How I Met My True Love

I don't remember the first time I met her. She was a freshman when I was a senior, and joined the choir second semester. She was good friends with a couple of freshman with whom I was friendly and a second alto, like me, so I'm sure we met early in the semester. Choir officers helped run auditions and as the Business Manager I'm sure I did auditions that semester, but if I participated in hers I don't remember it.

My first memory is of her requesting to be excused from a concert. Our choir had rules about how many rehearsals you could miss, and all concerts were mandatory. In order to be excused the choir member had to make their case to the officers. We did this in a storage area next to the room we rehearsed in during a break. She was asking to be excused so she could attend her sister's wedding (number 2). I don't know why I remember this because , but it's stuck in my mind.

Toward the end of the year our choir was able to add a couple of last minute concerts, singing for alumnae clubs. Because the concerts were last minute we didn't have enough money in the budget to rent two large buses, but we wouldn't fit in one. We solved the problem by renting a van and a station wagon. The choir president drove the van, and I drove the station wagon. On the trip to New Jersey my passengers were all freshmen. Most of what I remember about the drive there is that our friend T was reading Little Women and kept giggling.

It is the drive home that sticks in my mind. Our choir director was a very dear man, but also very nervous. On the drive to New Jersey he had been driving the incoming choir president nuts, and she begged me to take him in the car on the drive back to school. So one of the freshmen road back on the bus and WAH rode with us. For reasons that escape me now Amy and T sat in the front seat with me (this was in the days of bench seats), and WAH and the remaining freshman, who was reading Ayn Rand, sat in the back.

When you sing in a choir one of the reminders you hear frequently is to enunciate the final consonants in words, so that they don't get lost. During the drive back to Massachusetts the three of us in the front seat spent a good portion of the drive singing along with the radio, over enunciating the final consonants in each and every word (or rather wur-duh). I don't know exactly why we did it. We certainly didn't discuss it before hand. That trip was when our friendship was forged.

The next year I worked on campus, as a teaching intern at the lab nursery school (a story for another day), and lived just off campus with a family for whom I did child care in return for room and board (that too is a story for another day). Most of my classmates were either long gone or living in the city. But Amy, T and J all friends from choir who were now sophomores were only a short walk away. I spent a good portion of my free time with them. We talked, played games, went to movies... As the fall semester went on I ended up spending more time with Amy than the other two.

Our college has a January session, at the time a month of alternative courses - learn to knit, star gaze and the like. It was optional and Amy spent that month at home in the mid-west. Since this was well before the age of email and text messaging we wrote a lot of letters. Instead of spending most of my free time with Amy I spent my free time writing her letters.

Once she returned we spent as many hours together as possible. We went to the movies (My Favorite Year) and should have been thrown out because we talked through much of it. (My sincere apologies to everyone else in the theatre that night!) We talked late into the night, each night, after which I would walk home through the quiet streets of the suburban town.

About a week later I had to be home, partly to care for the children during a party and partly because I was taking GREs the next morning. There was at least one and possibly two phone calls that night. After the GREs we went and played in Boston with T, went to the movies, and out to dinner. Amy and I ended up sitting, or more correctly cuddling, and talking all night. There was a kiss, and the rest is history.

Tomorrow is the 26th anniversary of that kiss.

Inspired by a request from Maria way back in January.

Happy Birthday to Me!

As a child growing up in a household with a dog, I knew what a veterinarian was. I did not understand what a veteran was. And so I thought that November 11th was Veterinarians Day. I remember the conversation when my mother explained the difference between veterinarians and veterans. Veterans Day was, and is, an important day in my life. Not because it's Veterans Day but because it is also my birthday.

Because my birthday is a holiday I have almost always had the day off from school and work. (There was one year when the government decided to make Veterans Day a Monday holiday at the end of October, but I digress.) My current place of business does not give us Veterans Day off. We get the Friday after Thanksgiving instead. However, I do get generous vacation time. So I was able to take both Monday and Tuesday off to play.

I spent most of Monday in my woodshop, working on a project for Hiker Boy. (I haven't posted about it yet, but will soon on elf business.) And I installed the car rack on my new car .

Yesterday, I headed off early for a paddle. I'll post about that tomorrow. My timing was perfect. The morning, when I was on the river, was full of sun and clear blue skies. By the time I had the kayak and all it's equipment put away it was gray and threatening to rain. I spent the afternoon watching a movie (Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day - recommended).

After dinner out at our favorite Chinese Restaurant, we returned home for cake, complete with squiggly candles.


In addition to the new ipod, which goes with the new car (there's a connector so the ipod can be played through the car audio system), I also got the way cool bumper sticker from my sister-out-law, Shelley (who will be getting a proper thank you). It now holds a place of honor on my car.

Comfort Food

One of the casseroles my mother made when I was a child, was this concoction of egg noodles, ham and peas with a sauce of cheese, milk, ketchup and horseradish topped with bread cubes. She made it with velveeta cheese and spam. I don't remember it being a favorite of mine during my childhood, but as an adult I occasionally find myself craving it.

I haven't been able to eat it for years because my body can not successfully digest milk fat. I am able to eat goat cheese, though. And earlier this fall while perusing the collection of goat cheese at the local Whole Foods, I discovered that they carry fat-free cheddar cheese. It's taste's pretty good and doesn't upset my stomach.

So, when I got a craving for this casserole last week - on one of those cold wet gray November days - I realized that I could satisfy my craving. So for tonight's dinner I had ham and noodle casserole. It was delicious. Amy missed out, since she left this morning to visit her Mother in Arkansas.

Twenty-Five Years

A portion of the bouquet I got from Amy Monday night.

Twenty-five years ago I took the GRE exam. I know what you're thinking - how the devil does she remember that? Well, that day turned out to be a turning point in my life, though not in the way you might think.

The day started with the GRE, which I took at MIT. I don't remember much about the test itself, though I did score fairly well including acing the logic portion scoring 800. I didn't take a subject exam so I was done at noon. My two best friends, Amy and T, met me and we spent the rest of the day playing. We went to the Children's Museum, had dinner out, and took in a movie (I don't remember which movie).

T retired early, victim of a migraine. Amy and I stayed up all night talking, sitting close together. Well, mostly we talked. At some point in the wee hours of the morning we shared a very light kiss. Neither of us expected it, and though I initially wanted to run away, Amy wouldn't let me (sometimes her stubborn streak is a good thing).

Twenty-five years have passed since that day. We still talk late into the night, and we still kiss, and we are still very much in love. And each year we celebrate the day that changed our lives. (It was also the night when "it's not morning till you get up" was born.)

Our celebration has just begun. After work yesterday we went out for a wonderful leisurely dinner at 51 Lincoln in Newton. The food was yummy. The company was superb. Next week we head to San Francisco to celebrate.

The Gift

I do not have strong memories of my early childhood, so most of the following comes from the stories my family has told over the years.

My Christmas list when I was three included a doll house.

My father wanted to make my Christmas wish come true, so he set about building me a doll house. It was a simple two story house with white walls and a red roof. It wasn't intricate but it was perfect for a three-year-old.

Christmas day arrived. We headed downstairs to see if Santa had fulfilled our desires. There under the tree was the doll house my father had made for me. I can only imagine the feelings my parents had when I wasn't overjoyed with it.

In my three-year-old mind a doll house was a child sized play house. The nursery school I attended had just such a play house. And that was what I wanted - a house sized just for me. I don't know if calling it a doll house was an invention of my mind, or if that was how it was referred to by the teachers.

The doll house my father had made wasn't what I wanted. I cringe when I think about how sad I must have made him. I did get many of hours of enjoyment from that doll house, but during that first hour on that long ago Christmas morning it was not the object of my desire.

Several years ago I built my middle nephew an advent calendar (pictures here). I spend a weekend each December with him, and during that time I fill the advent calendar for that year. I had some trouble figuring out what to use for filler last year. My nephew loves anything to do with outer space so I decided to write a story for him set in outer space to be revealed each day when he opened the calendar. I was disappointed when he wasn't excited about the story. He really wanted robots. In that moment I think I felt a little bit of what my father must have felt on that long ago Christmas morning.

Looking back I'm sorry that I wasn't able to articulate what it was I wanted and that I wasn't thrilled by the doll house. It was a very thoughtful gift.

More Writers Island: here.

Sunday Scribblings: The End

You'll have to do some imagining so close your eyes. Oh right, you can't read with your eyes closed. Well imagine you're curled up in a comfy chair with your eyes closed.

Imagine a narrow street in a nice older neighborhood in a small city, the kind with just enough room for one car to pass between the cars parked on either side. This is a dead end street, lined with large houses built for the most part in the early 1900s. Children play in many of the yards, and as you get closer to the dead end more of them are playing in the street - bicycling, roller skating - the old kind of roller skates that secure over shoes with a key, and playing kick ball using the man hole covers and storm drain openings for bases.

The street ends at with a stop sign. Behind that sign is a 3 foot drop into a sloping yard full of large sheltering maple trees. The house that belongs to the yard is off to your right. It's big with a deep front porch just calling out to you to come sit and enjoy a glass of lemonade. On closer inspection you decide sitting in the midst of the hockey game being played there might be a bit dangerous so you step inside through the heavy wood front door.

Take in the living room as you step in. Straight ahead is the fireplace set into a small inglenook to the right the room opens up. If you listen carefully you'll hear the echoes of voices from the dinner parties held here over the years. To the left is a study behind glass doors and windows topping bookshelves which separate it from the oak lined stairway. Tucked under the stairway landing is telephone table, and under the stairs themselves a deep coat closet perfect for hiding. Behind the formal stairs is a second more utilitarian stairway lined with children's artwork.

Behind that second stairway is the kitchen bright with daisy covered fabric. Looping from there through the laundry room you come to the formal dining room complete with built-in cabinets at one end. You can almost smell the Thanksgiving turkey, and over in the corner you notice the perfect spot for a children's table.

Back in the living room you make your way up the stairs, stopping on the landing to gaze out the wall of windows to the trees beyond. It looks like the perfect spot to curl up with a book. At the top of the stairs is a large open hall with room for a writing desk and an occasional hamper basketball game. Off the hall are, in counter clockwise order a play room, which the children in the house call the secret room because when the family first moved in it was filled with boxes and they weren't allowed in, the master bedroom, the linen closet, the attic stairs, a children's bedroom, the bathroom and the other children's bedroom.

Up the attic stairs you find a wonderful mix of storage and playroom - dolls, doll beds and doll house nestle in the light from a dormer window. In the middle of the space sits a desk perfect for building with the erector set that sits in a box on top. Behind the chimney you can see the framing for another bedroom, started but never finished.

Returning to the yard you imagine the sled rides that start on the pile deposited around the stop sign by the plows and continue the length of the sloping yard. The gully that surrounds the house on two sides sparks thoughts of adventures to be had in that oasis of wild.

This house that you've been imagining is the haunted house my family lived in for ten years. We moved in when I was almost 4. My parents, with help from various professionals and my grandfather, stripped layer upon layer of wall paper, replaced plumbing and electrical lines, rehabbed the bathroom, painted, cleaned and filled the house with laughter and love. It was the first house my little brother lived in. I learned to ride a bike on the front porch (yes it was that big). It was a great house to grow up in there at the end of that dead end street.

Sunday Scribblings: I Get That Sinking Feeling...

Anyone who knows me knows that I will swim pretty much anywhere anytime. Each summer during our vacation I start each and every day with a lengthy swim - 45 minutes to an hour of watery Adirondack goodness. And I start many other days during the year with a pool swim. But it wasn't always this way.

As a child I was terrified of water. Even having my hair washed was a terrifying experience. I expect that there were many times when my mother was tempted to drown me rather than deal with my screaming.

I had many opportunities to learn to swim. My elementary school had a pool. During the summer the local recreation department offered swim lessons there. Beginning in third grade we had regular swim lessons as part of our PE program. My parents took us to the pool at the college where my father worked. A particularly scary pool since the shallow end was 5 feet deep!

The swim lessons that have stuck in my head, though, are the few I had with the swim coach from the college. Mr. K had a house on New York's Lake George and on a couple of occasions our family spent the day there. I remember standing in ankle deep water with Mr. K. In his hand he held a red boat. He explained that this was Popeye's boat, but that it didn't float very well (actually it didn't float at all) so when it went into the water I would have to retrieve it to save Popeye.

The first time the boat went into the ankle deep water. No problem to pick it up. Each time the boat went into the water it went a little deeper. Soon it was going into waist deep water. This presented a dilemma. If I picked it up by bending forward at the waist my face would be very close to the water. The point, of course, was to get me to put my face in the water. But I was having none of that. I worked very hard, twisting my body so that I could get full extension into the water, but not get one drop on my face. I'd like to say this game helped me learn to swim, but it didn't. I still got that sinking feeling when faced with the necessity to put my face into the water.

I was 10 before I learned to swim. I don't actually remember learning. It happened during one of the swim classes during PE. The mother of a classmate had taken over as our PE teacher. I remember that she was patient and didn't push me to swim.

Once I learned to swim there was no stopping me. I spent most days during the couple of summers after I learned to swim at the pool at the college where my Daddy worked. I would bike over, stopping to say hello to the athletic department secretaries then head to the pool. Mid-day was lap swim time, a forced break for me, but once that was over it was back into the pool for the afternoon. Freshman year of high school I signed up for swimming 3 of the 4 PE terms. My high school not only had a pool, but passing the Red Cross intermediate swimming test was a graduation requirement.

Swimming is one of my favorite forms of exercise, and if I'm not swimming I'm probably in my kayak. I no longer get a sinking feeling when presented with a need to get my face wet, and these days no one has to bring out a metal boat to get me swimming.

More Sunday Scribblings here.

Sunday Scribblings: Goosebumps

As anyone who knows me will tell you I am not a great fan of scary things. I have seen only a couple of horror movies in my life. I saw part of Halloween in college. I think Amy may still have bruises from that. When Jurassic Park was due out Amy decided that if I had read the book it would not be so bad. So we read the book, at least part of it was read aloud while I painted the floor of my workshop. As it turned out that just made it worse, because I anticipated each of the scary parts of the movie. The only good news was that we'd waited a while to see it and there were only a couple of other people in the theater so there weren't many witnesses to my yelps.

I also startle easily. Many years ago I was a nanny for a family with 9 and 12 year old boys who discovered this tendency and proceeded to take advantage of it. The hallway from my room to the kitchen paralleled the pantry. This provided the perfect spot for the boys to hide and jump out to scare me. It took several months of almost daily scares before I got wise to this and was able to anticipate it.

There is, though, one scary event which holds a special place in my heart. The neighborhood I grew up in was home to a number of fraternity houses which housed students from the college where my father worked. One of these fraternities put on a yearly haunted house in the days before Halloween. The scary things in the house were not designed to scare the pants off of the children who went through it, but to give us a small fright.

The haunted house was an anticipated event. It ushered in Halloween, and was all about us as children. I don't remember an adult ever going through it. We would line up on the porch and sidewalk outside the fraternity. The anticipation grew as those who'd been through did their best to convince us that it was too scary for us. And finally it would be our turn.

In the darkened interior of the house were ghosts, and vampires, and bowls of eye balls, and things that dropped from the ceiling to startle. It was okay to scream when startled, that was the point. If you survived the scares the kitchen offered a steaming cauldron of cider and witches offering trays of doughnuts.

It's been many years since my last trip through the haunted house. These days I don't even watch the commercials for scary movies. But if I was given the chance to be 10 again and take the walk through that haunted house I'd do it. The goosebumps that haunted house raised were good ones.

Sunday Scribblings: In the Kitchen

In the kitchen daisies dance on a field of yellow,
In the kitchen cereal is stored between the wall studs,
In the kitchen pudding is stirred from a foot stool,
In the kitchen cast iron radiator foot rest,
In the kitchen popcorn fire ceiling stain,
In the kitchen tricycle zooms from laundry room to living room,
In the kitchen cookies cool,
In the kitchen girl scouts learn to cook,

The kitchen,
now only a memory,
the house long ago sold,
and not quite so long ago fallen prey to gravity.

More: Sunday Scribblings.