Shut Up, Katie!

A few evenings ago, I attended a cookout hosted by a good friend. As we were finishing our meal, my friend's two darling daughters were amiably chatting with us all when Katie suddenly made fun of something Emily had said. Emily, who is three years younger than Katie, then retorted with a heated, vehement, and seemingly long-withheld “Shut up, Katie!!”

Now, this type of thing isn’t that uncommon. Siblings do bicker and bash at each other as they traverse the family terrain, trying to find a place for themselves. What makes this incidence a bit more unusual (and a lot funnier) is that Katie is 34 and a married mother of one, and Emily is 31 and in graduate school.

I wasn’t surprised though, as similar flare-ups happen any time my family is together, and my own kids are 36, 34, and 26. Although I continually assure each of them that I love them best and remind them not to tell the others, they still act like, well, like children, when we are all together. They tell me they are fine with neither their father nor I in the room, so it’s obviously the parents and not the kids who are the problem.

I remember my mother telling me that the optimal age difference in siblings is three years. That's probably because that's the rate at which she birthed my brother and me. According to my mother's rule, Melissa and Billy, my first two, were born too close together and poor Molly was so far behind, some people forget that there ever was a third Talbert kid.

There's been all sorts of research on siblings and birth order, but I have my own theory. I believe if everyone were first born, we would certainly accomplish a lot, but we'd also have an exponential increase in wars, along with a veritable pandemic of hostile buyouts and acquisitions. The problem with birthing only first borns might explain the issues the rest of the world has with China, situations solely caused by its one-child policy.

If the world were made up of only last borns, nothing would ever get done, other than an increased proliferation of stand-up comedy, minimalist art, and blogging. Last borns tend to be sidewinders who would perfect the notion of doing their own thing if it wasn't just too much trouble. I am a good example of a last born.

Middle children? These peacemakers just might save us all if they could possibly extricate themselves from the center of their own family's issues.

I guess it's a good thing that accidents happen to all families (except in China) and that we can't always predict which offspring will arrive when. As science gets closer and closer to allowing people to perfectly engineer the genetic make up of their children, I hope we remember this.

But then again, maybe it's the learning to deal with a sibling, or a cousin or perhaps a second-grade classmate, even if the little pain in the ass was created from carefully-selected egg and sperm donors, that prepares us all to have the skills, wherewithal, and stamina to survive in the adult world.

So, a "Shut up, Katie!!" from a 31-year-old little sister probably isn't such a bad thing after all.

Stuck!

Those of us who live in modern times all know the feeling. There we are, moving along nicely on an interstate highway, listening to All Things Considered on NPR and thinking about how much gas we’re burning, when we suddenly see that dreaded brake-light illumination that adorns the horizon like Christmas twinklers in a slasher movie. It’s what’s euphemistically known as traffic congestion. Sometimes, it’s just a police car parked on the side of the road simply to piss people off; sometimes it’s something more serious like a wreck. But more often that not, it’s that worst of worst-case scenarios: the road repaving project. 

The most annoying thing about a road repaving project is that you can’t even spend any of the many hours sitting idly, while your speedometer never rises above zero, feeling sorry for the poor people whose bad luck caused it all.  As my son, Billy says, if he's stuck in traffic for an inordinate amount of time, he'd better at least see a car on fire.

That’s what happened to me the other night. The the stuck in traffic, not the car on fire.

I was driving back to Atlanta after attending my daughter Molly's Master's graduation in Milledgeville, which is about 100 miles away.  From the onset, I need to say that I no longer have any business driving after dark, especially on roads I don't know.  The first part of my journey had been pretty perilous, with me white knuckling an erratic 55 on a two-lane road while everyone else wanted to drive 70, headlights and tail lights blinding my poor old eyes. So, when I finally merged onto I-20, I was relieved.  The lighting was better and there were lanes for everyone to pass me by with fewer histrionics and birds being shot.

Speaking of driving after dark, I very seldom do it as I usually go to bed before the sun goes down, at least in all months other than December, January, and February.  People who know me well know this about me and have learned not to call me after 7:30 pm.  So, there I was that night, not only driving after dark, but also awake after dark.  You know, it's really dark out there after dark.

Back to I-20 West heading into Atlanta.  It was about 10 PM, two hours after my bedtime, but I was tooling along, making good time, listening to a riveting Rodgers and Hammerstein retrospective and lip-synching to Some Enchanted Evening, just twenty miles from home.  That's when I noticed a couple of tail lights, nothing to worry about, probably just a geezer like me driving in the left lane.  In fact, I liked the slowdown so I could smirk in the dark at all of the whippersnappers who had so rudely passed me miles back.

Two hours later, I was no longer smirking and boy did I have to pee. There I was in my little Corolla, inching forward one or two wheel rotations every couple of minutes,  totally surrounded by huge semis, absolutely imprisoned in a jungle of asphalt, fenders, and fumes.

It's interesting that these "traffic congestions" happen all the time these days and the highway hostages pretty much comport themselves with patience and grace, to the point of letting all those fools who think they can get ahead by driving on the shoulder ultimately merge in at that last stupid minute, nobody shooting each other or even honking. It's as if everyone is too miserable to dream up anything dastardly.  

And so, after almost two hours, it was twelve o'clock, a time of dark I haven't seen in years, and we finally arrived at and passed by those midnight warriors, people who work in the midst of the fumes and misery and dirty looks, and no escape themselves, to keep our roads pot-hole free and drivable for everyone, including slow drivers with bad night vision like me.

I finally made it home safe and somewhat sound, thanks to well-paved roads and people who are willing to stay up late and work in the dark.  I guess that's as good a reason for traffic congestion as a car on fire.

Looking for Junanto: Shipping Out

If you saw my earlier introduction,* you know that my mother had decided to join the Army and was headed to Texas, not Michigan or Washington, for her physical therapy training.  I believe it was some time in the  summer of 1942.  As you read this, you'll notice a common theme to my mother's experiences during that time, the summer she turned 25, and that theme was "men."  

She was young, pretty, unencumbered, and looking for adventure.

Part of my mother's Army training, apparently.

Mama is in the front with the cowboy

So you went to Texas. Was that San Antonio?

Yes, Fort Sam Houston

And how long were you there?

A little over a year.

Was the training hard?

It was interesting.

What was life like there? Did you have fun?

Fun.

Were there a lot of soldiers?

Yeah. Of course, we weren't supposed to date anybody but officers. But we did.

Were you commissioned immediately?

No, we had to complete the program. We finished in late August and the next day, we signed up for the army and got our commissions.

Where did you live during your training?

On the base. They were wooden barracks. We left within a couple of weeks of our completion of the course. We sat around in San Francisco for a couple of weeks, getting clothing. They gave us cold weather clothing and told us we were going to Alaska. 

And so, my mother thought her grand adventure would be in Alaska.  I have no idea why Army troops were being sent to Alaska, but, no matter, because Alaska is not where she ended up.

When we finally left and got on our ship with our stuff, we were the first ship that ever went over without an accompanying gunboat. We went down past the tip of South America and then turned west and came up at the bottom of New Zealand and then up the Australian coast.

When did you know you were going to Australia?

When we got there.

You really didn't know where you were?

No.

Didn't that drive you crazy?

No. I was a lark! Everyday something different, and somebody different.

So, how many women were on this ship and how many men?

Probably about 100 women and 1000 men.

You were probably sorry when you got there!

By then, I was dating the merchant marine man that was head of, let's see what his job was on the ship. Head of all the mechanics.

How did you date on the ship?

Just like any place else. There was one place where we got together every night. The fellow that I ended up dating could really play the piano and we sang with the piano.

Could you drink?

If you had it, you could.

Did you stop in a port ever?

No, not until we hit Brisbane.

How did you take on fuel?

I guess we carried enough. I can't remember how many people it was supposed to carry.

I remember that you had 4 times as many people as you were supposed to. Did you all just have a tiny little space?

We had cabins, 3 tier bunks, 3 of them, 9 girls to a room. And you couldn't get down and get dressed except one at a time, so you sat on your bunk and you pulled on your under clothes and then you took your turn to come down. We did have a bathroom, a pretty good size one. But it had salt water in it, no fresh water.

Where did you store your stuff?

In the hold of the ship. We were allowed to keep a musette bag, that you hung over your shoulders, but your bedrolls and your foot lockers were in the hold.

Food.

Two meals a day. And I was one of the few women that ever went to eat. The rest of them were so seasick. I've never been seasick.

The food was ok.

Yep. It was good. It was hearty.

You all didn't have any work to do on that ship. Wasn't there anything they wanted you to do?

No, 23 days. It was getting kind of boring toward the end. We played cards.

The men, did they have stuff to do or were they just being transported?

They made up stuff for them to do. They assigned them things to check on this, check on that. But see, we didn't have anybody to lead us. We could do whatever we pleased. We had dietitians, physical therapists, and nurses.

Did you just have physical therapists rooming with you?

We had some dietitians and maybe a couple of nurses.

So, you got off in Brisbane?

Yes

I bet you were excited.

We wanted to see what was next. And we arrived Christmas Eve day. 

Note:  I looked up Alaska during WWII and found these resources from Amazon:

Thousand-Mile War: World War II in Alaska and the Aleutians (Classic Reprint Series)Thousand-Mile WarReport from the Aleutians: World War II Documentary [VHS]

ALEUTIAN ISLANDS CAMPAIGNStepping Stones to Nowhere: The Aleutian Islands, Alaska, and American Military Strategy ...

You can, of course, just google it for free.
*Thanks to my friend, Cile, for the idea of linking my intro here.  Duh!

Clapping: Old People’s Answer to Gettin’ Down

A couple of Christmases ago, the second grade classes at my school went to see an abridged adaptation of the Nutcracker at the Fox Theater in downtown Atlanta. Before the ballet began, a rather peppy man played rousing Christmas tunes on the big old pipe organ there and I clapped along to the music, having myself a merry olde tyme. Eventually, I noticed that I was just about the only person clapping.

My students certainly weren’t clapping. They were too busy checking the bottoms of the seats for old chewing gum and pretending to have to go to the bathroom. My young colleagues weren’t clapping either. They were checking Facebook for status updates on their new-fangled phones.

That’s when I realized that I was officially and certifiably old.

Since then, I’ve begun clapping to all kinds of music in all kinds of places, but the place I like to clap best is all by myself in my easy chair as I watch TV. I clap when I hear the theme music on Friends re-runs, but, then again, who doesn’t clap to that?  Even the Friends themselves clap at one point in the song.  My current favorite clapping tune, however, is the theme from Property Virgins on HGTV.  It requires a kind of syncopated clapping, or what I like to call Advanced Elderly Clapping.  Whippersnappers are not equipped to perform AEC; they just don't have enough life experience.  Nor do they have the necessary gnarled digits.

Since I live in a small condo with a shared outside entry, I do wonder what my young neighbor thinks when he arrives home from work, with plans for his evening in his Blackberry, a twelve pack under his arm, and me happily clapping on the other side of my door.

But before my neighbor or any of my young friends or family members snicker derisively about  how pitiful (yet rhythmically gifted) I am, I need to inform them that the good news for me (and for them too at some future point) is that I am, at my advanced age, just as happy, and in some cases, even happier than I was back in the day when I was chasing the perfect tan, the good-enough man,  the cutest shoes, the newest diet, and the American Dream.

Nowadays, what I have is pretty much what I want and I no longer feel the need to make my mark on the world.  All I'm chasing these days are my current interests, what I'm going to eat for my Early Bird Dinner, and that new Kraft Philly Cheese commercial with the perfect beat for a spirited clapping session.

Introduction to Looking for Junanto

 

 Mama in Arizona, Summer of 1941

Looking for Junanto is the story my mother’s life from December 7, 1941, the day Japanese forces attacked Pearl Harbor, to February 12, 1946, the day she married my father. I’m going to tell it in parts, so as not to overwhelm you with too much to read at one time, or me with too much to think about and organize. Some of it will be in her words, from a taped interview I did with her on New Year's Day, 2000.   The rest will be my interpretation of what her life was like, based on family lore and photographs I’ve inherited. The title comes from the word Junanto, which was written on the back of several of the more interesting photographs. It's a word my mother never used in describing that time and it's a word for which Google was of no help.

Below is from Mama directly:

Well, Pearl Harbor happened. Like everybody, I was shocked to death. I was in Jerome (living at home with her parents in Arizona) and teaching school. We heard it early Sunday morning on the radio. I think I was sewing. And, of course, I had no idea of anything that I was going to do. I was anxious to do something, anything, besides live at home.  Going back to Jerome had probably been s stupid thing to do.

Some time in the early spring, they began talking about training people for different things, and one of them was Physical Therapy. You see, I was teaching physical education and the requirement to take the physical therapy program was that you had a degree in physical education or you were a degree nurse. I read about it first in my professional magazine, and so I think I wired, you didn't telephone then. I sent a telegram asking for further information. They told me I could go to a school in Michigan, Ann Arbor. It wasn't the University. It was a school that was run by Sister Kenny; she was a physical therapist who went from England to Australia, and then she came to the United States. She was the originator of physical therapy in the United States. She had a training program. Anyway, I considered going there, and about that time I heard about the Army program, which was free. And we were to be paid - a pittance - while we were in training. 

The first time that I applied, they told me that I couldn't see well enough, and with almost return mail, they sent me a wire and said that it didn't matter whether I could see or not. They told me to report to Washington, DC, a hospital there, almost immediately. Then the next telegram said that they were starting a school in Texas and for me to go to Texas, so I did. But I didn't go until about the middle of the summer. That's when I ended up in Texas at Fort Sam Houston. There were five of us; we were the first class.

So, it seems that my mother joined the Army and began a journey that took her to places I've certainly never been because she was living at home after college and was bored. That, in turn, led to the life she lived for the next five years and ultimately to her marriage to my father and the births of my brother and me.

What if my mother had loved living with her parents after college?  What if she'd done her training in Washington instead of Texas?  What if her eyesight had, in fact, been her undoing when it came to joining the Army?

Our very existence, it seems, is based so precariously on some things falling apart and other things coming together. 

And most likely, in many cases, boredom.

Marcia's Spring Break Adventure: Part 6 -What I learned along the way

 McCormick and his Reaper

I just got home and am happy to be here, but the trip was fantastic and my hands weren't nearly as sweaty driving back as they were driving there, so I guess by using it, I didn't lose it.  And other than proving to myself (and the general driving public) that I can still navigate long distances, I also learned the following along the way:

• It took eight states to get me where I was going and back.  Those states, in order of when I first encountered them, are Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and South Carolina.  Tennessee and West Virginia were surprises as I didn't pay very close attention to the map.
• Cyrus McCormick, the inventor of the mechanical reaper, actually had a farm and it still exists in either North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, or South Carolina.  Again, I really had no idea where I was for much of my trip (Thanks to Tom).
• I tend to have to pee about every two hours.
• Whereas when I was younger and a trucker honked at me, I knew he was flirting.  Now, it means I've left my trunk open.
• There was an NPR station available during the entire five days I was traveling in all eight states, and, except for all that time they wasted playing classical music, I was mightily educated and entertained.  I've never been happier to be a liberal.
• My hair has more volume up north than it does down south, which is a surprise because of the humidity we have.  For the middle part of my trip, I looked like I'd been involved in an unfortunate vacuum cleaner accident.
• My brother is much richer than I am.
• My friend, Nancy, is a better hostess than I am.
• No matter what Tom says, I should never, ever drive 55 miles per hour in the left lane of the Capital Beltway during rush hour.
• Extra large panties fit me quite well, although I believe spring colors make my butt look smaller.
• And finally, I don't think Tom and I will make it as a couple.  Toward the end of our trip, I could detect the tiniest little whine in his voice when I didn't do exactly what he said.  I don't want to get to the point in our relationship where he starts telling me which way the stove is (turn right and turn right again) so I can fry him up some bacon and hash browns.  I think it would be best if we are just traveling buddies.

Bottom line, I'm proud I did it and proud that I lived to tell about it, and I'm proud to have all of you friends who went along for the ride with me.

Marcia’s Marvelous Spring Break Adventure: Part 5 - What I'll remember

 

Kutzville Nancy and her home

Greetings from Wytheville, VA. I just had dinner at the Sagebrush Steakhouse and Saloon. I had the Sagebrush Salad.  

If you think you somehow happened upon my post from Monday again, you didn't.  I'm staying at the same motel and I ate at the same restaurant and I ordered exact same meal.

Someone pointed out earlier this week that I might not be the most spontaneous of people.  I can't imagine where she got that idea.  After all, on Monday, I stayed in Room 112.  Tonight I'm across the hall in Room 111 and everything is backwards!  Not that I noticed.

Anyway, since part of the purpose of my trip was to get out of my rut (and I think I've proved that), and to create memories, below are some of the things I'll remember:

• my brother looking healthy and happy and anticipating his future with his family and his retirement (which I'll believe when I see it) and spending time with my sister-in-law, Katherine, and my all-grown-up niece, Taylor,
• visiting with my friend, Nancy, and talking about writing and teaching and learning and being who we are no matter how crazy we may look to others and staying at the beautiful and oh-so-Nancy home she has created for herself,
• talking to Molly each day at noon as she was on her way to teach her English classes for her internship and hearing the excitement in her voice as she takes the plunge into what will most likely be her life,
• wishing my grandson, Miles, a happy 4th birthday and talking to his mother, my daughter, on the phone, and hearing that Mile's sister, Georgia (my granddaughter), had yogurt up her nose and that Miles' birthday is being held at a bowling alley, and being happy I'm too old to raise kids;
• participating in a virtual high five with my son, Billy, as he broke the news of his raise at work and shared a picture of his daughter (my granddaughter), Cami, eating sushi with real chopsticks,
• the freedom of a long drive and having the time to think and plan and look at this beautiful country of ours,
• and the realization that I can still find my way - even if I do need the help of a friend like Tom.

Tomorrow is the last day of my trip and it's a good thing because I'm almost out of my new spring extra large underwear.  

So bare with me.  Just one more report from the road.

Marcia's Spring Break Adventure: Part 4 -Why I can't live up north

So far on this trip, I've mispronounced several important words.  Yesterday, when talking to my niece, Taylor, about her annual Robert Burns birthday celebration, I called haggis hoggis.  Now, I know haggis is made out of a sheep's innards and not a pig's belly, but we don't talk about haggis (or Robert Burns) very much in the South so my mouth couldn't remember how to say it right.

Then later, when we went out to eat at a high falutin Eyetalian restaurant (one I even had to change out of my t-shirt for), I called gnocchi no-chi instead of no-kee.  I bet I could have gotten the word nooky right but that never came up as we were discussing just what wine went with what en-tray.

This morning, while driving with my boyfriend, Tom, I got pretty excited when I saw the name of a town in Maryland that I thought was Cockeyesville.   But when I stopped and asked the rather uppety sales clerk about it, she said that the town's name isn't pronounced cock-eyes-ville.  It's cockysville, which I think is maybe even funnier, although she didn't.

I've decided, however, not to worry about my verbal blunders as I believe they are part of my charm.  Plus, we Georgians are known for mispronouncing many things, including our cities and towns.  For, example, we pronounce Cairo as Karo (like the syrup) and Vienna as Vi-enna (like the sausage).    Even when we don't mispronounce places, we like to have fun with them.  For example,  in  the South Georgia town of Climax, folks like to watch the yankees drive through the town limits over and over again for that multiple Climax experience.  They also like to give their satisfied visitors a speeding ticket each trip just as a reminder of their good time.

One thing I have loved up here in the Great Far North is the college town of Kutztown, Pennsylvania, where my friend, Nancy, lives and where I'm reclining as I blog.  Pronounced koot as in book, not kut as in but, it's just about the cutest little college town I've ever seen.  I would stay  and enjoy it a bit longer but it's just above 30 degrees here in April and I left my heavy jacket back where we were hanging out and talking about  how to pronounce haggis, so I guess I'll start heading home tomorrow.

Kutztown, Pennsylvania, home of Kutztown University

Travels with Tom - Part 3

Tom and I made it to Bethesda pretty well, although we took a tour of the Dolly Madison Highway somewhere in Langley, Virginia, home of the CIA, which was not supposed to be part of the route.  I have to admit that it was all my fault and not Tom's, although sometimes I just wish he would say, "Okay, dumbass, four hundred yards doesn't mean the very next driveway."  I have learned when he quips, "Take a left turn and then another left turn," what he really means is "Turn around, idiot."  I guess I'm just not used to men with good manners.

Speaking of the few men with good manners, my brother and his family are fine.   We had a nice dinner in Potomac, Maryland, and then we spent a while reminiscing about times gone by, which was a lot of fun.

This morning, Tom and I are on our way to Kutztown to see Nancy.  That's if I can find some gas first.  I bet there are some gas stations on the Dolly Madison Highway, but then again, I'm not sure if the CIA will be comfortable with my visiting them again quite so soon.

Spring Break Travelogue – Part 2

 

Greetings from Wytheville, VA. I just had dinner at the Sagebrush Steakhouse and Saloon. I had the Sagebrush Salad.

But my big news is that I’m in love! I never thought it could happen at this point in my life.  No, I didn’t meet some cowboy at the Sagebrush and then bring him back to the Best Western. My new love is Tom! Remember Jeff’s friend Tom-Tom? Tom and I are now on a first name basis. It took a while for me to trust him. At first, I cast him aside, but he hung in there and got me through some tough times – like the Asheville Bypass. Holy Cow! I would’ve never made it without him.

Tom is a little insecure. He becomes a bit insistent when I veer off course to stop at a McDonald’s to go to the bathroom. “Turn around at your next opportunity” is what he says. Pretty cute, huh? At first, he clung to my windshield but I finally put him in my lap where he seemed pretty happy.  Tom has made me see that I can still navigate the world as long as he's with me.  We make a great team.

I can’t wait until tomorrow when Tom and I head up I-81 to Bethesda to meet my family. Until then, I wonder if he likes spring colors in extra-large cotton underwear. 

I hope he doesn’t snore.

Marcia’s Marvelous Spring Break Adventure: A Travelogue – Part 1

Under the category of Use It or Lose It, I’ve decided to spend my Spring Break navigating my way from Atlanta, via the Blue Ridge Parkway, to Bethesda, Maryland to see my brother and his family and then up to Kutztown, Pennsylvania to visit my friend, Nancy, who professes at the college there.

The young people I teach, and teach with, are traveling to exotic and thrilling places like Turks and Caicos, Jamaica, and Costa Rica. But, for me at my advanced age and level of disrepair, Bethesda and Kutztown are about as exotic as I can stand, especially since just getting to and from work via I-75 has become a thrill ride for me every day .

My plan is to take two days to get to Bethesda and two days to get back from Kutztown, leaving on Monday and returning home on Friday and spending one night with my brother’s family and one night with Nancy. This is because, like seafood, I start to stink after about twelve hours, and also so I can stop and smell the diesel fumes along the way.

After spending many hours with the Google Maps people, I’m either almost ready to go or so stressed out I’m going to have a stroke before I get out of my parking lot. Then there’s the Tom-Tom my friend, Jeff, lent me. When he first asked if I wanted to borrow it, I thought he was referring to a small drum I could use should I need entertainment or to send an SOS when I become lost in the Nantahala National Forest or on the Capital Beltway. But no, it’s a GPS doodad, although I must say that, after messing with it for quite a while and having it talk to me in that fake Australian accent, I’m sort of wishing for the drum.

This is what I've packed so far:

• three 12-packs of Diet Coke (after all, I'll be gone for five whole days!)
• my Kindle
• the new cotton underwear I bought at Target.  I got size 8, which is extra large.  I could have probably done with just regular large but I wanted to be comfortable.  I do hope my traveling pants don't fall down around my ankles when I step away from the Corolla to snap a photo.  By the way, all five pairs are done up in spring colors, which I think adds a certain flair to my trip.

 When I leave in the morning, I hope to have packed a few more things, including clothes, deodorant, shoes, my camera, and laptop.  I plan to write an update each evening, based on my still being alive and internet access.

Speaking of planning, which the older I get the more I do, I asked my young Tom-Tom-less friend, Jeff, where he was going for spring break.  He said he might or might not head to New Orleans, depending on whether or not something better came along.  I spent a month planning a trip to Kutztown, Pennsylvania and Jeff hasn't decided yet if he will go to New Orleans tomorrow.

That's one of the many differences between Jeff and me.