Razing a School Raises Emotions

Last Tuesday, on a very cold spring day, the wrecking crew began the long task of demolishing our elementary school.  A subject that has, from the start, created a lot of angst and discontent among the people of my small town, the razing of our town's began a whole new wave of bitter and sweet emotions and sent them rippling through town.  I  don't have that deep attachment that generations here do, I didn't go to school there but my kids did.

I went to school in Michigan, and, a few years ago, my school was torn down and a new one built in it's place.  So, I understand the emotions people are feeling.  When my old school was being razed, the school took every step they could in letting alumni know of the impending tear down.  In particular, there were tiles that we made in art class that had been used to line the pond in one of the many courtyards and along the walls to the gym/cafeteria.  We made those tiles sometime during the 1970/72 school years (I think - Mr. DeBernardi was the teacher then before Mr. Melton) and they were ceremoniously laid in the small duck pond in the courtyard next to the cafeteria.  The same courtyard where one year Miss Green's class (That would be Mean Miss Green - not the other Miss Greene) built an authentic Navajo hogan out of sticks and mud, creating a life size diorama of Native American Life in Arizona right there in Michigan.  That hogan stood for well over a year, throughout a Michigan winter before finally being removed to make room some other class project.

My school had three playgrounds.  The 4-6th grade playground that sat at the top of the hill that lead down to a private pond.  The one where Some 6th graders hid at the bottom and caused a huge stir among the rest of us who wondered what they were up to (I won't name names but Nancy Crites and Carol Williams MIGHT want to ask their spouses about it).  The 1-3rd grade playground where the kickball field was and the kindergarten playground that had the big cheese, a set of concrete cylinders painted yellow with holes in them looked like a yellow cheese castle.  But I digress.

I was in Michigan on the last day of school and stopped into the school office to see if my tile was still available.  The whole of the student body was in assembly so I was allowed to wonder the halls to see if I could find my tile.  And this is what I did.

I headed straight for my kindergarten room.  I walked over to the chalk board that was still located at the far end of the room.  I picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board:

1966/67 Mrs. Collins room.  Afternoon kids were the smartest class to ever come through Harlan.

Then I headed to the first grade hall where I went to my old room.  I walked straight to the board and wrote:

1967/68 Mrs. Carlin's Class - Learned to read with Dick and Jane.  Still like Sally the best.

and it went on:

1968/69 Mrs. Bobicz (Miss Cowan) used to put masking tape on Tommy Barbay and Julie Sakuta's mouths to keep them from talking all the time.

1969/70 Mrs. Rop (married to the tall, scary, Assistant Principal who never smiled)'s class - Eric Freeburg married Jody Laurie on the playground, complete with bridesmaids, groomsmen and kleenex flowers.

1970/71 Mrs. Knight's class.  We spent our free time playing the Partridge Family LP, singing "I Think I Love You" over and over.  Poor Connie Austin always had to pretend to be Keith Partridge.

1971/72 Mrs. Mellon's class - What can I say?  Her hand lotion was greasy and it stunk. Thanks goodness I had my best friend Karen to get me through.

1972/73 Mrs. Black's class - Brian Young really did steal my (and Karen's) shoes, tie them in impossible knots to the top of the jungle gym and spit in them as we were being called back in to class.  We never "narc'd" either.  Why?  Because we secretly liked it.

I didn't find my tile that day but I had a great time walking down memory lane and leaving the current teachers those notes on their boards.  So, I really do understand the melancholy people are feeling here.  They can tear down the building but they can't take away your memories.

Thanks A Lot Harold Camping

In case you weren’t aware of it, the Raptured was scheduled to occur last Saturday, May 21 at 6 p.m.  There was some confusion as to time zones and all, but I think they finally settled on Pacific time.  If you are still here, apparently you weren’t included in the massive rise up.  

Me? I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be drawn up to the Heavens leaving nothing but the clothes I was wearing in a pathetic heap where I was standing either. So sure was I that I would still be around, I made plans for the evening.  I was going to go looting.  I don’t mean just any old appliance store for a big screen tv or a blu ray player looting, I mean I was gonna amass me some major works of art, architecture and the occassional piece of bling.   

I decided this would be an excellent opportunity to do some decorating.  My first acquisition?  The Last Supper.  I have a wall it could fit on and even if it doesn’t, I could remove the frame and wrap it around a corner. It might class the joint up a bit.  I’ve also always had my eye on the Venus De Milo.  She’d be a nice addition to the front yard. I was thinking I could hang a bird feeder from her somehow or, wait. . .how about some plastic flowers?  Wouldn’t that be cute?  I’ve always admired the colosseum in Rome but without a place to put it, I had to give it some additional consideration and then it dawned on me.  The Byron Football field, duh.  Maybe rename the thing Coltman Stadium.  As for the bling?  I’m not asking fro much there.  The jewel stash of the royals in appealing, however, there is a diamond and emerald bracelet up at Zavius Jewelers that I’ve always coveted and I might just have to go snatch that baby before my spree ends. This opportunity was just too good to be true.  But first, I had to make sure I wasn’t accidentally confused with one of the saved people.  So, I waited it out through the Eastern Daylight Savings Time zone.  To test the waters, I even Facebooked a message to my east coast friends asking if they were still around.  I received no response.  Hmmmm.  Perhaps, I wondered, this is happening by time zone like a sweep across the world.  

Moondoggy and I decided that waiting around for the Rapture was a waste of time, and besides the view would be better out in the open, so we decided to take a walk.  It was a beautiful evening.  The weather was warm, the sun was shining and we headed off on the bike path.  At six o’clock Central Time, we paused.  We waited.  We looked to the sky.  Aaaand nothin’.  Nada.  I was getting a little ticked off because I saw Harold Camping on tv and he PROMISED this was going to happen.  He was adamant and I kinda made my plans around his assurance.  At the very least, I wanted the emerald bracelet and now it didn’t appear that would be happening either.  The Last Supper and Venus would have to stay safe in Paris and my bracelet locked away in a case on Perryville road.  Huff and pouty face.

It was at that moment the church bells started ringing at the United Church like they do every night at six o’clock.  The Tune? “He Arose.”  I think they must have a sense of humor there. 

When the Plan Goes Out the Window

During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad.  I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex.  Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe.  Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in.  The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape.  I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town.  Within screaming distance I always say.

For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it - which no longer is possible, me using my mad kick boxing skills. me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell..  I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'.  So, last night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone.  I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I do have Moose the Wonder dog.

There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door has been opened.  The dog goes nuts barking and leaping off the bed, scrambling headlong into the living room.  I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do, self preservation is my middle name.  And what do I do?

I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor.  You would think at some point I would have stopped right?  NO!  I keep going, where I come face to face with a man in a dark clothings who, I realized later, was more shocked than I.  

"Oh NO!  Wrong house," he calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen!  Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen.  Wrong house.  We're leaving."  Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and just before he closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?"  He gives it to me (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is).  Then, there was that ghastly smell.  I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas.

I flip on the light and there, in the mirror, get a gander at what the intruder was looking at.  I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring.  I am also wearing an old gray tank top.  Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have.  My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top.  And amazingly, I'm still not scared.

I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police.  I waffled.  I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting.  She did not think it was funny. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight.  I am going to have an officer stop by."

Well crap!  I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests.   I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world.  And a minute later he was there.

The young, good looking, former marine was on duty.  I wished I had brushed my hair!  He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:

The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm.  She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight service calls to her house.  There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .

As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again.  All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado!  They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said.  I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?""   

As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair,"  I commented to my reflection.  Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall.  I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again.  It wasn't the dog, it was my breath.  Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.

As for the practiced escape plan?  It went out the window without me.

Where oh Where Shall the Wedding Be?

In case I haven't mentioned it in any conversation where I can fit it in, I am the Mother of the Groom.  And, with all that role entails (and does not entail) I am extremely grateful that I had boys.  There is so much I don't know about wedding planning and most of it would never occur to me - at least at this point in my life.  I fear that I have spent so much time floating in a testosterone laden environment, I've lost my XX edge and even believe that my uterus may slowly be shrinking.  However clueless I may be about my new role, I have been graciously included on the hunt for the perfect venue and studied up on choice options on the internet so I can, at least, speak the language.

Although I am directionally challenged, I can drive to Chicago blindfolded.  I can easily navigate my way to both my kids apartments, but anything beyond Taylor St., Racine and Michigan Ave and I'm lost.  So picturing the venues as presented by their websites has allowed me to remain geographically neutral. We have looked at four different venues.  The first was a lovely place with an lovely indoor space and a large, very nice, very lovely spacious tent attached.  They have their act together there. and we were impressed.  But. . . it's not the place. That's ok because I have no idea where it is still and fear I would probably get lost on the way to the wedding.

We looked at the Pritzker stage in Millenium Park.  It has HUGE glass doors that enclose the stage and look out onto the skyline.  Beautiful.  The whole shebang would take place on the stage including the reception and if you can get over the fishbowl feeling of it all, it's a pretty good deal.  EXCEPT, your guests enter through the back stage area strewn with backstage bric-a-brac stacked up against cold, gray cinderblock walls, up cinderblock steps and. . . it's not the place.

And then there was the Most Promising venue.  This place is a mansion downtown that was built in the twenties by Frank Lloyd Wright.  The structure is four floors in height and spans the size of half a city block.  It is enormous.  I had looked at the website before driving in and I have to say, it was WOW.  I was fairly certain this was going to be the place. We entered through the front door and were guided through the massive first floor.  It took my breath away.  The actual venue is at the back of the mansion in their Gatehouse.   And as we sashayed though the house, a museum dedicated to the family that owned it, the MOB and I were exchanging knowing smiles.  And then we entered the Gatehouse.

Down a narrow set of wooden steps, a landing where the restroom was located, and then a short set of more creaky wooden steps, we entered the venue.  The coordinator proudly pointed out the quaint period lighting, we saw bare lightbulbs dangling from metal rods.   The coordinator talked about the carefully refurbished wooden walls, I got a splinter.  The coordinator showed us the couryard where, if the weather is nice, we could hold the ceremony outside because the driveway makes a nice aisle for the bride, a crumbling cement driveway that led to the back garage. . .also known as the Gatehouse.  The coordinator kept talking and I watched as, one by one, the Bride checked out, the Groom pulled out his phone and checked his Facebook, the MOB studied the concrete floor . . .and the coordinator kept on talking ending with the following:

"And we will happily allow your guests into the mansion for tours at the cost of $5 a person.  Many wedding guests enjoy the tour.  There is also a security guard on duty during your event but that is really for the protection of the museum.  Any Questions?"

No.

We were no more than fifteen seconds out the door when the Bride announced, "I am NOT getting married in the horse poop room of this mansion!"

That was not the place.

All I can say is, they need to give their web designer a big fat raise and sorry you'll be missing the $5 tour because we have found our venue and you'll never guess where.

And I Barely Caught My Breathe Before. . .

When you hold your newborn baby in your arms and gaze into the eyes that peer back at you in complete and utter surrender to the comfort and protection you offer, you aren't thinking about the week I just had.  The last thing you consider in that tender moment is hearing these words, 'I asked her to marry me and she said 'Yes!'"  But that is exactly the way my Wednesday afternoon began.

You cannot imagine the level of joy I felt at that moment because, my boy, my wise, wise boy is marrying up!  Not only has he chosen to spend the rest of his life with a woman who ticks all of the boxes of independence, intelligence and beauty, she is a proactive do-er and that, I quickly discovered, comes straight from her mother.  Boy hydee has my son hit the jackpot on mother-in-laws!  Less than 24 hours from their announcement, she was on the phone with me, extending her hand and offering to let me be a part of all the planning activities, something I have not practiced for almost 30 years.  I am sorely out of shape when it comes to being a girl or the mother of a girl and am wholly grateful that they are directing this rodeo and allowing me to ride the tethered pony along behind!

On Saturday, Moondoggy and I drove into Chicago to meet the Mother of the Bride (MOB) and, along with the happy couple, look at venues.  By all accounts, the events of the prior few days had hardly soaked in, and I was having a tug-of-war with the aging process which suddenly felt compelled to speed up as I realized I would be the Mother of the Groom (MOG). And there we were, being swept into what we will a year long process of planning.  

The MOB is a strikingly beautiful woman with an exuberant and vivacious personality and she can give her daughter as much grief as I give my boys - you gotta love that!  She is also a business owner who just happens to be an accomplished. . .LARGE EVENT PLANNER!  Have I got it made or what?  I am doing my thanking and praising all over the place about this.  There are simply things I don't even think about due to the lack of estrogen in the house that the Bride and the MOB knew to ask about and I could nod in agreement without looking to pathetically out of it.  But the BEST part of the whole day was when we met the wedding planner at one venue.  On introductions, she thought Moondoggy was the Bride's father and then asked if I was the SISTER!  Let me repeat that for you, she asked if I was the SISTER and when I laughed and told her I was the groom's mom, she said, "You look so young!"  Now, I hear a lot of things, but young has never been one of them.  Either she was a misguided but kind gal or she is the slickest of salespeople the wedding industry has ever produced.  Frankly, I don't care which because her comment sent my newly accelerated aging process into retreat.

Thankfully the MOB gave me a Chicago Wedding Planner Guide.  Now I have homework, but I am looking forward to rekindling my girly self and enjoying it.

And I say with pride, I am the Mother of the Groom!

Don't Call These Men Dogs - That Would Be An Insult To The Dog

Another book by an indie author.  I have been impressed with the plethora of excellent independently published books; books that may never have been available in the past.  As with all of the books I discuss, I'm not saying read this or don't.  I'll just leave it up to you.

Wrecker
by Dave Conifer.

The guy doesn't mess around.  There is nothing coy in the title.  Revenge takes an ugly form.  Wrecker is a novel replete with unexpected twists and turns and characters that seem like polar opposites, but essentially are the same.

Stuck in an unsatisfying marriage, Jane Havelock is busy mothering their young daughter, enduring the boorish and wholly unappealing attitude of her husband Steve.  Rarely have I readily disliked a character so quickly, but this guy is piece of work.  Stuck on himself in numerous areas, he, ever the shark for a bargain, hires a cut rate handy man to complete projects around the house.  Now I know what you are thinking.  You think that Jane will inevitably fall for the handy man who is always there when her egotistical, power hungry spouse isn't.  You think that, as the handy man endears himself to her young daughter, that a relationship will develop.  Well, don't think.

From there, the handy man takes them all on a wild ride filled with a case of "Roid Rage", revenge and self loathing that not only put Steve in a position of professional and financial ruin, but also in a position to find appreciation in Jane.  Too little too late if you ask me.

Conifer creates some despicable men to be sure, and just when you think the story will go one way, he turns it on a dime.  Unexpected.  Shocking.  Disturbing.  What more can I say?

Available through Amazon and on Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Wrecker-Dave-Conifer/dp/1456584537/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

Smashwords:  http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/35959
Barnes & Noble:  http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Wrecker/Dave-Conifer/e/2940012049049/?itm=1&USRI=dave+conifer+wrecker

The True and Real Story of. . .

Normally I don't take this space to rant. I don't feel normal today.

I've about had it with a trend that has been sweeping the country for the last year or two and I simply must address this before more people throw their hard earned cash at what really is worth nothing more a dollar.  My beef?  The Wedge Salad. I did not realize how prevalent the hype about this phenomenon was until watching "Modern Family" (I DVR it so I am a week off episode order) the other day.  A knock down, drag out fight took place between a married couple all because of the Wedge Salad.
You've probably seen it on the menu of your favorite restaurant, priced between $8 and $10.  But, do you know what a Wedge Salad really is?

My sister invented the Wedge Salad back in the 70's.  It's true.  In a fit of famished creativity, on a day when our snack foods had been depleted, my sister, too hungry to make a traditional salad, just cut a head of lettuce in quarters, poured dressing on the cut edge and let it seep into the crevices.  Then, she stood over the sink and ate the entire salad without dirtying a plate or cutlery.  Genius.

We called it a Bachelor Salad, but it became a very real part of our food reptoire. A true WS consists of a head of lettuce cut into quarters.  You can get 4 salads out of a head of lettuce.  Cover one of the wedges with dressing.  In my sister's case, it was my mom's homemade Thousand Island dressing, which is to die for and I would have to kill you if I gave you the recipe.  A true WS is not something consumed at the table, on a plate with a knife and fork, a true Wedge is always eaten over the sink.  THAT is a true Wedge Salad.  This bastardized version is a disgrace to the meaning of the original.

I'm not sure who claims to have originated the restaurant version that has become so popular, but they are making a killing.  Figure four WS from one head of lettuce, a smattering of bulk dressing, some cheese and bacon to stick and your talking ten bucks for a dollar salad and they are calling it gourmet.  And so many people are lining up to pay for it.

So next time you sit in a restaurant and ponder the Wedge, remember, you can make it at home in about 2 seconds and save yourself the money.  If you really want to spend that money, send it to me - I'll find something better to do with it.

Rant over, go back to your lives.