Are Those Ruffles Under Your Skirt?

Ruffles!

"I call dibs on the bloomers in Mommy's sewing room!" I yelled to my sisters over Twitter.  I'd found them lying around, probably on a pile on the large cutting table that had been pushed to the wall to make room for Munchkinhead and me to share an air mattress on the floor.  It was the ruffles that first got my eye.  Ruffled eyelet against more ruffles in a sort of softened army green.  I love ruffles, almost as much as I love sparkles.

"What's this?"  I picked them up and unfolded them.  "Bloomers!"  Mommy quickly informed me that Munchkinhead had already told her she couldn't get rid of them and very well might have plans for them.  Like an eager toddler yelling "MINE!", I pulled them on, over the skirt of the black suit I was still wearing from playing grown-up at work earlier in the day.  But that was hours ago and 1,000 miles away, literally.  Now, I was home, in Mommy's house, where no one ever grows up,  delighting in the ruffled bloomers with the elastic that easily went over my skirt and rested snuggly against my waist.  "They fit!  They fit!"  I jumped up-and-down.  That means they won't fit Munchkinhead.  I call dibs!"  I tweeted Munchkinhead and Alfred to let them know.  Alfred more as a courtesy, in case aliens had invaded her brain and made her suddenly interested in ruffled bloomers.

Toro toro toro!

Munchkinhead was glad of my excitement.  She had been disappointed that the bloomers did not fit her.  Like many things in Mommy's sewing room, no one had any idea where they'd come from.  Munchkinhead had forbidden Mommy from getting rid of them not because of some grand plan in mind, but because she did not want to see something so wonderful as bull-fighter-covered ruffled bloomers tossed away.   Yes, upon examining them more closely, later in the evening while playing board games with family and The Great Ecclestone, I discovered the pattern on these darling things was little bull fighters waving soft army green cloth in front of angry stamping dark green bulls.  How deliciously what-the-vampire.

I wore those bloomers most of the weekend, sometimes as shorts with a t-shirt---because Mommy's house is the only place one can look that ridiculous---sometimes under my dresses like proper bloomers go.  Then I could tumble in the grass and hang from the swingset to my heart's delight.  And Mommy didn't need to worry about saying, "get down from there, you have a dress on."  I love bloomers.

Bloomers or the clothesline

Fly Away with Me

Thirty-thousand feet up in the air a circle of sunlight on a plastic tray table transports me further than the plane I'm in ever could, to a time and place lodged in the happiest corners of my memories, where I keep Christmases and home-comings and everyday bits of my childhood that make tears well up in the corners above my smiling cheeks like dewdrops in the creases of a daisy.

The warm beam hugs my small frame as I lie on the floor, stocking feet swinging in the air, chin perched on tiny  hands above elbows planted in rough gold carpet.  The crowd from the tv screaming behind the roaring white noise of jet engines and oxygen circulation systems, as though even an Airbus can yell, "go Pack, go."  My mother cheers.  The man behind me snores. I ask my daddy for some more popcorn.  I take another sip of my hot tea.

The bright light creates rainbows on my paper at the edges of the window's shadow, rainbows on the golden carpet fibers enthralling my curious young eyes.  I glide my hand, smoothing the paper, watching a hundred dazzling, sparkling stars dance and twirl on the plastic wall and someone else's seat, my aging eyes behind corrective lenses still enthralled by the magic splendor of prisms in the sun.

Outside, the dark ridges of the Appalachians flow under a sheer veil of mist as a river winds off in the distance. Outside, the world is brilliant in the gleaming white of a Wisconsin winter, clear and cold.  Skies of the brightest blue.

I am grateful to be tucked inside, in my sunbeam, warm and glowing, from the love around me, from the memories inside me.  In my mind.  In my heart.

Adventures with Ivory: Camping with Mommy

My mommy’s side of the family goes camping every Labor Day and Memorial Day weekend at Lazy Days campgrounds.  Just going along is an adventure – ask Munchkinhead who won’t do it anymore!

This Labor Day, our group had roughly 2 dozen people in it; aunts, cousins, uncles, children, friends and some dogs.  The theme was Olympics so we had some organized games on top of the regular foolishness.  Mommy and I were partners for a three-legged race and a bag race.  We didn’t win, but we also didn’t fall down or pee our pants like some people.

There’s a small beach on a small lake at the campgrounds.  Somehow, I got myself elected to take all of the kids, 7 of them ranging in age from 4 to 10, to the beach.  That was interesting.  I’m like the only person on the camping trip who doesn’t have kids or isn’t regularly around children.  We had fun.  The kids seemed to appreciate that I was quite content to sit on the beach as long as they wanted to play in the sand and water.  Eventually, some other adults came down, including Mommy who was running away from a game of Cards Against Humanity at the campsite.  (That game is not Mommy-proof.)

We had campfires every night and Mommy and I cooked all our meals over our fire, Zambian style on a tripod of bricks.  For Saturday night’s group dinner, I attempted to make nsima and peanut sauce cisyu with eggs.  People were very polite about trying it, but I don’t think anyone actually liked it. – With the Olympic theme, we were supposed to cook something from our nationality.  Since the family’s all Polish, I thought I’d make Zambian food.

The best part of the weekend was when Mommy and I rented a tandem and attempted to toodle around on a bicycle built for two.  We did pretty well except for that one ditch.

A Moment for a Birthday

Does everyone have those relatives they wish they’d gotten to know better?  I suspect that’s a yes, but maybe there are some people out there who are lucky enough to be able to say “no.”

Today was my Uncle Tom’s birthday.  I don’t know how old he would have been, but I know he would have been having a great time.  He was always in a good mood, at least always in a good mood whenever I saw him.  That could have something to do with the fact that I always saw him at fun family gatherings, holidays, birthday parties, swimming parties at Grandma and Grandpa’s. 

As a child, I think I was afraid of him.  He seemed like a huge giant to me and his big bushy beard and tattoos made him look like he’d walked right out of one of my fairy tale books.  But he was super nice beneath all the fuzz and his hearty laugh would fill the room.

When I was young, he would let me sit near him at the Sheepshead table and kibitz to me about what everyone was doing and how to play the game.  When I was older, we would toast with our glasses of Jack Daniels.  One of my strongest memories of Uncle Tom is from my going away party before I went to Zambia.  We had a very well-stocked bar that night and my book from bartending.  Among the bottles in that well-stocked bar was a tall bottle of Galliano.  “What are we supposed to do with this?”  “Make Harvey Wallbangers!”  Uncle Tom was thrilled; it’d been ages since he’d had a Harvey Wallbanger and it reminded him of when he was in the Navy.

I think about that a lot these days.  Several of my younger cousins are in the Navy now.  I wish Uncle Tom were still around so they could all share stories together, connect.

For me, I feel like we lost him just as I was getting old enough to actually know him as a person instead of just my aunt’s husband or my cousins’ dad.  Now he’s watching down on them and his granddaughters, and I bet sometimes, he’s out there on the lawn, too, laughing as the girls roll down the hill.

Grandpa

I miss my grandpa.  He passed away about thirteen years ago.  My great-aunt passed a week or so ago, but I do not miss her.  She would not share enough of herself for me to know her well enough to miss her.  Instead, her passing has made me miss her brother more.

Munchkinhead and I spent hours sorting through old family photos that we had never seen.  Photos of my grandpa and great-aunt as young children, frolicking in the yard, dressed for church, in graduation gowns and Indian costumes.  Photos of their parents as a young couple, of their mother as a young girl, of their aunts and their uncles and their grandparents.  Photos of a history we could only attempt to piece together.  I wanted to hear Grandpa tell us stories about it all.

Grandma and Grandpa used to take care of me and Alfred when we were little.  Alfred and I would run amok in their big house while Grandma quietly supervised from the dining room table where a puzzle or game of solitaire was spread over the dark wood.  On special days, we would walk up to the office to visit Grandpa.

As we got older, and they got older, Grandma couldn’t care for us anymore. Grandpa would pick us up from school or take us out to lunch.  Sometimes it was in his little red Datsun, sometimes it was in his giant blue boat of a car.  I think it was an Oldsmobile.  It had a very loud blinker noise that I remember distinctly.  A sort of click-clack, click-clack.  Betty’s blinker makes the same noise.  It makes me smile; it makes me think of Grandpa. 

Grandpa would tell us stories, make animal noises and explain why he would never patronize Hardee’s but would always be loyal to McDonald’s.  I don’t remember what we talked about most of the time.  What do children talk about with adults?  But I do remember that we always had fun.  I may not remember particulars, but I remember love.  And I miss that love.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I am very lucky.  Everyday, I sit in Grandpa’s old office.  I believe a piece of him is still there, and it’s comforting to be around that.  Comforting to see his desk and his knickknacks.  Comforting to think he’s near.

A Frog named Death

Soft, green, huggable with happy, big eyes and a smile.  His name is Fwa the Frog.  Munchkinhead got him for me the day we killed my aunt.

Or at least sentenced her to death.  It would be another ten days before she actually gave up on life.  Ten days without food or water.  Have you ever watched someone starve to death?  The plumpness fades.  The skin withers.  The cheeks sink in.  It isn’t pretty.  It isn’t pleasant.  But I suppose death never claimed to be pretty or pleasant, only permanent.  Permanent, painful, palatable.

I replay the weeks leading up to her final demise.  I question; I wonder; I believe we could have done things differently.  I tried.  Too little, too late?  Perhaps.  She was a fighter.  she could have fought!  Maybe?  But who can fight without food or water?

“She’s not really here,” they’d say.  “Her brain is gone,” they’d say.  “See the pictures,” they’d say.  “See the damage.”  “In our expertise,” they’d say.  But then, she’d wake.  A squeeze, a recognizing smile, a tear.  Awake.  No food.  Asleep.  No water. 

“She’s awake?!  Then you can take her off the morphine.  See if she can eat.  See if she can drink.”  But he was no longer in charge of her care.  “She’s awake?!  This is terrible!”  She was in charge of her care.  No food.  No water.  More morphine.  More drugs.

I sat with Fwa. Fwa the Frog.  Kufwa – to die.  Ndafwa – I die.  Bafwa – she dies.  I try not to blame.  would it have mattered?  Who knows.  I do not miss her now she’s gone, so I wish she’d stayed around a little longer.

The Road to being Stuck in Your Room is Paved with Good Intentions

It was June, the summer after 6th grade.  My sisters and I had some sort of fake slumber party on the hide-a-bed.  I don’t remember the details.  The middle of the day on Saturday, Mommy and Daddy had gone out for a walk.

My sisters and I wanted to make Daddy something for Father’s Day but we needed supplies.  There was a JoAnn’s not too far away; Alfred and I rode our bikes there frequently, just over a mile.  Munchkinhead was too          Us, a few months later
little to  ride that far; she was only about 3 years old.  We decided we’d walk.

We cleaned up our slumber party.  Sort of.  Figuring we’d want to play again later, instead of folding the hide-a-bed back into the couch, we made the bed up and tucked all our stuffed animals into it. 

We cleaned anything else we’d been playing with.  We left a message for Mommy and Daddy in the living room, checked that all the doors were locked, took our house key and set off for the store, pulling Munchkinhead in the little red wagon.  We took an umbrella with us in case it rained while we were away.

We were pleased with ourselves, feeling we had remembered to do everything we were supposed to do.  We were having fun together and excited about making something nice for Daddy.  How were we supposed to know Mommy and Daddy hadn’t taken a house key with them?

They couldn’t get in.  They couldn’t get our message.  They didn’t know where we were.  And, it had started raining.  Apparently, these circumstances make parents freak out.

Mommy and Daddy found us with the little red wagon, next to the McDonald’s, heading out of the Plaza parking lot.

I don’t remember what Daddy got for Father’s Day that year.  It couldn’t have been good because I remember we spent a lot of time looking at puffy paint supplies.  I know what I got though.  Grounded.  For being irresponsible by not anticipating the facts I didn’t know.  And for making my sisters go with me.  They didn’t get in trouble at all.  “They’re too young to know better.”  Harumph.  And yes, 20 years later I am still bitter.

But I’ll tell you this much, as a grown-up, I’m pretty darn good at anticipating a whole lot of “what-if” scenarios and preparing for most of them.

Long Live the Little Green Men!

You gotta watch out for people getting you back, especially the ones you didn’t even realize you “got” in the first place.

I’d left my dorm room unlocked.  I always left my dorm room unlocked.  There wasn’t anything valuable that could be taken with ease – my speakers were 5ft around – and my sorority-sisters neighbors were usually milling about that end of the hall.  But there was no denying that if I’d locked the door, I wouldn’t be dealing with this …. this what?  It wasn’t really a mess and was only slightly annoying.

Army men.  They were everywhere.  I opened my dresser drawer; army man.  I pulled down a shoe box; army man.  I put on a pair of pants and put my hand in the pocket; army man.  There was even one in the mini fridge’s freezer!  “He’s in Siberia,” my clearly guilty next door neighbor grinned.  I was finding those army men until well after I moved out of that dorm room.  Thanks Amanda.

But as I said, she was just “getting me back.”  Except, I hadn’t filled her room with army men.  No, the little green men first appeared elsewhere on campus, all over campus, thanks to another sorority sister, a trip to Leon’s and the dollar store that just happened to be on the way home. 

A tradition was born, and that tradition continues.

Mommy found one somewhere the other week.  Likely a remnant of   the attack of all attacks just before I left for Zambia.  There’s a lot of good hiding spots in a house with 3 floors.  They’re sneaked into the bottom of packages and carried along in suitcases on visits.  One of the original instigators’ daughter has her own toddler-appropriate army man.   Gummy army men were passed around for holidays and birthdays – I heard they were quite delicious.  One of my  sorority sisters even incorporated them into her wedding!

 

And this past Christmas, Alfred got me the most amazing and absolutely perfectly appropriate present.  A snowflake ornament made out of army men!  I love snow.  She found it on etsy.  It’s super cute and very ingenious.

Little Round Berries

I was walking down the BART path on my way to the dentist, cruising along at my usual brisk pace when something caught my eye.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  Little berries.  Little round berries.  Little round red berries.  Memories came flooding back.

When Alfred and I were little girls at the old house, we had a backyard full of amusement.  Sandboxes, swing sets and swimming pools migrated around the yard, with much help from Daddy, until Daddy found them their permanent homes. 

One place the swing set lived for awhile was the side of the back yard, just off the driveway, right under a small tree.  A small tree with little berries.  Little round berries. Little round orange berries.  They grew in bunches on that tree, the same way the little round red berries were growing in bunches on the tree along the BART path.

Like the birch tree we fed to the pandas, the berries were just another toy in our giant whole-world playground.  Mommy had told us not to eat the berries because they were poisonous.  Somehow, we got it in our heads that berries were not poisonous only if ingested, but utterly and completely poisonous.  The berries would fall from the tree onto our slide. We’d roll them down, an orange river flowing to the ground, always careful never to break a berry for fear the poisonous berry juice would seep through our skin.

As I stood looking at those little red berries, so exactly like my childhood berries in everyway but hue, I wondered momentarily if they too were poisonous.  I briefly wondered if the orange berries even were.  Certainly not to touch, but to eat?  I didn’t squish a red berry or try to eat one to find out.  I smiled, turned back down the path and walked away in a haze of happy memories

A berry-les berry tree. Alfred with a shovel on a swing.

One Little Rabbit Jumping on the Bed

~a guest post by Daddy Bunny

One of the great things about being a rabbit is that even though I turned 18 a few years ago, I still get to live with my mom.  I stay home all day munching the everlasting carrot Uncle Nathy-Boo gave me for Christmas, playing with my brothers and sisters and hiding in Mom’s bed.  On really adventurous days, I even hop down the hall to visit Malaria and Giraffe in the living room.  But the best adventures are when my mom takes me on trips with her.

We’ve been all sorts of places together.  This month, we went to San Diego.  Last month, we went to Las Vegas and Monterey.  The month before that, I got to ride on a train in my own little cheese-shaped seat and my mom took me to my first Packer game.  We went to Uganda, and Amsterdam, and Iowa, and Portland, and Washington, D.C.  We even went to Lake Tahoe.  And that’s all this year!

My absolute favorite trips are the ones where I get to see my aunts, my cousins and Grandma and Grandpa.  That happened a lot this year. We went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Wisconsin four times.

I love Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  Gibby and Foo Foo are always there to play with me.  We play hide and seek a lot with my mom and my Aunty Munchkinhead.  Sometimes, Aunty Alfred is there and she brings my cousin Timmy Bear along.  Then they get to play hide and seek, too.  If we’re really good little rabbits and gibbons and bears, we get to play board games with our moms and Grandma.

And when nobody’s watching, we go exploring in Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  Even though I grew up there, and Gibby and Foo Foo still live there, the place is so big, there’s always lots to explore.  There’s a fabulous slide in the hallway, behind a little square door.  It’s so much fun!  We climb up the bookcase to the door, sit down on the ledge, slide down the ramp screaming “weeeeee!” and then there’s this huge drop of and we plop right into a pile of fluffy clothes.

Gibby loves to hang out in the bathroom. With the poles holding up the shower curtain and the long neck on the part where the shower water comes out, there’s lots of things for him to hang on and stretch his long arms.  Foo Foo and I hop along the hallway floor and peek through the railings above the stairs.  It’s a nice little place to watch the activity below.

And when I really want a lot of fun, a lot, a lot of fun, I scamper off to Grandma and Grandpa’s room.  They have this giant bed with pretty, soft blankets on it.  It’s the perfect place for a bunny like me to work on my hopping skills.  Sometimes I hop so high, I can even pretend I’m a bird!

My mom says we’re going back to Grandma and Grandpa’s in a few weeks.  I can’t wait!

It is a Truth Universally Acknowledged that Clothing is Best when Shared

Speaking of Pride and Prejudice clothes (back in June), I had this absolutely wonderful Easter dress one year, made by Mommy, of course.  My Pride and Prejudice dress.  Empire waist, puff sleeves, a bit of sheer lace where Lydia certainly wouldn’t have had any, and a beautiful light-weight white fabric with soft pink roses on it.

It was one of those dresses that hardly fit when it was made.  - This was not Mommy’s fault.  1) Pattern envelope size guide measurements never seem to produce what they suggest; at 15 and about five and a half feet tall, the envelope said I was a girls size 7; and 2) My size fluctuates like an Irishman’s temper.  But it fit well-enough and I wore it for Easter that year with no problems.

Then, a year or two later, my AP English teacher had some special class day where we could dress like our favorite characters or something like that.  I just had to be Elizabeth Bennet, so out came the beautiful Easter dress.  The only problem was, I’d grown a bit since the dress’s Easter, and not just vertically.

I have two mottos – well, at least had two mottos in high school.  One, anything you can do, I can do in heels. And two, never sacrifice fashion for comfort.  I was determined to get into that dress.  And I did. Thank you very much ducky tape.  The scars went away eventually.

Recently, scouring the closets at Hotel Mommy, I came across my beautiful Easter dress hanging in the back of the sewing room closet.  - And by back, I mean back.  That closet goes back about eight feet.  I was super excited.  “Hey Mommy!  Do you think this will fit again?” Many of my high school clothes fit me again these days thanks to the gym.

Instead of my trying it on, we tried it on Munchkinhead, who was a good sport despite the dress having pink on it.  I was both sad and delighted.  It fit her perfectly.  Well, except for the length, but that’s easy to fix.  I was sad because the dress fitting her meant there was no way it would fit me.  I was delighted because the dress fitting her meant the beautiful dress could be worn again!  Of course, that’s only if Munchkinhead gets over not being able to lift her arms over her head.  Ladies don’t need to do that; it’s not important.

Incidentally, we’re standing in almost exactly the same spot in the same room in our two pictures.

Happy Anniversary Alfred and Nathy-Boo!

Today is Alfred and Nathy-Boo’s first anniversary. Since I didn’t post about their wedding a year ago, I figured this is a good occasion to do so.

The air was moist and warm, droplets of imagined rain clung to the ferns. Munchkinhead and I ducked under a banana tree leaf and giggled. Paradise. Nearly everywhere you turned there was lush green foliage or a burst of flowers. Hard to believe it was 40 and rainy outside. No, we weren’t in a jungle. Munchkinhead and I were just pretending we were in a jungle. Where we really were was the rehearsal for Alfred and Nathy-Boo’s wedding.

A truly exotic location, Des Moines, Iowa.

I’ve been to quite a number of weddings over the years and I have to say that this one was by far the best wedding I’ve attended.  It was well-organized, beautiful, economically, delightfully representative of the bride and groom, tons of fun and just over all amazing.  And I’m not just saying that because it was my sister’s.  Alfred knows I’d tell her if I thought she could have done better.
Alfred did pretty much all of the planning herself. The venue was delightful: the Des Moines Botanical Center.  A beautiful glass dome arcing high above succulent gardens with a small stream where colorful fish flipped their tales. Banana tree leaves and spindly flowers waved in the breezes created by people walking down the cobblestoned paths.  The moist, warm air inside hid any indication of the cold April gloom covering the outside world.  Why fill a church with expensive flowers when you can have the convenience of an indoor garden?

Alfred’s dress was, of course, absolutely beautiful.  A simple woman of logic and practicality, she is nothing of the diva that her two sisters are. Her dress showed this perfectly, classic, yet elegant, with just a touch of sparkle in the purple embroidered flowers at the bottom of the white satin.  Being as cold-blooded as the rest of her clan, she has had a matching bolero for the reception.
Her bridesmaids dresses also exemplified an important part of her nature, her consideration for others. Knowing that the fairer sex is prone to fluctuations in body size and shape, and having her bridesmaids coming from across the country, Alfred chose an adjustable option for the dresses. Purple satin corsets with matching long skirts.  Of course, Mommy made all the dresses, her own, the bridesmaids and Alfred’s.

Standing at the front of the garden with the other bridesmaids, I couldn’t help but tear up. Not only did Alfred look so beautiful and happy, but Daddy was tearing up next to her. How could anyone not get misty eyed seeing that?

The ceremony was short and sweet, presided over by the pastor from our home church in Milwaukee who came all the way to Iowa on Easter weekend just to marry Alfred and Nathy-Boo. And then the bride and groom walked together down the aisle to music from Star Wars. Geeks.

And then the real fun began, the reception. Every person had a gift to take home with them, lovely nameplates cross-stitched by the bride herself.  Alfred and Nathy-Boo also made all the centerpieces for the dinner tables, out of Legos! No one can tell me they’ve had better center pieces.  The small cake above the mountains of cupcakes was also Lego-themed, with a small corner of icing peeled back to revel bricks beneath  and a Lego bride and groom up top.
The cupcakes provided lots of amusement throughout the night as the cake part, and the fillings inside were quite delicious, but the frosting was a bit too much for anyone. Tables were covered with mounds of frosted peaks carefully removed from little cakes. Mugs overflowed with the pastel swirls, looking like fancy lattes.  One of our aunts had close to a dozen cupcakes and left a fine frosting display around her table place.

Alfred and Nathy-Boo’s music was perfect. All their favorites. I don’t think the dance floor was empty the entire night.  A ridiculous line formed across the middle for the “Time Warp”.  Munchkinhead and I waltzed to Metallica and danced with Daddy to the family theme song. Mommy and Daddy danced to their song. Alfred and I played air piano to “November Rain.” And we all polkaed.

It was a fabulous night. Wonderful to see so many family members and old friends and an absolute blessing to see Alfred and Nathy-Boo so happy. Congratulations on a fantastic wedding and on your anniversary!

Photo by Jill Brown

Adventures from Home: Batons, Balls and Bugs, pt. 3

A long, long time ago, when Alfred was still a Schultz and we hadn’t yet left the safe bubble of St. Francis, a little girl picked up a flyer at a parade.  “Leslynettes Baton Twirling Corps.”  Alfred was delighted – she already had a friend from school in the corps - and it wasn’t long before she was marching down the street in a little blue leotard with red sequined sailor collar and small sequined anchor on her hip.

Twenty years and more costumes than you can count later, that little twirler still knows her parade routines.  So do her sisters, who also eventually joined the corps, although never becoming close to as good as she was.  Fishtails with two batons simultaneously, only Alfred.  Regular double and occasional triple toss-turn-arounds, only Alfred.  Crying in the corner in her hula skirt, a very cute little munchkinhead.  Almost hitting the judge with her baton, yeah, that’d be me.

But for us, not being good at something has never been a reason to not have fun doing it.  So when we found those old baton cases in the back hall closet this summer, we were more thrilled to pull out our old metal rods and do a few tosses.

“No, I think that was routine 4, routine 2 had something like this.”  We tried to sort out which routines we could remember.  “Well 3 is certainly the easiest,” one of us piped up, followed by all three of us in unison, “Up, up. Down, down. Out 2-3-4, out 2-3-4. Up. Out. Shoulder 2-3-4 and down.”  “And 6, we all know 6.”  It turned out we remembered a good number of them.  Of the 6 main routines, we knew 1, 3, 4 and 6.  So we had a little parade around the front lawn.

Always feeling more graceful than we looked, we took over the dirveway doing thumbflips, tour jetes, toss-turn-arounds and leaps.  Then we decided to have some real fun, a strut off!  With some more of our favorite routine at the end.  Daddy sat on the porch with his iced tea, laughing as we outlined an invisible square with our high steps.

Mommy’s not-so-little twirlers

 

Munchkinhead clearly won the strut off. 

Adventures from Home: Congratulations Grad!

One of the great things about going home over Fathers’ Day weekend, and one of the reasons I chose that weekend to go, was that I got to see a whole bunch of my relatives at my cousin’s graduation party!

Emily, one of the youngest cousins (and Mommy’s god-daughter), graduated from high school this June.  A great reason to have a party!  There were balloons and glow bracelets, both of which I put on my wrists.  The tables were scattered with bowls of snack food and little metallic graduation hat cut-outs that my aunties delighted in hiding in everyone’s purses, camera cases and knitting bags. 

The dinner spread was a true smorgasbord of standard Schlaikowski delights.  Little wienies, a pickle and olive plate, Auntie Gail’s taco dip, fruit salad, coleslaw, buns and some sort of gravy soaked meat to put on the buns, potato and tortilla chips, and a stack of crackers and cheese.

It wasn’t a super hyper dance-crazed party or anything like that, but it was still a ton of fun.  Our little first-cousins-once-removed provided so much entertainment only the most stubborn teenager could be bored.  They ran in circles, climbed up walls and played fetch with a large, neon pink, stuffed dolphin.  That was all in addition to their usual just looking cute.

I didn’t have a dolphin, but I was content to just play with my food.

(That worked better when my hands were smaller, or maybe I need bigger olives.)

It was a great party and wonderful to spend time with my large family. :)  Huge shoutout to my godparents for arranging it and being fabulous hosts!  And, Congratulations Emily!

From home to Home by Rail

By Rail

My second night aboard the California Zephyr, headed from California to Chicago.  On my way to Milwaukee.  I picked up the route guide.  Somewhere between Fort Morgan, Colorado and Mc Cook, Nebraska.  Wherever either of those are.  I scanned the list of cities we’d been through and were headed to.  So many places I’d never heard of. 

I flipped the guide over to the back, to the connection guide.  Denver, Colorado Springs, Vail, Boise, Twin Falls, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas.  All these places I knew nothing about.  All these little connecting buses that meant nothing to me.  I looked out into the deep dark nothingness of the planes, somewhere between Colorado and Nebraska and felt so lost.

I looked back at the route guide and something made me smile.  At the top of the route connections, “Emeryville * San Francisco/Oakland.”  And the connection listings below, “Emeryville Amtrak Station, Ferry Building, Fisherman’s Wharf, Market St., Caltrain, Jack London Square.”  These meant something to me; these all meant something to me.  They meant home. 

Wait. What?  could the Bay really be home?

home?  How did this happen?

The thought surprised me, but it didn’t take much more thinking to realize its truth.  In a year and a half, I feel like I know the Bay Area better than I know Milwaukee.  I  grew up in Milwaukee, my entire life .  All of it on the South Side: Bay View, St. Francis, Cudahy.  I went off to school the next county over, to Waukesha, and rarely ventured off campus.  Bubbles, little patches of space I know very well, but so little beyond that.  I should say ‘knew’; things change so fast.

I’ve been to Downtown Oakland more times than I’ve been to the Northside in Milwaukee.  I’ve been to Berkeley more times than I’ve been to the Eastside.  I may even have been to San Francisco more times than I’ve been to Downtown Milwaukee, though that one might be close.

I have my church, my fun extra-curriculars: the returned Peace Corps group, the wind ensemble, the bell choir.  My absolutely fabulous job [link].  (I’m pictured in two of those three links. Can you find me?)  And as I recently learned, I have really great friends nearby, friends I can rely on for anything, that get the frustrations with the Bay Area, that challenge me, and most importantly, friends that love me for me.  In short, I have a community.  And no plans to leave anytime soon.

Home

Don’t get me wrong, Milwaukee will always be Home.  I’m excited to be arriving there today, to get to see Mommy and Daddy and my aunts and uncles and my grandma and (fingers crossed) snow, to eat cheese that doesn’t feel like rubber and drink milk from cows that are actually happy, to watch the Packers take down the Vikings after church, to sew with Mommy, to decorate the house for Christmas, and to sit by the fire with Daddy, and to just be Home.

But when my two weeks is up, I’ll also be happy to get back on the train and head home to El Cerrito.

Of 3rds and 4ths

Today is the 3rd of July.  That means tomorrow is the 4th of July, my 3rd favorite holiday!  (After Easter and Palm Sunday.) So, seeing as it is the 3rd before the 4th that is my 3rd, it seems like a good day to reminisce about some of my favorite 4th of July memories.

Parades

Growing up, the 4th of July meant hot, sunny days and warm nights, parades and swimming and fireworks.  Mommy and Daddy would sit on lawnchairs on the wide grassy part between the sidewalk and the street (something they don’t really have in the Bay Area).  My sisters and I would sit on the cement curb in front of them, perfectly poised to jump up and snatch some tootsie rolls when the candy-throwers came by.

Twirling

As we grew older, we did less watching and started actually being in the parades.  First it was Alfred, who joined the baton twirling corps in 1st grade.  After watching her in a few parades, I wanted to be in them, too.  So I became a banner carrier for the twirling corps.  And eventually I started to twirl as well.  I was terrible.

[Alfred marching with the Senior twirlers.]

I remember my first parade as a twirler.  Not because there was anything especially memorable – I chased my rolling baton to the curb as much as any other parade -, but because there’s a video somewhere taken by my aunt from Daly City who was out visiting us.  I approach the waiting family, including this favorite aunt we don’t get to see enough, and instead of running to give her a hug or asking for water or anything nice, I, in all my early-teenage glory stomp my feet, whip my baton through the air and yell “I’m never doing that again!” Right as one of the military guards marches past and fires their rifles, so it comes out more as “I’m never doing – BOOM *flinch* – again! *baton swing*.” 

But of course, I did do it again, many, many more parades and competitions and parents shows.  I wasn’t particularly good at twirling.   I usually won just because there weren’t any other 16 year-olds still in the Beginner category.  But it was fun, and I do love me some pretty outfits. ;)

[Beginner Miss Spring 1997; me in pretty outfit.]

Zambia

The best 4th of July parade I was ever in was the one I ran myself.  In Zambia.  On like July 10th or something. 

I was living in in Cheelo, about 2.5 hours outside of Monze.  It was my first Fourth of July outside of America.  And I was sick.  Really sick.  I spent the entire day lying on my foam mattress on the dirt floor, under my mosquito net in my small two-room hut.  It was not fun.

So I celebrated the Fourth of July when I was better a few days later.  Since I was the only American for miles, it hardly mattered that I was a few days late.  I didn’t have my special American Holiday shoes (described here) in Zambia at that point, so I had to come up with a new special outfit for this occasion.

Using my treadle sewing machine, some fabric left-over from making dresses for Peppino and Ngandu and some old bicycle spokes from when Ba Lenix repaired his bicycle, I made my first home-made corset and a matching skirt.  July is the middle of cold season in Zambia (much like the Bay), so I wore a long-sleeved leotard under my outfit.

[Me in 4th of July corset.]

I looked more like a Bavarian sheep herder than anything else, but whatever, it was still special!

[Below: The banner.]

Our Parade

Then we had our parade.  We lined up in front of my hut door, “Happy 4th of July” scrawled on my skirt pattern pieces clinging to the rough wood.  John Phillip Sousa marches warbled out of the small plastic speakers set at the hut’s base.  Bana (children), Ba Lenix, a few other grown-up men from the village and me in a line, we set off marching around the compound, waving American flags, blowing whistles, banging nsima spoons on pots, slamming pan lids together, smiling and laughing.  It was fabulous!

[Our 4th of July / 10th of July parade. Ba Lenix is the one in the camouflage shirt.]

After our exhausting parade, we popped some popcorn over the open fire and enjoyed some more of that warbley Sousa music.   What a perfect non-holiday Holiday.

Pink with a Different Obsession

I feel like writing here, yet I have nothing particular to say today.  So, I shall dig into my photo archives, randomly retrieve an old photo, and tell you a story:

 

Pink, it’s Aerosmith’s favorite color.  It’s lots of people’s favorite color.  It makes Molly Ringwald feel pretty.  It makes lots of people feel pretty.  I like it.  It’s so fun and feminine and yet strong and empowering.  It’s like an old lady who’s lived a long enriching life and is comfortable with herself, proud of who she is.  She garners respect not with force, but with peace, with the calmness of having learned what’s really important.  Pink has none of the demanding-ness or insecure attention seeking of red.  No.  Pink is refined and beautiful, and timeless.

Ok, maybe not hot pink, but anyway…

 

Not everyone is such a fan of pink.  Some people are kind of ehh and indifferent about it.  Some people like it a bit but wouldn’t rave about it.  Some people would prefer not to wear it (quite a large number of men I would guess).  But then there’s Munchkinhead; she hates pink.  With a passion.

How badly is with a passion?  Well, if you’re wearing pink and you try to hug her, she’ll run screaming from the room.  Probably something to the effect of, “ewwwwwwwww!!!!! Get away from me!”

If you put one of the pink bowls at her spot on the dinner table, she snatch it up, somehow managing to make it bang into the table while doing so, stomp over to the cupboard, slam the pink bowl into the cupboard with as much racket as possible and return to the table with a non-pink bowl – likely a white bowl with a yellow duck on the bottom of it – loudly exclaiming the entire time that whoever set the table ought to know better than to give her a pink bowl.

If you put something pink on her bed, or worse, dress Gibby in pink, you’re probably going to have to fetch Daddy Bunny out of the laundry chute.

And if you try to dress her in pink… Well, let’s just say I hope you have good medical insurance.

As you can imagine, these sorts of reactions make it rather fun for Daddy and me, who carry the mischievous gene in the family, to strategically place pink items in Munchkinhead’s vicinity.  Just picture this tiny little Munchkinhead turning bright red and stomping and flailing and making such a ruckus, as though she were three times her size, just cuz something’s pink.  It’s so ridiculous!  It’s so funny!

Mommy and Wendy, they do not appreciate this so much.  Maybe they don’t have a sense of humor.  More likely, they’re just nicer.

Part of the reason this is all so amusing though is because pink used to be one of Munchkinhead’s favorite colors.  Pink and yellow.  For most of her childhood.  Yellow stayed, but somewhere along the line pink got replaced with black.  My poor little Munchkinhead!  What terrible thing must have happened to turn her from bright, happy pink, to sad, dark, emo, black.

 

*Sigh*  Well, at least we’ll always have adorable pictures like this, adorable pink pictures like this:

By the way, if you really, really, really want get a rise out of her, use pink paisley.  She hates paisley even more than pink.  One scrap of pink paisley on Gibby and Daddy Bunny will be bunny-napped for sure!

An Unexpected Visit

I wasn’t expecting visitors.  It was late, dark, I was about to crawl into bed, crawl under that warm fluffy comforter, snuggle deep into my mountain of pillows.  But I’m not one to turn away friendly visitors, at any hour.

Some might have thought it unusual for them to come together, the two of them as a pair.  But it wasn’t really.  They had met many times before.  Conversed at so many gatherings and get-togethers over the years, the way in-laws do, connected together by a common appreciation for their children’s love and a playfully rambunctious affection for their grandchildren.  Yes, I was certainly more surprised they’d come at all than that they had come together.  Yet, there they were; they we were, standing together, one on each side, me in the middle.  My heart swelled with happiness and love.

The visit was short.  They lingered briefly, one of those calm, soothing, silent visits you can only have with old friends.  Where the still air conveys as much as any words could say, “Hello. How are you? I love you.”  The still air, a warm familiar hug.  And, then, they had to go; and I had to go to bed.

I crawled into bed, crawled under that warm fluffy comforter, snuggled deep into my mountain of pillows, and smiled.  “Goodnight,” I whispered.  “Goodnight, Grandpa.  Goodnight Buddy.”

One Hundred Thousand!

Yesterday, January 1st, 2010, was a day for celebration.  A real monument, a landmark in time, an event so special that it required champagne.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, my mommy’s minivan hit 100,000 miles on its odometer.

It was a very big deal, and throughout the preceding week, Daddy had been preparing for the great celebration, purchasing champagne (well, sparkling wine from Spain, but in the US it’s all the same to us), placing glasses in the garage, and threatening anyone who dared drive the minivan that they better not take it over 100,000 miles without him in the car or else.  Mommy even had strict instructions that should the van approach 100,000 while she was on her way to work, she was to pull over to the side of the road, call Daddy and wait for him to come meet her wherever she might be.  Luckily, no such extreme measures were necessary.

On Monday, my sisters and I borrowed the van for our annual trip to the museum.   We kept a close eye on the odometer.  “Thirty-five!”  I yelled out as we drove out of Leon’s parking lot and the van turned 99,985.  On Thursday, Daddy made Mommy take his car to work, because she works too far away.  Daddy only works about 5 miles from home, so he took her van.  And drove it just a little extra.  On Thursday afternoon, when he pulled into the garage, the odometer said 99,999.

All day Friday, the van sat there.  No one dared touch it.

Then came Friday night.  Time for the big event.  All the fun people – Nathy-Boo’s words since he and Alfred elected to stay behind – piled into the mini van.  Daddy driving, Mommy in the passenger seat, Munchkinhead and I in the middle seats and the Belgium in the back.  As Daddy backed the car out onto the street, we all craned our necks to watch the little digital numbers.  Down the street to the corner, up a block, over a block, up a block, over a block, still 99,999.  Around a corner, back towards, around another corner, onto our street.  And then, just as we pulled up in front of the house, ready to turn into the driveway, 100,000!

 

Daddy pulled into the garage as we all cheered loudly.  Then he and Mommy popped the cork on their champagne, poured it into glasses waiting on top of the recycling cart and toasted to the great achievement.  This was the first, and probably will be the only, vehicle they bought brand new and drove to 100,000 miles.

Life certainly is exciting in Wisconsin!

Time to Go Home

There’s a little in-home daycare that I pass everyday on my way from the bus stop to my apartment.  Usually there’s some contingent of small children running around on the sidewalk or yelling from inside the kitchen, which opens onto the street.  But yesterday, there was a different scene.  A father stood on the steps of the daycare, holding his young daughter in his arms, saying goodbye to the others inside the building.  It reminded me of when my daddy used to pick my sister and me up from day care.

Alfred and I went to the Teaching Center on Whitnall, back before Whitnall Square existed.  It was just Teaching Center (later named Children’s World), the Balley’s across the street and the Hardee’s on the corner.  The rest of that now-giant shopping plaza was all field.  The older children took field trips to catch butterflies out there, beyond the fences of our play area.  I longed to be a big kid and run after butterflies, hand wrapped tightly around the plastic handle, the long net streaming behind me as the grass brushed against my knees.  I never got to run after those butterflies.  By the time I was big enough, the plaza was under construction.

Anyway, as the evening wore on, Alfred and I would get anxious for Daddy’s arrival.  By late afternoon, the caregivers themselves were worn out and tired.  We’d have some fun play time in the big center area – I loved the mini one person trampoline – and then they’d turn on PBS for us.  If we saw Sesame Street come on, Daddy was late.

It wasn’t hard to spot Daddy when he came in.  Besides being one of only a few fathers picking up their children – it was the mid ‘80s after all – his tall, well-dressed person stood out starkly against the tiny rugrats and casually dressed staff.  Plus, there was that head of thick curly hair, then still mostly jet black, that made him seem even taller.

I remember Alfred and I running up to him, “Daddy!” and throwing our arms around his knees and waist, respectively.  I don’t know if we really did that every time we saw him, but it sticks in my mind most vividly.  He’d smile, maybe politely chit chat with one of the staff for a bit, make sure we had all our belongs and then wisk us away in his grey Olds, home for the evening where he’d start cooking dinner.

Daddy would pick us up from Grandma and Grandpa’s, too, when Grandma watched us.  And it was much the same.  By the end of the day, Grandma would set us up in the kitchen with the small television (right) on PBS.  If Sesame Street came on, or if Grandpa came home, Daddy was late.  Even now, I can hear the distinctive tinkle of the bell on the back door, the sound of the inside door opening, the pwop of the weather stripping on the door separating from the doorway, shoes on the stone floor.  “Daddy!”  His knit hat sticking up on top of his head, battling with his poofey curls to stay put, and that long multi-colored knit scarf we called his Dr. Who scarf.

Some talk with his mom while we gathered up our coats, mittens, scarves and hats.  Then home to start cooking dinner and wait for Mommy to arrive so we could run and jump on her, “Mommy!” before she even had a chance to take her coat off or put her purse down.

If I remember correctly - which I might not, but that’s what Mommy’s for – we were more often at Children’s World in the Summer and at Grandma and Grandpa’s after school.  Though I know there were some times we went to Children’s World after school and some times we were at Grandma and Grandpa’s in the summer. 

I wish Daddy was coming to pick me up tonight to take me home.  Oh well, guess I better get ready to take myself to the bus stop so I can go home and cook my own dinner, without any giant hugs.

Daddy and Alfred after picking us up one day (and taking us to see some houses being destroyed for the new 794 extension).