Happy Middle Child Day!

My family is divided into two sets of kids, four per set, with a six year gap between. I'm not only "one" of the middle children as a whole, I'm one of the middle children in the bottom set of kids. The "upper" set of kids, and my parents, always called us bottom four "the four little kids".

Being the oldest of the four little kids, my one sister never assumed the role of middle child. She went straight from being the pampered baby to the demanding oldest child the moment I was born. My next youngest sister was one of those nearly perfect children that siblings would have hated had she not been so darn sweet and genuinely kind. The youngest was not only the pampered, spoiled baby of the family ... she was also my pampered and spoiled baby.

So, where does that leave me? Square in the middle ... stuck between Attila the Hun and Jesus! To say I never received preferential treatment would be an understatement of monumental proportions.

I don't recall ever fighting with my two younger sisters, but my older sister and I had some real doozie's. When necessary, my parents stepped in to referee ... and sided with my sister. Every. Single. Time. My parents were always telling me to give in to my sister to "keep the peace." Screw peace ... I wanted justice! (I really wanted revenge, but I would have settled for justice!) But, I always caved to "keep the peace". Except once. When I was eighteen, I held my ground. I would not budge. I refused to "keep the peace". I'd been "keeping the peace" for almost nineteen years! And for the first time in my life, I got my way. As adults, we're friends, but as children, my sister and I were often mortal enemies.

To be fair, I was sometimes the instigator of our quarrels. I knew all the right buttons to push to get her to explode. Sometimes I would push them ... not because I was mad at her ... it just to see steam pour from her ears and fire shoot out of her eyes. As the middle child, I had a very limited arsenal, so I used what little I had to my best ability.

As the middle child, everything was my fault. My older sister would not admit guilt if her life depended on it. She would blame me and I would be grounded. If it was ever a question about which one of me or my little sisters did something, I was convicted. I accepted those sentences ... because if the three of us were ever the suspects, I probably was the guilty one!

So, for one day a year, I am the queen! I get my way! I don't have to keep the peace! Sounds pretty awesome ... except I'm the only one who knows what today is!

Thing 2 Has Been Feeling Slighted

First, I didn't mention her in my blog post about Middle Child Day, then yesterday, I didn't give her credit for the smoothie recipe, and she called me out on it. I told her if she sent me a sad face using one of the silly SnapChat filters, I'd make it right. She kept her word, so I'm keeping mine:

1. Thing 2 is a middle child. But let's be honest here ... as a middle child, she's used to being forgotten and invisible, so just another day at the office, right?
2. Thing 2 told me how she makes a smoothie.

There ... the record is now formally set straight!

Childhood Books and Memories

On April 23rd of this year I posted a blog about a book I loved as a child, but couldn't remember the name (I Can't Remember the Name of a Book I LOVED as a Child).

"The Middle Sister", by Mirian E. Mason is probably the book I spoke of in the article, but I don't think it's the one that got me in trouble during that math class!

After discovering the name of the book, I bought a used copy online. I do remember the story, and I think I related with the protagonist because she was afraid of everything. As a child, I, too, was quite timid and afraid of my own shadow, so I guess that was the attraction for me. That, and the fact the I am the quintessential middle child!

The book did not live up to the built-up hype in my mind, but it's a nice story and a quick read. I can't imagine it took me long to read, even as a child. I wish I could remember the names of more of the books I read and re-read as a child. The only other one that comes to mind is "The Witch of Blackbird Pond". It was first published in 1958, so it was in print many, many years before I bought it! I don't remember anything about it other than the fact that the main character was named Prudence and I bought it from one of the Scholastic Book sales the school had. I think I'll see if I can find a copy of that book, too!

My Sister's Birthday

My sister Jill turns 50 today ... and I have to make a big deal out of it!!

Jill is exactly two years, two months, and one week older than me, which means I was a mere ten years old when she turned thirteen. And for exactly two years, two months, and one week, she never let me forget that she was teenager, and I was not.

Soooooo, I think it’s only fair that I rub it in that Jill will be in her FIFTIES exactly two years, two months, and one week while I’ll still be in my forties!

Jill and I are good friends now, but we didn’t always get along when we were growing up. Oh, who am I kidding? We never got along when we were growing up!! It was always her fault though, never mine. I was always completely innocent. (Excuse me for a moment while I adjust my halo!) There is, of course, some exaggeration to that ... but she really was pretty mean to me. I guess the “power” of being the oldest of us four little kids went to her head.

(All of you middle children out there know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you?)

Not always, but quite often, the oldest is always the bossiest and the meanest, while the youngest can get away with just about anything. And us poor middle kids? Well, we have to just fend for ourselves. We're generally not big enough to take out the oldest, and where's the sport in beating up your little sisters? Besides, being mean to Penny or Bonnie would be like kicking a puppy. For some reason, though, Jill didn't see it that way ... she saw me as fair game.

Out of eight kids, I was in the middle of bottom set of four kids. So you see, you really couldn’t get much more middle than me. Therefore, it’s safe for all of you to assume I was a near-perfect sibling ... neither bossy, nor mean ... and that my misdeeds seldom went unnoticed or unpunished. 

Jill and I shared a room for many years. That was fun! Do you have any idea what it’s like to share a room with someone who thinks they can do no wrong ... and you can do no right? Back when we shared a room, Jill was a first-class slob, and I, being a neat freak, was her polar opposite.

(Think Felix and Oscar from “The Odd Couple”)

Walking on Jill's side of the room was strictly forbidden unless I needed something from the closet, which was on her side. But, if Jill was in the room, I wasn’t even allowed to retrieve my own clothing from my own closet ... because she could hand it to me. ”You don’t need to come over here,” she would tell me. “I can hand you whatever it is you need.”

This really cramped my style, as I prefer the "sit-on-the-floor-in-front-of-the-closet-and-survey-your-wardrobe" approach before making a decision, and Jill’s rule of banishment really put a kink in my style. I couldn’t sit on the floor and stare into a closet of clothes while deciding what to wear ... I had to tell her what to hand me. And let me tell you, there was no changing your mind. No Siree, Bob. You had better choose wisely the first time, because you got one shot. As Jill so eloquently put it, she was ”not my slave” and she was ”not going to stand there handing me things all day”. 

In Jill’s defense, it’s not like I actually could have sat on the floor in front of the closet. There was no floor on Jill’s side of the room. Well, there was a floor, or at least, I assume there was a floor, but I can honestly say I never actually saw it. The floor on Jill’s side of the room served a multitude of uses. It didn’t just function as a flat surface on which to sit furniture; it also doubled as her closet, chest of drawers, book bag, toy box, etc. I never looked (because I was afraid of being caught on her side of the room and dragged out in her trademark fashion ... by the hair of my head ... caveman style) ... so I can’t say with any certainty, but judging by the sheer volume of stuff on her floor, I sincerely doubt there was anything in any of her drawers or that there was actually anything of hers hanging in the closet. As far as I could tell, she kept everything she owned ... as well as a good bit of what I owned ... on the floor ... on her side of the room. 

The imaginary line dividing our room wasn’t really all that invisible. It was pretty obvious, even to the uninitiated, where the demarcation line was. In order to step into her side of the room, you had to step ... up. You were a good six to ten inches taller on Jill’s side of the room. I made sure to keep the encroaching pile off my side, which required frequent shoveling to keep it from overflowing its boundaries, all the while fearing an avalanche would bury me where I would lay trapped, lost to my family forever ... or at least until Jill went away to college and they decided to bulldoze the debris she left in her wake.

I never understood why I had to share a room with Jill. My mom knew we got along about as well as two male pit bulls. I had two other sisters close to my age that I could have shared a room with. Why were they torturing me?

Wasn’t it enough that I was denied Mrs. Bealsey?

In all fairness, Penny was far too sweet to share a room with Jill ... and Bonnie was simply too innocent. It was survival of the fittest when dealing with Jill. She would have chewed them up and spit them out. Mama had to make a ”Sophie’s Choice” of sorts, and I guess she figured I had a better chance of making it out alive than Penny or Bonnie did. In order to preserve one-fourth of her brood, Mama had no alternative but to sentence me to spend my childhood incarcerated in a cell with Jill. Thus, Penny and Bonnie were spared. That’s okay, though ... I loved my two little sisters enough to sacrifice myself in order to save them. 

Am I a saint or what??!!

I see pieces of Jill in my oldest daughter, Tara (that "entitled oldest child syndrome" thing). I hear Tara saying and doing the exact same things to Jana that Jill said and did to me ... and it drives me up the wall! Apparently there must be some unwritten rule that the oldest is born knowing and the younger ones must learn the hard way (usually at the hand of the less than compassionate eldest). The rule, as it has been presented to me, is that “if the oldest sibling wants to wear something of the younger siblings, then she should be able to do so" ... but the younger one better not even think about wearing the older ones clothes!

I’ve been standing in the bathroom beside Jana while Tara lays into her about wearing her clothes without asking ... only too look over and see Tara wearing my clothes ... without asking! When dealing with the oldest child, it’s futile to point out the irony of the situation. If you try, they’ll always reply ”That’s different!” There’s no point in asking ”How is that different?” You’ll just be met with either a profound ”It just IS!" ... or a heavy sigh, an eye roll, and a view of the back of their head as they storm off, obviously insulted ... angry for having been born into a family too dense to grasp the concept of the rules for proper borrowing.

All of our fights and differences aside, Jill and I had our share of good times as well, but the bad times make for a more interesting blog. Regardless of our fights, I always loved Jill ... even if I didn’t always enjoy her. 

Being her little sister isn’t all bad ... especially right now ... mostly because I’m no longer her roommate!

YEA! Come on! Everyone! Join me in a conga line!!!

But also because for exactly two years, two months, and one week, I’ll still be in my forties ... while Jill is FIFTY YEARS OLD ... and counting!!!!

I love you, Jill. Happy Birthday from the best little sister in the whole wide world!

P.S. Okay, so maybe I'm not the best little sister in the whole wide world ... but give me some credit ... I didn't strangle you in your sleep, did I?!! 

The Shelf

As it stands right now, our lifetime achievements of the heart can fit on one shelf, but that is soon going to change. I've been busy finishing my third novel and John is working on new music. I'll keep you updated on when you can expect to see my next story and reveal the cover when I'm close to publishing. This is exciting!

UPDATE: I originally wrote this in mid-June, but hadn't posted it yet. I will NOT be finishing my third novel, which is a shame, because I think the story was really good … and it was almost done. Ironically, the story revolved around an unsolved, decades old, fatal hit-and-run. After my son dying in that very scenario just weeks ago, I can't finish it. I can't even go back and read it. I don't even want it on my computer.

The male protagonist in my first novel was Dave, for my son. In my second novel, the female protagonist was Tara, for my oldest daughter, and the male protagonist was Larry, for my nephew. The third one was Jana, my middle child, and the male protagonist was Zach, Davy's best friend,. The girls call him brother Zachy, and I consider him to be my surrogate son.. Even though the characters in the novel were in no way a reflection of my kids, or anyone else for that matter, I cannot associate a novel about a fatal hit-and-run with my daughter and his best friend.

I have other ideas for another novel, but at the present time, I'm in no frame of mind to begin a novel. I feel like my time is better spent putting up fliers and trying to find the person who killed my son. One day I'll start writing again, but I'm going to have to take a hiatus at this point.

John will still be writing and recording songs, so his collection will grow … but mine will remain unchanged … for now.

PLEASE KEEP YOUR EYE OUT

FOR THE CAR THAT KILLED MY SON!

Even if you don't live in the Evansville area, please keep an eye out for this car. It was traveling South on I-69. It could have been coming from and going to anywhere. The Sheriff's office will follow up any ANY lead.

The Sheriff’s Office has identified the make and model of the suspect vehicle from the fatal hit and run crash that killed 23-year old David “Davy” Egan, father of two, on Friday, June 22, 2018 on I-69 near south Green River Road.

SUSPECT VEHICLE: Silver 1998-2002 Honda Accord sedan. 2-door or 4-door body style. The vehicle will have damage to the front end.

If you know of a vehicle matching this description, please contact the Sheriff's Office TIP line at 812-421-6297 or leave a web tip here.

A Year Ago Today

A year ago today I got a call that every parent fears. At 3:21 a.m., the hospital called and said my son had been in a car accident, and that he was in ICU on a ventilator. I was grateful the call hadn't been from the coroner, but I was terrified of what the future held. We found the news story online about an overnight accident that left two hospitalized. As the anchor spoke, the camera panned over to the firefighters working to remove the passenger from the car. In the background, an ambulance drove off. I was later told my son "didn't look good" when they pulled him from the car. Watching the video, all I could think was, "My son is in there. He's unconscious. They're cutting off his clothes, looking for injuries, attaching IV lines, and checking his pockets for identification."

There are no guarantees with head injuries. He could recover completely, he could recover a lot, he could be a child forever, or he could remain in a coma. I did my best not to think about the bad "what if's", but at times, I had to ... I had to have some kind of plan. We were extremely lucky, though. After two weeks in the hospital and two weeks in rehab, he came home. Over the next few months he continued improving and was able to go back to work.

Fast forward a year ... my son is perfectly healthy. He's still intelligent, funny ... and often annoying. He's working at Toyota and is the father of the world's cutest, sweetest baby boy. Our prayers were answered and I will be eternally grateful God gave me my son back. I was lucky in that I have family who love me and my kids and bent over backwards, some for months, to help us all through that time.

This morning, I woke up to a story on the news about two people taken to the hospital after an overnight wreck, both injured critically. I know their parents were called in the middle of the night. I know they shook with fear as they got dressed and drove to the hospital, sick to their stomachs and scared to death ... and I know they'll stand beside the beds looking at their "child" wondering what the future holds. They'll ask the same questions we asked, and they'll get the same answers ... "With head injuries, there's no way to tell until they wake up."

Their families face some long days and nights at the hospital. There will be times of complete terror, stomach-churning agony and fear, and the occasional glimmer of hope. My prayer is that those families find the strength to get through this and that the outcome is favorable.

When my son was in the hospital, I was anxious to have the whole ordeal over. I wanted it to be nothing but an unpleasant memory. It finally is ... but when I hear an ambulance, I still get that sick feeling in my stomach. I don't guess something like that is ever really "over".

My First Love

This is the old Central Library in my hometown, built in 1931. This was my mother's favorite branch, and the one we frequented the most when I was a child. It wasn't just my mom's favorite ... it was my favorite, too. It was old and solid and ornate ... and I loved the sound of my shoes clicking on the marble floors. My heart would swell to bursting just walking through the door.

When I had children of my own, we'd frequent our neighborhood branch, but we spent the most time at Central. In the picture below, you can see the steps that lead down, outside of the building ... that stairway leads directly to the Children's Room. I wonder how many times my little legs went up and down those steps! When my kids were old enough, we'd ride our bikes downtown, passing our neighborhood library, specifically to go to this one. I loved this library!

They began construction on a new Central branch around 2003. My middle daughter broke her foot during this time. Normally I wouldn't remember something like that, but it was then that I discovered just how badly a new library was needed ... there was no elevator to the Children's Room in the basement at the Central branch. Since she had just broken her foot, she wasn't very confident on crutches, and was terrified of going up and down steps on them. We have stairs at our home, and she would navigate them by scooting down on her bottom, but I wasn't comfortable with her doing that on a public staircase, so I had to carry her down. The Children's Room at this particular branch would be inaccessible to a child in a wheelchair.

The elevator/stairs wasn't the only reason a new library was needed. Central had far too many books to fit on their shelves, far too many by the tens of thousands! They had a stack system that extended from the top of the building to deep in the bowels of the library, accessible only to employees. If you wanted a book from the stacks, they would have to retrieve the book(s) for you. It was inefficient, and not being able to peruse the books caused a lot of good books to go unread. Even though I saw the need for a new library, I hated the thought of not being able to come into this building again. Central Library was where my love of books was formed, and it's where I began dreaming of being a writer.

With much trepidation, I took the kids to the new library when it was completed in 2004. From the outside it looked so modern. I envisioned a sleek, barren, cold interior, the polar opposite of the warm, inviting feeling of the old one ... and I was quite surprised! It wasn't filled with metal and glass ... the floors were marble, and my shoes clicked and echoed in the silence. The bookshelves were made of thick, sturdy wood, and the walls were paneled with the same rich wood. It looked like a library is supposed to look, as opposed to the New York art-gallery-look I had feared.

The old Central Library was quickly sold and is now a children's museum. Since my children are no longer young, I have never gone, but I'm sure I'll go with my grandchildren one day ... when I have grandchildren, that is! And then, once again, I hope to hear my shoes clicking on the marble floors of that grand, old building so dear to my heart.

October 7, 2001

On this day in 2001, I was sitting in church, listening to Pastor David preach, when someone walked up to the pulpit and whispered something in his ear. After the exchange, Pastor David picked up right where he left off. I couldn't help but wonder what was said. What was so important it had to be relayed during a sermon? At the end of the service, he explained that he had been told that the United States had just began military action in Afghanistan.

For some reason, Thing 3 was the only one of my kids with me that day. As we were driving home, I was listening to the news, something a seven year old considers the worst kind of torture. I told him we were at war with Afghanistan and I wanted to see if I could find out more of what was going on.

He fell silent for a while, then finally asked, in a soft, solemn voice ... "When will they get here?"

Until that moment, I never gave much thought as to what my kids thought when I was watching the news. They would see refugees walking down dirt roads, pulling carts or pushing wheelbarrows filled with everything they could escape with. To them, that was what "war" meant. Shame on me for assuming they knew it was in a land far, far away, and that they were safe.

So when my innocent little boy asked, "When will they get here?", he was really asking, "How long before the bombs drive us from our home? How long before we are forced to walk down the road in a river of frightened, ragged people, taking only what we can carry?"

I should have known better. As a child, I could never understand why Daddy wouldn't take us kids to see the Macy's Parade. He kept saying it was too far away and that it would be over by the time we got there, but the commentators said it was downtown! We had been to see a lot of parades downtown. It wasn't that far! I had no concept of how far away we were from New York City. Adults understand the geography of the world, and we take for granted that children understand, too ... but they don't. A child has no idea how big the world is because their world is really very small.

I immediately turned off the radio and explained that Afghanistan was a long, long way away. We talked a little, then I turned on some music. But, when we got home, I took him over to the globe and pointed out where we were. Then I pointed out where Afghanistan is and how long it would take to fly there in an airplane. That eased his mind, and he wandered off to play.

And it taught me a very important lesson.

I was reminded of how differently children processed the images on the news. I started watching the news in my bedroom or I'd turn the channel and let them decide what to watch. And, I'd pick my words much more carefully when they asked questions about war and terrorism.

On that day in 2001, I never imagined that by 2016, our current inept President would handle the crisis in such a way as to create a vacuum which would give rise to ISIS, threatening not only the Middle East, but the entire world.

My kids feel like America has been at war their entire lives. We haven't, but it sure seems that way to them. I can't help but wonder if my grandkids will ever know a time of peace, or if we truly will be at war their entire lives.

Happy Newspaper Carrier Appreciaton Day

September 4th is Newspaper Carrier Appreciation Day. I'm not sure why it's on the 4th, because it was set to commemorate the first newspaper carrier, ten-year old Barney Flaherty, who was hired September 10th, 1833. This day, however, doesn't just celebrate Barney ... it's intended to celebrate all current and former newspaper carriers.

Both of my brothers had paper routes, as did my father when he was a child. It was the first job for many kids. When I was growing up, our local paper put out two editions ... the morning Courier and the evening Press. Those with a Courier route had to get up long before the sun even thought of coming up. They had to retrieve their papers from wherever the paper truck dropped them off, roll them up, put rubber bands around them, stuff their paperbag to overflowing, then set off on their bike to deliver their papers in time to get back home, eat breakfast, and get ready for school. Back then, of course, kid's walked to school ... through six miles of snow.

Uphill.

Both ways.

Okay, so the snow part isn't true, but kids did walk to school "back then", regardless of the weather. Snow and rain were the reason umbrella's and rubber boots were invented ... and we were expected to use them! Unless you had a ridiculous amount of stuff to carry, parents didn't even think about offering to drive their kids to school ... and kids never dreamed of asking. We were kids. Our job was to go to school and learn, and our mode of transportation was our bike or our feet.

But, I digress.

On Sunday's, Daddy would wake up all eight of us kids to help my brothers deliver papers. I hated helping. Delivering papers in the morning encompassed all of the things a night owl like myself detested ... getting up early from my warm and toasty bed, and going out into the cold. Had we been financially compensated for helping, I might not have minded, but I didn't even get a soft drink out of the deal! Each of the four older kids would grab one of us four little kids to help them when delivering their assigned houses ... and guess whose job it was to walk to each door and lay the paper on the doorstep? Well, I don't know if that was the case for the other little kids, but I was always picked by the same sibling ... and she was too scared to go up to each door ... because a murderer could be hiding in the bushes or a dead body could have been stashed there. And yes, she actually told me that! No wonder I was such a chicken growing up!!

Daddy, who began supporting his family at the age of six, and initially did so by delivering newspapers ... so took the job VERY seriously. Unlike Barney Flaherty, who got the job by demonstrating he could throw a paper into the bushes, Daddy mandated we put the paper squarely on the porch. My brothers, both a lot older and stronger, had perfected their aim from countless seasons of Little League baseball. They could toss a paper ... in the dark ... and watch it land on a postage stamp half a mile away. I, on the other hand, spent my days turning cartwheels and playing Barbie's. My skinny little arms didn't have that kind of power ... so I had to walk the paper up to the porch ... in what I considered the middle of the night ... braving the murderers and dead bodies lurking in the bushes.

In the bitter cold.

For free!

With the availability of free news online, few people subscribe to a physical newspaper anymore, so the paper carrier jobs have all but vanished. There are a few carriers now, but it's mostly adults, delivering papers from their car. It's too bad that this profession is all but dead. It wasn't exactly hard work, but it was demanding. It was seven days a week, and the papers had to be delivered, even when they were sick. Paper routes were a coveted profession by adolescent boys. Aside from mowing lawns in the summer, raking leaves in the fall, and shoveling snow it the winter, it was the only way for a kid to earn money. A boy kid anyway. Back then, paperboys were exactly that ... boys. The only source of income available to girls was babysitting. Paper routes taught boys that hard work paid off. It taught them that nice people on their route would tip them for a job well done when paying their bill (which the paper boy had to go around each week and collect). It taught them that some people are mean and stingy and would seldom tip even if you hand delivered their paper to them in bed on a tray with breakfast. But it also taught that most people, even on a limited income, would be nice enough to tip what they could to say "thank you".

Having money of your own as a kid teaches you the value of a dollar, and how quickly it can add up when you save some of it ... and still have money to buy gum and candy ... and save the wrappers to buy luxury items like spy decoder rings or sea monkeys.

Kids today live a completely different kind of life. Their parents ferry them around in climate-controlled vehicles with built-in DVD's or blue-ray players for their viewing entertainment. They are born into a world of cushioned car seats with sippy-cup holders and snack trays. They are taught in air-conditioned schools, and have thousands of television channels and on-demand movies available at the touch of a button ... and all but a handful of their toys are more sophisticated that the computer used to send men to the moon!

Like everyone else, I've become a victim of technology. I no longer subscribe to my local paper, Instead, I read a great deal of news online. I dry my clothes in an electric dryer rather than hanging them on a line to dry ... even though I desperately miss crawling into bed at night to the fresh smell of sheets dried in the sunshine. I can fruits and vegetables because I want to, not because I have to. (I can't grow any food because when the squirrels see me with dirt or seeds or a shovel, they put on a bib ... grrrrrr ... a problem I have addressed in numerous blog posts!) If I sew, it's out of desire to do so rather than a necessity ... even though it's often cheaper to buy them ready-made ... and despite the fact that Amazon will deliver anything I can image right to my front door.

Growing up, only those in first, second, or third place got a trophy ... and oftentimes it was only the first place winners. We didn't get a ribbon because we showed up in uniform and chased butterflies in the outfield. We actually had to earn our reward. Our parents didn't have to tell us to do our homework. We did our homework because school was our job. Our homework was our responsibility. Our parents didn't help us with it unless we asked, and they never checked it for accuracy. We were spanked, in school, at home, and at the neighbor's house, if we misbehaved. Those things are a felony anymore ... but it taught us to behave appropriately. Celebrities and politicians were castigated for drug use, for having affairs, or for babies born out of wedlock. If anyone posed naked for magazines or made a sex tape, they'd better enjoy that line of work, because from there on out, that's the only kind of job they could get! Immoral and unethical behaviors ended careers ... they didn't catapult them to riches and stardom. No one trusted people of dubious character, and it took a long time for those people to redeem themselves and earn the trust and respect of others after such deeds were exposed.

I would give anything if my kids could go back in time and spend one long, hot summer day with me ... the way I spent it as a child. Their jaws would drop at the freedom parents gave kids back then ... and they would have more fun than they've ever had in their lives ... even though not one single toy or game would involve batteries or electricity. I'm amazed, and often grateful, at all technology has given to us ... but it has came at a price, And, sadly, I believe the youth of today are footing that bill. Sadder still is that don't they have any idea what's it's cost them.

Today Was My Mother's Birthday

My mother left this world in October of 1996. My kids were only 2, 4, and 6 at the time. My oldest daughter has a few memories of her, but the other two were just too young.

She loved her grandkids, and like all grandmother's, she spoiled them rotten and let them get by with things that would have resulted in swift and severe punishment had I done them! They say grandkids are different ... and better ... than having kids of your own. I guess that must be true.

For instance ... and this is a true story ... she watched the kids for me one time when my oldest was about 2 1/2, and my second daughter was only about 6 months (my son wasn't born yet). I came home well after midnight and found her rummaging through the kitchen cabinets searching for something. I thought she might have a headache and was looking for ibuprofen.

"What are you looking for, Mama? I'll get it for you."

"Oh," she replied innocently, "your daughter wanted chocolate."

You have GOT to be kidding me!!!!!

Nice try, old woman, but you're not giving that child chocolate in the middle of the night!!

As I crawled into bed that night, I couldn't help but wonder ... "Where was that woman when I wanted chocolate at two o'clock in the morning?!!!!"

Mama had the kindest heart of anyone I've ever known. She only saw the good in people. If you had committed a crime, you would have wanted her on the jury.

And she was really funny. She was one of those people everyone loved being around. Mama was just naturally good and nice. She truly did not have a mean bone in her body.

There were eight kids in our family ... six girls and two boys ... and one bathroom! My dad had to get up really, really early to get his turn! To say our house was a madhouse would be an understatement. It was chaotic and messy and loud! I figured she was counting the days until all of us kids left home! One time, as an adult, I asked her when she was the happiest.

She knew the answer without even having to think about it. "When all of you kids were at home." Now that is a woman born to be a mom.

Like all mothers, she made mistakes, but I never once doubted that she loved us more than she ever thought of loving herself.

Mama loved to read. She could easily read a book a day, and often did. Once Daddy was gone and she had no one to take care of anymore, she read constantly ... and reading was her answer to everything.

"Mama, I'm bored!"

"Read a book."

"Mama, I'm hungry!"

"Read a book until supper."

"Mama, so-and-so won't play with me!"

"Then don't play with her and read a book."

"Mama, so-and-so hit me!"

"Then stay away from her and read a book."

Growing up, my mother took us to the library all the time ... and by all the time, I mean sometimes every single day during the summer! I loved going to the library, and that's where the seed of becoming an author took root. She didn't live to see me realize my dream and I never got to hand her one of my books and watch her face light up.

Sometimes I dream about her. Instead of waking up sad, I wake up happy ... I got to spend a few minutes with my Mother.

I miss you, Mama, and there isn't a day go by that I don't think about you and wish you were here.

As I fall asleep tonight, I know I'm going to be hoping my mother pays me a visit again ... and that I get to spend a few minutes with my Mama.

Brush Your Teeth in the Dark

According to Russell Foster, Professor of Circadian Neuroscience at Oxford University, the secret to an undisturbed night of sleep is as simple as brushing your teeth in the dark. Yes, you read that correctly ... brush your teeth in the dark.

Professor Foster warns that bright bathroom lights are waking our bodies up just when it should be preparing to rest. He's obviously convinced he's made a breakthrough in sleep science, but I don't buy it. There may be a handful of people who are so sensitive to light that this is a solution, but it's not the universal answer to a good night's sleep.

If his theory is correct, and bright lights just before bedtime in fact actually do inhibit a night of undisturbed sleep, brushing your teeth in the dark would be of little help if you to leave and then return to a bright bedroom. And what if you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Knowing light would wake you up, you stumble through the dark and stub your toe. Or what if your son has left his Lego's all over the floor? Stepping on Lego's is akin to stepping on glass shards. Pain wakes me up faster and keeps me awake longer than any bright light ever could! Besides, the lights in my bedroom are on a dimmer, and I usually have them turned down in the evening. And I have brushed my teeth by the light of a 7-watt nightlight, then went back to my dimly lit room ... and it never made even the slightest difference.

I have always found it difficult to fall asleep, even as a child. It has always taken me thirty minutes to an hour, and oftentimes even longer, to fall asleep. I can count on one hand the number of times I have gone to bed and fell asleep within minutes. I remember being at slumber parties or spending the night with friends growing up. Long after everyone else had fallen asleep, I'd be wide awake. I'd lay there, listening to the silence, flipping and flopping for hours. I long ago resigned myself to the fact that I'm just one of those people who cannot fall asleep quickly. Superman can! He can close his eyes and instantly fall asleep. I've always been amazed at and envious of his ability to fall asleep so quickly.

I'm not sure if Professor Russell onto something or not, but I doubt it. Over the years, I have read a lot of articles from "experts" on how to fall and stay asleep. I've followed their advice, and nothing has ever made any difference. The truth is, there is no universal solution to falling and staying asleep. Their suggestions are merely opinion ... not scientific fact. Personally, I think any positive results they achieve can be attributed to the placebo affect. So, I'm going to throw caution to the wind and continue to brush my teeth with the light on. I may be missing out on the one chance I have to fall asleep quickly, but I'm willing to take my chances.

Difficulty falling asleep and waking up has been my life. While I agree a good night's sleep is important, I don't believe it's as dangerous as the "experts" would have us believe. They claim lack of sleep has been linked to anxiety, depression, diabetes, heart disease, impaired work, and an increased risk of accidents. I'm one of the most sleep-deprived people I know, yet I'm only anxious and/or depressed when I have something to be anxious and/or depressed about. Despite my sweet tooth and sugar-rich diet, I am not overweight, nor do I have diabetes. Per my doctor, my heart is disease free, and my bosses and co-workers will agree my work is exemplary. I'm never late for anything, and I have never once had an accident that could in any way be attributed to tiredness.

My cynicism has me waiting to see how long it takes for them to stop claiming a lack of sleep causes anxiety, depression, diabetes, heart disease, impaired work, and an increased risk of accidents. Like everything else, one day soon they'll start blaming these ailments on global warming ... or George Bush.

Girl With Flowers

I was cleaning old files off my computer the other day and came across this scan. My middle daughter drew this for me in the mid-90's. I scanned it and used it as wallpaper for my computer. It made her smile every time she saw it ... and it made me smile, too. This particular child was a prolific draw-er. In the first ten years of her life, she easily produced enough drawings to wrap the entire planet ... twice! 

I have a lot of the kid's drawings packed away here and there. I often come across them as I'm digging through drawers or going through boxes ... and I remember them all. I can still see the huge, anticipatory smile on their face when they presented me with their gift, and I how they beamed with pride as I praised their work and thanked them ... with words and hugs and kisses ... and sometimes tickles. 

Strange, isn't it? I have three children who drew me picture after picture ... for years and years and years ... yet when I come across one of their masterpieces, I know exactly which critter created it for me :)

Apple Dumplings

When my boyfriend and I went to his cabin in Georgia, I went armed with some new recipes to try. Some were for "real" food, and some were for desserts. I made apple dumplings one evening, and they had both of us swooning! This photograph doesn't make it look nearly as good as it tasted! The brown on top is not chocolate (as my boyfriend first thought), but rather a cinnamon-sugar crust.

I have wanted an apple dumpling ever since I was a child and I read a book where a young girl made apple dumplings, The Middle Sister. I wasn't exactly sure what an apple dumpling was ... but I wanted one! I have tried to imagine what they might taste like ... but my imagination could never conger up anything that tasted this good! I tweaked the recipe I found online, ... and my, oh my, oh my ... YUM!!! Sometimes you build something up in your mind and the reality is never as good, so I was almost afraid to make them ... but these apple dumplings surpassed my expectations.

I will definitely be making these again!!!

Root Beer

I’ve never been a fan of root beer. I wasn’t aware it even existed until I was in Kindergarten. All the tables in my Kindergarten room had a nursery rhyme name. I sat at the “Jack & Jill” table, presumably because my name is Jackie. I say that because my older sister, Jill, also had the dubious honor of sitting at the table of her namesake. That has nothing to do with my root beer story ... I threw that one in for free!

Yes, my name is Jackie and my next oldest sibling is named Jill ... and kids seem to pick up on that pretty fast. I’m just glad my name wasn’t George (who kissed the girls and made them cry), or Peter (the pumpkin eater). And, in all reality, it could have been worse ... much worse. I could have been a boy ... and I was supposed to be a boy. By the time I was born, they had two boys and three girls. I guess they wanted to even things out, you know, Brady Bunch style ... except The Brady Bunch hadn’t been conceived yet. And, besides that, we weren’t born in the proper boy/girl/boy/girl Brady Bunch order, either. 

Anyway, they wanted a boy, so much so that they didn’t have a girls name picked out. They were going to name me John, but they were going to call me Jack. How’s THAT for cruel? (I thank God every day that I wasn’t born a boy!) So, when I popped out ... a girl ... and with no name other than John/Jack to choose from (apparently it had to be some derivation of them), I became Jacquelyn. This was at the height of the Kennedy fame. My mother couldn’t stand Jacqueline Kennedy (she never said why and I never asked), but she specifically spelled my name differently so that people didn’t think I was named after her. 

I guess Mama showed her, huh?!

I didn’t mind the Jack and Jill stuff, but my sister Jill STILL throws a temper tantrum if you so much as hum a few bars of that annoying little tune! Being the mischievous little sister that I am, I sometimes do ... just for the perverse pleasure of watching a grown woman throw a tantrum like a child! That has nothing to do with the root beer story, either!

Okay, back to root beer and Kindergarten. 

Mrs. Holtz was my teacher and I was scared to death of her. She wasn’t like the sweet, young, energetic teachers on those wholesome family sit-coms ... the ones who love their students so much that you can almost see little hearts floating out of them. Quite the contrary. Given the sheer volume of wrinkles on that decrepit old woman, I suspect that Mrs. Holtz had quite possibly come over on the Mayflower ... as an adult. And although there is no way to know with any certainly ... and keep in mind I’m making this assumption without the benefit of any scientific data ... but I think she might have actually been allergic to children! She certainly acted like it! I don’t think I ever saw her smile or display any emotion that even looked even remotely pleasurable. 

She had several helpers in the room with her, but I can’t recall any of their names. The asstants were always really nice, but I never paid much attention to them ... I was too busy keeping my eye out for Mrs. Holtz ... who was keeping her eye out for misbehaving children! I was terribly worried about being punished for doing something I wasn’t supposed to do even though I’d never been told I couldn’t do it. Back then, I guess, they must have just assumed we knew already the rules ... like whether or not we could go to the bathroom with our painting jacket on. Quite frankly, I had no idea what the rules were.

I was painfully shy, and learned the rules of acceptability by watching the other children to see what they got in trouble for. I’d seen one of the helpers give a kid permission to go to the bathroom with their painting jacket on, only to see that kid to get in trouble from Mrs. Holtz when they came out of the bathroom with their painting jacket on! Another time a kid got in trouble for taking her painting jacket off before going to the bathroom. 

Can we or can we NOT go to the bathroom with our painting jacket on?! 

I didn’t know! (I still don’t know!) 

It was a very confusing time for me. Mrs. Holtz could have cleared up the whole perplexing issue if I’d just had the courage to ask her ... but, sadly, I was never brave enough.

So anyway, I’m sitting at the Jack & Jill table, quiet as a church mouse, when the helpers come by with tiny little Dixie cups (like you have in the bathroom to rinse after brushing). One helper gave us a cup, and another came behind her and poured Double Cola from a bottle. At least, I thought it was Double Cola. It was dark brown and bubbley. 

”Yea! Coke!!” I thought happily. At home, us kids only got half a soda every Friday night after Mama came back from the grocery story. We got a whole coke when The Wizard of Oz or Cinderella came on tv ... but that only happened once a year. Soda for no reason was a treat! I had no idea what the special occasion was that merited the honor of having soda pop in the middle of the week, but I didn’t care!

I took a huge drink ... and quickly realized I’d make a collosal mistake! What in the world was this stuff, I wondered? My friend Rocky would know, but she was on the other side of the room at the Mary Had A Little Lamb table! 

Help!

There was NO way I could swallow it. None. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had no idea what was in my mouth, but I knew one thing for certain ... it was not coke and it was most certainly not a treat! Unable to hold it in my mouth any longer, and getting queasy at the thought of swallowing it, I did the only thing I could do ... I spit it back into the cup.

And then the panic set in.

At home, if you didn’t want what was set in front of you, well then, you went hungry. But I didn’t know the rules at school!! Were you expected to eat or drink whatever they set before you? On tv they did, but this was real life ... were the rules the same? I didn’t know! My mind was racing. What was I going to do? If they came back around and saw that I hadn’t drunk it, I just knew I’d get in trouble! I had to get rid of the stuff ... but how? ... and where? I didn’t know if I was allowed to get up and go to the bathroom during snack time (that scenario had yet to present itself). And, even if that was allowed, would I get in trouble for taking my cup with me? 

Would somebody PLEASE tell me the rules?! 

That’s when it hit me. There was only one way to get rid of it. I knew what I had to do.

I poured it under the table.

Setting the now empty cup on the Jack & Jill table, I felt the enormous burden of my predicament being lifted off my tiny, fragile shoulders. There, I sighed with relief, it’s over now. I watched in disgust as my classmates downed their glasses of that whatever-it-was then lick their lips. Despite this nauseating display, I was smiling inside, and quite pleased with my ingenuity and problem-solving skills!

One of the helpers made her way to our table. Oh, no! Had she seen me? What would be my fate? She was smiling ... that was a good sign, right? She noticed my empty cup. ”Oh, you drank it all! Here’s some more,” she said, reaching for my cup. 

“No, thank you,” I said politely. "I don’t want anymore.”

”Oh, don’t be silly!" she said, filling my cup. "We’ve got plenty!” 

I wanted to cry! With my heart racing, and with no other options, I waited for her to leave and reached for the cup ... and with trembling hands, I dumped the second glass under the table.

I don’t know how many times she came by and filled my cup. I tried to tell her I didn’t want any, but she kept filling it up! ”You must really like this, huh?!” she said on more than one occasion.

My stomach was really beginning to hurt. When they realized what I had done ... and they would ... what would they do to me? I’d never gotten away with anything in my entire life. I was going to get in BIG trouble. It would probably go on my permanent record and haunt me for the rest of my life. Could I get into the college of my choice with this scarlet letter on my chest? Would this one foolish act lead to a lifetime of dead-end, menial, minimum wage jobs? My mind was reeling with the ramifications of what this one act of defiance would have on my entire life!

I sunk further and further into despair with every glass I poured out. I sat at the Jack & Jill table, mulling over my fate, and the bright future I had undoubtedly ruined. My spirit sunk to an all-time low. I was going to get yelled at in front of the entire class. But I was a good girl! I never got in trouble at school! I nearly passed out from the fear. I was literally beginning to lose consciousness when the bell rang, signaling for us to line up by the door.

I summoned all my strength, prayed my wobblely legs would hold my weight, and raced to join the line of children in an effort to get out of that room as quickly as possible. They would surely discover what I had done. There were only six kids at the Jack & Jill table ... and all the root beer was in front of one chair ... Jackie’s chair. I was sure to be caught. But, already excelling in procrastination despite my tender age, I knew I could worry about that tomorrow.

I slept fitfully that night, and came to school the next afternoon absolutely terrified, and fully prepared for whatever punishment would be meted out, and ... nothing. Not a word! No one said anything about it. As far as I could tell, my Jack & Jill table-mates were oblivious to the fact that there was a criminal in their midst. No one treated me any differently. No one looked at me with a disapproving frown or a head-shaking ”I’m very disappointed in you” look on their face.

Dare I dream? Could it be true? Was I really going to get away with it?

As the day wore on, the truth began to sink in ... they didn’t know! I wasn’t going to be punished! I wasn’t going to be ostracized from society! This wouldn’t be an albatross around my neck for the rest of my life!

My heart felt lighter and I felt years younger when I left school that day. I felt like the Grinch after the true meaning of Christmas came through ... when his heart didn’t feel quite so tight and he whizzed with his load through the bright morning light!

Hallelujah!! It was true! I had gotten away with it! 

That was, however, pretty much the first, and last, thing I’ve ever gotten away with. I’ve not only gotten caught for everything I ever did, I got caught ... and punished ... for everything my sister Jill ever did!! But, that’s fodder for another blog and it has nothing to do with my root beer story!

A Veterans Day Thank You ...

Photo courtesy of US Dept. of Veterans Affairs

Growing up, Veterans Day was a day off school ... a day I could sleep late and lay around the house or play with friends. I was born and raised (mostly) in a time of peace for our country. As a very young child, the conflict in Vietnam was raging, but I had no concept of what "Vietnam" was. I didn't know it was the name of a country. All I knew was that Vietnam was a bad place, and people who went there never came home. I was too young to have any desire to watch the news and too innocent to understand it if I had.

Although I come from a long line of veterans, I didn't understand war or the sacrifices of the soldiers, their families, and the public at large. I lived in a world of Barbies and baby dolls, of picnics and bike rides, of cartoons every Saturday morning and big family dinners every night. My world was safe and happy and carefree ... and it never once occurred to me that the freedom and peace I enjoyed came at a price.

As an adult, and particularly as a mother, I now understand the cost of war ... the financial, physical, and emotional costs. And when I think of the cost of war on a soldier who survives, I think of the movie 'Saving Private Ryan'. It's a fictional movie about a family that sends four sons to battle in World War II. After three are killed, eight men are sent to find Private Ryan and bring him home so that his mother does not lose all her children to the war. They are successful in finding Private Ryan, but all eight of them end up losing their lives. One of the most poignant scenes in the movie is when Captain Miller, played by Tom Hanks, is dying. Captain Miller simply tells Private Ryan ... "Earn it."

The movie ends with Private Ryan, now an old man, standing at Captain Miller's grave, crying as he tells Miller that he's tried to live up to his last request, and that he hopes he proved worthy of the price Miller and his men paid to save him.

I think that is something every American should think about today. Have I earned the right to live in the freedoms paid for by the blood of others? Am I the best person I can be, worthy of their sacrifice?

Still shot from 'Saving Private Ryan'

When our troops came home from the first Gulf War, people lined the highway, cheering and waving as the military vehicles drove by, piled high with returning soldiers. I was honored to be part of the crowd that welcomed our heroes home. People stood shoulder to shoulder for miles, waving flags and banners, clapping, whistling and shouting words of thanks. I looked up and down the road, and wondered how many Vietnam veterans were in the crowd, and how different their homecoming was ... and it sickened me. Regardless of your feelings for our involvement in Vietnam, most of the men and women who served didn't have a choice. They were drafted. Our nation called them to duty and they served ... only to return home to scorn and cruelty. Soldiers returning from Vietnam would change out of their uniforms to avoid being spat upon and attacked, both physically and verbally. According to one website, 58,300 Americans died in Vietnam ... and 150,000 committed suicide after returning home. That tells me we failed these men and women miserably. The American soldiers who served in Vietnam are haunted by the atrocities they witnessed, and with no support from the American public, a staggering number of them have taken their own lives.

Another movie, 'Lone Survivor', is the true story of four Navy Seals sent into verify the location of a Taliban leader. After verifying the target, they are unable to get a satellite signal back to base. They are laying down and waiting for nightfall, when an old man and two teenagers happen upon them. They have three options: do nothing and let them go (which likely means those three would alert the Taliban to their location), tie them up and leave them to certain death, or kill them outright. The three Afghan's are unarmed, but one has a radio ... something poor shepherds do not own. The soldiers know he's affiliated with the Taliban, and that letting them go will be dangerous to them and others ... but killing three unarmed civilians is against the rules of engagement. Ignoring their gut instinct, they allow them to leave. Three of the four die, as well as a helicopter full of soldiers coming to rescue them. Only one of the Seals survives ... barely.

I was thinking about Vietnam when I watched that movie. Our soldiers couldn't tell the difference between the South Vietnamese (our allies), and the North Vietnamese (the enemy). A lot of the South Vietnamese resented the Americans presence and aided the North. Stories emerged of wholesale slaughter of entire villages at the hand of American soldiers, leaving people outraged and indignant that these men could have been so cruel and heartless. 

It was years after the Vietnam conflict ended before I was old enough to understand, or had any desire to learn about it. I now devour books and documentaries about history and war. I remember hearing stories that made me sick to my stomach, and I wondered how those men were able to reconcile what they did to innocent civilians. But when I watched 'Lone Survivor', it occurred to me that maybe the soldiers in Vietnam faced similar decisions ... either kill or be killed. I'm sure we probably killed many that posed no threat to us. I'm sure some were killed out of vengeance, frustration, and anger. but I also can't help but wonder what these soldiers saw or sensed that caused them to kill supposedly innocent, unarmed civilians. Regardless of whether they were right or wrong, I have to believe that they sensed a danger they can't explain. In the heat of battle, in the middle of war, I have a hard time believing they killed indiscriminately for the thrill of it. I know there are soldiers who snap, but I also believe that ... with few exceptions ... American soldiers are some of the bravest, most honorable individuals in the world.

On this Veterans Day, I'd like to thank every veteran and their families for the sacrifices they made. I'd like to offer my sympathies to those who lost loved ones in battle. But most of all, I'd like to tell every Vietnam veteran how much I appreciate their bravery and courage ... and apologize that they were made to feel ashamed for their service to our country. They were heroes, and they were cheated out of the heroes welcome that they deserved. It may not mean much coming from me, but I'm sorry ... and I thank you.

Photo courtesy of US Dept. of Veterans Affairs