Any of my friends will tell you I am almost the perfect shopping companion as I can put together the flawless outfit for any occasion. You want a dress that shows a little cleavage, I know exactly where to go for that. Looking for that jaw dropping, head turning New Years Eve outfit, hang with me and sweet success will be yours. Most of my friends who need shopping advice or assistance come to me for guidance. After years of doing this I have come to be considered a shopping authority and this knack for shopping makes me very popular, sometimes at the most inopportune times. When I have an essay due for 262 and someone needs a hot dress for Saturday night, what’s a girl to do? Don’t tell my instructor, but the shopping usually wins.
Before we embark on our shopping expeditions I lay down certain ground rules. If we follow these our chances of success increase exponentially. The more we deviate from the system I lay out, the chance of failure goes up greatly. The last time someone didn’t follow the game plan the outfit she came away with was too hideous for even Blackwell’s worst dressed list. And she wondered why there was no second date?
First you must allot enough time to complete the mission and yes this is a mission. Weak of heart or body can just go to the local big box store and purchase a mannequin outfit, but if you stick with me that mannequin won’t be able to hold a candle to you. This will be a trip that will entail at least a half a dozen stores and possibly more than one city. We may start in Bangor and end in Portland, after all the perfect pair of shoes knows no city limits.
Once we start you must buy the clothing part first. We will buy accessories, shoes; whatever else you may want only after we have in our possession the main attire. I have been with those who fall in love with a necklace or a pair of shoes and buy them first, only to spend hours searching for the outfit to compliment them. It is much more difficult to dress the accessory than accessorize the dress. They may be the "neatest" pair of neon green stilettos you have ever seen, however if the only dress you look decent in is an orange one, those green stilettos have just become the "neatest" dust collectors in your closet.
Next, you will spend time in the outfit before you purchase it. You will try it on; you will walk in it and sit in it. Holding it up in front of you will not work, nor will just putting it on and standing in front of a mirror. You have to spend some time in it to see how it moves with you. If it is uncomfortable or horribly wrinkled after 10 minutes, then spending an evening in it is probably not going to work. How miserable is your night going to be if every time you move, you’re picking your dress out of your butt because it doesn’t sit right?
After the main purchase is made, we will take a break. We may do lunch, dinner, or drinks depending on the time of day. Well the type of meal depends on the time of day; alcohol recognizes no such time boundaries. This is a mandatory break, because the sensory overload the stores have put us in need of time to calm down. After we have sat for at least 45 minutes we can continue on with the undertaking.
This is the point where you need to be prepared to back track. Odds are we have already seen the perfect pair of shoes for the dress you have or the bra that is going lift those bad boys back to where they were when you were sixteen. Oh and the glitter of jewelry. Which of those sparkling gems is going to be the one that will make your outfit a head turner?
Shopping for the perfect item is not an easy task. It is work and not meant for whiners or those without stamina. But if you come with me and play by my rules I can guarantee you, we will end the day with exactly what you are looking for.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Not So "Common Cold"
As a paramedic when I came down with the “common cold” I felt pretty comfortable it would run its course and I would be over it in a week or ten days at the most. Week one went by and I wasn’t feeling much better, so I went to the CDC website to see if there was a particular cold virus this year that was stronger than usual. No unusual cold viruses were being reported by them, so I attributed the lingering symptoms to my hectic schedule and lack of sleep. No sense running to the doctor. There is no cure for the common cold.
Halfway into week two my eyes started drooling pus from the corners of them. I suspected it was a symptom of my cold and still having no desire to seek medical attention I Googled conjunctivitis and Google health told me that if it was a viral conjunctivitis as a result of a cold it would clear up on its own in a few days. Forty-eight hours later my eyes were cleared up which reiterated my cold theory. Bacterial conjunctivitis would have needed an antibiotic to clear up and mine had resolved on its own so I was clearly infected by a virus.
Week three saw the hacking cough worsen and sinus congestion that made my head want to explode continued. I also had a recurrence of fever which I hadn’t had since week one. Family and friends were urging me to go to the doctor, but still I resisted. Diagnosis of pneumonia and bronchitis were being thrown around by all my medical friends, yet I insisted it was just a cold. Pneumonia would have affected my breathing and I was breathing fine, though after three weeks of mouth breathing my lips were in pretty rough shape. I was starting to waver a little on the bronchitis, so I snuck a quick peek at Wikipedia to see if bronchitis usually was associated with a fever. Fever and cough were symptoms, but it also reported that ninety percent of bronchitis cases were viral, so once again I decided to tough it out. No sense in insulting my body with an ineffective antibiotic when I had a viral infection.
I tried zinc with no luck and vitamin C was out for me due to my IBS. I tried some other home remedies suggested online without much success. I went through a couple of boxes of cold medicine, enough tissues to paper a ballroom, and cough medicine was becoming my drink of necessity not choice. Yet week four rolled around and I was still feeling crappy.
Thanksgiving weekend was here, yet I felt so bad I couldn’t even fathom the thought of a two hour drive to Machiasport, so I spent the first day of my Thanksgiving holiday alone on my couch with tissues and taking shots of cough medicine much more frequently than the recommended four hours. Even the thought of my famous day after turkey sandwich couldn’t overcome the misery this damn cold was inflicting on me. I had suffered through the junky eyes, the hacking cough, chapped lips, head the size of a watermelon and a nose raw clear to the nerve endings, but when it hit my ear I started singing a different tune regarding medical attention.
I had developed some pressure in my ear late Friday night and then all of a sudden I had an excruciating pain in my right ear. The next thing I knew pus and blood were literally running out of my ear. Now this isn’t something we spent a lot of time learning about in paramedic school, so this time I shamelessly (easy to say, as I was all alone) went to the web for information. Adult ear infection sites were fairly easy to find and reading through the sites it became obvious I had perforated my ear drum due to infection. Webmd.com strongly suggested seeking medical attention if you had the “above listed symptoms”, which I did. Saturday morning saw me bright and early at walk in care where I was diagnosed with multiple infections, including an upper respiratory infection, a sinus infection and bilateral ear infections.
Needless to say after three days of medication (yes it was bacterial and I did need an antibiotic) I felt much better though a little meeker. Like a lawyer defending themselves has an idiot for a client, the paramedic who tries to self diagnosis herself is a lousy paramedic with a fool for a patient.
Halfway into week two my eyes started drooling pus from the corners of them. I suspected it was a symptom of my cold and still having no desire to seek medical attention I Googled conjunctivitis and Google health told me that if it was a viral conjunctivitis as a result of a cold it would clear up on its own in a few days. Forty-eight hours later my eyes were cleared up which reiterated my cold theory. Bacterial conjunctivitis would have needed an antibiotic to clear up and mine had resolved on its own so I was clearly infected by a virus.
Week three saw the hacking cough worsen and sinus congestion that made my head want to explode continued. I also had a recurrence of fever which I hadn’t had since week one. Family and friends were urging me to go to the doctor, but still I resisted. Diagnosis of pneumonia and bronchitis were being thrown around by all my medical friends, yet I insisted it was just a cold. Pneumonia would have affected my breathing and I was breathing fine, though after three weeks of mouth breathing my lips were in pretty rough shape. I was starting to waver a little on the bronchitis, so I snuck a quick peek at Wikipedia to see if bronchitis usually was associated with a fever. Fever and cough were symptoms, but it also reported that ninety percent of bronchitis cases were viral, so once again I decided to tough it out. No sense in insulting my body with an ineffective antibiotic when I had a viral infection.
I tried zinc with no luck and vitamin C was out for me due to my IBS. I tried some other home remedies suggested online without much success. I went through a couple of boxes of cold medicine, enough tissues to paper a ballroom, and cough medicine was becoming my drink of necessity not choice. Yet week four rolled around and I was still feeling crappy.
Thanksgiving weekend was here, yet I felt so bad I couldn’t even fathom the thought of a two hour drive to Machiasport, so I spent the first day of my Thanksgiving holiday alone on my couch with tissues and taking shots of cough medicine much more frequently than the recommended four hours. Even the thought of my famous day after turkey sandwich couldn’t overcome the misery this damn cold was inflicting on me. I had suffered through the junky eyes, the hacking cough, chapped lips, head the size of a watermelon and a nose raw clear to the nerve endings, but when it hit my ear I started singing a different tune regarding medical attention.
I had developed some pressure in my ear late Friday night and then all of a sudden I had an excruciating pain in my right ear. The next thing I knew pus and blood were literally running out of my ear. Now this isn’t something we spent a lot of time learning about in paramedic school, so this time I shamelessly (easy to say, as I was all alone) went to the web for information. Adult ear infection sites were fairly easy to find and reading through the sites it became obvious I had perforated my ear drum due to infection. Webmd.com strongly suggested seeking medical attention if you had the “above listed symptoms”, which I did. Saturday morning saw me bright and early at walk in care where I was diagnosed with multiple infections, including an upper respiratory infection, a sinus infection and bilateral ear infections.
Needless to say after three days of medication (yes it was bacterial and I did need an antibiotic) I felt much better though a little meeker. Like a lawyer defending themselves has an idiot for a client, the paramedic who tries to self diagnosis herself is a lousy paramedic with a fool for a patient.
Book Review The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood
Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells is a story of complicated relationships between generations of women explored through tears, humor and love.
Sidda Walker is a grown successful woman who at best has a tumultuous relationship with her mother, Vivi and has spent years in therapy trying to make sense of it. Sidda and Vivi have a vicious argument that threatens to destroy their already fragile mother daughter bond. Vivis’s lifelong friends, the Ya Yas intervene, by kidnapping Sidda and try to make her understand this person who is her mother. They stow her away in a cabin and share their lives with her through a scrapbook they have kept chronicling their lives.
While pouring over the collection of treasures from her the Ya Yas, Sidda comes to realize her mother was once a young girl had dreams and aspirations, not unlike her own. Through the scrapbook she learns about the triumphs, tragedies, successes and failures that have made her mother the difficult, but exciting woman she is. She learns of Vivi’s tormented childhood, and her one true love lost. She finds out about a woman who settled for less than she wanted from life and regrets it. Through the Ya Yas she also comes to realize her mother’s darkest secret which leads her to understand the suffering that has contributed to who Vivi is today. Sidda ultimately reaches a place where she can forgive and make peace with her mother. She realizes that the years of therapy were not nearly as healing as was discovering the person her mother is.
This is a book every female should read because at the very least they are a daughter and it is a funny, yet poignant reminder that our mothers are individuals with identities outside of “Mom”. Wells does an excellent job of humanizing Vivi making Sidda realize that she is not only a mother, but a female with desires, heartaches, and a life outside of motherhood. I first read this book in 1997 as the mother of a fourteen year old daughter and now the pages are tattered as I often find solace in it after a particularly trying day in our mother-daughter relationship. As a daughter who is estranged from her mother this book left me wishing I could repair that relationship and the fortitude to take steps to try and assure my daughter never becomes alienated from me.
Sidda Walker is a grown successful woman who at best has a tumultuous relationship with her mother, Vivi and has spent years in therapy trying to make sense of it. Sidda and Vivi have a vicious argument that threatens to destroy their already fragile mother daughter bond. Vivis’s lifelong friends, the Ya Yas intervene, by kidnapping Sidda and try to make her understand this person who is her mother. They stow her away in a cabin and share their lives with her through a scrapbook they have kept chronicling their lives.
While pouring over the collection of treasures from her the Ya Yas, Sidda comes to realize her mother was once a young girl had dreams and aspirations, not unlike her own. Through the scrapbook she learns about the triumphs, tragedies, successes and failures that have made her mother the difficult, but exciting woman she is. She learns of Vivi’s tormented childhood, and her one true love lost. She finds out about a woman who settled for less than she wanted from life and regrets it. Through the Ya Yas she also comes to realize her mother’s darkest secret which leads her to understand the suffering that has contributed to who Vivi is today. Sidda ultimately reaches a place where she can forgive and make peace with her mother. She realizes that the years of therapy were not nearly as healing as was discovering the person her mother is.
This is a book every female should read because at the very least they are a daughter and it is a funny, yet poignant reminder that our mothers are individuals with identities outside of “Mom”. Wells does an excellent job of humanizing Vivi making Sidda realize that she is not only a mother, but a female with desires, heartaches, and a life outside of motherhood. I first read this book in 1997 as the mother of a fourteen year old daughter and now the pages are tattered as I often find solace in it after a particularly trying day in our mother-daughter relationship. As a daughter who is estranged from her mother this book left me wishing I could repair that relationship and the fortitude to take steps to try and assure my daughter never becomes alienated from me.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Review of Eat Pray Love
Most of my reading consists of medical textbooks or school assigned lessons. In addition to teaching pre hospital emergency medical providers at all license levels I am in the process of obtaining my bachelor’s degree in Adult Education. Pathophysiology or algebra chapters consume most of my reading time. When I recently had to fly across country to teach a class I was caught up on all work and school related reading so I took a few minutes to browse the bookstore. Julia Roberts’ picture on the cover of Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gifford caught my eye. I paid my $20.00 and went to the boarding area to wait for my plane.
When I was a child, I loved to read. The summer of my fifth grade year I read every Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, and Hardy Boys books in the respective series. I would curl up under a tree, read under the covers of my bed with a flashlight; wherever I could find peace and quiet, that’s where my book and I went. As an adult too busy for that luxury, the occasional book I get to read compares to a bottle of Dom Perignon.
I sat down and enjoyed the cover for a few minutes. I think Julia Roberts is stunning and the visual attractiveness of the cover was worthy of my appreciating the details of it. The granite bench, the delicate way she is holding the spoon to her mouth, the partial picture of the nun; all melded together for a striking cover. The feeling of Italy emanates from the face of the book as you gaze at the old granite building with the black cast iron door. As I had browsed the bookstore I had debated buying an e-reader, but as I sat there holding the weight of the book in my hand I was glad I had decided on the “real thing.” I opened the book and read the first page with the same anticipation I had waiting for Nancy Drew to solve her next mystery.
Elizabeth Gilbert writes a true story of her plunge into depression and how she travels across the continent in pursuit of “self-inquiry”. She travels to Italy in the pursuit of pleasure through eating, India where she pursues devotion, and Indonesia in the pursuit of balance. This book is not a fast read nor is it one for someone looking to fix their life in the way Elizabeth does. The reality is very few people could afford the luxury of taking a year off from life to chase peace of mind.
This book is however, for the mature reader who can appreciate her absolute despair and the small steps and large strides she takes to make herself happy. She holds nothing back describing her unadulterated hopelessness and the drastic steps she takes trying to hold herself together and rebuild her life. This is not a book that should be read in one sitting. The reader needs a chance to absorb the book in small pieces and grasp the small details she is so good at making come alive.
I opened this book with anticipation and closed it with satisfaction. If you have a week where you can read a few chapters at a time, this is the perfect book to make you reflect on your own life and inspire a little awe and jealousy at how one woman had the courage to fix hers.
When I was a child, I loved to read. The summer of my fifth grade year I read every Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, and Hardy Boys books in the respective series. I would curl up under a tree, read under the covers of my bed with a flashlight; wherever I could find peace and quiet, that’s where my book and I went. As an adult too busy for that luxury, the occasional book I get to read compares to a bottle of Dom Perignon.
I sat down and enjoyed the cover for a few minutes. I think Julia Roberts is stunning and the visual attractiveness of the cover was worthy of my appreciating the details of it. The granite bench, the delicate way she is holding the spoon to her mouth, the partial picture of the nun; all melded together for a striking cover. The feeling of Italy emanates from the face of the book as you gaze at the old granite building with the black cast iron door. As I had browsed the bookstore I had debated buying an e-reader, but as I sat there holding the weight of the book in my hand I was glad I had decided on the “real thing.” I opened the book and read the first page with the same anticipation I had waiting for Nancy Drew to solve her next mystery.
Elizabeth Gilbert writes a true story of her plunge into depression and how she travels across the continent in pursuit of “self-inquiry”. She travels to Italy in the pursuit of pleasure through eating, India where she pursues devotion, and Indonesia in the pursuit of balance. This book is not a fast read nor is it one for someone looking to fix their life in the way Elizabeth does. The reality is very few people could afford the luxury of taking a year off from life to chase peace of mind.
This book is however, for the mature reader who can appreciate her absolute despair and the small steps and large strides she takes to make herself happy. She holds nothing back describing her unadulterated hopelessness and the drastic steps she takes trying to hold herself together and rebuild her life. This is not a book that should be read in one sitting. The reader needs a chance to absorb the book in small pieces and grasp the small details she is so good at making come alive.
I opened this book with anticipation and closed it with satisfaction. If you have a week where you can read a few chapters at a time, this is the perfect book to make you reflect on your own life and inspire a little awe and jealousy at how one woman had the courage to fix hers.
In My Opinion
“Fifteen writing assignments, how hard could it be?” I thought as I read the syllabus. I have had this particular instructor for my whole college writing career and I felt pretty comfortable I could meet his demands. In my opinion, he is tough but fair and his criticisms are constructive and tempered with a sense of humor usually. The topics seemed pretty straightforward and I moved forward with enthusiasm. Then week 10 rolled around, an opinion essay.
Now how hard could that be? Everybody has opinions about something, and I have more than my share about most things. I started out with a fairly noncontroversial topic of my opinion of people who leave their Christmas wreaths up too long. By February as I see the dead brown wreaths hanging on the door, I am so irritated I want to rip it off the door myself. But alas, as the piece unfolded I knew it was a fluff piece that wouldn’t hold weight. Okay, so maybe I needed a tougher topic. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet, there had to be something I felt strongly enough about to get over five hundred words out. I still held high hopes as I deleted six hundred and ninety two words. I still thought I could nail this (foolhardy I know), but for chrissakes it is only an opinion essay, and I have plenty of them. I refused to get frustrated.
I moved on to a much more profound subject of uninformed opinions. I had great examples using buffoons like Paul LePage and his bull semen snafu and how the ladies at the nail salon actually believed him. I went on and on about how uninformed opinions could be dangerous to society. Once again as the writing went on, my opinions just wouldn’t flow to produce a paper worthy of John Goldfine, so the delete button went into action again. My opinion of how easy this essay was going to be started to waiver but I carried on.
How children behave and are disciplined in public, another pet peeve of mine, was next on the slaughtering block. I typed about how ninety-nine percent of the public did not think your children were as cute and cuddly as you do. I mentioned your screaming child behind me during dinner made me want to puke the dinner I had just eaten all over you as payback. It seemed cute and snappy as I wrote, but on the rereading it didn’t fly. My opinion of this easy assignment was starting to waiver, but still I persevered.
I could go on and on with the topics I picked, started the essay, and ending up deleting the whole damn thing, but the reality is nothing worked. The assignment was already past due and I was becoming just a little panicked over the whole thing. My opinion on this assignment was not only starting to waiver, but was getting downright pissy.
Then it happened. A friend and I were discussing the pros and cons of social networking; yes, there was a topic and I wrote it. I wrote about the good, I wrote about the bad, and I wrote about my opinion of the medium of social networking. I reread it and I read it to someone else. It seemed like a go, so I posted it and waited anxiously. Then it was there, the one comment that would be the difference between six hundred more words and an adult beverage. It was not good news, six hundred more words it would be. My opinion on the opinion essay is not what it was when I started. It is easy to have opinions but to put them to paper is a whole other story.
Now how hard could that be? Everybody has opinions about something, and I have more than my share about most things. I started out with a fairly noncontroversial topic of my opinion of people who leave their Christmas wreaths up too long. By February as I see the dead brown wreaths hanging on the door, I am so irritated I want to rip it off the door myself. But alas, as the piece unfolded I knew it was a fluff piece that wouldn’t hold weight. Okay, so maybe I needed a tougher topic. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet, there had to be something I felt strongly enough about to get over five hundred words out. I still held high hopes as I deleted six hundred and ninety two words. I still thought I could nail this (foolhardy I know), but for chrissakes it is only an opinion essay, and I have plenty of them. I refused to get frustrated.
I moved on to a much more profound subject of uninformed opinions. I had great examples using buffoons like Paul LePage and his bull semen snafu and how the ladies at the nail salon actually believed him. I went on and on about how uninformed opinions could be dangerous to society. Once again as the writing went on, my opinions just wouldn’t flow to produce a paper worthy of John Goldfine, so the delete button went into action again. My opinion of how easy this essay was going to be started to waiver but I carried on.
How children behave and are disciplined in public, another pet peeve of mine, was next on the slaughtering block. I typed about how ninety-nine percent of the public did not think your children were as cute and cuddly as you do. I mentioned your screaming child behind me during dinner made me want to puke the dinner I had just eaten all over you as payback. It seemed cute and snappy as I wrote, but on the rereading it didn’t fly. My opinion of this easy assignment was starting to waiver, but still I persevered.
I could go on and on with the topics I picked, started the essay, and ending up deleting the whole damn thing, but the reality is nothing worked. The assignment was already past due and I was becoming just a little panicked over the whole thing. My opinion on this assignment was not only starting to waiver, but was getting downright pissy.
Then it happened. A friend and I were discussing the pros and cons of social networking; yes, there was a topic and I wrote it. I wrote about the good, I wrote about the bad, and I wrote about my opinion of the medium of social networking. I reread it and I read it to someone else. It seemed like a go, so I posted it and waited anxiously. Then it was there, the one comment that would be the difference between six hundred more words and an adult beverage. It was not good news, six hundred more words it would be. My opinion on the opinion essay is not what it was when I started. It is easy to have opinions but to put them to paper is a whole other story.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
So You Want It To Be Perfect?
Ask any of my friends and they will tell you I can put together the perfect outfit or buy just the right gift for any occasion.. Most of my friends who need shopping advice or assistance come to me for guidance. More often than not at the end of the shopping trip we come away successful. This knack for shopping makes me very popular when someone needs that perfect outfit for the special occasion or a unique gift for a certain someone. After years of doing this I have become to be considered somewhat of a shopping authority among my friends.
Before we embark on our shopping expeditions I lay down certain ground rules. If we follow these our chances of success increase exponentially. The more we deviate from the system I lay out, the chance of failure goes up greatly.
First you must allot enough time to complete the mission. If you only have one hour we will not be successful. This will be a trip that will entail at least a half a dozen stores and possibly more than one city. We may start in Bangor and end in Portland, so being well rested and not in a bad mood are prerequisites or the trip is off.
Once we start you must buy the centerpiece object first. If it is an outfit we are looking for, the clothing portion must come first. We will buy accessories, shoes; whatever else you may want only after we have in our possession the main attire. I have been with those who fall in love with a necklace or a pair of shoes and buy them first, only to spend hours searching for the outfit to compliment them. It is much more difficult to dress the accessory than accessorize the outfit. If it is a gift the main present must be bought first. There is nothing more frustrating than buying an optional extra and then not being able to find the central gift to go with it.
Next, you will spend time with the item before you purchase it. If it is clothing, you will try it on; you will walk in it and sit in it. Holding it up in front of you will not work, nor will just putting it on and standing in front of a mirror. You have to spend some time in it to see how it moves with you. If it is uncomfortable or horribly wrinkled after 10 minutes, then spending an evening in it is probably not going to work. If it is a gift we will take it out of the box or have the salesperson give us a demonstration. If it is difficult to figure out the assembly or operating directions then it may need to be reconsidered as the gift.
After the main purchase is made, we will take a break. We may do lunch, dinner, or drinks depending on the time of day. This is a mandatory break, because the sensory overload the stores have put us in need of time to calm down. After we have sat for at least 45 minutes we can continue on with the undertaking.
This is the point where you need to be prepared to back track. Odds are we have already seen the perfect pair of shoes for the dress you have or the exact game accessory for that Wii. Or we may have to explore a whole new myriad of stores to finish the assignment.
Shopping for the perfect item is not an easy task. But if you come with me and play by my rules I can guarantee you, we will end the day with exactly what you are looking for.
Before we embark on our shopping expeditions I lay down certain ground rules. If we follow these our chances of success increase exponentially. The more we deviate from the system I lay out, the chance of failure goes up greatly.
First you must allot enough time to complete the mission. If you only have one hour we will not be successful. This will be a trip that will entail at least a half a dozen stores and possibly more than one city. We may start in Bangor and end in Portland, so being well rested and not in a bad mood are prerequisites or the trip is off.
Once we start you must buy the centerpiece object first. If it is an outfit we are looking for, the clothing portion must come first. We will buy accessories, shoes; whatever else you may want only after we have in our possession the main attire. I have been with those who fall in love with a necklace or a pair of shoes and buy them first, only to spend hours searching for the outfit to compliment them. It is much more difficult to dress the accessory than accessorize the outfit. If it is a gift the main present must be bought first. There is nothing more frustrating than buying an optional extra and then not being able to find the central gift to go with it.
Next, you will spend time with the item before you purchase it. If it is clothing, you will try it on; you will walk in it and sit in it. Holding it up in front of you will not work, nor will just putting it on and standing in front of a mirror. You have to spend some time in it to see how it moves with you. If it is uncomfortable or horribly wrinkled after 10 minutes, then spending an evening in it is probably not going to work. If it is a gift we will take it out of the box or have the salesperson give us a demonstration. If it is difficult to figure out the assembly or operating directions then it may need to be reconsidered as the gift.
After the main purchase is made, we will take a break. We may do lunch, dinner, or drinks depending on the time of day. This is a mandatory break, because the sensory overload the stores have put us in need of time to calm down. After we have sat for at least 45 minutes we can continue on with the undertaking.
This is the point where you need to be prepared to back track. Odds are we have already seen the perfect pair of shoes for the dress you have or the exact game accessory for that Wii. Or we may have to explore a whole new myriad of stores to finish the assignment.
Shopping for the perfect item is not an easy task. But if you come with me and play by my rules I can guarantee you, we will end the day with exactly what you are looking for.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Social Networking: Good or Bad?
I am a member of a couple social networking websites, not so much for the communal aspect of them, but because there are some really good EMS blogs affiliated with them and it is an easy way for me to scan some of the newest stuff happening in EMS. I will admit it is not all altruistic; it is a simple (albeit a lazy) way to keep in touch with my friends too.
The fact that there is some there is great content from creative and motivated individuals and not manufacturers on these social networks is noteworthy. Legitimate manufacturers are taking note though and their advertising on them does validate the work of these people.
A short time ago a police officer was killed and his fellow officers used social networking to express their anger and grief. They needed to share their profound disbelief and loss and this form of communication allowed them do that no matter where their physical presence or the time of day.
But with every good, we have, well, issues.
Recently there was a post on one of the mediums about the death in the line of duty of two public safety workers. This post was done at the scene by another public safety worker before the families of the slain workers were notified. There is no excuse for this appalling behavior. The families learned of their loved ones deaths through phone calls after their friends had read the post. The actions of this irresponsible individual are inexcusable but I believe also demonstrate our values and policies have not yet caught up with the reality of the social networking world yet.
Another post appeared not too long ago that included pictures of deceased bodies at a crime scene. The individual responsible for posting them may be charged with a crime. I believe that this individual was stupid, a moron to be exact, but I also believe the poster’s intent was meant to be shocking, not malicious, though a criminal charge may wake some people up to the inappropriate use of social networking.
In my opinion, social networking has a lot of good to offer and is a great medium for the busy, frantic paced lives many of us live today. Postings can cross the line from legal to illegal however and can have serious ramifications in personal, professional and academic arenas. Unfortunately, when used irresponsibly this public forum can also be injurious. In the end all we can hope for is that people do what is right. It’s that simple.
The fact that there is some there is great content from creative and motivated individuals and not manufacturers on these social networks is noteworthy. Legitimate manufacturers are taking note though and their advertising on them does validate the work of these people.
A short time ago a police officer was killed and his fellow officers used social networking to express their anger and grief. They needed to share their profound disbelief and loss and this form of communication allowed them do that no matter where their physical presence or the time of day.
But with every good, we have, well, issues.
Recently there was a post on one of the mediums about the death in the line of duty of two public safety workers. This post was done at the scene by another public safety worker before the families of the slain workers were notified. There is no excuse for this appalling behavior. The families learned of their loved ones deaths through phone calls after their friends had read the post. The actions of this irresponsible individual are inexcusable but I believe also demonstrate our values and policies have not yet caught up with the reality of the social networking world yet.
Another post appeared not too long ago that included pictures of deceased bodies at a crime scene. The individual responsible for posting them may be charged with a crime. I believe that this individual was stupid, a moron to be exact, but I also believe the poster’s intent was meant to be shocking, not malicious, though a criminal charge may wake some people up to the inappropriate use of social networking.
In my opinion, social networking has a lot of good to offer and is a great medium for the busy, frantic paced lives many of us live today. Postings can cross the line from legal to illegal however and can have serious ramifications in personal, professional and academic arenas. Unfortunately, when used irresponsibly this public forum can also be injurious. In the end all we can hope for is that people do what is right. It’s that simple.
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Ticket
1, 2, 7, 20, 21, 27—I held the ticket in my hand thinking this just might be the week. What would I do if I won the lottery? My mind ran wild as I imagined what I would do with it. There were so many possibilities with that much money.
What would I do first? I thought about my father. How nice would it be for him to be able to sit back and relax the in the later years of his life. A trust fund set up to pay all his expenses, like the exorbitant real estate tax he paid every year would be nice. I could see the look of excitement on his face, when he set down in Florida to enjoy the whole season of spring training for the Red Sox. Oh, and I could buy him a box at Fenway so he could attend a game whenever he wanted. The happiness those things would bring him would also bring me a great sense of enjoyment. I rubbed that little pink ticket daydreaming of picking that big check up from the lottery office.
What next? My daughter had certainly struggled in her adult life. She was the single mother to two fantastic boys and they all deserved the best I could give them. College funds for both the boys would certainly be at the top of my list. Amanda was getting married this year and what a wedding she would have. Maybe we could go on the TV show Say Yes to the Dress and she could have her choice of a $10,000 plus gown. A wedding cake 5 tiers tall, flowers everywhere, the options she could have would be endless. Then there was her honeymoon; it wouldn’t have to be a week at a local camp. She and her new husband could go to a tropical island and bask in the sun all week or to Italy and savor the romance that being in Italy offers. I stared at those numbers wishing I could make it a winner by sheer determination.
As altruistic as I would be to others I would certainly spoil myself. I would continue to work, I loved my career. I would cut back the time I worked though. I could picture myself in a shiny red convertible in the summer and a big black SUV in the winter. Why not trade the vacation I took every two years for a vacation every two months? There were so many places Lois and I would love to see. The Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the Florida Keys, and New Orleans just to name a few. It would all be a reality if those 6 little balls would just fall into the right holes.
In addition to the material things I would spend the money, I would share my good luck with those less fortunate. Spruce Run would receive a substantial donation every year as no woman should have to suffer the pain or indignity of abuse. Those who do need every type of support they can get and my donation could help Spruce Run obtain and keep the resources these victims need. I double crossed my fingers that this would be the week.
Fact was the odds I would ever win less than miniscule. However, the excitement the speculation afforded me each week was well worth the price of a $1.00 ticket.
What would I do first? I thought about my father. How nice would it be for him to be able to sit back and relax the in the later years of his life. A trust fund set up to pay all his expenses, like the exorbitant real estate tax he paid every year would be nice. I could see the look of excitement on his face, when he set down in Florida to enjoy the whole season of spring training for the Red Sox. Oh, and I could buy him a box at Fenway so he could attend a game whenever he wanted. The happiness those things would bring him would also bring me a great sense of enjoyment. I rubbed that little pink ticket daydreaming of picking that big check up from the lottery office.
What next? My daughter had certainly struggled in her adult life. She was the single mother to two fantastic boys and they all deserved the best I could give them. College funds for both the boys would certainly be at the top of my list. Amanda was getting married this year and what a wedding she would have. Maybe we could go on the TV show Say Yes to the Dress and she could have her choice of a $10,000 plus gown. A wedding cake 5 tiers tall, flowers everywhere, the options she could have would be endless. Then there was her honeymoon; it wouldn’t have to be a week at a local camp. She and her new husband could go to a tropical island and bask in the sun all week or to Italy and savor the romance that being in Italy offers. I stared at those numbers wishing I could make it a winner by sheer determination.
As altruistic as I would be to others I would certainly spoil myself. I would continue to work, I loved my career. I would cut back the time I worked though. I could picture myself in a shiny red convertible in the summer and a big black SUV in the winter. Why not trade the vacation I took every two years for a vacation every two months? There were so many places Lois and I would love to see. The Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the Florida Keys, and New Orleans just to name a few. It would all be a reality if those 6 little balls would just fall into the right holes.
In addition to the material things I would spend the money, I would share my good luck with those less fortunate. Spruce Run would receive a substantial donation every year as no woman should have to suffer the pain or indignity of abuse. Those who do need every type of support they can get and my donation could help Spruce Run obtain and keep the resources these victims need. I double crossed my fingers that this would be the week.
Fact was the odds I would ever win less than miniscule. However, the excitement the speculation afforded me each week was well worth the price of a $1.00 ticket.
89000 Miles and Counting
The odometer just turned 89,000 miles and she thought about how all those miles had kept her away from home. She had not been present for so many events and milestones in her family’s life, she had lost track of what she had missed.
Today she was headed off to teach another alphabet class in some town, Maine. As she watched the mile markers roll past on the interstate, she wondered how the plans for her daughter’s wedding were coming. They had shared numerous phone calls and texts over the planning, but she had yet to see her and congratulate her in person since the engagement over a month ago. Even the news the impending nuptials had been delivered via phone, while she had been in Ohio for yet another conference.
As she pulled out of the gas station her mind was trying to organize the class she was about to teach but images of her grandchildren kept overtaking her thoughts. Stephen was 10, Dawson was 3 and she had missed so many highlights. Stephen had been picked for the all star baseball team for the last two years and she had been to see one inning of him playing on her way through to teach yet again. She was a stranger called Mimi to Dawson, as most of his contact with her had been over the phone.
Technology had helped. Pictures were frequently exchanged via e-mail, as were copies of school papers. Social networking had allowed her to send frequent messages to her daughter and oldest grandson. Texts were exchanged on a daily basis, sometimes hourly. Skype permitted her to see them while they related a special event, but it was still not the same as in the flesh contact.
She had never had the intention of becoming so physically disconnected from her family; it had just sort of encroached its way in. She loved her career, she knew this is what she was meant for, what she didn’t know was how to make it balance with her daughter and grandchildren who she also loved immensely. She rationalized that if she lived across the country her relationship with them would be no different than it is now. Then the guilt would kick in, reminding her she only lived 2 hours not a continent away.
Many nights she would lay awake and try to figure her schedule so that she could make it at least once a week to see her family. Inevitably though, her best laid plans fell apart. This instructor was sick, this service needed this class right now, it was always something it seemed.
It seemed like for the last ten years her life had been spent traveling to someplace other than home. Her career had blossomed with every mile, but her personal life had suffered immensely. As much as she had tried to rectify the problem, she still had not figured out the best answer to the problem and wasn’t sure short of quitting work, she ever would.
Today she was headed off to teach another alphabet class in some town, Maine. As she watched the mile markers roll past on the interstate, she wondered how the plans for her daughter’s wedding were coming. They had shared numerous phone calls and texts over the planning, but she had yet to see her and congratulate her in person since the engagement over a month ago. Even the news the impending nuptials had been delivered via phone, while she had been in Ohio for yet another conference.
As she pulled out of the gas station her mind was trying to organize the class she was about to teach but images of her grandchildren kept overtaking her thoughts. Stephen was 10, Dawson was 3 and she had missed so many highlights. Stephen had been picked for the all star baseball team for the last two years and she had been to see one inning of him playing on her way through to teach yet again. She was a stranger called Mimi to Dawson, as most of his contact with her had been over the phone.
Technology had helped. Pictures were frequently exchanged via e-mail, as were copies of school papers. Social networking had allowed her to send frequent messages to her daughter and oldest grandson. Texts were exchanged on a daily basis, sometimes hourly. Skype permitted her to see them while they related a special event, but it was still not the same as in the flesh contact.
She had never had the intention of becoming so physically disconnected from her family; it had just sort of encroached its way in. She loved her career, she knew this is what she was meant for, what she didn’t know was how to make it balance with her daughter and grandchildren who she also loved immensely. She rationalized that if she lived across the country her relationship with them would be no different than it is now. Then the guilt would kick in, reminding her she only lived 2 hours not a continent away.
Many nights she would lay awake and try to figure her schedule so that she could make it at least once a week to see her family. Inevitably though, her best laid plans fell apart. This instructor was sick, this service needed this class right now, it was always something it seemed.
It seemed like for the last ten years her life had been spent traveling to someplace other than home. Her career had blossomed with every mile, but her personal life had suffered immensely. As much as she had tried to rectify the problem, she still had not figured out the best answer to the problem and wasn’t sure short of quitting work, she ever would.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
A Man and His Ocean
He limps up the hill from the pier as he has done most every day for the last 60 plus years. He stops and looks back at his boat one last time and satisfied that everything is secured, he goes in for the night.
Years of outside physical labor have not aged him well. His face is ruddy all the time and the wrinkles are deep set like the channels in the nautical charts he studies. He back is bent from years of pulling traps onto his boat. His hands are leathery and scarred from the millions of bags he has baited in his life. His eyes are tired, it’s a hard life he lives and rest is irregular; the weather is an unyielding alarm clock.
The small town he was born in and where he still lives is a peninsula. No matter where he goes there, he is surrounded by the ocean. He built his first boat at 12 and spent all his free time on it. He would be on his boat hauling traps, when his friends were playing pickup baseball as kids. While those same boys became young men and fast cars were their focus, his was still on the water. His junior year of high school saw his first boat become a second bigger one. When he decided to go to college it wasn’t to be a traditional businessman when he graduated, it was to understand accounting so he could expand his fishing industry. Even as a young man, he was certain of the path in life he would pursue.
In 1962, when his wife was pregnant with their first child and he realized that lobster fishing alone may not financially support his family, he built a boatyard. Days when the weather wouldn’t permit him to be on the ocean, he could work on boats while having the smell and sound of the ocean right outside the door. The boatyard was a financial success, but eventually took him away from the ocean too often. He sold it at a significant profit and used the proceeds to buy his first commercially built boat.
The ocean is his love but weather is his master. Wind is probably the only real enemy he has ever known and it is a cruel one. Wind blowing for days on end keeps him off the boat worrying about how his offshore traps and boat would be affected. Hours are spent pacing and staring at the ocean hoping for a good outcome. When the wind stops he knows it means his next days will be spent from sunrise until after dark playing catch up and recouping his losses.
Over his life he has taken the 14 foot boat he built at 12 to an industry. His house overlooks the latest boat in his fleet, a 46 foot Novie, his pier and dock, the barge he built for mooring and dock installation, and the outbuildings that house his various supplies. The picture window in his bedroom allows him to overlook this legacy he has built for his only son as he wakes in the morning and before the erratic rest he may receive at night.
After the death of his wife his children tried to convince him to sell his home and business and retire to the family camp. He knew they only wanted the best for him, and after months of trying to explain to them why he could never leave the ocean behind, they finally let him be. He’s not sure if they finally understood the ocean is his reason to get up every morning or if they just got tired of nagging.
The ocean is where he goes to celebrate life’s successes and to contemplate its failures. The ocean is where he was born and he hopes it is where he dies. The time in between those two events has been dictated by the ocean and he tells anyone who will listen that he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Years of outside physical labor have not aged him well. His face is ruddy all the time and the wrinkles are deep set like the channels in the nautical charts he studies. He back is bent from years of pulling traps onto his boat. His hands are leathery and scarred from the millions of bags he has baited in his life. His eyes are tired, it’s a hard life he lives and rest is irregular; the weather is an unyielding alarm clock.
The small town he was born in and where he still lives is a peninsula. No matter where he goes there, he is surrounded by the ocean. He built his first boat at 12 and spent all his free time on it. He would be on his boat hauling traps, when his friends were playing pickup baseball as kids. While those same boys became young men and fast cars were their focus, his was still on the water. His junior year of high school saw his first boat become a second bigger one. When he decided to go to college it wasn’t to be a traditional businessman when he graduated, it was to understand accounting so he could expand his fishing industry. Even as a young man, he was certain of the path in life he would pursue.
In 1962, when his wife was pregnant with their first child and he realized that lobster fishing alone may not financially support his family, he built a boatyard. Days when the weather wouldn’t permit him to be on the ocean, he could work on boats while having the smell and sound of the ocean right outside the door. The boatyard was a financial success, but eventually took him away from the ocean too often. He sold it at a significant profit and used the proceeds to buy his first commercially built boat.
The ocean is his love but weather is his master. Wind is probably the only real enemy he has ever known and it is a cruel one. Wind blowing for days on end keeps him off the boat worrying about how his offshore traps and boat would be affected. Hours are spent pacing and staring at the ocean hoping for a good outcome. When the wind stops he knows it means his next days will be spent from sunrise until after dark playing catch up and recouping his losses.
Over his life he has taken the 14 foot boat he built at 12 to an industry. His house overlooks the latest boat in his fleet, a 46 foot Novie, his pier and dock, the barge he built for mooring and dock installation, and the outbuildings that house his various supplies. The picture window in his bedroom allows him to overlook this legacy he has built for his only son as he wakes in the morning and before the erratic rest he may receive at night.
After the death of his wife his children tried to convince him to sell his home and business and retire to the family camp. He knew they only wanted the best for him, and after months of trying to explain to them why he could never leave the ocean behind, they finally let him be. He’s not sure if they finally understood the ocean is his reason to get up every morning or if they just got tired of nagging.
The ocean is where he goes to celebrate life’s successes and to contemplate its failures. The ocean is where he was born and he hopes it is where he dies. The time in between those two events has been dictated by the ocean and he tells anyone who will listen that he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Love of a Mother
Never had I imagined I would want to be a mother, yet here I was holding a 6 lb bundle of flesh that looked like it was covered in cream cheese and raspberry jelly. “Congratulations, what a beautiful baby girl” swirled around the room; while my mind raced as I wondered when that instant love thing kicked in and the panic of responsibility subsided.
The brown dot in the bottom of the blue tube was not what I expected to see at 5:30 that June morning, I had been sure my late period was any other reason. “Oh my God, I’m pregnant” screamed through my head, a thought loud enough to be heard a town over I was sure. Larry had just left for work so I was stuck at home all day to dwell on this. We were still newlyweds and we had talked about having a baby, but it was not in our immediate plans. I sat on the deck and hours went by as the realization of how my life was about to change sank in.
Pregnancy was physically easy for me. No morning sickness, no astronomical weight gain; just day after day of a little life growing inside of me. The mental agony of pregnancy was not so easy though. Summer turned fall, fall to winter, and the time grew closer. I was scared to death. I was scared of the pain of delivery, scared of the responsibility of motherhood; some days I was paralyzed by fear. I would pray for a C-section to avoid the pain. I would pray to win the Publisher’s Clearing House so I could afford a nanny. Mostly I would just hope that I could survive the delivery, let alone a lifetime of being a good mother.
I had no role model as a mother growing up. My biological mother left me when I was six and the next time I saw her I was twelve. She remarried but her children from her first marriage were not good enough for her new life. She would call to say she was coming to see us and we would wait from dawn to dark for her to show up only to be repeatedly disappointed. Christmas and birthday presents would arrive by mail days or weeks late with no explanation. There were never any mother daughter talks, she was never there to guide the way as I become first a teenager, then a woman.
My stepmother was no more a mother than my biological mother was. She was cold with no concept of nurturing. She kept a clean house and put meals on the table, but never wiped tears or listened to the troubles of a confused growing girl. No praise for accomplishments ever came for her, but sharp words of disapproval were plenty.
As March came closer I was determined to do everything right. Lamaze was the rage, so off Larry and I went. The women there were so grounded, so certain they would do everything right, my panic increased ten-fold. There was no way I could be the mother these women would be, my inadequacies were magnified by these women only a weekly basis.
Friday, February 18, 1983 came and I was in labor. I was sure I would have a nervous breakdown before it was over. I had a long labor and five women came onto the OB unit after I had and they babies were born and I was still in labor. The pain of labor was not nearly as intense for me as the pain of feeling like I couldn’t even do the right thing by my child by delivering in a normal period of time. Finally she was born and the nurse handed me this 6 pound little girl. I had been successful in delivering her; she was healthy according to the doctor.
The nurse came to take her away from to clean her up and the second she took her, this instant love thing everyone talked about happened. I wanted her back. I wanted to hold her, I wanted to be the one to clean her up, and I wanted to be the one to take care of her. I wasn’t filled with fear anymore, just the wonder of the greatest accomplishment I had ever done. Twenty-seven years later, I am still filled with that wonder.
The brown dot in the bottom of the blue tube was not what I expected to see at 5:30 that June morning, I had been sure my late period was any other reason. “Oh my God, I’m pregnant” screamed through my head, a thought loud enough to be heard a town over I was sure. Larry had just left for work so I was stuck at home all day to dwell on this. We were still newlyweds and we had talked about having a baby, but it was not in our immediate plans. I sat on the deck and hours went by as the realization of how my life was about to change sank in.
Pregnancy was physically easy for me. No morning sickness, no astronomical weight gain; just day after day of a little life growing inside of me. The mental agony of pregnancy was not so easy though. Summer turned fall, fall to winter, and the time grew closer. I was scared to death. I was scared of the pain of delivery, scared of the responsibility of motherhood; some days I was paralyzed by fear. I would pray for a C-section to avoid the pain. I would pray to win the Publisher’s Clearing House so I could afford a nanny. Mostly I would just hope that I could survive the delivery, let alone a lifetime of being a good mother.
I had no role model as a mother growing up. My biological mother left me when I was six and the next time I saw her I was twelve. She remarried but her children from her first marriage were not good enough for her new life. She would call to say she was coming to see us and we would wait from dawn to dark for her to show up only to be repeatedly disappointed. Christmas and birthday presents would arrive by mail days or weeks late with no explanation. There were never any mother daughter talks, she was never there to guide the way as I become first a teenager, then a woman.
My stepmother was no more a mother than my biological mother was. She was cold with no concept of nurturing. She kept a clean house and put meals on the table, but never wiped tears or listened to the troubles of a confused growing girl. No praise for accomplishments ever came for her, but sharp words of disapproval were plenty.
As March came closer I was determined to do everything right. Lamaze was the rage, so off Larry and I went. The women there were so grounded, so certain they would do everything right, my panic increased ten-fold. There was no way I could be the mother these women would be, my inadequacies were magnified by these women only a weekly basis.
Friday, February 18, 1983 came and I was in labor. I was sure I would have a nervous breakdown before it was over. I had a long labor and five women came onto the OB unit after I had and they babies were born and I was still in labor. The pain of labor was not nearly as intense for me as the pain of feeling like I couldn’t even do the right thing by my child by delivering in a normal period of time. Finally she was born and the nurse handed me this 6 pound little girl. I had been successful in delivering her; she was healthy according to the doctor.
The nurse came to take her away from to clean her up and the second she took her, this instant love thing everyone talked about happened. I wanted her back. I wanted to hold her, I wanted to be the one to clean her up, and I wanted to be the one to take care of her. I wasn’t filled with fear anymore, just the wonder of the greatest accomplishment I had ever done. Twenty-seven years later, I am still filled with that wonder.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
"What Do You Think?"
“What Do You Think?”
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
*****
I recalled 36 hours of labor and there in the nursery was the most perfect baby girl ever born. Wrapped in pink, with a little pink bow taped to head, she was mine. Surrounded by baby boys all in blue she looked like perfect pink cotton candy, fluffy and sweet. I couldn’t wait to take her home and now she was building a home of her own..
*****
“Hey Mom, what do you think of purple and green for colors? Should we do roses for flowers or something less traditional?” Do you even think we can get purple flowers in October?”
*****
All I could think of at that moment was her with blonde pigtails wearing a dress with ruffles and bows, as she stood there holding my hand, not one ounce of fear in her. The school bus came to a stop, and she was off to her first day of school. Her face pressed against the window as she blew me kisses and I remember wondering what her first day of school would bring. Now she was going to be a wife, how did it happen so quickly?
*****
“What do you think I should wear for a dress? Do you think I should go white or ivory? I don’t really want a veil, are you okay with that? Mom, are you listening to me?”
*****
I was trying to listen to her, but the only thing I could hear was the memory of the music from her first ballet recital. White leotard with sequins and glitter covering it, she danced her little heart out. She was dazzling as she plied demi-pointe across the floor. The light hit the jewels in her hair and she gleamed when she hit her mark. When did that little girl become a woman?
*****
“So, Mom, do you think a fall wedding is good? I’m a little worried about the weather, but I really want an outside wedding and I don’t want to be swatting bugs the whole time.”
*****
Fall of the year and school had started again. The shirt was a little shorter than I would have liked, but she was the star of the show as she flipped and tumbled across the gym floor. Captain of the cheering squad was a role she took seriously, and her enthusiasm was contagious to everyone who was watching. Her million dollar smile and ringlets of blonde captured the crowd. I can still remember her embracing the championship trophy like she used to hold her dolls. Where had the time gone, how was it possible she was going to be a bride?
*****
“How should I do my hair, up or down? Should I get it colored before then or let it go natural? I was thinking maybe curls, but I don’t know maybe straight with jewel combs in it. How did you wear your hair Mom?”
*****
She was a sight to behold when she came down the stairs, the dress was perfect. Lavender with pink lace, shoes died to match; she looked like a princess headed to the ball and in her mind she was. She smiled and waved; then she was gone as the limo took her to her first prom. It seemed like only a fleeting moment ago, but now the next limo she rode in would take her to her husband.
“We want to do it here at the house, what do you think? We could have the ceremony and the reception right here. Mom, I know you got married in a church, but that’s not what we want.”
*****
Four feet and 10 inches put her at the front of the line as the class of 2001 started the march to Pomp and Circumstance. White cap and gown walked across the stage to get her diploma and as impossible as it seemed my baby was an adult. Now she was a woman about to be married and start her own family. I wondered how this could be, when it seemed like last week I was bringing my baby home from the hospital swaddled in pink.
******
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
*****
I recalled 36 hours of labor and there in the nursery was the most perfect baby girl ever born. Wrapped in pink, with a little pink bow taped to head, she was mine. Surrounded by baby boys all in blue she looked like perfect pink cotton candy, fluffy and sweet. I couldn’t wait to take her home and now she was building a home of her own..
*****
“Hey Mom, what do you think of purple and green for colors? Should we do roses for flowers or something less traditional?” Do you even think we can get purple flowers in October?”
*****
All I could think of at that moment was her with blonde pigtails wearing a dress with ruffles and bows, as she stood there holding my hand, not one ounce of fear in her. The school bus came to a stop, and she was off to her first day of school. Her face pressed against the window as she blew me kisses and I remember wondering what her first day of school would bring. Now she was going to be a wife, how did it happen so quickly?
*****
“What do you think I should wear for a dress? Do you think I should go white or ivory? I don’t really want a veil, are you okay with that? Mom, are you listening to me?”
*****
I was trying to listen to her, but the only thing I could hear was the memory of the music from her first ballet recital. White leotard with sequins and glitter covering it, she danced her little heart out. She was dazzling as she plied demi-pointe across the floor. The light hit the jewels in her hair and she gleamed when she hit her mark. When did that little girl become a woman?
*****
“So, Mom, do you think a fall wedding is good? I’m a little worried about the weather, but I really want an outside wedding and I don’t want to be swatting bugs the whole time.”
*****
Fall of the year and school had started again. The shirt was a little shorter than I would have liked, but she was the star of the show as she flipped and tumbled across the gym floor. Captain of the cheering squad was a role she took seriously, and her enthusiasm was contagious to everyone who was watching. Her million dollar smile and ringlets of blonde captured the crowd. I can still remember her embracing the championship trophy like she used to hold her dolls. Where had the time gone, how was it possible she was going to be a bride?
*****
“How should I do my hair, up or down? Should I get it colored before then or let it go natural? I was thinking maybe curls, but I don’t know maybe straight with jewel combs in it. How did you wear your hair Mom?”
*****
She was a sight to behold when she came down the stairs, the dress was perfect. Lavender with pink lace, shoes died to match; she looked like a princess headed to the ball and in her mind she was. She smiled and waved; then she was gone as the limo took her to her first prom. It seemed like only a fleeting moment ago, but now the next limo she rode in would take her to her husband.
“We want to do it here at the house, what do you think? We could have the ceremony and the reception right here. Mom, I know you got married in a church, but that’s not what we want.”
*****
Four feet and 10 inches put her at the front of the line as the class of 2001 started the march to Pomp and Circumstance. White cap and gown walked across the stage to get her diploma and as impossible as it seemed my baby was an adult. Now she was a woman about to be married and start her own family. I wondered how this could be, when it seemed like last week I was bringing my baby home from the hospital swaddled in pink.
******
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
Friday, October 1, 2010
"What Do You Think?"
What Do You Think?”
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
*****
36 hours of labor and there in the nursery was the most perfect baby girl ever born. Wrapped in pink, with a little pink bow taped to head, she was mine. Surrounded by baby boys all in blue she looked like perfect pink cotton candy, fluffy and sweet. I couldn’t wait to take her home.
*****
“What do you think of purple and green for colors? Should we do roses for flowers or something less traditional?” Do you even think we can get purple flowers?”
*****
Blonde pigtails and a dress with ruffles and bows, she stood there holding my hand, not one ounce of fear in her. The school bus came to a stop, and she was off to her first day of school. Her face pressed against the window as she blew me kisses and I wondered what I her first day of school would bring.
*****
“What do you think I should wear for a dress? Do you think I should go white or ivory? I don’t really want a veil, are you okay with that?”
*****
White leotard with sequins and glitter covering it, she danced her little heart out. She was dazzling as she plied demi-pointe across the floor. The light hit the jewels in her hair and she gleamed when she hit her mark. She was growing up so fast.
*****
“So, Mom, do you think a fall wedding is good? I’m a little worried about the weather, but I really want an outside wedding and I don’t want to be swatting bugs the whole time.”
*****
The shirt was a little shorter than I would have liked, but she was the star of the show as she flipped and tumbled across the gym floor. Captain of the cheering squad was a role she took seriously, and her enthusiasm was contagious to everyone who was watching. Her million dollar smile and ringlets of gold captured everybody.
*****
“How should I do my hair, up or down? Should I get it colored before then or let it go natural? I was thinking maybe curls, but I don’t know maybe straight with jewel combs in it.”
*****
She was a sight to behold when she came down the stairs, the dress was perfect. Lavender with pink lace, shoes died to match she looked like a princess headed to the ball and in her mind she was. She smiled and waved; then she was gone as the limo took her to her first prom.
“We want to do it here at the house, what do you think? We could have the ceremony and the reception right here.”
*****
Four feet and 10 inches put her at the front of the line as the class of 2001 started the march to Pomp and Circumstance. White cap and gown walked across the stage to get her diploma and my baby was an adult.
******
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
*****
36 hours of labor and there in the nursery was the most perfect baby girl ever born. Wrapped in pink, with a little pink bow taped to head, she was mine. Surrounded by baby boys all in blue she looked like perfect pink cotton candy, fluffy and sweet. I couldn’t wait to take her home.
*****
“What do you think of purple and green for colors? Should we do roses for flowers or something less traditional?” Do you even think we can get purple flowers?”
*****
Blonde pigtails and a dress with ruffles and bows, she stood there holding my hand, not one ounce of fear in her. The school bus came to a stop, and she was off to her first day of school. Her face pressed against the window as she blew me kisses and I wondered what I her first day of school would bring.
*****
“What do you think I should wear for a dress? Do you think I should go white or ivory? I don’t really want a veil, are you okay with that?”
*****
White leotard with sequins and glitter covering it, she danced her little heart out. She was dazzling as she plied demi-pointe across the floor. The light hit the jewels in her hair and she gleamed when she hit her mark. She was growing up so fast.
*****
“So, Mom, do you think a fall wedding is good? I’m a little worried about the weather, but I really want an outside wedding and I don’t want to be swatting bugs the whole time.”
*****
The shirt was a little shorter than I would have liked, but she was the star of the show as she flipped and tumbled across the gym floor. Captain of the cheering squad was a role she took seriously, and her enthusiasm was contagious to everyone who was watching. Her million dollar smile and ringlets of gold captured everybody.
*****
“How should I do my hair, up or down? Should I get it colored before then or let it go natural? I was thinking maybe curls, but I don’t know maybe straight with jewel combs in it.”
*****
She was a sight to behold when she came down the stairs, the dress was perfect. Lavender with pink lace, shoes died to match she looked like a princess headed to the ball and in her mind she was. She smiled and waved; then she was gone as the limo took her to her first prom.
“We want to do it here at the house, what do you think? We could have the ceremony and the reception right here.”
*****
Four feet and 10 inches put her at the front of the line as the class of 2001 started the march to Pomp and Circumstance. White cap and gown walked across the stage to get her diploma and my baby was an adult.
******
“Mom, I’m getting married, what do you think?”
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Mayday
Mayday
Dark usually signaled time to make the trip home. We had spent the day in Bar Harbor with family friends. The friendship between the families had evolved as both fathers were fishermen, so their day started early which meant late nights were rarities. This night was different though, dark came and we didn’t leave for the dock.
Greg and I had grown up on the boat; in fact it was named for us, the “Sally Greg.” Dad was a single parent and a self employed fisherman, either a tough road in the early 1970s, together a daunting undertaking. Babysitters had never been a part of our life, I’m not sure if it was due to his hours or his commitment to us. We knew our way around that boat, better than we knew our way around our house. Neither one of us could remember when the boat was launched, but he had showed us the movie numerous times. It was an old 8mm movie with the big reel projector and Greg and I could sit for hours watching that boat slide down the launch ramp, then rewind it and watch it come back up the ramp. We would giggle so hard as the champagne bottle put itself back together during rewind. She was as much a part of the family as any of us.
Dad finally gathered us and up and we headed for the boat. That night was exceptionally foggy, thick and wet; I remember I couldn’t find a single star in the sky. Dad put Greg and I down below in the engine room, he had make bunks for us with sleeping bags and pillows. At 5 and 6, we could navigate around a diesel engine better than most kids could play hopscotch. We weren’t just children of a lobsterman; we were children of that boat.
The engine fired up, and the boat chugged in reverse as we pulled away dock. The familiar feeling of going from reverse to forward and the rolling in our wake, started to lull Greg and I back to sleep. I can recall our nonsensical chatter and giggles were fading, as the boat lurched to a standstill, tossing Greg to the floor. Dad yelled for the two of us to come up above. At that moment I thought we were in trouble, not being old enough to recognize what I now know was panic in his voice. As we poked our heads out of the engine room door, Dad was frantically talking on his CB. We caught words like, “28 foot fishing vessel and off course”. We had no idea what was happening, but we were scared. Two little frightened kids standing in a wheelhouse of a boat, which we would soon find out was in the path of the Blue Nose, an enormous car-passenger ferry (compared to a 28 foot boat) returning from a trip to Canada.
The boat pitched in the waves and Dad continued to talk anxiously on the radio. We were old enough to know what Mayday meant and when we heard Dad say it, we started to cry. I’m sure that is exactly what he needed then; two howling kids to deal with at the same time as he was trying to avoid being hit by a much bigger boat. The “Sally Greg” was a sturdy boat but she was a wooden 28 foot boat in the time before modern electronics were the norm, in the direct path of a much larger metal vessel.
The events that happened next remain clear as a bell to me. He made us put life jackets on. In 2010 that may not seem extraordinary, but in 1970, that was a big deal. Greg and I had been able to swim since we could remember and we had always known where the life jackets where as well as what they were for, but this was our first actual encounter with them. After we were in them, as he was trying to maneuver the boat plus keep communications with the Coast Guard and the Blue Nose, he tied us to the life ring of the boat.
There we stood, two little kids in life jackets, tied to a life ring that ironically had their names on it, Dad at the wheel of the boat, trying to save what he most loved in his life; his children and his boat. The crying had stopped as we stood there like two statues watching this unfold. Over Dad talking on the radio, we could hear the repetitive fog horn of the Blue Nose getting closer, but unable to see anything through the fog.
The noise of the horn continued to get closer and Dad was still trying to get a bearing on their location in comparison to ours. The next thing I remember was hitting the floor of the boat as he threw the boat into reverse and the boat started to roll even worse, which we had enough experience to know it meant the Blue Nose was getting closer causing wake. Dad put the radio down after trying one last time to communicate directly with the Blue Nose to no avail and did two things I had rarely if ever seen him do. He told us he loved us and asked God to save us.
The radio crackled right after that and the Coast Guard was calling the “Sally Greg”. Dad answered the radio to be told by them the Blue Nose had contacted them and relayed they had passed us and we were out of danger. Dad then did a third thing I had never seen him do before that night, he cried. He picked us up; left us in the lifejackets and tied to the life ring, sat us on the steering ledge and kept us there for the rest of the trip.
Dark usually signaled time to make the trip home. We had spent the day in Bar Harbor with family friends. The friendship between the families had evolved as both fathers were fishermen, so their day started early which meant late nights were rarities. This night was different though, dark came and we didn’t leave for the dock.
Greg and I had grown up on the boat; in fact it was named for us, the “Sally Greg.” Dad was a single parent and a self employed fisherman, either a tough road in the early 1970s, together a daunting undertaking. Babysitters had never been a part of our life, I’m not sure if it was due to his hours or his commitment to us. We knew our way around that boat, better than we knew our way around our house. Neither one of us could remember when the boat was launched, but he had showed us the movie numerous times. It was an old 8mm movie with the big reel projector and Greg and I could sit for hours watching that boat slide down the launch ramp, then rewind it and watch it come back up the ramp. We would giggle so hard as the champagne bottle put itself back together during rewind. She was as much a part of the family as any of us.
Dad finally gathered us and up and we headed for the boat. That night was exceptionally foggy, thick and wet; I remember I couldn’t find a single star in the sky. Dad put Greg and I down below in the engine room, he had make bunks for us with sleeping bags and pillows. At 5 and 6, we could navigate around a diesel engine better than most kids could play hopscotch. We weren’t just children of a lobsterman; we were children of that boat.
The engine fired up, and the boat chugged in reverse as we pulled away dock. The familiar feeling of going from reverse to forward and the rolling in our wake, started to lull Greg and I back to sleep. I can recall our nonsensical chatter and giggles were fading, as the boat lurched to a standstill, tossing Greg to the floor. Dad yelled for the two of us to come up above. At that moment I thought we were in trouble, not being old enough to recognize what I now know was panic in his voice. As we poked our heads out of the engine room door, Dad was frantically talking on his CB. We caught words like, “28 foot fishing vessel and off course”. We had no idea what was happening, but we were scared. Two little frightened kids standing in a wheelhouse of a boat, which we would soon find out was in the path of the Blue Nose, an enormous car-passenger ferry (compared to a 28 foot boat) returning from a trip to Canada.
The boat pitched in the waves and Dad continued to talk anxiously on the radio. We were old enough to know what Mayday meant and when we heard Dad say it, we started to cry. I’m sure that is exactly what he needed then; two howling kids to deal with at the same time as he was trying to avoid being hit by a much bigger boat. The “Sally Greg” was a sturdy boat but she was a wooden 28 foot boat in the time before modern electronics were the norm, in the direct path of a much larger metal vessel.
The events that happened next remain clear as a bell to me. He made us put life jackets on. In 2010 that may not seem extraordinary, but in 1970, that was a big deal. Greg and I had been able to swim since we could remember and we had always known where the life jackets where as well as what they were for, but this was our first actual encounter with them. After we were in them, as he was trying to maneuver the boat plus keep communications with the Coast Guard and the Blue Nose, he tied us to the life ring of the boat.
There we stood, two little kids in life jackets, tied to a life ring that ironically had their names on it, Dad at the wheel of the boat, trying to save what he most loved in his life; his children and his boat. The crying had stopped as we stood there like two statues watching this unfold. Over Dad talking on the radio, we could hear the repetitive fog horn of the Blue Nose getting closer, but unable to see anything through the fog.
The noise of the horn continued to get closer and Dad was still trying to get a bearing on their location in comparison to ours. The next thing I remember was hitting the floor of the boat as he threw the boat into reverse and the boat started to roll even worse, which we had enough experience to know it meant the Blue Nose was getting closer causing wake. Dad put the radio down after trying one last time to communicate directly with the Blue Nose to no avail and did two things I had rarely if ever seen him do. He told us he loved us and asked God to save us.
The radio crackled right after that and the Coast Guard was calling the “Sally Greg”. Dad answered the radio to be told by them the Blue Nose had contacted them and relayed they had passed us and we were out of danger. Dad then did a third thing I had never seen him do before that night, he cried. He picked us up; left us in the lifejackets and tied to the life ring, sat us on the steering ledge and kept us there for the rest of the trip.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Mayday
Mayday
I hadn’t thought about that day on the boat for years, until I read a story last night about a boy and his brother at a bus stop. I was about 6, which would have made my brother Greg 5. We had spent the day in Bar Harbor with Dad and were headed home.
We used to go to Bar Harbor to visit friends of Dad’s, Gary and Susan. They had 2 kids, Debbie and Donny, about the same age as Greg and I. The trip didn’t take long, as Sorrento to Bar Harbor by boat was only about 20 minutes. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Dad to round us up in the middle of the rare day off and head across the harbor for the isit.
Dark usually signaled time to make the trip home. The friendship between the families had evolved as both fathers were fishermen, so their day started early which meant late nights were rarities. This night was different though, dark came and we didn’t leave for the dock. The adults sat around the kitchen table, while we kids made tents on the floor and probably watched the “Waltons” or “Little House on the Prairie.” “Come on kids, it’s time to go” Dad finally yelled. He carried two sleepy kids out to Gary’s truck and Gary took the three us down to the dock.
Greg and I had grown up on the boat; in fact it was named for us, the “Sally Greg.” Dad was a single parent and a self employed fisherman, either a tough road in the early 1970s, together a daunting undertaking. Babysitters had never been a part of our life, I’m not sure if it was due to his hours or his commitment to us. We knew our way around that boat, better than we knew our way around our house. Neither one of us could remember when the boat was launched, but he had showed us the movie numerous times. It was an old 8mm movie with the big reel projector and Greg and I could sit for hours watching that boat slide down the launch ramp, then rewind it and watch it come back up the ramp. We would giggle so hard as the champagne bottle put itself back together during rewind. She was as much a part of the family as any of us.
That night was exceptionally foggy, thick and wet; I remember I couldn’t find a single star in the sky. Dad put Greg and I down below in the engine room, he had make bunks for us with sleeping bags and pillows. At 5 and 6, we could navigate around a diesel engine better than most kids could play hopscotch. We weren’t just children of a lobsterman; we were children of that boat.
The engine fired up, and the boat chugged in reverse as we pulled away dock. The familiar feeling of going from reverse to forward and the rolling in our wake, started to lull Greg and I back to sleep. I can recall our nonsensical chatter and giggles were fading, as the boat lurched to a standstill, tossing Greg to the floor. Dad yelled for the two of us to come up above. At that moment I thought we were in trouble, not being old enough to recognize what I now know was panic in his voice. As we poked our heads out of the engine room door, Dad was frantically talking on his CB. We caught words like, “28 foot fishing vessel and off course”. We had no idea what was happening, but we were scared. Two little frightened kids standing in a wheelhouse of a boat, which we would soon find out was in the path of the Blue Nose, an enormous car-passenger ferry (compared to a 28 foot boat) returning from a trip to Canada.
The boat pitched in the waves and Dad continued to talk anxiously on the radio. We were old enough to know what Mayday meant and when we heard Dad say it, we started to cry. I’m sure that is exactly what he needed then; two howling kids to deal with at the same time as he was trying to avoid being hit by a much bigger boat. The “Sally Greg” was a sturdy boat but she was a wooden 28 foot boat in the time before modern electronics were the norm, in the direct path of a much larger metal vessel.
The events that happened next remain clear as a bell to me. He made us put life jackets on. In 2010 that may not seem extraordinary, but in 1970, that was a big deal. Greg and I had been able to swim since we could remember and we had always known where the life jackets where as well as what they were for, but this was our first actual encounter with them. After we were in them, as he was trying to maneuver the boat plus keep communications with the Coast Guard and the Blue Nose, he tied us to the life ring of the boat.
There we stood, two little kids in life jackets, tied to a life ring that ironically had their names on it, Dad at the wheel of the boat, trying to save what he most loved in his life; his children and his boat. The crying had stopped as we stood there like two statues watching this unfold. Over Dad talking on the radio, we could hear the repetitive fog horn of the Blue Nose getting closer, but unable to see anything through the fog.
The noise of the horn continued to get closer and Dad was still trying to get a bearing on their location in comparison to ours. The next thing I remember was hitting the floor of the boat as he threw the boat into reverse and the boat started to roll even worse, which we had enough experience to know it meant the Blue Nose was getting closer causing wake. Dad put the radio down after trying one last time to communicate directly with the Blue Nose to no avail and did two things I had rarely if ever seen him do. He told us he loved us and asked God to save us.
The radio crackled right after that and the Coast Guard was calling the “Sally Greg”. Dad answered the radio to be told by them the Blue Nose had contacted them and relayed they had passed us and we were out of danger. Dad then did a third thing I had never seen him do before that night, he cried. He then picked us up. Left us in the lifejackets and tied to the life ring and sat us on the steering ledge and left us there for the rest of the trip.
When I think of that night, I can still remember how scared I was, and how Greg and I clutched each other. Mostly though, that night evokes memories of how a mortal man became a superhero in 2 little kids’ eyes.
I hadn’t thought about that day on the boat for years, until I read a story last night about a boy and his brother at a bus stop. I was about 6, which would have made my brother Greg 5. We had spent the day in Bar Harbor with Dad and were headed home.
We used to go to Bar Harbor to visit friends of Dad’s, Gary and Susan. They had 2 kids, Debbie and Donny, about the same age as Greg and I. The trip didn’t take long, as Sorrento to Bar Harbor by boat was only about 20 minutes. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Dad to round us up in the middle of the rare day off and head across the harbor for the isit.
Dark usually signaled time to make the trip home. The friendship between the families had evolved as both fathers were fishermen, so their day started early which meant late nights were rarities. This night was different though, dark came and we didn’t leave for the dock. The adults sat around the kitchen table, while we kids made tents on the floor and probably watched the “Waltons” or “Little House on the Prairie.” “Come on kids, it’s time to go” Dad finally yelled. He carried two sleepy kids out to Gary’s truck and Gary took the three us down to the dock.
Greg and I had grown up on the boat; in fact it was named for us, the “Sally Greg.” Dad was a single parent and a self employed fisherman, either a tough road in the early 1970s, together a daunting undertaking. Babysitters had never been a part of our life, I’m not sure if it was due to his hours or his commitment to us. We knew our way around that boat, better than we knew our way around our house. Neither one of us could remember when the boat was launched, but he had showed us the movie numerous times. It was an old 8mm movie with the big reel projector and Greg and I could sit for hours watching that boat slide down the launch ramp, then rewind it and watch it come back up the ramp. We would giggle so hard as the champagne bottle put itself back together during rewind. She was as much a part of the family as any of us.
That night was exceptionally foggy, thick and wet; I remember I couldn’t find a single star in the sky. Dad put Greg and I down below in the engine room, he had make bunks for us with sleeping bags and pillows. At 5 and 6, we could navigate around a diesel engine better than most kids could play hopscotch. We weren’t just children of a lobsterman; we were children of that boat.
The engine fired up, and the boat chugged in reverse as we pulled away dock. The familiar feeling of going from reverse to forward and the rolling in our wake, started to lull Greg and I back to sleep. I can recall our nonsensical chatter and giggles were fading, as the boat lurched to a standstill, tossing Greg to the floor. Dad yelled for the two of us to come up above. At that moment I thought we were in trouble, not being old enough to recognize what I now know was panic in his voice. As we poked our heads out of the engine room door, Dad was frantically talking on his CB. We caught words like, “28 foot fishing vessel and off course”. We had no idea what was happening, but we were scared. Two little frightened kids standing in a wheelhouse of a boat, which we would soon find out was in the path of the Blue Nose, an enormous car-passenger ferry (compared to a 28 foot boat) returning from a trip to Canada.
The boat pitched in the waves and Dad continued to talk anxiously on the radio. We were old enough to know what Mayday meant and when we heard Dad say it, we started to cry. I’m sure that is exactly what he needed then; two howling kids to deal with at the same time as he was trying to avoid being hit by a much bigger boat. The “Sally Greg” was a sturdy boat but she was a wooden 28 foot boat in the time before modern electronics were the norm, in the direct path of a much larger metal vessel.
The events that happened next remain clear as a bell to me. He made us put life jackets on. In 2010 that may not seem extraordinary, but in 1970, that was a big deal. Greg and I had been able to swim since we could remember and we had always known where the life jackets where as well as what they were for, but this was our first actual encounter with them. After we were in them, as he was trying to maneuver the boat plus keep communications with the Coast Guard and the Blue Nose, he tied us to the life ring of the boat.
There we stood, two little kids in life jackets, tied to a life ring that ironically had their names on it, Dad at the wheel of the boat, trying to save what he most loved in his life; his children and his boat. The crying had stopped as we stood there like two statues watching this unfold. Over Dad talking on the radio, we could hear the repetitive fog horn of the Blue Nose getting closer, but unable to see anything through the fog.
The noise of the horn continued to get closer and Dad was still trying to get a bearing on their location in comparison to ours. The next thing I remember was hitting the floor of the boat as he threw the boat into reverse and the boat started to roll even worse, which we had enough experience to know it meant the Blue Nose was getting closer causing wake. Dad put the radio down after trying one last time to communicate directly with the Blue Nose to no avail and did two things I had rarely if ever seen him do. He told us he loved us and asked God to save us.
The radio crackled right after that and the Coast Guard was calling the “Sally Greg”. Dad answered the radio to be told by them the Blue Nose had contacted them and relayed they had passed us and we were out of danger. Dad then did a third thing I had never seen him do before that night, he cried. He then picked us up. Left us in the lifejackets and tied to the life ring and sat us on the steering ledge and left us there for the rest of the trip.
When I think of that night, I can still remember how scared I was, and how Greg and I clutched each other. Mostly though, that night evokes memories of how a mortal man became a superhero in 2 little kids’ eyes.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
"How The Hell Did They Get Through Customs?"
The morning started early as our ship pulled into the harbor. We stood on our balcony quietly enjoying the scenery while watching another ship dock behind us. The ship was dark blue and contrasted beautifully with the sunrise. The morning was perfect, peace and tranquility; then we looked down. The deck of that ship was covered with children, Children scurrying everywhere like ants back to their hill. The look of horror on my face was reflected in Lois’s, “Are all those frigging kids going to be on this little island with us today?” she asked. “Not if they all want to live” I answered through gritted teeth.
Our plan for the day was snorkeling in Megan’s Bay. We had planned and saved for this cruise for years and this day excursion was part of the reason we had chosen this particular trip. Anticipation was high as we got ready and left the ship; tickets, beach bags, and brochures in hand.
The glaring sun greeted us as we stepped onto the dock as did the little bodies from the other ship. In the midst of them, it was worse than we imagined. They weren’t scurrying ants; they were vicious rodents running up and over anything in their way. Fluids that have never been identified were being secreted out of every orifice visible and sounds Hitchcock could have marketed were emanating from their mouths. “This is my vacation! Who to hell invited these parasites along?” I thought as I grabbed my seat on the bus, almost squashing a half dozen of them as I planted my fat ass. The look on Lois’s face told me she was thinking the same thing.
The bus ride to the bay should have been beautiful and relaxing. Out of the corner of my eye there were beautiful tropical flowers, palm trees swaying in the wind, and natives of the island in their tropical dress selling their goods. But could we enjoy it, God no, it was vacation after all. We had paid thousands of dollars to listen the hyena cries of children who shouldn’t have been allowed out of their house, let alone out of the United States. “How the hell do they get through Customs?” I asked Lois ignoring the glare of a father, who actually thought he was intimidating me.
We finally arrived at Megan’s Bay. There was a quaint little (emphasis on little) shack where snorkeling gear was available. We had absolutely no problem nudging (pushing) our way to the front of the line. There were advantages to being bigger than those little masses of tissue. They seemed to think pouting and crying would melt my heart. Not so much, it only strengthened my resolve that they were not going to ruin my day. I was old enough to enjoy and remember this; some of these kids weren’t even old enough to know that boogers are not one of the main food groups.
Equipment is on and the lesson is under way. The day was a little windy and I honestly was getting a little chuckle every time one of them opened their mouths and got a rather large salty drink of water. We had looked forward to this trip for a number of years with snorkeling high on the priority list, but never had we imagined one of the best parts of the day would be when those little heathens had the snorkel driven in their mouth so not a sound could come out.
Brochures had shown colorful tropical fish swimming in clear blue water and that is what we had paid a couple of hundred dollars to see. Unfortunately fat people float, so these little rodents could swim under us. So instead of the beautiful marine life promised, we saw the asses of children with the occasional yellow color of piss running out of their bathing suit.
The day was over; back to the ship we headed. The children who had screamed through the whole ride there, now whined about sunburns, hunger, and being tired the whole way back. Several times on the return ride to the ship Lois had to remind me that a tropical jail was probably not the ideal place to finish out my life. I, in turn, reminded her it could be no worse than the hell we were currently in.
Back on the ship, a few umbrella drinks under our belts, we assessed the day. It was as horrible in the rerun as the actual live version was. The conversation turned to tomorrow’s plans, and the thought of all those children on our horseback ride was enough to turn umbrella drinks into straight shots. Slightly tipsy, we went up on deck to watch the ship leave. As we were exiting the harbor, so was the ship with the mini demolishers of vacation. The best part of the day happened right then; their ship took a left as ours took a right leaving the harbor.
Our plan for the day was snorkeling in Megan’s Bay. We had planned and saved for this cruise for years and this day excursion was part of the reason we had chosen this particular trip. Anticipation was high as we got ready and left the ship; tickets, beach bags, and brochures in hand.
The glaring sun greeted us as we stepped onto the dock as did the little bodies from the other ship. In the midst of them, it was worse than we imagined. They weren’t scurrying ants; they were vicious rodents running up and over anything in their way. Fluids that have never been identified were being secreted out of every orifice visible and sounds Hitchcock could have marketed were emanating from their mouths. “This is my vacation! Who to hell invited these parasites along?” I thought as I grabbed my seat on the bus, almost squashing a half dozen of them as I planted my fat ass. The look on Lois’s face told me she was thinking the same thing.
The bus ride to the bay should have been beautiful and relaxing. Out of the corner of my eye there were beautiful tropical flowers, palm trees swaying in the wind, and natives of the island in their tropical dress selling their goods. But could we enjoy it, God no, it was vacation after all. We had paid thousands of dollars to listen the hyena cries of children who shouldn’t have been allowed out of their house, let alone out of the United States. “How the hell do they get through Customs?” I asked Lois ignoring the glare of a father, who actually thought he was intimidating me.
We finally arrived at Megan’s Bay. There was a quaint little (emphasis on little) shack where snorkeling gear was available. We had absolutely no problem nudging (pushing) our way to the front of the line. There were advantages to being bigger than those little masses of tissue. They seemed to think pouting and crying would melt my heart. Not so much, it only strengthened my resolve that they were not going to ruin my day. I was old enough to enjoy and remember this; some of these kids weren’t even old enough to know that boogers are not one of the main food groups.
Equipment is on and the lesson is under way. The day was a little windy and I honestly was getting a little chuckle every time one of them opened their mouths and got a rather large salty drink of water. We had looked forward to this trip for a number of years with snorkeling high on the priority list, but never had we imagined one of the best parts of the day would be when those little heathens had the snorkel driven in their mouth so not a sound could come out.
Brochures had shown colorful tropical fish swimming in clear blue water and that is what we had paid a couple of hundred dollars to see. Unfortunately fat people float, so these little rodents could swim under us. So instead of the beautiful marine life promised, we saw the asses of children with the occasional yellow color of piss running out of their bathing suit.
The day was over; back to the ship we headed. The children who had screamed through the whole ride there, now whined about sunburns, hunger, and being tired the whole way back. Several times on the return ride to the ship Lois had to remind me that a tropical jail was probably not the ideal place to finish out my life. I, in turn, reminded her it could be no worse than the hell we were currently in.
Back on the ship, a few umbrella drinks under our belts, we assessed the day. It was as horrible in the rerun as the actual live version was. The conversation turned to tomorrow’s plans, and the thought of all those children on our horseback ride was enough to turn umbrella drinks into straight shots. Slightly tipsy, we went up on deck to watch the ship leave. As we were exiting the harbor, so was the ship with the mini demolishers of vacation. The best part of the day happened right then; their ship took a left as ours took a right leaving the harbor.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Blue Hill Fair-A Family Affair
“Seriously, is this the line,” screams through my head as I round the corner and almost rear end a truck. The Blue Hill Hair has come to Maine for another Labor Day weekend. Memories swamp me as I sit in the 3 mile line listening to my grandchildren in the backseat. As long as I can remember I have spent part of this weekend at the Fair and I can measure my life by the arrival of the fair.
At 7 I was the impatient child in the back of the truck making that last stretch almost unbearable for my father, as witnessed now by the incessant “Are we there yet?” from my grandchildren. I had asked that question, as had my daughter, and now her children. Looking in the rearview mirror, the faces became blurred as three generations of impatience became one.
As I turn into the entrance I see and hear all the familiar sights and sounds. The excitement from the backseat is palpable. I briefly remember that feeling, and then suddenly I watch my daughter become my father and I as she tells the boys to calm down and give us a minute to get organized. I chuckle a little as I remember being told the same thing and years later saying the same thing to her.
We make it through the front gate and 2 sets of hands are immediately stretched out for money. We both dig into our wallets for cash and I recollect Dad pulling his wallet from his back pocket and handing over seven new twenty dollars bills, one for each child. As those twenties from 1970’s become fifties in 2010, I wonder how he managed. Then as now, the first round of cash is never enough to last. Times were tough for a self-employed fisherman and the amount of money he spent at the fair came much harder than for the two career women standing there today.
We all head for the rides and I am slightly nauseated as I watch the spinning, flashing lights, and general chaos. The boys get in the line of the ride they want and I think back to a time when I eagerly awaited my turn to get tossed around inside one of those brightly painted boxes. My daughter climbs on the ride with her boys and I wonder how long it will be before she stands here where my father and I have stood and watches her legacies make the same climb.
“Can we have cotton candy; I want French fries Mimi; I have never had a deep-fried Oreo, pleeaassse?” The atrocities to the stomach are everywhere and they want one of each. My responsible adult mind screeches no, while memories of those delicious flavors won’t let me say no. As more money comes out of my wallet, I can hear my father saying “Don’t eat too much of that,” a message passed to my daughter and her children; a message none of us has heeded.
Night has fallen and two tired children and two exhausted adults exit the fair. As everyone climbs in the car, Dad smiles from home without even knowing why. The tradition of the Blue Hill Fair has been successfully passed to another generation.
At 7 I was the impatient child in the back of the truck making that last stretch almost unbearable for my father, as witnessed now by the incessant “Are we there yet?” from my grandchildren. I had asked that question, as had my daughter, and now her children. Looking in the rearview mirror, the faces became blurred as three generations of impatience became one.
As I turn into the entrance I see and hear all the familiar sights and sounds. The excitement from the backseat is palpable. I briefly remember that feeling, and then suddenly I watch my daughter become my father and I as she tells the boys to calm down and give us a minute to get organized. I chuckle a little as I remember being told the same thing and years later saying the same thing to her.
We make it through the front gate and 2 sets of hands are immediately stretched out for money. We both dig into our wallets for cash and I recollect Dad pulling his wallet from his back pocket and handing over seven new twenty dollars bills, one for each child. As those twenties from 1970’s become fifties in 2010, I wonder how he managed. Then as now, the first round of cash is never enough to last. Times were tough for a self-employed fisherman and the amount of money he spent at the fair came much harder than for the two career women standing there today.
We all head for the rides and I am slightly nauseated as I watch the spinning, flashing lights, and general chaos. The boys get in the line of the ride they want and I think back to a time when I eagerly awaited my turn to get tossed around inside one of those brightly painted boxes. My daughter climbs on the ride with her boys and I wonder how long it will be before she stands here where my father and I have stood and watches her legacies make the same climb.
“Can we have cotton candy; I want French fries Mimi; I have never had a deep-fried Oreo, pleeaassse?” The atrocities to the stomach are everywhere and they want one of each. My responsible adult mind screeches no, while memories of those delicious flavors won’t let me say no. As more money comes out of my wallet, I can hear my father saying “Don’t eat too much of that,” a message passed to my daughter and her children; a message none of us has heeded.
Night has fallen and two tired children and two exhausted adults exit the fair. As everyone climbs in the car, Dad smiles from home without even knowing why. The tradition of the Blue Hill Fair has been successfully passed to another generation.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Back to Nature
Back to Nature
The rain is pouring, no, the rain is lashing out at the earth. It is gray, forceful, and mean. Its’ only objective is to saturate all it contacts, it shows no mercy for anyone or anything. The wind it brings with it is equally mean and relentless. Yet the persistent blue jay will not be defeated.
The numerous bird feeders we have gyrate in the storm like dancers in an adult show. They spin and sway in the wind; not gracefully like a ballet, but bawdy like triple X performers in the act of stripping. Their performance goes on regardless of whether anyone is watching the show or not. The blue jay watches though from a front row seat.
He is an irritating bird. He is loud and obnoxious; the stud at every party that needs to be noticed. His attempts at making friends are pathetic; he is pushy and rude. The gentler, well mannered birds fly away from him and congregate in groups that are an obvious exclusion of him. Until today, I have been in agreement with the majority; he is not a bird I wanted around.
As the storm drives on, he will not be defeated. He sits on the condo feeder, seeking shelter from the sheets of rain driven by the wind. His normal chest of puffed up blue is a matted mess. He huddles under the roof not like the alpha male he pretends to be, but like a man without a home. Does he have no one or place to go to?
Is he not unlike the veterans of wars huddled in their card board boxes, men who deserve a home and respect they don’t get? Has he forged the way somehow, for those seemingly kinder gentler birds who now shun him? I now wonder if his pretentiousness is an act to cover the hurt of being rejected.
As I sit in my dry living room, I have a new respect for this bird. He is strong, willing to brave this miserable day, when the rest of his kind are hiding in safer places. I also have sympathy for him, alone and cold, when others have the warmth of a home and family. Today, Mr. Blue Jay, you have earned the right to be Cock of the Walk.
The rain is pouring, no, the rain is lashing out at the earth. It is gray, forceful, and mean. Its’ only objective is to saturate all it contacts, it shows no mercy for anyone or anything. The wind it brings with it is equally mean and relentless. Yet the persistent blue jay will not be defeated.
The numerous bird feeders we have gyrate in the storm like dancers in an adult show. They spin and sway in the wind; not gracefully like a ballet, but bawdy like triple X performers in the act of stripping. Their performance goes on regardless of whether anyone is watching the show or not. The blue jay watches though from a front row seat.
He is an irritating bird. He is loud and obnoxious; the stud at every party that needs to be noticed. His attempts at making friends are pathetic; he is pushy and rude. The gentler, well mannered birds fly away from him and congregate in groups that are an obvious exclusion of him. Until today, I have been in agreement with the majority; he is not a bird I wanted around.
As the storm drives on, he will not be defeated. He sits on the condo feeder, seeking shelter from the sheets of rain driven by the wind. His normal chest of puffed up blue is a matted mess. He huddles under the roof not like the alpha male he pretends to be, but like a man without a home. Does he have no one or place to go to?
Is he not unlike the veterans of wars huddled in their card board boxes, men who deserve a home and respect they don’t get? Has he forged the way somehow, for those seemingly kinder gentler birds who now shun him? I now wonder if his pretentiousness is an act to cover the hurt of being rejected.
As I sit in my dry living room, I have a new respect for this bird. He is strong, willing to brave this miserable day, when the rest of his kind are hiding in safer places. I also have sympathy for him, alone and cold, when others have the warmth of a home and family. Today, Mr. Blue Jay, you have earned the right to be Cock of the Walk.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
My Story
I grew up in Sorrento and graduated from Sumner High School in 1981. I married immediately out of high school and had my daughter shortly thereafter. At 38 I made a much needed career change and became an EMT-Basic. I fell in love with pre hospital emergency medicine, and decided to pursue paramedicine as my career. After completing my paramedic education I became employed at Capital Ambulance and Northeastern Maine EMS.
My job at Northeast EMS is education based; I teach both EMS licensure classes and continuing education classes for EMS providers. Both of those responsibilities made me see the need to expand my own knowledge base. EMCC offered an associate degree in Emergency Medical Services, so it was the perfect fit. They also offer a varied selection of online classes, that both met my educational needs and my scheduling requirements.
I graduated from the EMS program in May 2010, a member of Phi Theta Kappa and with High Honors. I am now pursuing my liberal degree at EMCC and in conjunction with that I am also working towards my bachelor’s degree in Adult Education and Training at St Joseph’s College.
My life is busy, crazy, and hectic, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Education is the road to success, a road I plan to travel for as long as I can.
My job at Northeast EMS is education based; I teach both EMS licensure classes and continuing education classes for EMS providers. Both of those responsibilities made me see the need to expand my own knowledge base. EMCC offered an associate degree in Emergency Medical Services, so it was the perfect fit. They also offer a varied selection of online classes, that both met my educational needs and my scheduling requirements.
I graduated from the EMS program in May 2010, a member of Phi Theta Kappa and with High Honors. I am now pursuing my liberal degree at EMCC and in conjunction with that I am also working towards my bachelor’s degree in Adult Education and Training at St Joseph’s College.
My life is busy, crazy, and hectic, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Education is the road to success, a road I plan to travel for as long as I can.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)