Today's Excite fortune said something like: "Take a moment to remember 4th grade."
I actually did that over the weekend, thinking of my tenth birthday party in fourth grade. Leila turned 10 this weekend- a busy weekend with only time for a family and friends dinner, but no real party. Apparently, double digits is too important not to celebrate, though, so the party will be happening, and soon.
In any case, my tenth birthday party started down at the lake with all the 4th and 5th graders, and then it rained so we had to go back to my house. The 5th grade class was super big, and the kids were older, and thus not necessarily thrilled to be at the party. I remember some sort of fight. I think the birthday girl probably cried, as happens at many good (and all bad) birthday parties. I don't remember the cake, but my mother used to make elaborate ones, so it may have been the year she did the piano.
In any case, it was 33 years ago. And Leila is now 10, which makes me a mother of 10 years. (I KNOW- always about me.) Most of the 5th graders are my friends now on Facebook, and we never fight.
Not enough of the 4th graders are ON Facebook, at least, not often, which is too bad since the other big even this year is our 25th year anniversary of graduating from high school.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Saturday, March 05, 2011
Charlie Brown
Tonight Leila and I went to a production of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown put on by the college where I work. The students did a good job, and I was impressed by the small orchestra (is 6-7 musicians considered an orchestra?) Leila enjoyed it, too. One of the musicians was delayed in traffic, so the director and choreographer took some questions from the audience while we waited to start. One man asked, is this play still relevant in 2011? The director's answer was that it is- it is timeless. She's right, too, but while Charlie Brown's lonliness and awkwardness were funny (sort of) many years ago, now his depression and isolation made me think of the more serious stories we hear of kids today and how they deal with lonliness. Of course, Charlie Brown has a lot of friends and is really well liked, but he doesn't realize that.
Years ago the high school students in Beautiful Hills put on this play. I must have been in about 5th grade. In order to see, I sat on the back of my chair in the very back row. Charlie Brown sat down and began his siloliquey about "the little red-headed girl" eating her lunch all alone. He happened to be looking in my direction, and I slowly slid down into my seat, blushing in fear that everyone was now looking at me.
He later told my older sister that he could hardly keep his composure.
Years ago the high school students in Beautiful Hills put on this play. I must have been in about 5th grade. In order to see, I sat on the back of my chair in the very back row. Charlie Brown sat down and began his siloliquey about "the little red-headed girl" eating her lunch all alone. He happened to be looking in my direction, and I slowly slid down into my seat, blushing in fear that everyone was now looking at me.
He later told my older sister that he could hardly keep his composure.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
picky-picky
Tonight, while making a turkey sandwich for the boy and cutting off the crusts, I pondered the curse of the picky eater. I thought people who were picky eaters as children were the ones who were supposed to be cursed with them as parents, but I WASN'T a picky eater. I ate almost anything I was given, including cow tongue.
I didn't eat liver, but that was more about the texture than the taste, and, really, none of us kids did and we weren't expected to. My mother made us a fried egg when that was on the menu. The rule with everything else was we had to taste something and if we didn't like it we didn't have to eat it.
The only other thing I can remember being really picky about was flying ants. My brother and sister used to scarf them down as the rare treats they were, but I didn't enjoy the flavor. I did, however, like to eat the heads of leaf cutter ants- they tasted a bit like peppermint, though one did have to avoid the pincers.
One thing that sometimes helps my picky eater is ketchup- I remembered that I liked ketchup on lots of things- bread and rice, for example- and thought it might help him out a little. But it's frustrating.
Luckily his sister is such an easy eater- she's good for almost anything, and if she doesn't like it much will usually eat it anyways.
I didn't eat liver, but that was more about the texture than the taste, and, really, none of us kids did and we weren't expected to. My mother made us a fried egg when that was on the menu. The rule with everything else was we had to taste something and if we didn't like it we didn't have to eat it.
The only other thing I can remember being really picky about was flying ants. My brother and sister used to scarf them down as the rare treats they were, but I didn't enjoy the flavor. I did, however, like to eat the heads of leaf cutter ants- they tasted a bit like peppermint, though one did have to avoid the pincers.
One thing that sometimes helps my picky eater is ketchup- I remembered that I liked ketchup on lots of things- bread and rice, for example- and thought it might help him out a little. But it's frustrating.
Luckily his sister is such an easy eater- she's good for almost anything, and if she doesn't like it much will usually eat it anyways.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
dream cars
Many years ago, I wanted this car:
In fact, I was just about to get one, to plunk all my savings down on a cute little roadster. But something stopped me. And shortly thereafter, I was pregnant and the money came in handy for a down payment on a house.
Two kids later, this is my new dream car:
In fact, I was just about to get one, to plunk all my savings down on a cute little roadster. But something stopped me. And shortly thereafter, I was pregnant and the money came in handy for a down payment on a house.
Two kids later, this is my new dream car:
Sunday, February 28, 2010
My life in ...
If you count airport stops and short border crossings, and I do, I've been in about 24 countries. If you count six week summer visits, I've lived in six countries, on five (or four, depending how you count them) continents, the only exceptions being Australia (that is a continent, right?) and Antarctica, which I have plans to never, ever, live on. (I don't mind living in Australia, though. That could be fun.)
I've swum in the Carribbean, the Mediterranean, the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the Indian Ocean, and even floated briefly in the Dead Sea.
I've ridden camels in the Sahara (at sunset), canoed up tributaries of the Amazon, hiked up to an insolated Korean temple for Buddha's birthday, stalked rhinos in South Africa, and woken up in some interesting places. And, I've had root canals in three or four different countries, sometimes without being able to communicate too well with the dentist, but always with anesthesia! (they aren't that bad, actually.)
It's sounds terribly exciting written like that, doesn't it? Perhaps I should add that I'm only just about to turn 40. But really, it's been, like every life,rather mundane.
In the British comedy As Time Goes By on PBS, the male protagonist has returned to England after a spending his working years as a coffee plantation manager in Kenya. Now he does the lecture circuit and has written a book called, My Life in Kenya. It sounds terribly exciting, and the publisher does his best to sex it up with wild cover art involving safari clothes and a half naked woman. But in truth, the story is rather dull, because it is just about his life in Kenya. And like most real, non fiction lives, there is an awful lot of everydayness to it.
Indeed, the only way to make real life interesting enough to engage readers is to edit out the everydayness and highlight the exotic. I'm going to try writing a seriew of posts with a little bit of both- the exciting bits, but also the mundane bits that were sometimes just a little more exciting than usual because of where they took place.
I've swum in the Carribbean, the Mediterranean, the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the Indian Ocean, and even floated briefly in the Dead Sea.
I've ridden camels in the Sahara (at sunset), canoed up tributaries of the Amazon, hiked up to an insolated Korean temple for Buddha's birthday, stalked rhinos in South Africa, and woken up in some interesting places. And, I've had root canals in three or four different countries, sometimes without being able to communicate too well with the dentist, but always with anesthesia! (they aren't that bad, actually.)
It's sounds terribly exciting written like that, doesn't it? Perhaps I should add that I'm only just about to turn 40. But really, it's been, like every life,rather mundane.
In the British comedy As Time Goes By on PBS, the male protagonist has returned to England after a spending his working years as a coffee plantation manager in Kenya. Now he does the lecture circuit and has written a book called, My Life in Kenya. It sounds terribly exciting, and the publisher does his best to sex it up with wild cover art involving safari clothes and a half naked woman. But in truth, the story is rather dull, because it is just about his life in Kenya. And like most real, non fiction lives, there is an awful lot of everydayness to it.
Indeed, the only way to make real life interesting enough to engage readers is to edit out the everydayness and highlight the exotic. I'm going to try writing a seriew of posts with a little bit of both- the exciting bits, but also the mundane bits that were sometimes just a little more exciting than usual because of where they took place.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
passing on stories
Habib hides the children under his burnoose, which he wears on cold evenings to sit at his computer and work.
When he was a child he huddled close to his mother under her full winter wool cape and walked across town to his older, married sister's house, blind to all he passed, and holding on to her clothes for balance. All that could be seen were his little feet, keeping pace with his mum.
I had a similar feeling riding on the back of my father's motorcycle, or the front, tucked under a poncho to keep me dry in the rain. I could smell the plastic of the poncho and only see the bike beneath me, the red mud road, and the puddles we splashed through below us.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
when taste is linked to memory
Today I peeled a fat, ripe mango with a knife, cut pieces into a bowl, and finished it off, leaning over the sink. The strings are in my teeth, though I've cleaned my chin of the juice it gathered.
Back home we climbed the trees and ate the mangos right then and there, peeling off the skins with our teeth and spitting them out on the ground beneath us. We tried to avoid the sticky sap that oozed from the stem. Sometimes the mango we chose was green- we just couldn't wait another week to pick one. That was okay, too, but sour, and really better with salt.
We never had a tree at my house. Well, there was a tree, but it didn't produce until I was long gone, and even then but poorly. Instead we'd go to Loma 1 and climb the giants by the TSD or the one across from the guest house. Nobody really claimed these as their own. Aunt Frankie's trees were always full, and she would chase off the kids, but was willing to share when asked nicely. The MacIntoshes' trees produced the largest fruit -some were as large as an American football- and tasted of peaches. Most of the others were the standard size- about the size of two large hands arched in a circle.
When school ended for the year my brother, sister, and I were roped in by my mom to harvest and store mangos for the coming year. She'd get permission from someone with trees, and we'd carry our giant baskets over and load them up for my dad to bring back at lunch time on the motorcyle. First we'd collect and peel green ones, chop the meat off the stone, bag them, and load them into the back porch freezer. These were used for pies and cobblers. In a couple more weeks we started on the ripe ones. These were harder to get the meat off, and we'd finish up the last bits with our teeth, scraping down to the hard pit. The discarded pits looked like hairy little pod people in a dog pile. The uneaten portions were frozen, too, for mango jello and milkshakes. Sometimes we'd eat the frozen pieces like popsicles.
(We griped and complained about the excessive work, but saved the money we earned for our trip to the city later in the summer.)
The mangos always came in the beginning of the summer with the rains, but the last Christmas we spent at home before we left forever, the weather was unusual. It rained on Christmas day and one mango tree bloomed. In January, my friend brought me, already in the city, the last mango from home. Just ripe, it tasted sweet despite the lump of salt in my throat.
Back home we climbed the trees and ate the mangos right then and there, peeling off the skins with our teeth and spitting them out on the ground beneath us. We tried to avoid the sticky sap that oozed from the stem. Sometimes the mango we chose was green- we just couldn't wait another week to pick one. That was okay, too, but sour, and really better with salt.
We never had a tree at my house. Well, there was a tree, but it didn't produce until I was long gone, and even then but poorly. Instead we'd go to Loma 1 and climb the giants by the TSD or the one across from the guest house. Nobody really claimed these as their own. Aunt Frankie's trees were always full, and she would chase off the kids, but was willing to share when asked nicely. The MacIntoshes' trees produced the largest fruit -some were as large as an American football- and tasted of peaches. Most of the others were the standard size- about the size of two large hands arched in a circle.
When school ended for the year my brother, sister, and I were roped in by my mom to harvest and store mangos for the coming year. She'd get permission from someone with trees, and we'd carry our giant baskets over and load them up for my dad to bring back at lunch time on the motorcyle. First we'd collect and peel green ones, chop the meat off the stone, bag them, and load them into the back porch freezer. These were used for pies and cobblers. In a couple more weeks we started on the ripe ones. These were harder to get the meat off, and we'd finish up the last bits with our teeth, scraping down to the hard pit. The discarded pits looked like hairy little pod people in a dog pile. The uneaten portions were frozen, too, for mango jello and milkshakes. Sometimes we'd eat the frozen pieces like popsicles.
(We griped and complained about the excessive work, but saved the money we earned for our trip to the city later in the summer.)
The mangos always came in the beginning of the summer with the rains, but the last Christmas we spent at home before we left forever, the weather was unusual. It rained on Christmas day and one mango tree bloomed. In January, my friend brought me, already in the city, the last mango from home. Just ripe, it tasted sweet despite the lump of salt in my throat.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
banana/bandana
Since there was very little entertainment in the boonies- none, as a matter of fact- we had to make our own. One way we did this was skits. It was amazing how crazy the grownups could be- in this photograph, Pam White and Jane Peterson are doing the banana/bandana skit and the unseen audience is splitting their sides laughing.
In this skit, the person in the front is instructing the person in the back how to fold a bandana and put it in her pocket. The woman in the back hears, "take a banana," and copies everything the first woman does with a bandana using her banana.
They performed this as demanded several times on various occasions.
Another popular act was Nate Waltz's ventriloquist act with his dummy, Jerry. We loved Jerry, and he loved being out of his box. Uncle Nate would stuff him back in the box and he would protest, asking for a drink of water and using the same stalling tactics we used at bedtime.
Monday, November 12, 2007
More Places
I've woken up in basement bedrooms on freezing Canadian winter days. Groaning, I climb out of bed to bundle up for school and classrooms full of strange strangers. My brother and I walk to school through the biting wind when I am 9. When I am 14 I have to walk alone. I wear earmuffs since my ears are always cold. Davilyn Atchison is the only girl I know when I am 14. She was a sort of friend in 3rd grade, when she wore Grease pants, but now she is unfriendly. Bleached blonde hair, paled face, and super tight zipper jeans- she is one of the wraith crowd. They remind me of the Pink Ladies. I dress like a grownup- the principal thinks I'm a substitute when he sees me in the hall. When a boy asks me to go out with his cousin, I shoot him down, thinking they are making fun of me.
I've woken up on the hard ground inside tents- in Canada, in California, on the beaches of the Florida Keys, and in Orlando, at Teen Missions boot camp. The former all have an element of fun. This last one is pure hell. Although it's summer, the mornings are biting cold, and I have no luggage. My duffel bag, having flown no problem from Bogota to Miami, gets sent to the Dominican Rupublic instead of Orlando on the last leg of the trip. My teamates lend me a sheet and I buy socks and t-shirts, but every morning I dread waking- it is so cold. The only thing I can do is pray, and it helps me get out of bed. Every infraction of the rule leads to a "special blessing" punishment. I am not bad, but cannot get a hold on time, so I lose free time. I am miserable. The days are hot and muggy. We train in puppetry and attend church services.
Our team flies to Luxembourg, then takes a bus to Paris. Fireworks explode in celebration of Bastille day. We try to sleep in the train station, but they don't want us to. We are exhausted. On the train to Gibralter we sleep. That night we disembark in Iruna?, lay our sleeping bags right on the platform, and sleep. The boys take turns keeping watch- it makes them feel like strong protectors. Another day, we're sleeping on the train, packed tightly into a Pullman. I awake to see a red sun rising over a walled city set on a hill. I shake my friend to show him the beauty. He is angry with me.
In Gibralter we've changed from sleeping on tents in the beach to sleeping high on the hill in a milatary encampment. There are two rooms underground- the girls get the larger and the boys the smaller. Our married chaperones get a Quonset hut above, next to the kitchen. There is a shower below that 15 girls must get through in 1/2 an hour. The outhouse is high above. We drag ourselves off the hard floor early in the mornings to do exercises on the bare ground. The long walks down to town and up again are just not enough. When the military come to do their training exercises one night, we are required to stay below, out of the way of their bullets. Even the married couple come down. In the day time we go to town and witness to the tourists and locals, practice skits on religious themes and perform them. It feels awkward and strange.
I've woken up on the hard ground inside tents- in Canada, in California, on the beaches of the Florida Keys, and in Orlando, at Teen Missions boot camp. The former all have an element of fun. This last one is pure hell. Although it's summer, the mornings are biting cold, and I have no luggage. My duffel bag, having flown no problem from Bogota to Miami, gets sent to the Dominican Rupublic instead of Orlando on the last leg of the trip. My teamates lend me a sheet and I buy socks and t-shirts, but every morning I dread waking- it is so cold. The only thing I can do is pray, and it helps me get out of bed. Every infraction of the rule leads to a "special blessing" punishment. I am not bad, but cannot get a hold on time, so I lose free time. I am miserable. The days are hot and muggy. We train in puppetry and attend church services.
Our team flies to Luxembourg, then takes a bus to Paris. Fireworks explode in celebration of Bastille day. We try to sleep in the train station, but they don't want us to. We are exhausted. On the train to Gibralter we sleep. That night we disembark in Iruna?, lay our sleeping bags right on the platform, and sleep. The boys take turns keeping watch- it makes them feel like strong protectors. Another day, we're sleeping on the train, packed tightly into a Pullman. I awake to see a red sun rising over a walled city set on a hill. I shake my friend to show him the beauty. He is angry with me.
In Gibralter we've changed from sleeping on tents in the beach to sleeping high on the hill in a milatary encampment. There are two rooms underground- the girls get the larger and the boys the smaller. Our married chaperones get a Quonset hut above, next to the kitchen. There is a shower below that 15 girls must get through in 1/2 an hour. The outhouse is high above. We drag ourselves off the hard floor early in the mornings to do exercises on the bare ground. The long walks down to town and up again are just not enough. When the military come to do their training exercises one night, we are required to stay below, out of the way of their bullets. Even the married couple come down. In the day time we go to town and witness to the tourists and locals, practice skits on religious themes and perform them. It feels awkward and strange.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Places I've woken up
Inspired by Mark at Stone Soup...
I've woken up on Radio Tower Hill on New Year's Morning, bundled in a sleeping bag damp from morning dew, head pointing toward the middle of the water tank we are lying on. "Look," says my friend who has woken me up. The sun is rising on the year over the lake- clouds tinged pink- sky blue. I drink in the sight and then close my eyes to sleep until the heat drives us in search of coffee and pancakes. "If I could just see that familiar sunrise through sleepy blue eyes, how happy I'd be."
I've woken up bundled in a hammock, rain tapping on the thatched roof over my head and mist seeping out from the jungle trees that surround the village. Breakfast is granola and instant coffee, and then I cuddle back into my hammock to read Gabriel Garcia Marquez in the faint light from the window.
I've woken up in a Buddhist temple on Buddha's birthday at the bottom of Cow Mountain in South Korea. After a traditional breakfast of rice and greens, we hike up to the hermitage at the top of the mountain. The gracious monk serves us pine tree liquor, and coffee, when he learns I have a headache from the lack of it.
I've woken up to the sounds of donkeys' braying, my hammock slung between two palm trees next to Parque Tayrona beach. The sun shines in my eyes and we head down the beach to buy fresh rolls cooked in an outdoor oven that burns half of each roll. It's the most delicious bread I've ever eaten. Our camping neighbors from Israel make us strong Turkish coffee over their campfire. A few days later, in the same hammock on another beach, I awaken to find two Guajira girls staring at me and my friends in our wall less hut. This beach is an extension of the desert, not the green, jungle-surrounded one of before. We haven't planned to stay in this far northern reach of Colombia, but have gotten stranded by the lack of public transportation.
I've woken up in the dark African morning and driven out to see wild game. After the sun rises, the driver stops to serve us strong tea and rusks, and when we get back to the lodge, we are served a delicious breakfast, eggs cooked before us, and strong coffee. Later on the same trip I wake to see the waves of the Indian Ocean breaking on our secluded beach. We sip coffee on the veranda and watch for whales. In the evenings we hike to the top of sand dunes to watch the sun set in the west.
I've woken up on Radio Tower Hill on New Year's Morning, bundled in a sleeping bag damp from morning dew, head pointing toward the middle of the water tank we are lying on. "Look," says my friend who has woken me up. The sun is rising on the year over the lake- clouds tinged pink- sky blue. I drink in the sight and then close my eyes to sleep until the heat drives us in search of coffee and pancakes. "If I could just see that familiar sunrise through sleepy blue eyes, how happy I'd be."
I've woken up bundled in a hammock, rain tapping on the thatched roof over my head and mist seeping out from the jungle trees that surround the village. Breakfast is granola and instant coffee, and then I cuddle back into my hammock to read Gabriel Garcia Marquez in the faint light from the window.
I've woken up in a Buddhist temple on Buddha's birthday at the bottom of Cow Mountain in South Korea. After a traditional breakfast of rice and greens, we hike up to the hermitage at the top of the mountain. The gracious monk serves us pine tree liquor, and coffee, when he learns I have a headache from the lack of it.
I've woken up to the sounds of donkeys' braying, my hammock slung between two palm trees next to Parque Tayrona beach. The sun shines in my eyes and we head down the beach to buy fresh rolls cooked in an outdoor oven that burns half of each roll. It's the most delicious bread I've ever eaten. Our camping neighbors from Israel make us strong Turkish coffee over their campfire. A few days later, in the same hammock on another beach, I awaken to find two Guajira girls staring at me and my friends in our wall less hut. This beach is an extension of the desert, not the green, jungle-surrounded one of before. We haven't planned to stay in this far northern reach of Colombia, but have gotten stranded by the lack of public transportation.
I've woken up in the dark African morning and driven out to see wild game. After the sun rises, the driver stops to serve us strong tea and rusks, and when we get back to the lodge, we are served a delicious breakfast, eggs cooked before us, and strong coffee. Later on the same trip I wake to see the waves of the Indian Ocean breaking on our secluded beach. We sip coffee on the veranda and watch for whales. In the evenings we hike to the top of sand dunes to watch the sun set in the west.
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