Oh, Brother

Somebody tried to kill my brother the other day. This guy tried to run over him, twice, during a high speed chase. Punk #!@*. I hate it when somebody tries to kill a family member. It just puts me in a bad mood, and it’s a reminder of just how dangerous Supercop’s job can be. Sometimes I forget that. I get lulled into security by the fact that he works in a small town. It may be small, but it’s no Mayberry. It has its share of loonies and weapon toting felons. Apparently, this punk #!@* didn’t know the cardinal rule of siblings. Nobody beats up on my kid brother except me.

I am the bossy big sister. There are five years between each of us kids, so I am five years older than Supercop and ten years older than Handy Man. That makes me REALLY bossy. I’ve never denied that, but I think it’s only been in the last few years that I’ve come to realize just how commanding I used to be when we were growing up. I was in charge of everything, no matter what we were playing. Rationality be damned when a hula girl-in-training is trying to get her way. I remember playing Batman and Robin and Zowie, Pow! Bipping my way out of a cardboard box jail even though I was Cat Woman. (We bought a freezer that year and we kids practically lived in the cardboard container all summer.) I have a distinct memory of standing on the back porch with my hands on my hips trying to justify to Supercop in his green blanket cape why Batman wasn’t ever going to win. Ever. No matter what happened on TV. Picture me stomping my foot.

Every now and then Supercop joined me in ganging up on Handy Man. There’s a picture of Handy Man when he was about three or four years old, dressed up as a girl. In our never ending battle against boredom, Supercop and I dressed up baby bro in a skirt, hat and fur cape and paraded him in front of mama in a one man beauty pageant. Handy Man is smiling in the photo because he’s too young to realize how much he’s going to hate that picture one day.

Today, Handy Man is a man of few words, and it’s probably because I sucked up most of the vocabulary genes. He waited to get a word in edgewise and gave up after about fifteen years. Supercop played Super heroes a lot when he was growing up, maybe as a way of standing out as the middle child. No wonder he fights crime today. Me, I like being in charge of stuff. It doesn’t matter what it is. As they say in these parts, I want to run the show. Punk #!@*.

State of the (Re)Union

I just mailed my registration form for my 25th class reunion next month. I had a freak out moment when I noticed a line on the form where you could list any grandchildren you have. GRANDCHILDREN!!!! We’re not old enough to have grandchildren! Are we? Surely not. Let’s see. Hmm. Maybe we are. Great balls of fire! We are. Are we really that old? How did that happen? It just seems like yesterday we were cruising the Sonic and basting our backsides in the tanning bed. $2 could buy you a gallon of gas and a quart of Budweiser. Skirts were short and hair was big, really big. And curly. REO Speed Wagon, The Police and Joan Jett blasted from our eight tracks, and we didn’t have a care in the world, other than whether or not we had a date on Friday night. The summer after graduation was a good one.

It didn’t take long though, for real life to start knocking on our door. By spring, two of our classmates had been killed in accidents. Another had been arrested for drugs. A couple of classmates got married, quickly discovering that marriage wasn’t as easy as they thought it would be. Those who didn’t go to college soon figured out they weren’t going to get rich working at the local gas station and started looking for other ways to make a living. Some of us pushed those lessons back a few years by running off to college. We started scattering to different corners of the country. By our first reunion, we were starting to catch on that the adulthood thing was not going to be easy.

By the 15 year reunion we had done some living, some more than others. We had lost a classmate to suicide. Another was in prison. Marriages had fallen apart, and children were adding up. A few faces were starting to show the signs of too many dares and challenges accepted. Many though, were doing well. Businesses were being started. Career advancements were taking place and those two early marriages I mentioned were still kicking. We were still scattered across the country but making our mark in corporate America and building our own homes. We had learned to roll with a few punches but were still a little naïve about the years ahead.

We didn’t have a 20 year reunion, so I suspect a lot of things have changed since we last gathered. They sure have changed since 1982. Today $2 won’t even buy one drink, let alone a gallon of gas. Our skirts are longer to hide our flabby thighs and Spanx. Our hair is straighter and MUCH more flat. We are balder and fatter. Memories are shorter. I recently realized that I don’t remember the names of all my classmates. The lines that document our life’s journey have crept onto our faces. Some of us use reading classes. Many of my classmates have buried a parent…or two. But our businesses have thrived. We sit on the boards of our local schools and service agencies. We hold government positions and run the corner drug store. Our children are nearly grown, and in some cases, fully grown. I’ll bet a few even have grandchildren. Holy Cow! We really are that old….and a lot wiser.

Raiders of a Lost Art

We held a planning meeting for bible school last night. Oh boy! I love bible school. That’s because I’m usually in charge of decorating, and it’s an opportunity for my glue gun and glitter fetish to rear its spastic head. I am a nut with a glue gun. And craft paper. And poster paints. Ooh, and colored duct tape. I once used 14 rolls of yellow duct tape to create traffic lanes on the floors of the church hallways and fellowship hall. I’ve built cities, boats, ancient villages and time machines. Last year I made a rock ‘n roll café. Rock ‘n roll…there was a fun theme. Don’t worry. We’re Methodists. We’re okay with dancing and loud music. Heck, we’ll even speak to you in the liquor store.

I follow the Donald Trump motto of “Go Big or Go Home”, so I always get carried away. My goal is to drape the church in as much burlap, bubble wrap and cardboard as possible. My favorite dramatic touch is hanging big banners from the ceiling. I put them everywhere. The santucary looks like the Olympic village. By the time we’re finished taping, painting and stitching next week we will have created a set that rivals Cecil B. DeMille’s finest moments.

I guess all of this comes from the pressure to make bible school exciting and larger than life. Today’s kids get bored so easily. It takes a lot to lure them in. When I was a kid, your parents made you go. The only theme was the Ten Commandments. You glued some macaroni on a plate, dropped pennies and nickels into a little plastic church and sang Kum-ba-ya every day. Your odds of getting a spanking for being a smart mouth were just as high there as they were at home. Snacks were Kool-Aid and vanilla creme cookies. The only variety was the flavor of the Kool-Aid. Now days it takes a slick marketing campaign and an edgy theme to get kids in the door. Church signs advertise the “Arctic Edge”, “Avalanche Ranch” and “Solid Rock Café”. Our theme this year is “Treasure Hunters”. I haven’t decided yet what to do with this pirate and archeologist inspired curriculum. I’m sure I’ll eventually come up with something that involves glitter...and a few banners. If nothing else, I can always hang pictures of Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp and Harrison Ford. The kids won’t be impressed, but it will give the mothers something to stare at all week while we’re making Popsicle stick treasure chests.

The Little Things

When you care for senior citizens on a daily basis, you often notice with startling clarity little changes in their ability to do certain things. These are things that have slipped by you but then suddenly seem so obvious you can’t believe you’ve previously missed them. Like being able to wear certain kinds of shoes. Mama J. has always loved a good pair of sandals but now all of her shoes have to have some kind of support in the back. That’s to keep her from slipping and falling because she shuffles as much as she walks. Pants have to have an elastic waistband. It’s too exhausting to fight with zippers that always win. She signs her checks, but we fill in the blanks. Her handwriting could get her into medical school.

Papa T. has quit talking about trying to drive again. “When my eyes get better” has been replaced with “will you pick up my mail at the post office”. I drove his truck last week and realized I couldn’t remember when it was last filled with gas. Directions such as “the cornbread is to your left” don’t keep food out of his lap anymore. Somebody has to read the newspaper to him every day, not just on cloudy days. The most recent change in him scares me, though. As I watched him eat dinner last night, I realized that his hope has been quietly replaced with resignation; resignation that his health, namely his eyesight, will probably never get better. That his social life is drawing to a close and that his quality of life will likely continue to decline. In Mama J.’s eyes last week, I saw fear. She is scared for both of them. She sees the future, and she doesn’t like it.

Can they see the fear on my face? Do my tone and carefully chosen words betray me? Is my wrinkled brow giving me away? Do they notice that we check on them more times each day than we did just a few months ago? Or that we walk with outstretched hands behind them to catch a fall? I hope not. I want to be strong for them. I need to. I see the future, and I don’t like it.

I Want to be Alone

When I decided to become a wife and mother, I knew I’d have to make sacrifices. I’ve accepted those willingly, except for one that I didn’t expect. I have not gone to the bathroom alone in 17 years. Now, I’m not a modest person. In fact, I’m a little on the exhibitionist side, but some things deserve a little privacy, and potty time is one of them. The most intimate moment in a marriage is not the first time you see your mate naked. It’s the first time you see each other on the pot. It’s a little unsettling at first, but over the years, you grow to accept it. After all, somebody has to bring you toilet paper when the roll goes empty unexpectedly. However, that doesn’t mean you want to completely give up the privacy that certain acts demand. When Teen Angel was little, I always took her into the stall with me in public restrooms as a safety precaution. She’s fourteen years old now. I’m ready for her to leave me alone in the bathroom. Hubby, too. At any given time, they are prone to flinging open the door to ask me a question, share some good news or dig for something under the sink. Even the dog is in on the act. Last week he pushed open the door with his nose, toddled in and put his paws on my knees. Apparently, he wanted a pat on the head and knew where to find a captive audience.

In the words of Marlena Detriech, “I vant to pee alone”, so I’ve created some rules for potty privacy in my home.

1. Entering the door must require an emergency. Asking for $20 to go to the movie, showing me a new listing in the real estate magazine or sharing a dirty joke is not an emergency. Neither is digging for moisturizer, showing me a new t-shirt or asking if those pants make your butt look big.
2. I do not want to take any phone calls, no matter how important they may seem. Please do not ask, even if it’s my mother. If the pest control man wants to know if he can come on Tuesday, tell him I will call him back. Do NOT. I repeat, do NOT tell him I can’t come to the phone because I’m going to the bathroom. That requires canceling my contract and hiring another company because I can no longer look him in the eye when he shows up to spray for crickets.
3. If the door is locked, do not get a butter knife and pick the cheap lock. It is locked for a reason. Really. I mean it this time.
4. I do not want to carry on a conversation through the door while I’m..umm..indisposed. I cannot talk to you and read “Humor in Uniform” at the same time.
5. Sliding a note under the door is not acceptable either, for the same reason mentioned in rule #4.
6. Inquiries about what I had for lunch or jokes about courtesy deodorizer sprays are NOT funny. Stop it. I’m not laughing. I swear. Not this time. Really. They’re not. Well, maybe a little.
7. And finally, mom is not the only person capable of changing the roll of toilet paper. Leaving one or two squares of paper on the roll so technically it’s not “empty” is bad sportsmanship. ‘Cause I get left holding the scraps and have to holler for someone to bring me a new roll. That requires letting someone in……

Miss Katherine

The matriarch of our church is a cute little lady I’ll call “Miss Katherine”. You’d never guess that she’s pushing 90 years old. She still lives alone, drives and stays on the go with a bunch of activities. She is VERY lively, and you never know what she’s going to do next. She’s a hoot. That’s southern talk for someone who’s a whole lot of fun. She’s not afraid to speak her mind, though. She has bright blue eyes and a bit of a mischievous grin. And something funny is always rolling off of her tongue. She doesn’t plan it that way, though. That’s what makes her fun. I asked her this past Sunday how she was doing. She said, “Fine, for the moment”. “Are you on a moment by moment basis, Miss Katherine”? “Are you kidding? At this age I don’t even buy green bananas”.

Before her balance got a little out of whack she came to the aerobics class I teach at church. She bounced around during the cardio portion and then did her own modified version of the floor exercises while sitting in a chair. Except for the night she decided to TRY the floor exercises. She was in the floor before I could blink an eye, but I kept my mouth shut because no one tells Miss Katherine what to do. I certainly wasn’t going to be the first. I like that my head is connected to my shoulders and I want to keep it there, thank you. She managed the leg lifts and sit-ups just fine. Until it was time to get up. She didn’t seem to mind that it took two of us to pull her off of that mat. She gave me a second scare the night that she kept fumbling around with the top of her sweatshirt. When I asked her if she was okay, she casually responded that it was just her heart monitor. Heart monitor???? It seems they strap one on her a couple of times a year and monitor her for 24 hours to see how her ticker is doing. Of course, she told me this AFTER we had worked out especially hard. I walked around the next day afraid that I would get a call from her doctor asking me what in the heck I was doing, running an 88- year old woman with heart problems in the ground.

The thing I like best about her is that she’s a great Christian lady who walks the walk. She doesn’t talk much about her religion. She just lives it. She knows the bible inside and out. She loves everyone. She forgives. She does mission work, and she’s excited to be at church every time the door is open. She leads by example. She never seems to have one of those days when she has to fake it because her faith is a little weak. I so admire that. She is something else. That’s southern talk for someone you admire.

Ice Cream Man!

Today reminds me of the last time the ice cream man came by our house. It was a sunny, sticky Saturday, and I was doing laundry, just like today. Teen Angel was three or fours years old. I had my head in the dryer when Hubby banged on the back door and hollered for me to come quickly. He has an annoying habit of doing this, and always makes it sound as if he has an emergency. It rarely means there is an emergency (except for the day he fell off a ladder) so I took my time. By the time I got there, he was worked up in a lather. "Tell me what you hear", he said. "Music, maybe? Is Mr. R. playing his luau records outside again?" "No. I think it's an ice cream truck." "Really?! Are you sure?" We squinted and searched the horizon and sure enough, his van was toodling into our subdivision. "Oh, my God. It's the ice cream man!!!"

Now, you have to understand, we hadn't seen an ice cream man in our subdivision in several years. Also, I grew up in the boondocks, so the only time I saw the ice cream man when I was a kid was when he happened to drive by grandma's house while I was visiting her. That happened maybe twice. So, on that sunny June day that Hubby beckoned me to the door, I was in the middle of a 20 year ice cream man drought. I may have been more than 30 years old, but the appearance of Mr. Frosty's little white truck rolling through our subdivision turned me into a kid all over again.

"Get some money, and I'll get the girl!", I shouted. I scooped up Teen Angel and hit the door. "What's wrong, mommy?" "Nothing, baby. It's the ice cream man. It's a good thing." As I hit the door, Hubby tossed me some dollar bills from the tool box money jar he thinks I don't know about. I put Teen Angel on the ground, grabbed her hand and started running across the yard. Mr. Frosty was already past our house. "Hurry up", I hollered. "We're going to miss him!" I practically dragged Teen Angel for two blocks. We cut through Mr. R's yard, jumping his peony bushes. He didn't care. He understand that it was an emergency. He was watching from his front porch. We were barefoot, and her little legs were moving as fast as they could across thick grass and hot concrete. We finally flagged down the truck and excitedly surveyed our choices. We settled on an orange push-up for me and Nutty Buddies for Teen Angel and Hubby. When Hubby was a kid, he would catch the truck on one side of the subdivion, buy some ice cream and then run to the other side of the subdivision for a second purchase as the truck left. I didn't think Teen Angel's legs would hold out for that, so we headed straight back to the house. We plopped down in the swing where Hubby was waiting for us and started savoring our goodies. As I sat there watching my two favorite people eat their ice cream, I thought to myself, this is the good life. And I realized that for once it really was an emergency when Hubby hollered at me to come to the back door.