lady band members who did her famous Elephant Lady routine. The marching band uniform had a large zipper in the front of the pants and also large white pockets, so when you turned the pockets inside out, they looked like large elephant ears. The co-ed band member, named Elephant Lady, would turn her pants pockets inside out to form the elephant ears, and then she would stick her hand and arm through the zipper opening which was supposed to look like the trunk of the elephant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The Elephant Lady was pleased with her new "trunk" and said that her trunk could do all sorts of tricks. She proudly stuck both arms through the zipper and announced that her female species of elephant had two trunks. She would then show off her two trunks by doing new tricks at each football game, like juggling or somehow playing her saxophone. The Elephant Lady then started to recruit more elephant ladies form the band until there was a herd of elephant ladies who had all sorts of tricks and magic that they could perform with their trunks. As the losing season went along, the football team got worse, but the team and herd of UW band elephant ladies got better and saved the football season.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The Elephant Lady kept the student section laughing during the 1973 season and saved Coach Jim Owens' job that year. Most of the elephant ladies graduated in 1974, so without their distractions for the students, the Tyee Alumni asked that Jim Owens also graduate into retirement at the end of that year. He was fired.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Another activity to calm the rowdy student section was the famous "brown bag check". Each student section was designated by different season ticket colors. The 10 yard to the end zone tickets were white, the 10 to 25 yard section was green, the 25 to 40 yard section was gold, and the 40 to 50 yard section was purple.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Most of the students had brought alcohol into the stadium, as long as it was in a "brown bag" to be discrete. Then it was generally accepted because there was honor among thieves in the student section; we all looked out for each other to make sure that a friend didn't go too overboard with drinking.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Stan and I were friends since childhood, and as UW students we did our part with the preparation of our bottle-in-a-brown-bag by getting the cheapest and most powerful alcohol to sneak in and to blend it with a large bottle of Pepsi or Coke to create his semi-like cherry cola that tasted more like bad cough syrup, but we didn't care because it got us to be a couple of cheap drunks by the second quarter. We would get a bottle of Mogen David 20/20 from our friend JP who had a fake ID. Mogen David is widely known as "Mad Dog". Originally, the "20/20" stood for 20 ounces at 20% alcohol by volume. Currently, MD 20/20 is neither sold in 20 ounce bottles nor at 20%, but is actually about 13-18% depending upon the flavor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">After the band played the song "Tequila", Rob Weller would start to ask each section to stand and raise their brown bags to see how many students were drinking. Each section would stand, cheer and "wave" their brown bags.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Weller would say, "How about the green section???!!! And the green section of about 3,000 students would stand, cheer and wave their brown bags. Weller would then say, "How about the purple section???!!!. That section, also about 3,000 students, would stand, cheer, and wave.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Once, Weller just happened to ask the white section near the end-zone, then he asked the adjacent green section, then the gold and finally the purple section, which ended up being in sequence form the end zone to the 50-yard line at mid-field. He started laughing and said that this sequential brown bag check made that side of the stadium look like a "wave", and then he started to ask the student section to repeat the born bag check in the same sequence, but to do it faster.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">He shouted "white, then green, then gold, then purple". He paused for a moment and laughed as he continued with "white, then green, then gold, then purple, then white, then green, then gold, then purple". He began to sound like a train engineer conducting this stadium wave with his cheering directions and laughing over the microphone and large speakers.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Soon Rob started to organize the wave onthe north side of the stadium with the student "brown bag check".</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">In the 1970's, the NCAA would allow student section leaders to have huge speakers to lead the students with their cheers. These speakers were like the ones used on aircraft carriers which are six-feet in diameter. Rob had the cheerleaders turn the west side speaker toward the closed bowl of the stadium so half of the crowd could now understand what was being organized. After the crowd saw the student wave and heard the instructions on the west-end speaker, gradually the rest of the stadium caught on and the wave started from the student section and continued all the way over to the south end toward the alumni section, the Tyees.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">If someone at KOMO TV station in Seattle could find some 1974 archive of the "Husky Highlight" films, the old Jim Owens TV show with the KOMO sports anchor Bruce King, then you would see the wave in the background.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The University of Washington tries to hide the real origin of the wave by stating that the band director along with Rob Weller, then retired, came back in 1981 to organize a method for The Wave with instructions and everything, but it was, in truth, a bunch of drunken students who accidentally and proudly raised their bottles in brown bags to form the original stadium crowd wave along with the ghost of the past herd of elephant ladies playing tricks with their trunks of the previous year.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">It was not in 1981, but it was back in the dark, losing Husky days of 1973-74.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">-- Don M. (Class of 1978)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Thank you Don!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Enjoy!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Emily</span></span></div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-46991686682663145922015-06-15T19:11:00.005-07:002015-06-15T19:12:31.432-07:00A Farewell Tribute to My Love by Valerie S.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Attractions can be very strong, almost to the
point of obsession. Most of us show a
strong need to have someone or something in our life that is hard to leave
behind. Valerie tells us of her past love, and the strong hold it had on her.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A Farewell Tribute to My Love<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Love can make you do anything,
including sacrifice for what would be better in the end. Everything seems
brighter, happier, and wonderful when you are in love. It is an unconditional
affection with no limits. The feeling it generates warms your heart and brings
you serenity. It is a powerful word and not to be tossed about flippantly.
Alfred Lord Tennyson’s renowned quote states, “It is better to have loved and
lost than never to have loved at all.” This is my love story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">It all began some 40 years ago. The
first encounter was definitely not some tawdry prearranged clandestine lust
filled rendezvous. It was not like that with us and never developed into
anything of the sort. Our love was pure
and irreproachable. From the very first time, I touched my lips to his mouth and
tasted his sweetness, I knew. My resolve recklessly abandoned me like a lost
balloon jerked from a child’s hand by a violent gust of wind. The chemistry between us was instantaneous.
The bond was undeniable. For the next
forty years, he would be by my side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">According to society’s dictated
criterions of attractiveness, he would never attain a position or honorable
mention in the category labeled “beautiful people.” That never mattered to me. It was not about
looks and it never had been. He was a short man with a barrel like chest. This
feature made him seem even shorter and stouter. His rather short neck sat atop
his plump chest giving him an almost comical look. Yet every time I saw him, I was not looking at
the outward appearance, but instead blinded by the bright light of his
intrinsic value and what he brought into my life. It was powerful and all
consuming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">He was not a charmer in any sense of
the word, but his presence was seductive and compelling. He unfalteringly
remained at my side through thick and thin over the many years we were
together. He picked me up when I was
down. He always came eagerly when I reached out for him and never a harsh word
passed between us. When life overwhelmed me, I turned to him for comfort. When
I was exhausted, his fortitude propelled me forward. He was my constant in an
unpredictable universe. He was very altruistic never requesting or demanding
anything in return. It was all about me! It was always that way. He was my everything.
I often chuckled aloud as I playfully referred to him as my guilty pleasure!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">He was my constant and faithful
companion. Friends and family often joked that we were like conjoined twins:
but our relationship was far from symbiotic. I was incapable of providing him
the same level of gratification and comfort that I greedily usurped from his being.
He never once complained! He unconditionally accepted me for who I was. Not one
iota of judgment or reproach ever crossed his lips. He was my safe port on a
stormy day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">It was not always as idyllic as it
sounds. Over the years, I ended things with him on several occasions. During these interludes, I thought about him
repeatedly almost to the point of being obsessive. My friends and family would
encourage me to move forward and not look back.
It was easy for them to minimize his importance in MY life. If
circumstances reversed, their viewpoint might be totally altered. So time after time, I summoned him back into my
life and as submissively as he always departed, he returned. Once again, all
was right with my world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">There came a point in my life were I
was beginning to realize that the liaison was dysfunctional and not in my best
interest. This time was different from the times before that I had half
heartily terminated things. The stakes were higher and the end payoff
indisputably greater. Our last night together was bittersweet. I conveyed to
him with emotionally charged sentiment how much he had meant to me over the
years. I thanked him from the depths of my heart for being my rock, my anchor,
(and chuckling) my guilty pleasure. He sat quietly before me taking it all in
and as always, he remained the ultimate consummate gentleman. “I love you, “I gushed. “You will always be a
part of me. That will never change. We shared the good times together and
weathered many a storm. I will not forget you. ““What you and I shared is
priceless, “I blurted all this out my eyes blinded by tears. There was no more talk and gently caressing
him, we walked to the door for our final goodbye. He was gone. This time it was
forever!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Many a time, I have found myself
frequenting our favorite haunts in hopes that I might catch a glimpse of him.
My intention is not to reunite, but just to absorb the energy his essence
exudes. It is comparable to basking in the sunshine and soaking up that
wonderful warm feeling. It radiates to your heart and soul touching every part
of your body giving you that inviting restful sensation. Many times our paths
have crossed in these familiar settings. I always keep my distance and make
sure that he is not aware of my presence. I do this not out of respect for him,
but the temptation of being so close in proximity is just too risky for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">There are times when I observe him
from afar just hanging out doing his own thing. More often than not, he is in
the company of other women. I have witnessed them putting their lips on his
mouth. That enrages me. I must summon up all my resolve so that I do not sprint
over there and angrily wrench him away from the arms of his current hussy. With
heart racing, quivering knees and my lips yearning for a taste of his sweet
mouth, I turn and leave. I have avoided the temptation yet once again. It has
been over a year since our last fateful night and my paramount desire for him
is slowly ebbing away. I am no longer the captain of his ship and I must leave
him to steer his own course no matter where it transports him or how distant
the land. As the saying goes, “all good things must come to an end.” We sure had
one heck of a run!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ONE FINAL ADIEU
FROM ME TO YOU</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Goodbye my love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Farewell my love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">The time has come to part ways
forevermore <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Hence I must bid you my final adieu!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">I will miss you every day,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">My thoughts will often be of you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Time heals all wounds, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">At least that is what I hope to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">This parting of ways had to be,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">All my friends and family agree!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Time to move on<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Time to let go<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">A few last shared thoughts before I
go, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">I hope will ease the pain if I let
you know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I will remember the time spent with
you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I will remember the memories old and
new.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">But most of all,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I will always remember you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Goodbye my love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Farewell my love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">This is my final adieu. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">It was never meant to be<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">We both know destiny stepped in and
parted you and me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">xoxoxoxoxo<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Please join me as I raise my glass
in a toast to pay homage one last time to my lost love…</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt;">Diet Pepsi. <span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2015<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Enjoy,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Emily</span></div>
</h1>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-22681442538482322722015-06-05T23:16:00.000-07:002015-06-05T23:16:05.646-07:00CRAZY GLUE AND ME<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><b>The
things man invents! Does everything have
both a good side as well as an evil side? No doubt you can find many situations
where some invention has its pluses and minuses. Such love-hate relationships!</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CRAZY GLUE AND ME<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s a crazy
relationship, that little tube and me. Whenever we meet I always get the short
end of the stick, in other words, I loose big time! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was early
in the 1970’s the first time I saw the commercial of the guy in a hard hat
hanging from a steel girder; I knew that was for me. There were so many things to repair, but my
savior definitely had other ideas as we entered into the love-hate relationship
that we still enjoy today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Remembering
the thrill of the hunt as I headed into the hardware store on my quest for the
magical fixer, my stomach takes a turn as visions of embarrassing and painful
moments flash before me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was a
lovely sunny morning in Salt Lake City and my partner and I had just won a
doubles tennis match which left me feeling able to conquer anything. Rushing home to shower and change in time to
teach my Weight Watcher class at 11:00 always gave me a lift, but today was
special. Tennis partner Caroline and I finally found our rhythm, and we trounced
our nemesis for the first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I showered
and dried my hair, grabbed a quick snack and went to get dressed. Reaching for
the closet door I accidentally hit the door with my forefinger and broke my
fingernail halfway down the nail bed. It really hurt, and I knew that a Band-Aid
was not going to do the trick. I needed a quick fix and thought – CRAZY GLUE! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I ran to the
garage to get my tube of glue and went into the bathroom to find my bottle of
acetone polish remover. I took off my robe as I didn’t want to get any acetone
on it. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, dressed in panties and bra, hesitating
before starting to remove the polish, figuring this was going to hurt, but it
had to be done. I screamed as the acetone hit my bleeding nail. I heard a
scratching on the bathroom door. Sure enough there was Mitzi our little
Pomeranian-terrier mix who came to see why I was making all that noise. Leaving
the door open so she could watch would eliminate her scratching the door as she
always did. So she sat in the doorway and watched me finishing with the
acetone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When
finished I returned it to the cupboard under the sink. Sitting back down on the
bathtub and crossing my legs to raise my hand by laying it on my knee, Mitzi
barked at me. Could this dog be trying to tell me something? I opened the tube and as directed broke the
seal, where upon it spewed glue into the air which promptly landed on my hand
gluing it firmly to my knee. Reaching for a towel while still holding the tube
of glue, it spewed again going between knees. Trying to wipe it up before
anything stuck was not a smooth move. There I sat on the edge of the bathtub
with a hand towel stuck to my knees, my knees stuck together, with a hand stuck
on the top of my knee and a broken nail throbbing after contact with acetone
and glue. I reached under the sink for the bottle of acetone and screamed with
pain as my legs could not decide which one was going to relinquish its skin.
Mitzi started barking and dancing up and down, and I was trying to figure out
how in the heck I was going to get unstuck and make it to my class in a half an
hour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rolling off
the bathtub would put me close enough to the door of the cupboard so off I went
and just remembering the pain makes me want to cry. Screaming and crying
brought the dancing dog to lick my face, then she licked my hand and the taste
of the glue made her stop and the look on her face said, “Lady you’re on your
own”, as she backed up to the door and promptly sat down on the threshold,
where she would look at me shake her head then let out a bark. I really think
she was laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I made it to
the cupboard door and low and behold I was lying on my left side where I landed
on my arm, which was the only mobile one, and commenced trying to get my arm from
under my body which meant a lot of screaming and barking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Finally my
arm was free but there was barely enough room to open the door and hopefully
enough room to pull the bottle of acetone through. Yeah, just barely made it,
but now what? In order to save the carpeting meant getting into the bathtub. I
didn’t know if there was enough acetone in the bottle to do the job and didn’t
want to waste any. I practiced some self-hypnosis, a technique that I had
learned when pregnant. Soon I was in the bathtub with a lot of screaming and
barking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was a
long process of dripping acetone between my knees until I finally pulled them
apart with out loss of skin, it just hurt like hell. Next came my hand. Noticing
that my nail was glued and that it looked stable gave me some comfort. All told
it took 45 minutes to become unstuck. I called the Weight Watcher Center and
told them I had a little accident and would be delayed for another 15 minutes.
I was told that was okay because there was a full house and they were still
weighing and checking in. After finally arriving in one piece, the first thing
the clerk said to me as I reached for the check-in cards, “Lee what happened to
the polish on your nail?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Strange,” I
said, “It came off in the bathtub.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Over the
years, due to Super Glue, I have had so many things stuck to other things that
had no business sticking to those things. There are spots on cabinets and
dressers where paint and finishes are gone because I had to chisel something
off their surface.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While visiting
my with my son in England, once again I was confronted with my old enemy. Reaching for something in a cupboard, I broke
a fingernail down to the quick, again! A search turned up a tube of the English
version of Crazy Glue, but this time I would be smart and hold my hand over the
sink. This tube had been opened, and now we had glue hardened at the opening
and nothing wanted to come out. I found a pin and poked the opening. I squeezed, nothing, squeezed again this time
really hard. Once again the spewing glue found its way between my fingers and
the one finger trying to hold my fingernail in place. Trying to lift my middle finger from my
forefinger was useless. At least I had a thumb and little finger to try and grab
something. But there was nothing to grab, since my son doesn’t wear polish; he
had no need for acetone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Learning the
hard way that polish remover without acetone does not remove crazy glue, I set
out for the neighbor next door in hopes that she would have some acetone. Hope
was dashed when she looked at my hand and burst out laughing. She shook her
head and explained that she just goes to the nail salon in the village and they
take care of all the messy stuff. She would have offered to drive me to the
village but her car was in the shop. I was getting frantic as it was nearing
time to leave for my appointment with the counselor. Maybe the counselor could
tell me why I continued to have long fingernails, which on occasion brought me
nothing but pain and embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While
waiting for my son Chris to arrive I tried every thing imaginable. Running hot
water over my skin until I couldn’t stand it any more did nothing but give me
red skin that hurts. Chris soon arrived and in his military problem-solving
manor, assessed the situation and told me he would be right back. He took off
and in 15 minutes was back with a bottle of acetone from the salon in the
village. It took about ten minutes to get me unstuck, and off we went to the
counselor. Of course we were late, but he delivered me to the door, stating to
the counselor “Sorry I was late, it took me longer than I thought to unglue her,
and she can explain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Of course
she laughed!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The next day
I was at the salon in the village having my nail repaired and all my nails
filed shorter than they had been in years, and yes she laughed!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was just
two weeks ago that after noticing that there was a crack in a cup handle I
thought that this time I would be smart and not have my fingers any where near
the glue except to hold the tube. I
turned the cup upside down on my wooden worktable and squeezed the little tube.
Not only did it come out of the tip but it came out of the side and right
between my fingers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I ran to get
my acetone and fifteen minutes later freed the tube from my fingers. While checking
the cup handle, it was apparent that the glue had hit the crack, and it looked
good. About an hour later as I walked by the table, I grabbed the cup, and it
felt like my arm came out of its socket. The cup was firmly attached to the
table. Looking closer I could see that a line of glue ran down from the handle
and worked its way around the rim. Using a very thin knife and working my way
around the rim, I freed the cup without using acetone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is my
firm belief that Crazy Glue is inherently evil. It was invented by some
demented person to insure that innocent people like me will suffer the pain and
humiliation of thinking they can actually fix something with Crazy Glue. Except
for my fingers it has never adhered to something I wanted to repair as advertised.
How they got that guy in the steel hat to hang from that girder was a trick!
The warning label should read, sticks only to human skin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is my
fervent hope that if someone is reading this in a hundred years, they can
benefit from my disasters or maybe crazy glue now comes in a spew-proof tube,
or some genius invented anti-glue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lee V.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">April 25, 2015<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thank you Lee!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Enjoy,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Emily<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-35455430005938273202015-06-05T22:12:00.003-07:002015-06-06T00:03:04.445-07:00Embarrassing Moments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Many of us have had
an occasion or two to embarrass ourselves. There's the "open-mouth-insert-foot"
comment that totally mortifies you, and sometimes the
"curiosity-killed-the-cat" situation which leaves you smelling more like
a dead cat. AND, of course, we cannot just embarrass ourselves in
private...we need an audience!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh No!!!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
We all like to retain our composure but sometimes life has a way of bringing us
back to earth; sometimes with an embarrassing jolt. There are a few things that
have happened to me that can still bring a blush to my face when I think of
them. These are a few of them although I’m sure there are many more. <br />
<br />
Early in my marriage I embarrassed myself in front of my new Mother-in-law. I
liked Mrs. Kelley and wanted her to get to know my mom better, so we were all
having lunch together on the patio. It’s funny how I can still remember where I
was sitting and what was on my plate when I recall the incident. We were
getting along just fine when I asked my mother for some advice on how to make
gravy. I grew up on nice smooth broth-based gravy. I didn’t know how to cook
too well at this time. "Mom, how do you make gravy?" I asked.
"Jerry makes the worst lumpy, thick, white gravy I ever tasted." Then
I went on to describe his method. He added flour to the frying pan after we had
fried chicken, stirred it around until it was a gooey mess then put in milk and
pepper. Ugh, it was horrible. "Tell me how to make good gravy." <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mrs Kelley spoke up and said very
emphatically "That’s how I make gravy, and it’s good" I was
embarrassed, but she was mad. After a beat or two of silence my mother
interjected that there were two methods to gravy making, and that I should try both.
I was so embarrassed and "Mom Kelley" was ready to go home right
then. Nothing I said could smooth it over, and she thought I was making fun of
her ways. I still turn red when I think of it.<br />
<br />
<br />
The next incident happened years later. I was on a camping trip with my husband
and another couple. We had known each other for years and although she was a
little cautious and I was impulsive, we had a great time together. We were
going to Eastern Oregon for fishing and camping, and had stopped in a small
town to eat lunch. My friend and I were in the restroom washing up. While
drying my hands I noticed a perfume machine on the wall. "Oh gosh," I
exclaimed. "They have a perfume dispenser just like the one we had when I
was in high school." <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Don’t mess around." she
uttered from her booth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Oh but this is one of those
that dispense tiny glass vials of perfume, I haven’t seen one for years."
I was taken back to my teen years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Don’t touch it," she
ordered. She was still in the booth. Huh, she has a lot of nerve ordering me
around. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Oh look it even has Chanel
Number 5." I was very taken with it although I didn’t wear perfume at all.
I was definitely going to explore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Just leave thing alone"
she told me. Well I don’t like people telling me what to do and besides what
was the harm. I wanted that tiny pencil shaped sample of perfume for old-times
sake. I didn’t have a quarter and she wasn’t giving me one. What was taking her
so long anyway? After digging through my purse I did find one and inserted it
quickly like a naughty kid before she could stop me. Nothing came out, and I
was trying to see how it worked, trying to figure out where it came out, I
stooped down to see where the perfume was when it sprayed me right in the face
and mouth. Yipes! I rushed to the sink to try and wash out my mouth, and get
the yucky smelling junk off my face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In the meantime of course Dee
showed no sympathy. "Why couldn’t you just leave it alone." The more
I rubbed water on my face the worse it reeked. Don’t say anything I warned her
as we made our way back to the table. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
"Boy you guys sure took a long
time" our husbands said. We ordered and began to eat when they started
asking what that horrible smell was. It was on my blouse and I guess some in my
hair. Well we told our story and got a good laugh, but we rode with the windows
down the rest of the way, and the smell stayed with me for a long time, saturating
the tent and me for most of the trip. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
Dede K.</div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
Apr 2015</div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Thank you Dede.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Enjoy,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Emily</div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-51856983793300094302015-06-05T21:51:00.000-07:002015-06-05T21:51:38.009-07:00Finders Keepers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>All of us lose or
misplace items and much more as we age. We have experienced the panic and
frustration as we tear throughout house trying to locating the missing
item. This story will ring true for many
of us, but hopefully, not to this degree.
<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Originally, this
memory was written in two parts but is presented here in full.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Finders Keepers...<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know the rest…Losers weepers. I’m weeping. Not really
weeping, but I am a sore loser. Let me tell you my sad tale. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This summer Jerry and I celebrated our 50<sup>th </sup>Anniversary.
We went on a cruise to Alaska with relatives and friends. It was an exciting
trip, and one I’ll never forget. I will tell you about the cruise at another
time. It’s what happened after the cruise that has made me a loser. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day before the trip Jerry and I decided we had too much
cash on hand to carry around on the ship. We had an extra $700 dollars, so I
said, "I’ll take it down the basement and hide it.’’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was fine with hubby so off I went. I was very busy
getting ready to leave the next day, packing, watering plants, making phone
calls, and going through the bills. I realize now that there were too many
things on my mind. Everything went smoothly the next day, and off we went. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We arrived home seven glorious days later. We went to a cook
out the next day then I came down with a summer cold and was sick for two or
three days. It was a week later when I finally remembered the cash. Imagine my
surprise when I went to the basement only to discover that I couldn’t find it.
I looked in the places I thought it should be, but no luck. Therefore, I looked
some more, no money. For the next several hours, I searched in earnest. My
basement is my former workroom and office. I keep all my card making and art
supplies there too. I looked in and under everything that is movable. In tiny
boxes of screws and nails, in my ribbons, under the radio, in cans of buttons,
in all my books, through my sewing supplies, in and under my sewing machines,
through my files, and in photo boxes. I tore my desk apart many times; I looked
behind the pictures on the wall and my calendar. I went upstairs and came back
down thinking the hiding place would occur to me. My recollection of hiding the
money was nil. Nothing. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The third afternoon, I finally asked Jerry what we did with
the $700 dollars we had because I wanted to deposit in the bank. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"You hid it don’t you remember?" <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"No I don’t remember." <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to confess that I couldn’t find it. I have spent the
last week trying to find that darn money. Day after day I looked. I tried
putting it out of my mind. I tried sleeping on it, but no luck. I took all the
envelopes out of the wastebasket and held them to the light. I went outside and
went through the recycling, still no money. I don’t like to think of myself as
a loser but what can I say? I’ve looked and looked and looked. I told my
husband that maybe I will have to get hypnotized. He thinks I’m joking, but I
am not. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point I have looked upstairs, downstairs, in the
laundry room, and through both storerooms. I have looked in all our pockets in
the closet and through all my purses.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have not told my kids yet. I‘m afraid they will think I’m
losing my memory, but I’m sure that’s not the case. I still remember my
appointments and what people said to me yesterday and last week. Where is that
money? I am leaving a folded one-dollar bill on my desk as a magnet. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be continued…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Where’s the money?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
It’s the third week in August and I am still looking for my hidden $700
dollars. By now, I have gradually told the kids. They have come up with some
very devious places to hide things, but none of them has panned out. I haven’t
let any of them actually look for it, but I have taken their suggestions. By
now, I just look every two or three days, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that
I am not going to find that darn money, but it‘s like something you just can‘t
let go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day, after another fruitless search, it occurred to me
that maybe Jerry had found the money early on and was playing a trick on me.
After all, he has been saying for years that he would pay me back sometime for
the "laxative in the brownies" incident. He had been much calmer
about the lost money than he usually was about things. He just kept saying,
"It will turn up sooner or later. This wasn’t like him. So one day when my
youngest daughter, Jenny was there, I confronted him with this idea. I knew he
would fess up and have a good laugh with a witness. <u>No, he didn’t have it.</u>
Well, that was the end of that theory. I was kind of disappointed to tell the
truth. OK, the money is gone. Forget about it. That is it, I decided. <br />
<br />
In the very beginning of September my son, Tom came for a visit with his
girlfriend Joanna, and her daughter, Candice. We spent the weekend shopping for
clothes and things for her college dorm. Tom spent the nights searching for the
money. The last night they were there Joanna and her daughter asked if they
could search. "Go right ahead", I replied I’ll just stay here and
have a cup of coffee. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They had only been searching a short while before I decided
to join them in the basement, curiosity you know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Did you hide the money
because you thought someone was going to break in while you were gone or did
you just tuck it away until you got home?" Joanna asked me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I just tucked it away." <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Oh that’s a completely different story they
said." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They began to search superficially. It wasn’t five minutes before
Candice reached in a basket and said, "could this be it?’ She held up a
bank envelope. Oh my gosh! I opened it and there was my money. After the
hooting and hollering, we told the guys. We jumped around and celebrated for a
while. It was unbelievable. That darn money was in a basket that I had looked
in more than once. It was pushed up under the rim. Jerry gave her a fifty-dollar
reward. <br />
<br />
People have asked me if I remembered putting it there, but I can honestly say I
don’t remember hiding it at all.<br />
<br />
My kids were a little disappointed that they didn’t get a chance at the reward.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
Dede K.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">2015</span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thank you for sharing Dede!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Enjoy,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Emily</span></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-66800332733757784562015-05-17T12:34:00.000-07:002015-05-17T12:34:00.217-07:00The Great Depression and World War II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Jeanne has once again graced us with her memories. Thank you for sharing!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>The Great Depression and World
War II</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the past week I’ve been watching “The Roosevelts” on TV,
Ken Burns’ latest serial about American life.
I was born in December of 1934, and FDR was the president throughout my
childhood. The events portrayed were
happening as I grew up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until I was
seven we lived in Northeast Portland.
The Great Depression was apparent everywhere around us. Fortunately, my dad always had a good job; we
lived in a nice house and had plenty to eat.
That wasn’t true for some of our extended family. I remember my mom making food boxes for my
dad to deliver to aunts and cousins who had no work. There were abandoned houses in our
neighborhood because families had to move out due to the lack of
employment. Almost every day single men
would knock on our door and ask my mother if they could work for food. Sometimes she had no work for them but fed
them anyway. They would sit on our front
steps, balancing a plate on their knees and silently eat whatever she served
them. I was four or five years old and very curious about these people, but I
don’t remember them acknowledging me in any way. It seemed to me they were slightly
embarrassed by their circumstances.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One time
when I was riding in the car with my dad we stopped at a light and there on the
corner was an older woman, sitting on a couch with all her belongings piled
around her. I had never seen such a
thing. When I inquired about it my dad
said she had been evicted by the sheriff because she didn’t pay her rent. I asked my dad where she would go. He didn’t seem too concerned or interested, but
I was very upset by it. When I was
older, I realized he must have seen similar circumstances all the time as he
drove around Portland.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In April of
’42 my parents bought a house in the country.
We sat on a hill overlooking Tigard, Bull Mountain and the Coast Range
mountains. At that time we were really
out in the country; all the growth in that area occurred after the war. I think my parents moved there because people
believed there was a real threat of the Japanese invading the west coast or at
least bombing the cities. No one knew
what might happen, and people and the government became very irrational as
witnessed by the interment of the innocent Japanese-American citizens.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In school
we learned what to do in a bombing raid (get under the desk; stay away from
windows) and were paired with another student who lived very close to school so
we could go to their house with them if there was time. I decided right away that I would run the
mile to my house rather than be with strangers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every
residential area was assigned a Fire Marshall for their district. This was a neighbor who came around periodically
to make sure you had a bucket of sand, a shovel and a fire extinguisher in case
of an incendiary bomb attack. No outside
lights were allowed at night and windows were covered with blackout shades so
no light was visible from the outside.
Car travel at night was restricted, and cars that must be out had
special headlight shades installed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All kinds
of good were rationed and some weren’t available at all. Meat, sugar, butter, and coffee all required
ration stamps to purchase as did shoes, tires and gasoline. Many people had Victory Gardens.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We observed
more signs of war as time went on: convoys of hundreds of Army trucks and jeeps
going form Camp Adair near Corvallis to Fort Lewis, squadrons of bombers coming
and going from who knows where.
Everything was “Top Secret”. “Loose Lips Sink Ships” was the motto of the
day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One day my four-year-old brother
was playing outside by himself. He came
tearing into the house, his eyes huge.
He pulled on my mother’s clothes, “Mama, mama, look! There’s ……..somethin’!?
The “somethin’” was a huge blimp form the Tillamook Naval Air Station handing
right over the house so low my mother said you could clearly see the people
inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an interesting
and scary time. Then we entered another scary
time when school kids once again had to practice for attacks. It was called “The
Cold War.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
Jeanne R.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
1 Oct 2014<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-86073908468767979422015-05-17T12:02:00.000-07:002015-05-17T12:02:09.825-07:00Sewing Struggles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Once again, we have a guest writer from my writing class in town. This class is not designed to make published writers, but to share childhood memories and family stories with their descendants. Thank you Jeanne for your contribution! I'm sure there are many others who feel the same way about sewing.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sewing
Struggles<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t
sew. Oh, I can mend a tear and sew on a
button or shorten a skirt by hand. As a
kid, I learned to darn socks and embroider dish towels. But I can’t sew on a sewing machine, and I’ve
always admired those who can. They seem
to me miraculously blessed with great talent.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When I was in grade school there
was a class called “Home Ec” for girls only. (Boys took what was known as shop.) One semester of Home Ec was devoted to sewing
and one to kitchen skills. During
kitchen skills we made biscuits, learned how to set a table and what R.S.V.P.
meant and what to do about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
During the sewing term we learned
how to hem flour sack dish towels and operate a sewing machine. In the Home Ec room at Multnomah School there
were rows of treadle sewing machines, leftovers from the 1930s. Because of the war, new machines were not
made during the 40’s. A treadle machine is powered by feet rather than
electrically and the faster you “treadle” the faster the needle goes up and down. It’s like rubbing your stomach and patting
your head at the same time. I never
could coordinate these movements. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My mother had an electric machine
which she rarely used. When I was in
high school I tried sewing on it and even cut out a dress from a pattern, but
the thread kept tangling and the machine kept stalling. I kept going into frustrated crying jags so
my dad urged me to quit. He tactfully
told me what a good cook and baker I was and that I should further develop my
kitchen skills. I’m sure he was trying
to protect the household from my emotional outbursts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lately, I have had thoughts of
buying a machine and learning to sew.
I’d love to learn. But, on the
other hand, would it make sense financially to invest in a machine at my age? Could I possibly get my money’s work out of
it? AND, I don’t like to go on emotional
tears anymore so I’ll probably stick with kitchen skills. If you have thoughts for me on this,
R.S.V.P. I know what it means!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Jeanne
R.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;">
12
Nov 2014</div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-81871406537352335282014-11-13T15:36:00.000-08:002014-11-13T15:36:46.572-08:00Thank You, Mr. Bell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Once again, we have a wonderful story by a guest writer form my local class in Portland. You may recognize her from some previous blog posts. Lee adds wonderful humor in her writing and definitely has had some great experiences! I hope you enjoy this piece.</div>
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Thank You, Mr. Bell<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jerry
Seinfeld was ranting about some of the things in everyday life that perplexed
him. It’s funny how he makes you think of things that annoy but can make you
laugh. It reminded me of some of my life’s funniest moments that have happened on
the telephone. Some sad and tragic news has also come along those wires;
however, where would we be without it?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Remember
the days of going to the neighbors to use the telephone because it was the only
one in the neighborhood? And now I have three in my four room apartment, and,
of course, I can never find one when it is ringing. I often wonder if Mr. Bell
knows what he started those many years ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It took my
mother a while to believe that the phone didn’t ring only in times of disaster.
The telephone brought a call to inform my mother of the death of her
younger brother. It was a freak accident while he was driving from
Pennsylvania to California. Then there was the call from the coast guard to
inform us my father and uncle had been rescued at sea. We knew they were late
coming home from their fishing trip, but we didn't know they were adrift at
sea. However, the telephone could be a very handy thing for my mother. She
could call my friends on the phone and tell me it was time to come home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I
reached my teenage years I discovered the art of talking endlessly and not
saying anything to my friends who did the same. The sole purpose being to
irritate my parents, and this I learned when I had teenagers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In my later
years I found the phone a nuisance but necessary in my business as an interior
designer. I spent most of my days on the
phone with clients and vendors. One day a salesperson appeared at my office
begging five minutes of my time. “I have the perfect solution for people on the
go, you will love this.” was his opening line. He opened his brief case and
pulled out a telephone that was at least a foot long and big enough that my hand
could barely fit around. It weighed at least two pounds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“This is a car phone. It will allow
you to keep in touch with your office whenever you are on the road. You can
conduct business from your car. It’s fantastic!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’re
joking,” I replied. “The only time during the day that I have any peace and
quiet and time to think creatively is when I am in my car. Thanks but no
thanks!” The look on his face was non-believing. “<o:p></o:p></div>
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“How could I not want the latest
thing? Any body who is anybody will have one!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I guess I am nobody,” was my
reply.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two day’s later I entered a
client’s home with a key. She was at work in the Portland Mayor’s office and
had called to say she would not turn on the alarm if I wanted to go in and
measure the windows. Of course she forgot and turned on her alarm. It was so
loud that it was rattling the windows and hurt my ears. I ran to the neighbors
on both sides of the house and across the street, but no one was home. I waited
in my car for the police to come, and about twenty of the longest minutes of my
life later, a patrol car pulled up. “Should I arrest you for breaking and
entering or noise pollution?” he asked with a grin. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He went in the house, turned off
the alarm and explained that he got the code from the alarm company. He told me
to finish my business and lock the door on the way out. He also told me that he
knew my client well and had responded several times to her alarm. He called her
at work, and her office informed him that she was chairing a committee meeting
on the escalation of home burglaries in the Portland area. We had a good laugh
and then he said, “Too bad you don’t have one of those new car phones, you
could have called the police”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One night
after a dinner out with friends, I came home about 10:00 and since it was too
early for bed, I settled on the couch to catch some television. The phone rang
and when I answered a quavering voice said, “I would like to make a
pledge.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I told her
she had the wrong number and we both hung up. I turned to OPB, and sure enough
it was pledge week. My phone number was 245-2345. The pledge number was 245-2346,
and I usually got a call or two during pledge week. About 10 minutes later the
phone rang again. It was the same quivering voice wanting to make a pledge. Again
I told her she had the wrong number and this time she apologized profusely, but
before hanging up I explained that she wanted a six instead of a five.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few
minutes later the phone rang again. This time I had pen and paper ready, and I
took her pledge information. Then she told me the story of how she had been
calling the wrong number and a very nice lady answered and gave her the right
number. After we hung up I called in her pledge and mine, and I have been an
OPB member ever since.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was
summer and the weather had been great. I told my crew that I wouldn’t be in the
office before 10:00 the next morning because I had client appointment that
night and I fully intended to sleep in. My phone rang at 7:30. I answered, “Do
you know what time it is?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A male
voice responded, “Yes gorgeous, I know what time it is, and I know how you look
just waking up, and I was wondering why I wasn’t there? But I’m calling to see
if you would like to go on a picnic today. The day is beautiful, and I don’t
have to be in the office today, so what do you say?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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By this
time I was awake and wondering who on earth this was. I would hate to think I
have slept with someone and not recognized his voice…that was just not my
style. When I asked who is inviting me to a picnic? He responded, “Come on
Sally, don’t kid. You know who this is.
We had dinner last week and a great night and morning in bed.” Evidently
Sally had more style than I did, and now I was intrigued. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Where did
we have dinner?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Zeffiro. Come
on, you remember.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wow, I
thought, that was the newest restaurant in town and very expensive so Sally did
have more style. “Listen to me, we did not have dinner and my name isn’t Sally.
You obviously have a wrong number at 7:30 in the morning, and I am not happy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Are you
sure this is not Sally? Is your number 245-2345?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I replied, “It seems Sally
gave you a wrong number.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I expected some protests that she
wouldn’t do such a thing but without missing a beat he said, “Well, she wasn’t
that good in bed anyway. You sound really sexy, would you like to go on a
picnic?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, I would. You sound sexy, too,
and I think we could have great fun. I will be honest with you, I have a weight
problem, but I am down to 350.” The phone went dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now that I was wide-awake I got
ready for work and went to my office. When they asked why I came in so early I
told them about my phone call. They all laughed and Helen said, “Lee go write
that down and put it in your book.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I used to say when something crazy
happened, “One day I am going to write a book!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had been retired for one week and
was already bored. My son’s friend was working with a company that did
political polling and had just been promoted. One day she called and pleaded
for me to help out as they had a rush poll to do and had several people out
sick…and two had quit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I went to the office took a short
test, and they hired me. What an experience that was! <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was amazed at the messages people
left on their answering machines and the old people who loved answering polls
just to have someone to talk to. It was also a confirmation of my opinion that
a large percentage of the American people should not be allowed to vote due to
stupidity. The call that made me quit was truly funny. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A young man of twenty-eight from
Hood River didn’t know the president’s name let alone his congressman or
senators. He answered every question with a question. I was thinking, “how does
he live, he’s as dumb as a fence post”. At the end of the poll we were supposed
to ask, “Do you have any questions?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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When he answered yeah, I thought
maybe he’d taken an interest in his government. Then he asked, “Do you date?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Flabbergasted, I answered, “Yes,
yes I do but I live in San Francisco.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh damn” was his response and hung
up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The auditor who listened in on
phone calls came over to my desk laughing and said, “I could not believe how
dumb that guy was but you were great keeping your cool. You deserve a raise”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I said, “Thank you very much but
this will be my last week. My frustration factor is full.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, Mr. Bell you gave the world a
great invention, but gone are the days of the polite phone operator; she has
been replaced by the frustrating voice mail. Gone is the rotary dial and the
ability to connect with people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead we have phones that can
answer any question that you ask, take pictures of things that should not be
photographed. And now you don’t even have to talk on a phone; you can type out
your message in shorthand. But mostly today’s phones keep humans from
connecting to humans. I thought it was just desserts when the Japanese
government said that the number one accident for teenagers was walking into
objects while texting. If I never hear the words selfie and apps again, it will
be too soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am hoping that soon texting will
be limited to a certain area like smoking. I have banned phones at my dinner
table, and if someone has to answer their cell phone they can go into another
room. Phones should not be allowed in public places as there are things I have
overheard that could get people arrested and things that make me think less of
my fellow man. But the lingering question I have Mr. Bell is why does my phone
mostly ring when I am in the bathroom?</div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Lee
V.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> 12
Nov 2014</span></div>
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Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-28675491794872903862013-12-24T09:52:00.002-08:002013-12-24T09:53:20.697-08:00An Italian Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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BUON NATALE<o:p></o:p><br />
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About the time that I realized that
it was impossible for the big fat man in the red suit to slide down a chimney,
I knew what Christmas was all about. It was the Christmas Eve gatherings in the
Italian tradition: Aunts, uncles, cousins, special food, things that we looked
forward to all year long. The days of preparation, and when old enough, I got
to help. Grandpa Biase had a small room that he used as a pantry, with all his
pots and pans and shelves from ceiling to floor and by Christmas Eve it was
filled with Italian Cheesecake, an assortment of cookies that would make the
local bakery look wanting.<o:p></o:p><br />
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For Catholics, it was a fast day,
no meat just fish, several kinds and pasta of course. The dough balls were my
favorite. Little balls of light, fluffy dough with an anchovy in the middle was
for before dinner and the ones with white raisins and warm honey mixed with
whiskey drizzled over the top, were served after dinner with the other
desserts. We had pizzelles, biscotti, little turnovers filled with dates and
raisins and various Italian candies. My brother and I loved the nougat and
almond that came in little boxes with beautiful pictures on them. We would
collect and save them to build things. <o:p></o:p><br />
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After dinner, while the woman
cleaned up, the men would usually start a card game and they would play until
it was time for church. It was a struggle to stay awake but I loved midnight
mass, as there was music and everyone was in a good mood and it was all very
festive.<o:p></o:p><br />
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We usually took turns, one year
with the Seraphines, the next with the Palianis. I loved them both, but my
mother's family, the Palianis were known for their volatility. So it was always
interesting. The penny ante card games were a lot louder than the Seraphines.
Grandpa Paliani played Santa Claus and with his mustache and round belly he was
very believable but the Italian cheroot that he always had in the right side of
his mouth gave him away.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The first Christmas in our new home
in Baden was memorable because my brother and I looked in the cubbyhole
upstairs, which was forbidden and saw all the Christmas presents. Everything I
had asked for and them some. We must have been good! Christmas morning brought
me a coloring book and a 10-cent box of crayons. My brother got something like
an airplane model. What a shock, we acted appropriately grateful and it wasn't
until about two in the afternoon and I couldn't stand it anymore and blurted
out, “What happened to all the presents in the cubbyhole?” To which my mother
calmly replied, “Those went to children who didn't look in the cubbyhole before
Christmas. . After my parents had a good laugh, they brought out the presents
and we never looked in the cubbyhole again at Christmas time.<o:p></o:p><br />
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After the war, when the Palianis
headed to California, Christmas looked a lot different. Our first Christmas in
California was such a shock. It was at least 75 degrees and we had dinner on
our patio surrounded by flowers and a banana tree. Lots of family did not make
up for the lack of snow! My brother and I moaned and groaned and when friends
came after dinner one of them had a Lincoln convertible and took us for a ride
and we went to the beach. Sand does not make up for snow.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The families grew and the children
became adults and we still went to Aunt Lena's and Uncle Carlo's for Christmas
Eve. Grandpa Paliani was bouncing great grandchildren on his knee while playing
Santa. He was 95 when he died. He was caught in a rainstorm while on his daily
10-mile walk and came down with a bad cold that turned into pneumonia. That
brought an end to that era of Christmas Eve parties. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Being married, it would soon be my
turn to host Christmas Eve. We had been in our new home a few years and it was
our turn to host Christmas Eve. My two nephews and our two boys were the same
ages, five and four. My aunt and her family and three children were there also.
My parents and younger sisters completed our gathering. We had our traditional
dinner and were just finishing up when we heard the sound of jingle bells and
noise on the roof and the front door flew open and in pranced an elf. He yelled
at the children, “Rudolf needs carrots, quickly, carrots!” Where upon Mark who
was the oldest passed out cold, he hit the floor in a split second and the
three others ran to the refrigerator to find carrots. They ran to the elf and
gave him the bag of carrots while Mark laid on the floor with his hand to his
head moaning, “I don't believe it, I don't believe it. Santa is on the roof.”
While the elf was feeding the reindeer, Santa came marching through the door
and thanked the children for the carrots. We had no idea who this Santa was,
but I did recognize the elf as someone from church. After the all the children
got to talk to Santa, my aunt who may have had too much wine sat on his lap and
sang Santa Baby ala Eartha Kitt. We never did discover who played Santa, I
think Aunt Jean embarrassed him so he never ‘fessed up.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Another memorable Christmas Eve was
our first Christmas in Salt Lake. There were 12 children so we hired a Santa
and he was very good. We left a bag of small presents on the front porch and he
brought them in for the children. By the end of the party one of the children
was not feeling so good, we figured too much candy and cookies. A Christmas
morning phone call let us know that she did not have too much candy, she had
the chicken pox. What a present! Two weeks later one of my children came down
with chicken pox and one by one every two weeks we had chicken pox. It was the
gift that kept on giving.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Many Christmases have come and
gone, the loss of family members makes it a bitter sweet time. My sister and
her family and I and mine still celebrate together with the old fashioned seven
fishes and everyone seems to love it. We have included a few friends with an
Italian background and the young people talk about keeping up the traditions. <o:p></o:p><br />
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My responsibility is cookies for
dessert and if I can find smelts this year it is my turn to fry.<o:p></o:p><br />
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I wish I could do some of the
cookies Grandpa Biase made, but Santa would have to bring me the gift of
endurance and patience. May your holiday be filled with good food, family and
friends.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
-- Lee V., 2013<br />
<br />
Thank you Lee for a wonderful memory...<br />
<br />
Happy Holidays to all...<br />
Emily</div>
Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0