Word to your mother...

So, why does this post start off with a picture of Vanilla Ice? Well, it is another memory. No, it doesn't have anything to do with rollin' in my 5.0... or anything do with A1A now that I live in Florida. This has to do with a shovel and my brother.

As I recall, I was maybe 6 or 7 which would make my brother Joe maybe 4 or 5. It was a snowy Pittsburgh night and Dad hadn't gotten home from work yet. So, Mom wanted to clear off some of the driveway so Dad could pull his car in off the street. Joe and I went out with her to "help" in that way that kids do... not really helping but out there with the tools nonetheless. Only, our "children's" shovel was METAL. What do you expect? It was the early 1980s! It had a blue metal scoop, a yellow wooden handle and metal grip on the end. I doubt they make such things these days. But then again, what do I know? I don't have kids and I live in FL.

Anyway, Mom was working on the top "pads" of the driveway while Joe and I were in the back. I had the shovel. I was bigger. I was bossy (still am, but whatever). I knew Joe wanted to use the shovel too, which only made the darn thing more "valuable" to me. Plus, I was doing very important work, clearing this driveway for my daddy. I didn't have time to deal with a little kid wanting to play ;) So, I'm "working", scooping up the snow onto the shovel and throwing it over my shoulder like I saw cartoons (probably Bugs Bunny) do on TV all the while singing "I've been working on the railroad".

Joe still wanted the shovel and started to become very insistent about getting it from me. Although I could hear him behind me, I continued my "work" shoveling and throwing the snow behind me over my shoulder. I can only imagine that at each throw over my shoulder, Joe was grasping at the shovel. I only sung louder and continued shoveling and throwing... until...

DUNNNNNNGGGGGGGG! One of my over-the-shoulder-throws stopped abruptly. Into Joe's face. The edge of the shovel clipped him right through his left eyebrow, stopping eyebrow hair growth even until this day. I still feel bad about it. In the early 90s though, Joe was quite fashionable, when it became "cool" to make designs in your hair and eyebrows a'la Vanilla Ice. I'm sorry, Bro :(

That was the first time I learned the phrase "nuthin' bleeds like a head wound!"

Cream Horns for SAT Scores

I love cream horns. I love the combination of the flaky pastry with the creamy filling. To this day I can't make a pack of 4 last more than about 24 hours if I (finally) find them at my local Publix. Well, maybe not to this day, lately I've been working out and trying to lose weight. But, in days past, this has certainly been true. And, for what it's worth, the cream horns at Publix are way better than the ones at Walmart. But, that's just my opinion.

One celebration I will never forget is the celebration for my SAT results. The story may seem insignificant, but I still remember it vividly, 15 years later.

Prior to the start of my senior year of high school, my mom took a job with Carnegie Mellon University. The incentive was for Mom to get a job at a university that would have some kind of tuition reimbursement for children of staff. When Mom got the job at CMU, I then was given the task of "getting in". I already had the grades and GPA I needed. The last thing left was a good SAT score. A "good SAT score" by CMU standards... Yikes!

The first time I took the SATs I didn't score well AT ALL. Embarrassingly poorly, actually. Nowhere near the score I would need to get into CMU. Thankfully, that first round was taken with enough time. So, my parents enrolled me in an SAT class at the local community college to help me better prepare. I was really nervous taking the test the second time around. There wasn't enough time with the second round. I had to get it right the second time. And, to be frank, there was no reason I shouldn't score poorly. I was a smart kid, in mostly AP or Honors classes. I got great grades... just "froze up" with that first SAT try.

The morning of the second test, I remember my mom waking me up early and gave me two Tylenol to "take the edge off". Mom was good for that kind of stuff. She played classical/instrumental music while I ate my breakfast and she made me tea to get some caffeine into me to help wake me up and keep me on my toes for the next few hours of testing I was up against.

This second try at the SATs had one significant difference than the first time... I was in a cast. On my right hand. A soccer injury I suffered during the season (the first season of girl's soccer EVER for Steel Valley, thankyouverymuch!). I remember during the regular school year my mom would help me with my notes in the evenings. I would take these awful notes during class, and when I came home, my mom would type them for me on the computer that very night (when they were still fresh in my mind) so I could go back and read them again days later. I also remember my BFF Lauren coloring in teeny tiny sections of pictures of the human brain and other body parts and labeling them for me (as well as her own) during our Anatomy & Physiology class because my dexterity was so poor there was no way I could do that myself and stay in the lines accurately. But, I digress...

When I showed up for the exam, I remember the proctor in the room I was in making a comment that maybe I should re-think taking the exam that day... that if I were right handed (which I am), it would be too difficult with the cast to last the duration of the test. He also tried to look inside the cast to see if I had any cheat sheets. Dude, I grew up in a Catholic school. I don't think I knew what a cheat sheet was! Cheating was lying and lying was a sin. Nope, no cheat sheets. Maybe a few broken pieces of uncooked spaghetti (this was what my mom used to scratch under the cast for me when I really complained... pretty good idea if you think about it... uncooked spaghetti couldn't break through the skin, and if a piece broke off it wouldn't do much - but again, I digress...).

Oh, my hand lasted through that exam... so did my bladder! I remember that in the 4 hours of the exam (or however long it took), I never once left my seat. Not for ANY of the breaks they gave us, not for anything. I was in the zone.

When the exam was over, I was picked up by my parents (honestly, I don't remember who picked me up - probably my mom) and anxiously asked how I did. I wasn't sure (although I probably did a lot of dramatic eye rolling and hand gesturing to show that I was over-anxious myself and how dare they ask me such a question).

Pins and needles were arranged everywhere I went for the next few weeks as we awaited the results of the exam. I remember when the letter came in the mail. I remember the whole family being in the little kitchen, eager to hear the score. I opened the letter and read the numbers... excitement spread across my face I'm sure. I did it. I got over the requirement for the university. I DID IT! Everyone was so happy, but Dad was the only one who gave me a present. Who else do you know got a present when they got their SAT scores back?

In jubilation, I remember my dad opening the cabinets above the stove. Out fell three packs of cream horns... a WHOLE PACK EACH of strawberry, chocolate and vanilla! They were my "reward" from my dad of a job well done. Kel-kel did it. The last piece of the puzzle to get into CMU was finally in place.

Men's Shorts - An Intervention

Everyone's parents embarrasses them at some point in time. Especially when you are a pre-teen or teenager. Those are difficult years, aren't they? I can remember being MORTIFIED by my dad's maroon shorts. Everytime he wore them, I would try to think of any way possible to pretend that I didn't even know him, let alone admit he was my father. This was difficult to do when you were in the same house, on the same driveway, on the same porch or otherwise. These shorts were *short*. I mean REALLY short. Not quite Daisy Dukes, but believe me when I say that they were short. "Say no to crack" ... anyone?

Dad would wear these shorts around the house while doing chores. I don't think he ever really wore them out of the house... at least not often. I'm sure my mom would have had something to say about that. Oh, how my mother and I hated those shorts.

I remember one summer when I was in high school, I was helping my mom and dad work on the "circle" in the front yard. This was what we affectionately called the front half-moon shaped flowerbed that was on the left hand side of the house (when your back is to the street), and under the long lower awning.

This flower bed had two large azalea bushes that over time had grown together making it look like one large bush. I really liked that azalea bush... in the spring, it used to bloom pink flowers, and (I think) in the fall we used to cut it back so it was in the proper "hotdog bun" shape that we loved.

I think this was the year that my parents were putting in the "railroad ties" around the circle, with my dad custom cutting the long planks of curved side wood in short angled sections to best fit that half-moon shape. Those railroad ties also were put along both side flower beds as well, but this story took place during the work on the front flowerbed.

Dad had the saw in the front yard, and was cutting the wood as he went. This was a fairly hot summer day and Dad didn't have a shirt on (fairly common for when he was working in the yard). He had on his maroon short-shorts, a grungy ball cap with a pencil that he used to mark his cutting lines shoved up into the cap near his temple. As he worked, he was often on all fours, crawling around to get things. He was using a seat cushion to buffer his knees from the ground.

"Working with Dad" was often a challenging task. He was very meticulous about how he wanted to do something, and was often quite impatient. He would start off asking for a tool or for you to get him some other supply, and time after time we would bring him the wrong thing. "If you guys would spend more time with your old man, you would know more about tools and what I'm looking for!" he would often complain. I'm sure it was trying for him to ask for whatever tool he wanted, using the proper name for that tool, describing the color and size of it and even giving us an idea of where on his garage-wide tool bench it would be located (there were thousands of tools) only to have us bring back the wrong tool, wrong color, wrong size, found on the opposite side of the tool bench.

Needless to say, over the duration of the task, Dad would become frustrated with our "help" that he would become frustrated and even angry, grumbling around, sometimes tossing a tool or two "if I have to come and find it myself...". Usually after a little while, this frustration and tension would break and things would be lighthearted again. Reducing us "helpers" into puddles of giggles and laughter with Dad joining in, laughing at the tension from just moments before.

It was at one of these tension-passed-lighthearted times during this railroad ties in the front circle project that my mom and I caught each other's eyes after noticing that each other were seeing the same sight. There was Dad, on his hands and knees, sweat dripping from his brow, cutting or fitting the next railroad tie. From the front, here was a hard working man trying to finish a challenging job. But we weren't looking at him from the front. In front of him was the half moon flower bed. Mom and I were behind him... watching Dad... and a good 3" of cleavage... from behind. We stifled snickers and giggles as best we could.

We continued to help him, but the giggles came harder and harder, rattling our bodies and bringing tears to our eyes. Finally Dad caught on that we were laughing, although I don't know if he knew initially that we were laughing at him. Smiling at us, "What?? What's so funny?" Between giggles "your..." "shorts..." "see..." "butt...". Smiling his million dollar smile that I love, mouth gaping open, with just a bit of teeth showing on both the top and bottom, Dad kind of blushed and tried to yank up the shorts in the back while still sitting. I think he tried to gauge if we were lying or not when he tried to pull them up too... but the yank didn't work. Those darn shorts were so short and ill-fitting that no amount of jostling would fix them.

The remainder of that project was many laughs and giggles from me and my mom as Dad scooted around the circle fitting in and securing each railroad tie. The entire time, my mom and I were threatening my dad that we were going to take those shorts away from him, donating them or maybe burning them to ensure he wouldn't EVER wear them again. Each time we threatened, Dad protested. He liked the shorts. He didn't see anything wrong with them (maybe he liked the breeze?).

Finally... a few weeks (maybe months?) later I took matters into my own hands. In the time between the front circle project and this next event, there was LOTS of talk about the maroon shorts. Each time my mom or I would see Dad in them, we would tease him about how we were going to get rid of them. Dad couldn't do much about Mom, but he would threaten me with my allowance, or letting me go out with friends, or giving me more chores if we threw out the shorts. That didn't deter me.

I didn't have the courage to actually throw them out, burn them or donate them... but I did have the guts to hide them. Being a good Catholic girl, I wouldn't lie about the situation. If asked about nearly ANYTHING, I would always tell the truth. Still do. I tend to be brutally honest, often at the expense of people's feelings. Just the way I am.

I hid the shorts behind the "hunting cabinet" in the basement. This was a large armoire type piece of furniture that my dad and brother stored all of their hunting gear. There was just enough space (and my arm was skinny enough at the time) for me to tuck those shorts as far as my arm would reach back behind the cabinet, but also close enough to the wall that by balling up the shorts, I was able to snugly cram them there so that they would be forever suspended between the chest and the wall. I want to say that I did this in the fall/winter time frame so that Dad would not be looking for those shorts for some time. But, shortly after the leaves started to bud on the trees and the weather warmed up, Dad had a reason to wear the shorts and went looking for them.

Initially, he wasn't so suspicious because it had been a while since had worn them, but eventually the questions came more and more often. Dad would ask "did you throw those shorts out?" or "did you donate those shorts?" I could honestly answer "no" each time. Eventually he stopped asking about them. YEARS later, maybe when they decided to paint the basement, I don't know, I don't think I was living at home anymore, they moved the hunting chest. Dad found his shorts. But, I don't think I've seen him wear them. I wonder if Mom was finally able to donate them?

Great-Grandma Used to "Fry" Japanese Beetles

My Great-Grandma McElhinny lived until I think she was 94. She was a spitfire of a little lady and I'm blessed to say I knew her. Not many of my friends knew KNEW their Great-Grandma. I think I was 12 when she died.

When I was really young she lived in (crap, can't remember - need to ask Mom/Dad) in what I remember to be in the top level of a duplex. As she got older and needed more full-time help, she moved in with my Great Aunt Rita. Aunt Rita was the youngest of her 12 children and lived on the street behind my parent's house. I remember occasionally walking up to visit, or on Saturday or Sunday afternoons my mom would bring her to our house for the afternoon and dinner and then take her home later to give my Aunt Rita a break.

I remember Grandma (we just called her "Grandma" to her face) liked to sit on the front porch of my parent's house. the porch spans the entire width of the front of the house and is a great porch. It is brick and carpeted (with outdoor "carpet") and has always had comfy furniture. I remember bringing Grandma my Cabbage Patch Kids and other baby dolls for her to hold, and she would sit and rock them while she was out there, and I would show off in the front yard doing whatever kind of "gymnastics" I had learned (note, the quotes around gymnastics... they really were necessary).

I don't think they still have the same kind of problem with Japanese beetles now, I'm not sure why they would just go away, but I don't hear my mom complain about them anymore... nor do I see the "Bag-a-bug" thingy hanging in people's yards on my parent's street like we used to see when I was a kid. But, needless to say, my parent's yard had trouble with these Japanese beetles. I remember picking them out of the yard with my mom and throwing them into the Bag-a-bug to "kill" them. They had these greenish/blue wings on their backs and prickly little black legs that would kind of stick to your fingers. They were just gross.

Great-Grandma HATED these bugs. God bless her, I remember her, at eightysomething, stooping over in the front yard and picking these suckers outta the grass. Great-Grandma was hardcore. No Bag-a-bug for her! I remember picking these bugs out of the yard with her one day and she told me to go get a cup from the basement and fill it with bleach. Being a respectful and obedient little kid, I obliged, thinking on my trip down the driveway to the garage that Great Grandma might be crazy. I didn't know what she wanted with the bleach, and I couldn't understand why she was carrying around 10+ beetles and not putting them in the Bag-a-bug like my mom used to do.

I came back to the front yard with the cup full of bleach (I think I used a cup that my dad used to brush his teeth down in the basement... what did I know? I was a kid!). I handed her the cup, and she took the cup in her free hand and with the other hand, a fist full of beetles, shook that fist vigorously for a few seconds. Then, when she was convinced that the beetles were sufficiently scrambled and dizzy, she chucked the contents of her fist into the cup with the bleach and began to swirl the liquid dotted with bugs around. The beetles, dazed from the shaking, weren't able to escape. They sizzled and bubbled like they were frying in the bleach.

I was shocked. Here was this little old religious lady, a few stitches of curls on the top of her head, in a dress with pantyhose (or at least knee highs), permanently hunched over due to a spine problem, glasses with lenses like Coke bottles savagely shaking the crap outta beetles and sizzling them to their death. Rock on, Great Grandma! I love you!

Blog Update

So, I've decided to combine this blog back with my book and garden blogs. So, I will no longer have those separated out. However, I will still have my crochet blog and my jewelry blog separate.

Since I post a lot on my Facebook page, I thought I'd get better about posting more detailed things here. A little while back I started writing down memories of mine...

Since I've been swimming again, I find myself with a lot of time to think about stuff. Swimming takes me back to high school. I loved high school. I have so many fond memories from my years at Steel Valley. Thinking back that far, I tend to go back even further to my memories of St. Therese, and even earlier than that. I wanted to start to capture these memories in written form. We don't know how long we will be on this earth. Although I have no intention of leaving anytime soon (my plan is to be a crazy crocheting old lady burden to my children and even grandchildren someday), I thought it would be good to write down my memories and stories as they come to me.

The idea for documenting my memories/stories has always been in my head in some form or another, but was really sparked by my post when Michael Jackson died and I posted about my memories of him earlier on this blog.

When I post them, the stories written here are the way I remember them to be. I apologize if I've missed some details or got some of them wrong. I've tried to capture them as accurately as I can. If you strongly disagree with something I've written, by all means, please email me or leave me a comment.