Who in the heck is Girl? I don't know any girl in any of the movies and she will not answer to any other name, including her own. So I call her Girl. And this works for a while. Until she tells me that she is not Girl. She is The Witch. And as she says this, she holds her hand up to me and says, "An apple, have a bite." And then she cackles the cackle of the witch.
This was the second to third year of Hayley's life. She was always someone. She was always in a twirly dress and pretty shoes. She was singing and dancing and playing Barbies. She was Snow White, Dorothy, The Witch and Girl.
Hayley had a lot to say, and said it. Even if it meant interrupting her sister, Ashlyn. Who also had a lot to say. But Hayley would say it with an accent, or very loud, or when it wasn't her turn.
And Hayley had these cheeks. Oh, my goodness. These big cheeks and the blondest of hair. And blue eyes.
She was such a neat little girl. But also very angry. Hayley had this way of looking at you. She cocked her head down, furrowed her brow and looked up at you through her eyebrows. When that look came your way, it was on. She didn't take much from anybody.
In Germany, we had one television station, so most of the time, the kids watched movies. Often, musicals. We had the complete collection of Rodgers and Hammerstein's classics. The opening of each movie was a musical montage of each movie and bits of each song were played. Hayley knew this opening by heart. Once when we were in Salzburg the girls sat outside a t-shirt shop with me and the dog. Hayley would not look at anyone but sang that montage at the top of her lungs. It was awesome.
Years later, when Hayley was roughing them up on the soccer field, the other parents found it hard to believe that this defender was ever twirling in pretty dresses and wearing fancy shoes! They could definitely believe all the rest.
And Girl? Turns out that's Lauri from Oklahoma. The pretty blond (Shirley Jones) in the twirly dress.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Delivering Papers at 4am
I was a paper carrier. All of us kids were. I got my route when I was ten. It was an afternoon route, five blocks long, but one block was a school and playground. I had 50 to 60 papers on my route. It was pretty easy and my sister was on the other side of the street with her route.
And then it went to mornings. My sister quit her route and got a real job. I was on my own except for my parents. They helped me out a lot. Sometimes, Mom would do the lower half of the route while I did the upper half. But most of the time, Dad and I would do the route together before he went to work. We would put the stack of papers in the middle and Dad would drive and I would fold. We had a great system. I would jump out and deliver a long stretch and Dad would pull up to the single house and toss a paper on the porch.
Sometimes I would do the route on my own and that was always a little unnerving for me. I would find myself looking for the houses with lights on, just in case. I would also keep an eye out for the Des Moines Register delivery boy. He always did his route with his doberman pincher. And the doberman was never on leash. I would always let out a sigh of relief when I saw that sleek black dog lollop down the sidewalk. Sometimes, he would be on my side and we would greet each other. The delivery boy always waved to me, too. Then I didn't feel so alone.
One time, while I was doing a stretch of houses, a man followed me. It wasn't like he was out for an early morning stroll, he crept from tree, to car, to tree. Dad saw him and quickly got the truck to me. I was completely oblivious to this and couldn't understand why we tore around the corner, totally skipping two houses. Dad couldn't find the guy. I was followed once while I was collecting the bills. I did that in the afternoon. I had a little money on me and I would have been an easy target to mug. Again, I was completely oblivious to the man walking behind me. Luckily, the guys playing basketball on the school playground had noticed. As I cut through the playground, one of the guys approached me. I wasn't scared of him. I saw him every week and all of them always said hi. But this week, he came over to let me know what was going on. The man following me took a different route and the basketball player walked me to the next house. I was a carrier at the same time that the boys in Des Moines and West Des Moines were kidnapped, it was never lost on my parents that I would be an easy target. I often think that they were torn between me being safe and me learning some responsibility. They sided on my safety.
Several years after I had my paper route, I had a recessed memory come to the surface. I had just started my route and it was still in the afternoon. I was in front of Pooky Hobbs house (that is another story). I car pulled up and the man inside asked me for directions to JCPennys. He told me that he was a catalog photographer and said that I could be a model for him. He asked for my phone number and address. Now I don't think I had ever really heard of stranger danger. Nor did it occur to me that a grown man that needed directions would not ask a ten year old. And as I am thinking about that incident again, what the hell was he doing on Park Ave. It was no where near downtown or any street that you would take to get downtown. Well, when I got home, I told Mom and Dad all about this guy and they flipped out. I was thoroughly educated in Stranger Danger and I never approached a car again. Years later, after I was an adult, it occurred to me that this man had his fly wide open and his junk on full display. How freakin lucky was I that I wasn't pulled into that open window and never heard from again. Thank you Guardian Angel.
I loved it though, especially in the winter. We were the first to make tracks in the snow. I would be all bundled up in my brother's old camo snowsuit. Dad would have the heat cranked in the truck, his window would be down so I could hear the crunch of the snow under the tires. And Dad's truck only had A.M. radio.
A.M. radio at 4:30 in the A.M. is fantastic. The DJ didn't have much to say, probably because he was so damn tired. But he did play the best music from the 40s and 50s. I would start my day with Frank and Sammy, Dean and Rosemary. Dad might sing along or tell me a little something about them. I loved my dad's voice and I always felt special because he was singing just for me.
I will forever remember the Christmas that I fell in love with Bing Crosby's rendition of White Christmas. From Thanksgiving on, I listened for it. I heard plenty of Perry Como and Andy Williams. There was some Johnny Mathis and Burl Ives, but never White Christmas. The morning of December 25th had arrived and this was it. If I didn't hear it that morning, I was out of luck for quite some time. And then those distinctive notes began to play, Dad pulled the truck over and we just sat there. The papers were going to wait for just a couple of minutes. I thought Dad's voice blended perfectly with Bing's.
I kept that route until I was sixteen. My mom saved half of what I earned, which was enough to get me to Europe when I was seventeen. It was a good job with good pay. I met a lot of neat people. And I can toss a newspaper on to a porch without ever slowing down my stride!
And then it went to mornings. My sister quit her route and got a real job. I was on my own except for my parents. They helped me out a lot. Sometimes, Mom would do the lower half of the route while I did the upper half. But most of the time, Dad and I would do the route together before he went to work. We would put the stack of papers in the middle and Dad would drive and I would fold. We had a great system. I would jump out and deliver a long stretch and Dad would pull up to the single house and toss a paper on the porch.
Sometimes I would do the route on my own and that was always a little unnerving for me. I would find myself looking for the houses with lights on, just in case. I would also keep an eye out for the Des Moines Register delivery boy. He always did his route with his doberman pincher. And the doberman was never on leash. I would always let out a sigh of relief when I saw that sleek black dog lollop down the sidewalk. Sometimes, he would be on my side and we would greet each other. The delivery boy always waved to me, too. Then I didn't feel so alone.
One time, while I was doing a stretch of houses, a man followed me. It wasn't like he was out for an early morning stroll, he crept from tree, to car, to tree. Dad saw him and quickly got the truck to me. I was completely oblivious to this and couldn't understand why we tore around the corner, totally skipping two houses. Dad couldn't find the guy. I was followed once while I was collecting the bills. I did that in the afternoon. I had a little money on me and I would have been an easy target to mug. Again, I was completely oblivious to the man walking behind me. Luckily, the guys playing basketball on the school playground had noticed. As I cut through the playground, one of the guys approached me. I wasn't scared of him. I saw him every week and all of them always said hi. But this week, he came over to let me know what was going on. The man following me took a different route and the basketball player walked me to the next house. I was a carrier at the same time that the boys in Des Moines and West Des Moines were kidnapped, it was never lost on my parents that I would be an easy target. I often think that they were torn between me being safe and me learning some responsibility. They sided on my safety.
Several years after I had my paper route, I had a recessed memory come to the surface. I had just started my route and it was still in the afternoon. I was in front of Pooky Hobbs house (that is another story). I car pulled up and the man inside asked me for directions to JCPennys. He told me that he was a catalog photographer and said that I could be a model for him. He asked for my phone number and address. Now I don't think I had ever really heard of stranger danger. Nor did it occur to me that a grown man that needed directions would not ask a ten year old. And as I am thinking about that incident again, what the hell was he doing on Park Ave. It was no where near downtown or any street that you would take to get downtown. Well, when I got home, I told Mom and Dad all about this guy and they flipped out. I was thoroughly educated in Stranger Danger and I never approached a car again. Years later, after I was an adult, it occurred to me that this man had his fly wide open and his junk on full display. How freakin lucky was I that I wasn't pulled into that open window and never heard from again. Thank you Guardian Angel.
I loved it though, especially in the winter. We were the first to make tracks in the snow. I would be all bundled up in my brother's old camo snowsuit. Dad would have the heat cranked in the truck, his window would be down so I could hear the crunch of the snow under the tires. And Dad's truck only had A.M. radio.
A.M. radio at 4:30 in the A.M. is fantastic. The DJ didn't have much to say, probably because he was so damn tired. But he did play the best music from the 40s and 50s. I would start my day with Frank and Sammy, Dean and Rosemary. Dad might sing along or tell me a little something about them. I loved my dad's voice and I always felt special because he was singing just for me.
I will forever remember the Christmas that I fell in love with Bing Crosby's rendition of White Christmas. From Thanksgiving on, I listened for it. I heard plenty of Perry Como and Andy Williams. There was some Johnny Mathis and Burl Ives, but never White Christmas. The morning of December 25th had arrived and this was it. If I didn't hear it that morning, I was out of luck for quite some time. And then those distinctive notes began to play, Dad pulled the truck over and we just sat there. The papers were going to wait for just a couple of minutes. I thought Dad's voice blended perfectly with Bing's.
I kept that route until I was sixteen. My mom saved half of what I earned, which was enough to get me to Europe when I was seventeen. It was a good job with good pay. I met a lot of neat people. And I can toss a newspaper on to a porch without ever slowing down my stride!
Saturday, November 5, 2011
A Little Privacy Please
Going to the bathroom hasn't always been a private affair for me. I cannot say that it was by choice though, I am not one to pee on the side of the road if a reststop is within 100 miles. But you tell me it is 200 miles and I will probably give in and go.
When I was little, very little, I could go potty by myself but I needed help with the wiping part. I still am reminded of this fact. But at least I knew my limitations and wiping my butt was one of them. Eventually my arms grew and I could handle that little chore all on my own. But in order to be heard, I had to leave the bathroom door open. Otherwise I could have sat there for hours.
Now if I was using the upstairs bathroom at my house growing up, I never closed the door. You see, the lights in this room were hanging on either side of the mirror above the sink. They were older fixtures and you had to turn a little knob at the bottom. I couldn't reach the knob without putting my other hand on the sink for support. For whatever reason (I am no electrician) I would get shocked. Well, when one already has to pee, the idea of throwing a shock in the mix was not very appealing so I learned to turn the hall light on and leave the bathroom door open. I still had privacy because the toilet was behind the open door.
Fast forward to 1992. I had privacy up until we moved back to California and Ashlyn was walking. I didn't dare shut the door because when ever I did, she found something to get into. And as soon as I could trust her, Hayley was walking, then it was the naughty dog. Peeing in privacy was a distant, yet fond memory. And wasn't just peeing, if I were taking a bath, then important things had to be discussed! Or someone wanted to drink bath water (Leisl) or someone else wanted to "just put my fingers in".
And then privacy came back. I remember an some point that I made the 3 B Rule. I could only be disturbed in the bathroom if someone was broken, bleeding or barfing. It was such a wonderful rule. Sometimes I went in the bathroom to do nothing but enjoy the privacy!
Today, two of my children have moved out and my third child understands the idea of a closed door. But privacy still alludes me. And I am being invaded upon for no good reason. I have pets. Pets have no idea what personal space is. They think that they are welcome everywhere, at all times.
Our bathroom door sticks a little when you close it. I am in the habit of not forcing it closed because I make such a racket trying to open it and Danny is often sleeping when I am in there. So I just kind of swing it shut and go about my business. Well it turns out that a closed bathroom door is an open invitation to a cat. If it is Sophie, she will knead her little paws against the door and meow mournfully. If it is Elsa, she will just meow in her three packs of Camels a day voice and rub the door. If either of them can muster the strength to get the door open, they will slink through the smallest crack possible. And then there's Emmitt. Emmitt is twice the cat that the girls are. He talks all the time. ALL THE TIME. He has no inside voice, doesn't consider that Danny is sleeping, has no regard for my privacy. He busts open any closed door, especially bathroom doors, leaves them wide open, yells about something and runs out. And there I am, just sitting there too far from the door to reach and close it and too unprepared to throw something at the damn cat.
I feed them, I love them and in return, all I ask is a little privacy, please!
When I was little, very little, I could go potty by myself but I needed help with the wiping part. I still am reminded of this fact. But at least I knew my limitations and wiping my butt was one of them. Eventually my arms grew and I could handle that little chore all on my own. But in order to be heard, I had to leave the bathroom door open. Otherwise I could have sat there for hours.
Now if I was using the upstairs bathroom at my house growing up, I never closed the door. You see, the lights in this room were hanging on either side of the mirror above the sink. They were older fixtures and you had to turn a little knob at the bottom. I couldn't reach the knob without putting my other hand on the sink for support. For whatever reason (I am no electrician) I would get shocked. Well, when one already has to pee, the idea of throwing a shock in the mix was not very appealing so I learned to turn the hall light on and leave the bathroom door open. I still had privacy because the toilet was behind the open door.
Fast forward to 1992. I had privacy up until we moved back to California and Ashlyn was walking. I didn't dare shut the door because when ever I did, she found something to get into. And as soon as I could trust her, Hayley was walking, then it was the naughty dog. Peeing in privacy was a distant, yet fond memory. And wasn't just peeing, if I were taking a bath, then important things had to be discussed! Or someone wanted to drink bath water (Leisl) or someone else wanted to "just put my fingers in".
And then privacy came back. I remember an some point that I made the 3 B Rule. I could only be disturbed in the bathroom if someone was broken, bleeding or barfing. It was such a wonderful rule. Sometimes I went in the bathroom to do nothing but enjoy the privacy!
Today, two of my children have moved out and my third child understands the idea of a closed door. But privacy still alludes me. And I am being invaded upon for no good reason. I have pets. Pets have no idea what personal space is. They think that they are welcome everywhere, at all times.
Our bathroom door sticks a little when you close it. I am in the habit of not forcing it closed because I make such a racket trying to open it and Danny is often sleeping when I am in there. So I just kind of swing it shut and go about my business. Well it turns out that a closed bathroom door is an open invitation to a cat. If it is Sophie, she will knead her little paws against the door and meow mournfully. If it is Elsa, she will just meow in her three packs of Camels a day voice and rub the door. If either of them can muster the strength to get the door open, they will slink through the smallest crack possible. And then there's Emmitt. Emmitt is twice the cat that the girls are. He talks all the time. ALL THE TIME. He has no inside voice, doesn't consider that Danny is sleeping, has no regard for my privacy. He busts open any closed door, especially bathroom doors, leaves them wide open, yells about something and runs out. And there I am, just sitting there too far from the door to reach and close it and too unprepared to throw something at the damn cat.
I feed them, I love them and in return, all I ask is a little privacy, please!
Friday, November 4, 2011
You Got a Friend In ME!
I went to a Pampered Chef party last night. It was hosted by one of my Farrells friends. Meaning I met her when we both worked out at Farrells. That is how all my friendships are described. By how I am friends with them. I have old friends, Army friends, my kids friends parents friends, Farrells friends, cop wife friends, work friends and church friends. Oh, and Facebook friends which is all of the above and then some. But none of these groups are very big.
And that is kinda sad. Am I not a good friend? I suppose to some, I am not. In fact, I know that there are a few Facebook friends that really don't like me, they are just being polite. I may have been unfriended by them by now.
But I want to be a good friend. I want to have these wonderful histories with these people. I want them to be a part of my life because they find me funny and enlightening and full of shit in a good way. Because that is what I find them. But I am afraid that they find me odd, annoying and full of shit in a bad way.
My oldest friends, the ones that knew me in high school and even earlier, were the ones that knew me in the troubled years. Sometimes they may have contributed to the trouble and sometimes they saved me from it.
I have a few Army friends. They knew me as I mothered my babies. They were sisters in arms as the menfolk went on training exercises and peacekeeping missions. I think because we were all in the same position, with kids similar ages, it was just so natural. Kind of like the mommy and me groups. We were Army and me groups.
My kids' friends' parents friends, say that three times fast. These friends have changed as my kids' friends have changed. We all hung out on the soccer sidelines and colorguard performances. I don't see these women as often as I used to, but I still count them as good friends. They all rallied around me when Danny went to Iraq, when my mom died and when Ashlyn was sick. They loved my kids like their own.
Farrells friends were who I sweated with. There were a lot of Farrells friends as different classes came through. There were different types of Farrells friends as well. There was one group that loved Danny and tolerated me. Then the rest of them loved me as much as they loved Danny (I hope). And I always felt fit and beautiful and energetic with the second group. They were also so supportive with Ashlyn was sick. It was so cool to see all those Save Ashlyn shirts sweaty and gross at the gym.
Cop wife friends are great. They seem to be as sarcastic as I am. We are all in different places in our lives. I haven't been a cop wife as long as some, and a lot longer than others. We have kids all different ages. This group is very eclectic. One thing we all have in common is the love of our man. And at the same time, a very low tolerance for their shenanigans. Like Army wife friends, these women know where I am coming from. They can understand my fears and frustrations in a way that some of my other friends cannot.
Work friends are also overlapping into friends. I don't have to make that distinction with them. They know my day to day fun and fears. Because they don't completely understand my homelife, work friends are great sounding boards. They bring a completely different perspective to my issues. We vary greatly in age (I'm the oldest) and background but we are commonly bonded by a hatred of coupon scammers and thieves, homewreckers and creepy mustache mailman.
My church friends are so sweet. They don't see me very often (though they have seen me five weeks in a row). They don't judge me, just are happy to see me. They always make me feel like I could be more involved with my faith and my church. I would like to have more church friends. I have been a member there for eight years and I probably know eight people.
And there are Facebook friends! I think all of the friends that I have already mentioned, except two, are my Facebook friends. I don't have a lot of FB friends, 157. I know them all, some more than others and some, only through Facebook. But that's ok. Because I have made some wonderful friends just by commenting on their status'. And some of those friends have come off Facebook and into real life, but because we are all so busy, we stay connected there.
So back to the Pampered Chef party. After the party was over and I wrote my check, the representative asked me if I would be interested in hosting a party. I declined saying I didn't have any friends. Well, I have 159, but 3 were there last night, and over a hundred live in another city, state or country. Then there are my 4 family members, they wouldn't come. So that leaves me with about 40 people. Half of which are men or teens. I could invite 20 women, but then I would have to clean my house to host a party and I already bought my stuff! But I didn't want to say that!.
And that is kinda sad. Am I not a good friend? I suppose to some, I am not. In fact, I know that there are a few Facebook friends that really don't like me, they are just being polite. I may have been unfriended by them by now.
But I want to be a good friend. I want to have these wonderful histories with these people. I want them to be a part of my life because they find me funny and enlightening and full of shit in a good way. Because that is what I find them. But I am afraid that they find me odd, annoying and full of shit in a bad way.
My oldest friends, the ones that knew me in high school and even earlier, were the ones that knew me in the troubled years. Sometimes they may have contributed to the trouble and sometimes they saved me from it.
I have a few Army friends. They knew me as I mothered my babies. They were sisters in arms as the menfolk went on training exercises and peacekeeping missions. I think because we were all in the same position, with kids similar ages, it was just so natural. Kind of like the mommy and me groups. We were Army and me groups.
My kids' friends' parents friends, say that three times fast. These friends have changed as my kids' friends have changed. We all hung out on the soccer sidelines and colorguard performances. I don't see these women as often as I used to, but I still count them as good friends. They all rallied around me when Danny went to Iraq, when my mom died and when Ashlyn was sick. They loved my kids like their own.
Farrells friends were who I sweated with. There were a lot of Farrells friends as different classes came through. There were different types of Farrells friends as well. There was one group that loved Danny and tolerated me. Then the rest of them loved me as much as they loved Danny (I hope). And I always felt fit and beautiful and energetic with the second group. They were also so supportive with Ashlyn was sick. It was so cool to see all those Save Ashlyn shirts sweaty and gross at the gym.
Cop wife friends are great. They seem to be as sarcastic as I am. We are all in different places in our lives. I haven't been a cop wife as long as some, and a lot longer than others. We have kids all different ages. This group is very eclectic. One thing we all have in common is the love of our man. And at the same time, a very low tolerance for their shenanigans. Like Army wife friends, these women know where I am coming from. They can understand my fears and frustrations in a way that some of my other friends cannot.
Work friends are also overlapping into friends. I don't have to make that distinction with them. They know my day to day fun and fears. Because they don't completely understand my homelife, work friends are great sounding boards. They bring a completely different perspective to my issues. We vary greatly in age (I'm the oldest) and background but we are commonly bonded by a hatred of coupon scammers and thieves, homewreckers and creepy mustache mailman.
My church friends are so sweet. They don't see me very often (though they have seen me five weeks in a row). They don't judge me, just are happy to see me. They always make me feel like I could be more involved with my faith and my church. I would like to have more church friends. I have been a member there for eight years and I probably know eight people.
And there are Facebook friends! I think all of the friends that I have already mentioned, except two, are my Facebook friends. I don't have a lot of FB friends, 157. I know them all, some more than others and some, only through Facebook. But that's ok. Because I have made some wonderful friends just by commenting on their status'. And some of those friends have come off Facebook and into real life, but because we are all so busy, we stay connected there.
So back to the Pampered Chef party. After the party was over and I wrote my check, the representative asked me if I would be interested in hosting a party. I declined saying I didn't have any friends. Well, I have 159, but 3 were there last night, and over a hundred live in another city, state or country. Then there are my 4 family members, they wouldn't come. So that leaves me with about 40 people. Half of which are men or teens. I could invite 20 women, but then I would have to clean my house to host a party and I already bought my stuff! But I didn't want to say that!.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Mom's got my back
One night I was out to dinner with my parents at the local Knights of Columbus hall. Danny was deployed, Ashlyn was just a little thing. Mom was entertaining her at the table when one of mom's old acquaintances stopped by. This lady was cooing at Ashlyn when I walked up. Mom introduced me. And this lady responded with "are you old enough to have a baby!"
Well, I had heard that a lot. When I was receiving care at the Naval Hospital at Camp Pendleton, I was frequently asked for my father's information, not my husband's. That was always awkward. I also was used to the looks I would get at the stores in Cedar Rapids, look at me, look at my baby, look for a ring, look for food stamps. In Oceanside, I looked a lot like the other wives so I didn't get the once over there.
Mom had never experienced a moment like that and I must say, she did not care for it! My mother, God love her, came to my defense so damn fast that I didn't even have time to react. I have forgotten a lot of the remarkable things that my mom has said over the years but this is etched in my brain.
"Yes, she is old enough to have a baby. Anne is married to a marine. He is in Okinowa right now, he was in Dessert Storm last year. She has lived in California and decided to come home with the baby so we could spend time with her." And it was all said with kind of a oversimplification of the words. Mom was pissed. It was the first time she had ever seen someone pass judgement on me. Though Mom wasn't a fan of our young marriage, she was a fan of the union and of the little girl we made. And no one was going to judge me as long as she was around.
I have clung to that moment for such a long time. It was such a valadation for me, I was doing it right and Mom approved. Mom had reservations about me moving home with Ashlyn. She was afraid that I was going to expect her to be my babysitter. But Ashlyn was mine. And I was hers. Oh, she spent a lot of time with her Grandma and Grandpa Snow, but I was usually there, or just running to the store.
There were times when it was very hard to be living with my parents again. I just wanted my own space and I wanted to be with my husband. But, Ashlyn got to sit beside her grandpa while he watched the game. She would throw all her toys off her rolly chair tray and Grandpa would pick them up for her. They were both entertained for hours. And Grandma would put Ashlyn on her lap while she read the newspaper. And then she would pull newspaper out of Ashlyn's mouth. My parents were proud of this little girl I had. They got to see me doing something I was really good at and that was fun for me. Mom was thrilled that I was breast feeding (it was not encouraged when her children were born), she loved that I took Ashlyn with me whenever it was feasible (not too cold or snowy or icy) and she loved that I was a happy, fullfilled mom that loved the job.
Well, I had heard that a lot. When I was receiving care at the Naval Hospital at Camp Pendleton, I was frequently asked for my father's information, not my husband's. That was always awkward. I also was used to the looks I would get at the stores in Cedar Rapids, look at me, look at my baby, look for a ring, look for food stamps. In Oceanside, I looked a lot like the other wives so I didn't get the once over there.
Mom had never experienced a moment like that and I must say, she did not care for it! My mother, God love her, came to my defense so damn fast that I didn't even have time to react. I have forgotten a lot of the remarkable things that my mom has said over the years but this is etched in my brain.
"Yes, she is old enough to have a baby. Anne is married to a marine. He is in Okinowa right now, he was in Dessert Storm last year. She has lived in California and decided to come home with the baby so we could spend time with her." And it was all said with kind of a oversimplification of the words. Mom was pissed. It was the first time she had ever seen someone pass judgement on me. Though Mom wasn't a fan of our young marriage, she was a fan of the union and of the little girl we made. And no one was going to judge me as long as she was around.
I have clung to that moment for such a long time. It was such a valadation for me, I was doing it right and Mom approved. Mom had reservations about me moving home with Ashlyn. She was afraid that I was going to expect her to be my babysitter. But Ashlyn was mine. And I was hers. Oh, she spent a lot of time with her Grandma and Grandpa Snow, but I was usually there, or just running to the store.
There were times when it was very hard to be living with my parents again. I just wanted my own space and I wanted to be with my husband. But, Ashlyn got to sit beside her grandpa while he watched the game. She would throw all her toys off her rolly chair tray and Grandpa would pick them up for her. They were both entertained for hours. And Grandma would put Ashlyn on her lap while she read the newspaper. And then she would pull newspaper out of Ashlyn's mouth. My parents were proud of this little girl I had. They got to see me doing something I was really good at and that was fun for me. Mom was thrilled that I was breast feeding (it was not encouraged when her children were born), she loved that I took Ashlyn with me whenever it was feasible (not too cold or snowy or icy) and she loved that I was a happy, fullfilled mom that loved the job.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
He Called the Wrong Anne
May 19th, 1988. I was sporting a awesome paisley shirt. I had bleach blond hair and a braided tail. I was working at the local hardware store. After work, I was going out to my boyfriend's farm to see the baby pigs. I had been dating Justin for about six weeks. He was a year older. He was farming with his brother in law. I am not the country girl type, but I was liking this guy quite a bit.
I had known Justin for years, but not well. His sister was friends with my sister. Justin had a lot of problems with drugs in high school. Got himself cleaned up and had found a good life with his sister and brother in law. I felt like this was a guy that could be worth it. He wasn't partying, he had future plans and he treated me well.
So there I was, May 19th, 1988. I called his house from work to let him know what time I was leaving and all those details. He wasn't home, left the message with his sister to "call Anne." Pretty simple right.
Fast forward to 9pm. The store is closing and I had not heard from Justin. My manager, Stephanie says to me "you can come over to Dixie's house with me and you can finally meet Danny." Dixie, Stephanie's good friend, I knew. She had been in the store a couple of times. Danny, her son, I only knew of. Stephanie had told me about him, but was always adamant that we never date because she didn't want to be responsible for that!
I had nothing else happening so hanging out with my 35 year old manager and her friends seemed like the perfect thing to do two nights before I graduated from high school.
Now, I must tell you this. When Stephanie said "and you can finally meet Danny" my stomach did a flip flop, back handspring kind of thing. I kid you not, an Olympic type feat. Thought that was odd.
So over to Dixie's we go. Dixie lived on the second floor. The door was on the first floor and the stairs were inside the apartment. Danny answered. He led the way up the stairs. Keep in mind that Danny was 16, size 27 inch waist and maybe 1% body fat. Needless to say, but I will say it anyway, nice view.
So I get to know this guy and he seems nice enough. And honestly, I don't think I was giving Justin much thought at that point. But as it turns out, he gave me no thought at all...
I called him the next day to let him know that I was going to try something new. He wanted me to know that he was going to go back to his old girlfriend. His old girlfriend, the one he did drugs with, the one that was toxic for him, the one that he called the night before instead of calling me, because her name was Anne, too.
In July of 1990, I was five months married to the guy that answered the door that night. Justin, having returned to the drug infested life that he had escaped from previously, was broke, had lost the farm and had run out of options. My mom sent me his obituary. He had killed himself. He was 22.
When I same that I am fortunate, lucky and blessed. It really begins here. There is no guessing what could have been had I seen those baby pigs. But that doesn't matter much now. He called the one that he really wanted that night and that I followed my dream up the stairs.
I had known Justin for years, but not well. His sister was friends with my sister. Justin had a lot of problems with drugs in high school. Got himself cleaned up and had found a good life with his sister and brother in law. I felt like this was a guy that could be worth it. He wasn't partying, he had future plans and he treated me well.
So there I was, May 19th, 1988. I called his house from work to let him know what time I was leaving and all those details. He wasn't home, left the message with his sister to "call Anne." Pretty simple right.
Fast forward to 9pm. The store is closing and I had not heard from Justin. My manager, Stephanie says to me "you can come over to Dixie's house with me and you can finally meet Danny." Dixie, Stephanie's good friend, I knew. She had been in the store a couple of times. Danny, her son, I only knew of. Stephanie had told me about him, but was always adamant that we never date because she didn't want to be responsible for that!
I had nothing else happening so hanging out with my 35 year old manager and her friends seemed like the perfect thing to do two nights before I graduated from high school.
Now, I must tell you this. When Stephanie said "and you can finally meet Danny" my stomach did a flip flop, back handspring kind of thing. I kid you not, an Olympic type feat. Thought that was odd.
So over to Dixie's we go. Dixie lived on the second floor. The door was on the first floor and the stairs were inside the apartment. Danny answered. He led the way up the stairs. Keep in mind that Danny was 16, size 27 inch waist and maybe 1% body fat. Needless to say, but I will say it anyway, nice view.
So I get to know this guy and he seems nice enough. And honestly, I don't think I was giving Justin much thought at that point. But as it turns out, he gave me no thought at all...
I called him the next day to let him know that I was going to try something new. He wanted me to know that he was going to go back to his old girlfriend. His old girlfriend, the one he did drugs with, the one that was toxic for him, the one that he called the night before instead of calling me, because her name was Anne, too.
In July of 1990, I was five months married to the guy that answered the door that night. Justin, having returned to the drug infested life that he had escaped from previously, was broke, had lost the farm and had run out of options. My mom sent me his obituary. He had killed himself. He was 22.
When I same that I am fortunate, lucky and blessed. It really begins here. There is no guessing what could have been had I seen those baby pigs. But that doesn't matter much now. He called the one that he really wanted that night and that I followed my dream up the stairs.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
This Part is Always so Surreal
Here it is, a Tuesday night. And I am blogging away. And I have no idea what my husband is doing. An hour or so ago, his pager went off and in a dash of black, he was out the door and gone. I know that he told Jacob a little of what was going on, but I didn't even ask. I knew he just needed to get going.
SWAT. Or METRO STAR or whatever you would like to call it is a pain in my ass. I just cannot get used to it. Danny was in the military for 16 years. I am pretty sure that he did some interesting (i.e. dangerous) shit while in the military but I didn't know. I was sleeping while he was creeping about. I had time differences and many, many miles to separate myself from the situation. I don't have that luxury here. I could turn the TV on and see the local news station with their camera zoned in on Danny. It has happened before.
I don't know that I really worry about Danny's safety. I think after Iraq, I have stopped worrying. It almost drove me mad so I let that one be. Danny has had excellent training. And if you have read my previous post, no one really ever messes with the dog on a chain.
Danny joined SWAT in the fall of 2006. He was out of the military at this point. The huge pile of green that always smelled of gun oil and something indescribable was gone. And in its place was a not quite as huge pile of black with that same indescribable smell. I couldn't be excited for him. SWAT is real time and that is just very different for me. And some days it is immediate. With the military, I didn't know until it was over. And if I did know that Danny was going to be busy. That is what he would say and I would just kind of fill in the rest on my own. He really may have been just goofing off in a Northern Iraq town as the photos depicted.
But I would never ask him to stop doing what he loves to do. I knew he would have opportunities in the military to go to schools and various training missions. He would choose to leave us but it was for the betterment of his soldiering. And in turn, made him happier. I have always supported that. And SWAT makes him a better police officer. So, based on my last sentence, I should support SWAT. (Trapped by my own words!)
So St Micheal and I wait for the text message. It will be brief, but that's all I need.
SWAT. Or METRO STAR or whatever you would like to call it is a pain in my ass. I just cannot get used to it. Danny was in the military for 16 years. I am pretty sure that he did some interesting (i.e. dangerous) shit while in the military but I didn't know. I was sleeping while he was creeping about. I had time differences and many, many miles to separate myself from the situation. I don't have that luxury here. I could turn the TV on and see the local news station with their camera zoned in on Danny. It has happened before.
I don't know that I really worry about Danny's safety. I think after Iraq, I have stopped worrying. It almost drove me mad so I let that one be. Danny has had excellent training. And if you have read my previous post, no one really ever messes with the dog on a chain.
Danny joined SWAT in the fall of 2006. He was out of the military at this point. The huge pile of green that always smelled of gun oil and something indescribable was gone. And in its place was a not quite as huge pile of black with that same indescribable smell. I couldn't be excited for him. SWAT is real time and that is just very different for me. And some days it is immediate. With the military, I didn't know until it was over. And if I did know that Danny was going to be busy. That is what he would say and I would just kind of fill in the rest on my own. He really may have been just goofing off in a Northern Iraq town as the photos depicted.
But I would never ask him to stop doing what he loves to do. I knew he would have opportunities in the military to go to schools and various training missions. He would choose to leave us but it was for the betterment of his soldiering. And in turn, made him happier. I have always supported that. And SWAT makes him a better police officer. So, based on my last sentence, I should support SWAT. (Trapped by my own words!)
So St Micheal and I wait for the text message. It will be brief, but that's all I need.
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