Oh. My. God.
Been so busy.
Headed to Indiana today for my 20th High School Reunion.
Yay!
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Fourteen Years and Counting
Things I like:
Coming home from work to find a bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter for my anniversary.
Things I don't like:
Going out for an anniversary dinner and eating myself miserable. (On a Smoked Salmon Salad! Who knew?)
Coming home from work to find a bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter for my anniversary.
Things I don't like:
Going out for an anniversary dinner and eating myself miserable. (On a Smoked Salmon Salad! Who knew?)
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Army Hospital. Otherwise known as Purgatory.
So . Yesterday I took Dillon (and Mac because she can't be left unsupervised all afternoon yet) down to DeWitt Hospital on Belvoir for a simple appointment with the doctor. All we needed was a referral to the dermatologist. We should have been in and out in 20 minutes.
(Imagine 20 minutes.)
(Now imagine 5 hours...)
Getting out of the car, Dillon said, "Oh! I just got dizzy!"
Didn't think much of it. That frequently happens when he rises to standing and I always just figured it was the altitude change from his adolescent growth spurt. He wasn't used to the thinner air up there yet.
But then he said, "And sometimes when that happens, my face and tongue get numb and tingley and my fingertips tingle."
"Uh, Son, don't you think this is something you should have mentioned before Now?"
"Nah, it happens all the time, it's ok." I'm no MD, but I'm sure a numb face and tingly tongue are NOT ok.
So we mentioned it to the doctor, half-expecting to get blown-off.
Instead, he sent us for an EKG and complete blood work-up.
But not before he looked right at me and said, "Sometimes we see these symptoms in people who smoke, use amphetamines, cocaine, (some other drugs I never heard of), herbal stimulants, Red Bull...
He was looking from Dillon, with his long hair, black concert T, leather bracelet, and Chuck Taylors and back to me, seemingly waiting for me to ask Dillon if he was a user. I am CERTAIN he is not, and said so to the doctor. There was a 3rd-year resident in there who smirked when I said that. (Shut up, BItch, you don't know him.) I'm no idiot. I KNOW that parents are always the last to know and the parent saying, "I would know if my kid were on drugs" is always the parent whose kid is getting stoned behind the cafeteria at lunch.
But I would know. He is not using. Anyway, the blood tests will prove that.
After all the labs, we still had to go to the pharmacy for some meds. Our number: C682. Now serving: C640. Estimated wait time: 1 hour, 21 minutes. Number of chairs empty: none.
Finally got a seat and Dillon took a nap, Mac finished her book and started tearing recipes out of a Ladies Home Journal (that's my girl!), and I read while trying to ignore the screaming kid with the oblivious mom directly behind me.
Who says that military dependents don't pay for their medical care?
(Imagine 20 minutes.)
(Now imagine 5 hours...)
Getting out of the car, Dillon said, "Oh! I just got dizzy!"
Didn't think much of it. That frequently happens when he rises to standing and I always just figured it was the altitude change from his adolescent growth spurt. He wasn't used to the thinner air up there yet.
But then he said, "And sometimes when that happens, my face and tongue get numb and tingley and my fingertips tingle."
"Uh, Son, don't you think this is something you should have mentioned before Now?"
"Nah, it happens all the time, it's ok." I'm no MD, but I'm sure a numb face and tingly tongue are NOT ok.
So we mentioned it to the doctor, half-expecting to get blown-off.
Instead, he sent us for an EKG and complete blood work-up.
But not before he looked right at me and said, "Sometimes we see these symptoms in people who smoke, use amphetamines, cocaine, (some other drugs I never heard of), herbal stimulants, Red Bull...
He was looking from Dillon, with his long hair, black concert T, leather bracelet, and Chuck Taylors and back to me, seemingly waiting for me to ask Dillon if he was a user. I am CERTAIN he is not, and said so to the doctor. There was a 3rd-year resident in there who smirked when I said that. (Shut up, BItch, you don't know him.) I'm no idiot. I KNOW that parents are always the last to know and the parent saying, "I would know if my kid were on drugs" is always the parent whose kid is getting stoned behind the cafeteria at lunch.
But I would know. He is not using. Anyway, the blood tests will prove that.
After all the labs, we still had to go to the pharmacy for some meds. Our number: C682. Now serving: C640. Estimated wait time: 1 hour, 21 minutes. Number of chairs empty: none.
Finally got a seat and Dillon took a nap, Mac finished her book and started tearing recipes out of a Ladies Home Journal (that's my girl!), and I read while trying to ignore the screaming kid with the oblivious mom directly behind me.
Who says that military dependents don't pay for their medical care?
Monday, September 12, 2005
"Where Were You When...?"
It overwhelms me to consider when the next "Where were you when..." event will occur. That question has haunted the tragic milestones throughout our history.
"Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" (Not even a twinkle in my Daddy's eye.)
"Where were you when Reagan was shot?" (Walking on Leslie Avenue from the Jr. High School to PE at the High School. Jimmy Mitchell was in someone's car and leaned out the window to tell us.)
"Where were you when Challenger blew up?" (I was in college - I didn't even know until a day or so later, but my dad was driving up I-75 in Florida and saw it happen.)
"Where were you on 9/11?" (Atsugi Naval Air Station, Japan, 10pm, reading a book with the TV on mute when I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the screen hadn't changed for several minutes. I phoned my mom and woke her up then we watched the 2nd plane hit together.)
"Where were you when..."
...Pearl Harbor was attacked?
...John Lennon was shot?
...Mt. St. Helen's blew?
...Oklahoma City was bombed?
...The Tsunami hit?
...Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans?
After each of these events we are left disheartened and incredulous that something this big could happen. It's why we remember the circumstances surrounding our first knowledge of it. But I don't want any more "Where were you when..." moments. I have enough now to last a lifetime.
Honestly, I don't think it's any worse now than it was in centuries past. I presume that in the years following Lincoln's assassination, people could be overheard at dinner parties all over the East, "Where were you when Lincoln was shot?"
Or...
...Chicago burned?
...the San Francisco earthquake hit?
...the Civil War started?
...Mt. Vesuvious erupted?
...the Titanic sank?
...the Great Potato famine?
...the Black Death?
Every generation has tribulation and joy. Life today isn't any more dangerous or less safe than it was before. It's just that what you see firsthand is always more devastating that what you read in history books.
What we need to remember is that humankind always prevails.
"Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" (Not even a twinkle in my Daddy's eye.)
"Where were you when Reagan was shot?" (Walking on Leslie Avenue from the Jr. High School to PE at the High School. Jimmy Mitchell was in someone's car and leaned out the window to tell us.)
"Where were you when Challenger blew up?" (I was in college - I didn't even know until a day or so later, but my dad was driving up I-75 in Florida and saw it happen.)
"Where were you on 9/11?" (Atsugi Naval Air Station, Japan, 10pm, reading a book with the TV on mute when I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the screen hadn't changed for several minutes. I phoned my mom and woke her up then we watched the 2nd plane hit together.)
"Where were you when..."
...Pearl Harbor was attacked?
...John Lennon was shot?
...Mt. St. Helen's blew?
...Oklahoma City was bombed?
...The Tsunami hit?
...Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans?
After each of these events we are left disheartened and incredulous that something this big could happen. It's why we remember the circumstances surrounding our first knowledge of it. But I don't want any more "Where were you when..." moments. I have enough now to last a lifetime.
Honestly, I don't think it's any worse now than it was in centuries past. I presume that in the years following Lincoln's assassination, people could be overheard at dinner parties all over the East, "Where were you when Lincoln was shot?"
Or...
...Chicago burned?
...the San Francisco earthquake hit?
...the Civil War started?
...Mt. Vesuvious erupted?
...the Titanic sank?
...the Great Potato famine?
...the Black Death?
Every generation has tribulation and joy. Life today isn't any more dangerous or less safe than it was before. It's just that what you see firsthand is always more devastating that what you read in history books.
What we need to remember is that humankind always prevails.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
The Most Dreaded Teacher
In August of 1981, I was preparing to enter my freshman year at West Lafayette High School. We went school shopping and bought pencils, paper, folders, too-blue jeans and too-white sneakers. I had a perfectly bronze summer glow and a fresh trim on my long, blonde, Marsha Brady hair. I was nervous, but ready to move on and up.
And then the news that would send me to my room in tears came in the form of an official-looking letter from the school: My Algebra I teacher was to be the most dreaded math teacher in history. Ever. The name, Mr. Tatlock, evoked shivers and chills for less-than-stellar math students all over Tippecanoe County. Stories and rumors abounded regarding the horrors of his classroom. He was old. And mean. And unsympathetic. He will embarrass you in front of the whole class, pointing out to everyone how incapable you are of solving a simple algebra proof. The neighbor kids had both had him for math and my mother had already been advised by their mother that Mom had to get me transferred, if by unfortunate circumstance I happened to be placed in his classroom.
By the time mom got home from work that day, I was in hysterics. Ready to run off to Africa rather than face Mr. Tatlock and have my Math-Inadequacies scorned in front of my peers. My entire high school life was ruined, and it hadn’t even started yet. I begged her to call the school. I whined. I cried. I was pathetic.
But she sat me down and said, “What’s the worst that can happen? …That you fail the class and you have to take it over?”
(That I fail the class in front of my friends and a deep, black hole of humiliation swallows me up!) I stared at her.
“What if you succeed,” she asked me. “What if you try it and find that he’s not that bad and you can do it? I think you can. I KNOW you can.”
She gave me the mother of all pep-talks. We could get tutors. Mom and Dad would help me study every night. I should sit in the front row, because you learn more in the front. Everything I had heard about Mr. Tatlock was someone’s opinion. It didn’t mean anything until I met him and could form my own opinion.
So the first day of school came and I was scared out of my skull. When it was time for his class, I noted where all the smart kids were and sat very, very far away from them, in the front row, at the corner of his desk. I trembled when he spoke to me and I called him “Sir” every time I had cause to address him. The other kids teased me. They said I was “brown-nosing” him. They didn’t know I was terrified and trying to hold it together for that hour each day.
He turned out not to be so scary. His class was difficult, yes, but I slogged through it and even earned a few B’s and an occasional A. Being called to the chalkboard to participate in math races continued to make the bile rise in my throat, but I did it and even got better.
What happened, in the end, was something I couldn’t have imagined in a million years. I became a favorite of Mr. Tatlock’s, and he was The Favorite of mine. He attended my gymnastics and dive meets... He rode his bike past my house to chat with my mom working in her garden… I signed up for his Geometry and Algebra II classes… He and his wife even attended my wedding. He made a difference in my life: He taught me to like math and set a standard by which all my teachers and my children’s teachers would be measured.
For years after that, I considered writing him a letter and telling him how much I appreciated him back then and how much I treasure the memories of his compassionate teaching style, seeing him in the stands at my meets, with my parents, cheering me on. I even wrote a few drafts of a letter. But I never sent it.
And then, several years ago, I got a call from my mom. It was April 1st, 2001. Mr. Kenneth Tatlock, 78 years old, had been attacked by a dog while riding his bike. He didn’t survive the attack. To this day, I regret not telling him myself how much he meant to me, and with my 20th high school reunion two weeks away, I want the residents of Tippecanoe County and his family to know what a special and extraordinary man he was in my eyes.
And then the news that would send me to my room in tears came in the form of an official-looking letter from the school: My Algebra I teacher was to be the most dreaded math teacher in history. Ever. The name, Mr. Tatlock, evoked shivers and chills for less-than-stellar math students all over Tippecanoe County. Stories and rumors abounded regarding the horrors of his classroom. He was old. And mean. And unsympathetic. He will embarrass you in front of the whole class, pointing out to everyone how incapable you are of solving a simple algebra proof. The neighbor kids had both had him for math and my mother had already been advised by their mother that Mom had to get me transferred, if by unfortunate circumstance I happened to be placed in his classroom.
By the time mom got home from work that day, I was in hysterics. Ready to run off to Africa rather than face Mr. Tatlock and have my Math-Inadequacies scorned in front of my peers. My entire high school life was ruined, and it hadn’t even started yet. I begged her to call the school. I whined. I cried. I was pathetic.
But she sat me down and said, “What’s the worst that can happen? …That you fail the class and you have to take it over?”
(That I fail the class in front of my friends and a deep, black hole of humiliation swallows me up!) I stared at her.
“What if you succeed,” she asked me. “What if you try it and find that he’s not that bad and you can do it? I think you can. I KNOW you can.”
She gave me the mother of all pep-talks. We could get tutors. Mom and Dad would help me study every night. I should sit in the front row, because you learn more in the front. Everything I had heard about Mr. Tatlock was someone’s opinion. It didn’t mean anything until I met him and could form my own opinion.
So the first day of school came and I was scared out of my skull. When it was time for his class, I noted where all the smart kids were and sat very, very far away from them, in the front row, at the corner of his desk. I trembled when he spoke to me and I called him “Sir” every time I had cause to address him. The other kids teased me. They said I was “brown-nosing” him. They didn’t know I was terrified and trying to hold it together for that hour each day.
He turned out not to be so scary. His class was difficult, yes, but I slogged through it and even earned a few B’s and an occasional A. Being called to the chalkboard to participate in math races continued to make the bile rise in my throat, but I did it and even got better.
What happened, in the end, was something I couldn’t have imagined in a million years. I became a favorite of Mr. Tatlock’s, and he was The Favorite of mine. He attended my gymnastics and dive meets... He rode his bike past my house to chat with my mom working in her garden… I signed up for his Geometry and Algebra II classes… He and his wife even attended my wedding. He made a difference in my life: He taught me to like math and set a standard by which all my teachers and my children’s teachers would be measured.
For years after that, I considered writing him a letter and telling him how much I appreciated him back then and how much I treasure the memories of his compassionate teaching style, seeing him in the stands at my meets, with my parents, cheering me on. I even wrote a few drafts of a letter. But I never sent it.
And then, several years ago, I got a call from my mom. It was April 1st, 2001. Mr. Kenneth Tatlock, 78 years old, had been attacked by a dog while riding his bike. He didn’t survive the attack. To this day, I regret not telling him myself how much he meant to me, and with my 20th high school reunion two weeks away, I want the residents of Tippecanoe County and his family to know what a special and extraordinary man he was in my eyes.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Photographs & Memories
So. My 20th High School reunion is in 2 weeks.
Today I went through old photos, looking for my First Communion group photo, circa 1974. There are about 20 kids in that photo that walked across the High School graduation stage with me and I'd like to share it at the reunion.
I didn't find it (Mom must have it), but I did find a treasure trove of celluloid memories: Girl Scout camps, birthday parties, childhood dogs, school dances, sleepovers, pet shows, golf/diving/gymnastics meets, road trips, a trip to Mexico with the Spanish class, old boyfriends and lost girlfriends.
It made me so sad for all that's past. The life I lead now has very little relation to my childhood. I have only kept in touch with 2 friends, and that, sporadically. After growing along side of those kids, from Kindergarten through Senior year, and into Purdue with some of them, it is such a shame that I closed the book on that part of my life and essentially started fresh after my divorce from Dale. A life begun at 22, with no history, is a shame indeed.
But now I have a chance to pick up that lost yarn and knit it back into my history. I've reconnected with many of my childhood friends and gotten acquainted with them as adults. I really feel that this is an opportunity that I cannot waste. It's the reason we have reunions: To remember where you came from.
Today I went through old photos, looking for my First Communion group photo, circa 1974. There are about 20 kids in that photo that walked across the High School graduation stage with me and I'd like to share it at the reunion.
I didn't find it (Mom must have it), but I did find a treasure trove of celluloid memories: Girl Scout camps, birthday parties, childhood dogs, school dances, sleepovers, pet shows, golf/diving/gymnastics meets, road trips, a trip to Mexico with the Spanish class, old boyfriends and lost girlfriends.
It made me so sad for all that's past. The life I lead now has very little relation to my childhood. I have only kept in touch with 2 friends, and that, sporadically. After growing along side of those kids, from Kindergarten through Senior year, and into Purdue with some of them, it is such a shame that I closed the book on that part of my life and essentially started fresh after my divorce from Dale. A life begun at 22, with no history, is a shame indeed.
But now I have a chance to pick up that lost yarn and knit it back into my history. I've reconnected with many of my childhood friends and gotten acquainted with them as adults. I really feel that this is an opportunity that I cannot waste. It's the reason we have reunions: To remember where you came from.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Dillon Freaks Out
The first day of school was Tuesday.
Dillon is the most laid-back kid I know.
And then he came home Freaked Out.
This semester, he is taking:
Spanish 3
Algebra 2 Honors
AP English
World History/Geography Honors
Virginia History (making up for missing it in 10th grade)
Chemistry Honors
and
Guitar
His classes are split up sort of like college - 3 on one day, 4 on the next. So Tuesday afternoon he gets home, walks into the kitchen with his eyes bugging out of his head, holding a sheet of notebook paper.
"God, this year is going to suck. I have SO much homework! There is no way I can play football... I have to go do homework."
"Hon, it'll be ok. It just seems overwhelming right now. Once you get into the swing of things it'll get better."
Eyes bugging, waving sheet of notebook paper: "But, NO, Mom! Look at all these school supplies I need! We have to go get them Right Now!"
"Have you been to all your classes yet?"
"No."
"Well, why don't you wait until tomorrow, after you've been to all your classes and we can go get Everything you need all at once."
"But I NEED them tomorrow! I have Virginia History every day!"
"Honey, I don't think your teachers expect everyone to run right out tonight and start buying all this stuff immediately. No One has these supplies yet. It's not just you."
Turning red: "But I need a composition book!"
"Mackenzie has one."
Looking leery, as if this might be a trick: (To Mac) "Is it one of those marbled ones?"
"Yes, I have lots."
Eyes bugging even more, if possible (they are getting ready to pop out of his head): "But, MOM! Look at all this stuff I need! I need more pencils! I need binders!"
"I understand, honey, but I think it makes a lot more sense to just go and get it all at once tomorrow, after you have a complete list. I promise it'll be ok. Your History teacher will understand."
Frustrated & hyper-ventilating: "Ok. I have to go study now."
He was chilled out by Wednesday. On our way to Staples he told me how he ran around the school Wednesday morning asking all his friends if they had an extra composition book he could borrrow. They all told him, "No, man, it's the second day of school! No one does."
Still unsatisfied, he went to his 10th grade algebra teacher, whom he really liked and asked her if she had one he could borrow. She said, "Dillon, I'm a math teacher. I don't use composition books." But she's so cool that she told him she'd ask around a bit and try to locate one.
I don't know if she ever did find one for him. By the time he was telling me the story, 8 hours later, he could see how obsessive he had been and laughed at himself with me.
I would have him come tell you the story himself, but he's busy studying.
Dillon is the most laid-back kid I know.
And then he came home Freaked Out.
This semester, he is taking:
Spanish 3
Algebra 2 Honors
AP English
World History/Geography Honors
Virginia History (making up for missing it in 10th grade)
Chemistry Honors
and
Guitar
His classes are split up sort of like college - 3 on one day, 4 on the next. So Tuesday afternoon he gets home, walks into the kitchen with his eyes bugging out of his head, holding a sheet of notebook paper.
"God, this year is going to suck. I have SO much homework! There is no way I can play football... I have to go do homework."
"Hon, it'll be ok. It just seems overwhelming right now. Once you get into the swing of things it'll get better."
Eyes bugging, waving sheet of notebook paper: "But, NO, Mom! Look at all these school supplies I need! We have to go get them Right Now!"
"Have you been to all your classes yet?"
"No."
"Well, why don't you wait until tomorrow, after you've been to all your classes and we can go get Everything you need all at once."
"But I NEED them tomorrow! I have Virginia History every day!"
"Honey, I don't think your teachers expect everyone to run right out tonight and start buying all this stuff immediately. No One has these supplies yet. It's not just you."
Turning red: "But I need a composition book!"
"Mackenzie has one."
Looking leery, as if this might be a trick: (To Mac) "Is it one of those marbled ones?"
"Yes, I have lots."
Eyes bugging even more, if possible (they are getting ready to pop out of his head): "But, MOM! Look at all this stuff I need! I need more pencils! I need binders!"
"I understand, honey, but I think it makes a lot more sense to just go and get it all at once tomorrow, after you have a complete list. I promise it'll be ok. Your History teacher will understand."
Frustrated & hyper-ventilating: "Ok. I have to go study now."
He was chilled out by Wednesday. On our way to Staples he told me how he ran around the school Wednesday morning asking all his friends if they had an extra composition book he could borrrow. They all told him, "No, man, it's the second day of school! No one does."
Still unsatisfied, he went to his 10th grade algebra teacher, whom he really liked and asked her if she had one he could borrow. She said, "Dillon, I'm a math teacher. I don't use composition books." But she's so cool that she told him she'd ask around a bit and try to locate one.
I don't know if she ever did find one for him. By the time he was telling me the story, 8 hours later, he could see how obsessive he had been and laughed at himself with me.
I would have him come tell you the story himself, but he's busy studying.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Green Thumb Gone Wrong
While we were in Japan, we didn't have any houseplants . We were only supposed to be there for 24 months and I didn't want to waste my money buying plants only to give them away in a short time.
I consider myself to have a better-than-your-average-bear-green-thumb. My house in California resembled a well-groomed jungle, inside and out.
But here, for some reason, my plants are dropping like mosquitoes in a bug zapper. So far, I've killed a pot of ivy, a schefflera, two dracaenas, a 6-foot ficus tree, and I seriously disabled a sago palm. In the back yard, my tomato plants refused to blossom, my rose bush has black spot, my gaura stopped blooming, my columbine dried up and my lavender got black and soggy. There are bugs on my redbud and holes in my hostas. Oh, and the fifty-foot pine in the back is turning brown and needle after needle is dropping to it's death.
I have no idea what is going on. Maybe I'm out of practice... maybe it's the difference in climate... maybe it's because I'm usually running around here like a chicken-with-it's-head-cut-off and I just don't have the time to devote to gardening anymore. But no matter the reason, I'm starting to get really, really, annoyed with the situation. I like to see green out my window and in the corners of my living space and on my furniture. I'm redoubling my efforts, buying some Sevin, and calling an arborist. I WILL get a handle on this situation.
Here is what I AM doing right:
I consider myself to have a better-than-your-average-bear-green-thumb. My house in California resembled a well-groomed jungle, inside and out.
But here, for some reason, my plants are dropping like mosquitoes in a bug zapper. So far, I've killed a pot of ivy, a schefflera, two dracaenas, a 6-foot ficus tree, and I seriously disabled a sago palm. In the back yard, my tomato plants refused to blossom, my rose bush has black spot, my gaura stopped blooming, my columbine dried up and my lavender got black and soggy. There are bugs on my redbud and holes in my hostas. Oh, and the fifty-foot pine in the back is turning brown and needle after needle is dropping to it's death.
I have no idea what is going on. Maybe I'm out of practice... maybe it's the difference in climate... maybe it's because I'm usually running around here like a chicken-with-it's-head-cut-off and I just don't have the time to devote to gardening anymore. But no matter the reason, I'm starting to get really, really, annoyed with the situation. I like to see green out my window and in the corners of my living space and on my furniture. I'm redoubling my efforts, buying some Sevin, and calling an arborist. I WILL get a handle on this situation.
Here is what I AM doing right:
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Rum & Toast
This is what the counter looked like this Sunday morning after the kids got done making their breakfast:
Friday, September 02, 2005
But It COULD Happen...
I've picked up my computer dozens of times during the past few days to add an entry.
But what ever I have to say concerning my daily life seems so banal in the face of the suffering and chaos on the gulf coast.
There but for the grace of God...
But what ever I have to say concerning my daily life seems so banal in the face of the suffering and chaos on the gulf coast.
There but for the grace of God...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)