Frankie freaked me out!

 I took my students on a field trip to the pumpkin patch this morning on a (too warm) 80 degree, sunny day. It was so crowded, there were busloads of children of all ages and abilities. Frazzled teachers tried to keep up with their classes as the children ran through a corn maze, a spooky maze, a tunnel, onto the playground, up and down slides, and into the sand box.

The barn yard animals are such an attraction for city kids who've never seen a real pig, turkey or chicken up close and personal. The children were so excited when I "gobbled" at the turkey, and he spread his tail feathers and gobbled back. There were bunnies, and chicks, and ducks, and an old gray and black, overweight, slow moving dog named Buddy whose been around for a dozen years and still loves pats on his wiry head. All the kids had to stop and pat him.

The hayride out to the fields was bumpy and fun. The children saw how vegeatbles grow: corn on the cob, purple egg plant, tomatoes, cauliflower, broccoli, strawberries, lettuce, cabbage and of course PUMPKINS! I asked if anyone liked tomaoteos and they alls aid, NO! I asked if they all likesd ketchup. Yes! I told them that before it's ketchup, it's a tomato. They didn't believe me.

There were all sorts of displays, from Disney movies, children's books and cartoons.
Everybody got a small pumpkin to bring home. Only one child refused to go into the inflatable fun house with balloon characters suspended inside. Oh the laughter and squeals as they came around a corner and saw  huge spider, or bumped into an inflated monster. As they exited, the cries rang out, "Can we do that again?"

So, of course, we did.

We walked through the covered garden center with all sorts of displays: gourds and squash in all shapes, sizes, colors and textures. There were purple pumpkins, warty green pumpkins, smooth yellow pumpkins in all sizes, orange ones, of course, most too big to lift.

Most parents accompanied us. I held the hands of two new students whose moms were a bit apprehensive to send their little boys alone on their first field trip. They trusted me to watch their children as if they were my own. Nothing will hurt them, I promised. So I held their hands most of the time.

Then it happened. We walked past one of the motion activated life-size monsters. When Franekenstein opened his mechanical mouth and shouted, Happy Halloween! the two little boys, one from Nepal and one from Bosnia, (so I am sure this was a first experience) nearly jumped into my arms. We were stumbling over each other, screeching, and finally laughing, especially when Frank started singing old time rock and roll songs.

My treat: the afternoon off and I bought three oatmeal butterscotch cookies, two for me and one for my honey. Shh! Don't tell.

Things that go bump in the night

"The dead won't hurt you. It's the living you have to watch out for."
"You know how many dead people are buried in that cemetery?"
"All of them."

Yeah, my dad, lanky as Old Abe, was a real joker. I really wasn't afraid of the ghosts in the cemetery across the street. Although Dad could sure tell some great ghost stories, spell binding stories with amazing sound effects, it was the THING under my bed I feared most. I just knew that thing would grab my foot. That THING made me shiver on the hottest days of summer and tuck my feet under a blanket. That was before air conditioning. In the daylight, I looked under the bed. I knew there was nothing there. But still, that primal fear raged in my terrifed body each night.

My former brother-in-law used to wake up during the night when he was a little boy and scream bloody murder at the THING in the bathroom...which was actually laundry his mom hung on the shower curtain rod. Night after night, he awoke terrified. Night after night, I went to bed terrified.

Even to this day, I have a slight unrealistic fear of hanging my feet off the bed.

What makes you jump with fright? BOO!

 

Just jabbering

My daughter made it home at 4:00 p.m., and I am so relieved. She says she will never board another bus again. I can understand that.

When I lived in Alaska at age 20, we military wives would ride the rickety old Army bus into Fairbanks. The mountainous, two-lane Richardson Highway had no guard rails and sheer drop offs. The bus driver was a young medic from the dispensary who drove like a maniac and told us pregnant women childbirth horror stories. He'd say weird things like, "Did you know that when I take your blood pressure, I could possibly pump that cuff up so tight I could blow your veins?"

I took my students on a field trip last week to a nature center. On the way I noticed a car with Alaska license plates. Coincidentally, the driver's husband was stationed in Fairbanks. We chatted briefly. She said she was one of the last women to deliver her baby in the old hospital where I delivered my daughter. I told her about my horrific experience. She said she completely understood, and that not much had changed. She said they had torn down that hospital and had rebuilt a new one on base. Although it was four decades ago, sometimes it seems like only yesterday I was walking the gravel road to the general store in town. I cocooned in winter darkness.

Tonight there is a meteor shower. I think I'll go take a peek. The weather has gotten a little cooler, which makes for good sleeping but is not good for my appetite. I made zucchini bread with walnuts and blueberries, and also Red Lobster cheddar bay biscuits from a package, and they taste just like them. I had three (OMG 3!) with vegetable beef soup. Winter isn't even here.

 

Leave it to a woman

Forget Uncle Sam; leave it to Old Mom. My daughter and her room mates were accidentally locked out of their rooms for a while today, making life even more miserable for them. The group was hungry, running out of rationed individual snacks that they had brought on their bus trip. Hungry women, hoping to arrive at hotel with meals included, hadn't eaten since Friday morning at 5 a.m.
The monster South Dakota blizzard dumped 33 inches and blew ten feet snow drifts, brought down power lines and closed interstates. Their bus driver headed for the nearest Air Force base yesterday afternoon, and got stuck. Big Dog equipment got them out, twice. They ended up in temporary housing, took a hot shower and waited for the expected hot meal at 5 p.m.  It never arrived. Lost power after dark, tried to sleep, woke hungry, hoped for breakfast. No food arrived. A military airman came by and shared what he had: two bottles of Gatorade.

I went on line and read the chatter: the dining facility on base had run out of hot food and was hoping to get some MREs for the essential personnel who hadn't been furloughed! The women had decided to WALK to the mess hall in a blizzard, but the airman advised otherwise. Power lines down.

I went on Facebook and sent requests to the Colonel, who was probably too busy with troops to be concerned with civillians. So, I appealed to WIVES of airmen. One responded. Coincidentally (or not) she had the same last name as my best friend, Sheila's maiden name. She offered to feed them, but neither she nor the women could travel to one another because of road conditions.

Some angel heard my plea and my daughter said an hour ago an airmen delivered a few MREs for the women to share. Not the roast beef they were craving. A couple of crackers and slice of meat to share will have to do them for the evening. They were expecting to be home Monday. Now they are saying they may not even leave until Tuesday.

I have always been a fixer, and won't take "no" for an answer when I set my mind to something.

I'm half as exhausted as my daughter, I'm sure, but I am ready for bed at 8:00 p.m. I hope she can sleep.
 

Mighty Atlas, settle down!

My daughter, Tracey, was invited at the last minute to attend a church mission trip with one of her girlfriends. It was to be a 14 hour bus ride: leaving at 6:00 p.m. Thursday, arriving in South Dakota at 8:00 a.m. today, Friday. She called me the day the government shut down, all upset that she wouldn't be able to see Mt. Rushmore. That happens to be the least of her worries right now.

This morning she called at 5:00 and said they were stopping for breakfast, but heading into a blizzard with an experienced driver who said their destination was a couple hours away. At 2:00 p.m. the road conditions were so hazardous, and the projected 30 inch snowfall was threatening to close the interstate. They inched along.

Sometime later, due to winter super storm, Atlas, they were diverted to the nearest air force base, where the bus got stuck in the snow. The military sent plows and transported them three at a time to a barracks where they were able to set up for the night. Those who had forged ahead of the bus and made it to the nice hotel they were expecting to be in tonight, called to say that they had lost power. Ice, sleet and snow are pulling down power lines and trees. They also just received word that there are tornadoes wrapped in the blizzard, and they are in a state of emergency and have to stay put, can't even hoof it to the mess hall because of the sleetstorm.

She is glad she brought snacks: craisins, almonds and Mounds bars. At the moment they are sharing what they brought, as they haven't eaten since 5 a.m. I know that girl of mine wishes she would have taken a winter coat (like her mama told her), instead of a lightweight jacket, but I know she will survive and have a tale to tell when she returns. Please keep her and her fellow passengers in your thoughts and prayers. I will update as I know more.
 

Dear Sheila, my best, oldest, dearest friend,

Click on the link to read my latest published story about my oldest, dearest, best friend. That is how I begin each letter to her.

I must tell you, there is another story being spawned, because on the day that I received an acceptance on this story, my friend's husband called to tell me her second brain surgery, 20 years after the first, was a success, and she has reclaimed her speech and is more cognizant.

If you don't mind, would you please take a moment and leave a comment on their website, also? Thank you for your continued support. Sometimes I think I must bore you all with my day to day meanderings. Then every once in a while, I find a gem to share with you such as this magazine essay. Hugs and happiness to each of you.

http://sasee.com/2013/10/01/remember-us-young/

What did you call YOURS?

I am reading an anthology, For She Is The Tree Of Life, Grandmothers Through The Eyes of Women Writers, edited by Vakerie Kack-Brice.

The stories are fascinating and revealing, heart warming and heart wrenching... honestly capturing the essence of a family matriarch.

When I was little, I said it the way I heard it: "lawn-a-mower" and "GrammO." Her front porch steps were as steep as a mountain in my child's eye. When I drove by that house many years later, they were merely standard wooden steps leading into her kingdom, where matronly Miss Frances from the original Ding Ding School taught me lessons via televsion and Howdy Doody and his side kicks ruled. Where a glass of milk was always accompanied by two thick, store-bought, devils food cake cookies with that hard shell coating and a thin film of white icing underneath, or else two Hydrox cookies... no Oreos for GrammO.

Those towering steps led me to a woman who was proud to tell a stranger that I was her first grandchild. Sometimes she told me I was her favorite. Always, she told others. My mom's mother made me feel special.

Not all grandma's leave those impressions. My kids had two grandmas, one loving and kind and one unable to be. They both left their legacies.

Will you share with me a memory you have (or if you never knew her) have heard about your grandmother/s?