I just joined the "You Know You're From Chattanooga if...." group on Facebook and I'm having a blast. One of the posts has been about the pediatricians of long ago. There must have been only a handful of them around when I was growing up because the same names keep getting mentioned over and over and over again.
Our family pediatrician was Stewart Smith. I think, with four kids (everybody had four kids back then) always needing something checked or fixed, my mother could drive to his office blindfolded. I was a small, sickly, wimpy little tyke and it seems I spent an extraordinary amount of time at his practice—judging, at least, by how vividly my visits are burned in my memory.
The first thing that would hit me when we walked in the door was the smell. It was a smell of rubbing alcohol mixed with cruel intent and fear. Then I would be met with an assault of cries coming from the far reaches of the building. Piercing screams or traumatized wails or exhausted whimpers coming from the mouths of my comrades who had gone before me. It never boded well.
My mother would check me in and then proceed to the waiting room. There were two sections of waiting room divided by the central desk so that the sick kids would sit on one side and the well ones on the other. No matter how sick I was my mother had us sit on the well side so that we wouldn't pick up any other disease while waiting which, of course, defeated the whole purpose of the split waiting system. There I would quiver and quake in fear while I wandered my way through the Highlights magazine, following the lessons of Goofus and Gallant. Goofus was, of course, a jerk but even I, the compliant, shy, "good girl" could not stomach the sweet, sweet sappiness of Gallant. Eventually, after a trip through something or 'nother by P.D. Eastman (always placed for my reading pleasure by some philanthropic organization), I would get called back to face my demise.
Now this part wasn't so bad. A trip through these swinging, saloon style doors, a step onto the scale that was somehow built into the floor (how did they DO that?) and a check of my height (I never seemed to grow) and I was deposited into the examining room. That is where things would get a bit hairy.
Dr. Smith was a large man. A large man with a booming voice and a bushy beard who, despite reports to the contrary, did not like children. In fact, he hated children. He liked to poke and prod and torture them for his own purposes. Most of the time these tortures came in the form of a long, sharp needle escorted to the room by a beautiful nurse in a crisp white uniform with what appeared to me to be a large, paper, Krystal hamburger box on her head.
At the sight of the needle, or even before the sight of it, since I knew the error of his ways, I would haul ass off the table and tuck myself as far under whatever other piece of furniture I could find. Somehow, and I don't know how, this was never a permanent solution to my problem and I would inevitably leave the place scarred for life and with an aching back side. As if it made any difference, some kind older woman at the desk would hand me a small lollipop with a loop handle (remember those?) and send me on my way, usually with a prescription for some awful tasting sludge so that Dr. Smith would continue to work his evil agenda on me for days to come.
A few years ago Matt and I were driving down Brainerd Road and I saw the old building and said "Hey, that's was my pediatrician's office!" To which he replied, "That was MY pediatrician's. Imagine that! We might have shared a waiting room. He might have even caught the flu from me because I was sitting on the well side, fingering the Highlights with my germy little fingers. We may have started sharing our life together long before we ever knew it. And for that, if not for anything else, I can thank mean Dr. Smith.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Make Me Over
I am not a terribly photogenic person. Or at least I hope I'm not, as in "Please don't tell me that I actually LOOK like that". There have only been a handful of decent pictures taken of me in my adult life. It has become a joke with my husband that it will take about 100 shots to get a decent one in the bunch. That being said, I stare down a camera lens as if it's the muzzle end of a shotgun. The more worried I get, the worse the picture. The worse the picture, the more worried I get, and so on until I resemble a bloodhound with an anxiety disorder.
A few years ago the real estate company I work with was having professional photos made of all the agents for our new website. I was struck with an intense dread until they gave me the news: there would be a professional makeup artist there to ensure that we looked our very best for the camera. How fun, I thought! A real makeup person who knows what they are doing putting real makeup on me. I felt like I was getting to play Princess for a Day. I was giddy with excitement. Maybe someone would be able to make me into a silk purse after all!
Now my experience with makeup has been relatively limited for a 21st century professional woman with no ties to the Amish. I don't wear anything that cannot be purchased in a grocery store or the like. A splat of blush, a swipe of lip color and, if I'm ambitious, a scribble of navy blue eye pencil is about as good as it gets. The entire production takes about 7 seconds. And I'm not the type to get "done up" in any sense of the word. I've never had a manicure or a pedicure. I haven't painted my fingernails since high school. And I used hairspray once and only once in my life, with dreadful, stiff, hay-like results.
So you can imagine the thrill that set in when I heard a professional was going to get a hold of me. Holy cupcakes! She might make me look like somebody! Yee-hah!
She plopped me down in the chair and started to work. She wasn't very friendly. A perplexed and serious look swept across her face. Then she began to mumble and click her tongue and shake her head, ever so slightly. She had clearly been given a sub-par canvas with which to work her masterpiece and was losing confidence in her ability to perform. She muttered something to the effect that she had to make me not look quite so harsh. Harsh? Me? I'm not harsh. I'm squishy. A total wimp. A pushover. I look harsh? Goodness! Had I known I would have used it to my advantage during all those years of herding small children around my house. Anyway, she tisked and clucked and rubbed and daubed and, with a resigned sigh, finished off my face. She rubbed something almost white on my lips, making me resemble what I guess I really am, a child of the 60s. Then she set to work on my hair.
All my life I've had straight-as-a-board hair. I began attempting to bend it, quite literally, to my will in sixth grade with my first set of heat rollers. By high school I moved higher up the hair modifying scale with the perm. I spent a couple of decades attempting to modify the hair God gave me until I grew weary and just let it be. You can imagine my delight when my hair began to wave, not as in greet with a gesture, but as in curve, on it's own, especially in humid weather. It was doing its curvy thing that day. I was overjoyed. And then Lady Cluck and Frown took hold of it. She brushed and combed and pulled and sprayed until my hair was clinging to my head like Saran Wrap.
With an obvious air of defeat about her, she announced she was done and whisked her plastic cape from around my neck. All in all her labors had taken about 15 minutes. She never spoke a word. No "Well, this looks nice." No "I hope the pictures turn out well." No "I enjoyed working with you" even. She just turned away to her next client and squealed in delight at my fellow agent. "Well, look at you! You are so pretty I'm not going to have to do a THING to you!"
So, my life as a cover girl began and ended that morning and I will go on being the plain girl that I am. The photos themselves turned out relatively decent. I even got a few positive comments and one not so positive one: "You looked so good I couldn't even tell it was you." Hmmm. Thanks for the compliment. I think I'll avoid the camera from now on.
A few years ago the real estate company I work with was having professional photos made of all the agents for our new website. I was struck with an intense dread until they gave me the news: there would be a professional makeup artist there to ensure that we looked our very best for the camera. How fun, I thought! A real makeup person who knows what they are doing putting real makeup on me. I felt like I was getting to play Princess for a Day. I was giddy with excitement. Maybe someone would be able to make me into a silk purse after all!
Now my experience with makeup has been relatively limited for a 21st century professional woman with no ties to the Amish. I don't wear anything that cannot be purchased in a grocery store or the like. A splat of blush, a swipe of lip color and, if I'm ambitious, a scribble of navy blue eye pencil is about as good as it gets. The entire production takes about 7 seconds. And I'm not the type to get "done up" in any sense of the word. I've never had a manicure or a pedicure. I haven't painted my fingernails since high school. And I used hairspray once and only once in my life, with dreadful, stiff, hay-like results.
So you can imagine the thrill that set in when I heard a professional was going to get a hold of me. Holy cupcakes! She might make me look like somebody! Yee-hah!
She plopped me down in the chair and started to work. She wasn't very friendly. A perplexed and serious look swept across her face. Then she began to mumble and click her tongue and shake her head, ever so slightly. She had clearly been given a sub-par canvas with which to work her masterpiece and was losing confidence in her ability to perform. She muttered something to the effect that she had to make me not look quite so harsh. Harsh? Me? I'm not harsh. I'm squishy. A total wimp. A pushover. I look harsh? Goodness! Had I known I would have used it to my advantage during all those years of herding small children around my house. Anyway, she tisked and clucked and rubbed and daubed and, with a resigned sigh, finished off my face. She rubbed something almost white on my lips, making me resemble what I guess I really am, a child of the 60s. Then she set to work on my hair.
All my life I've had straight-as-a-board hair. I began attempting to bend it, quite literally, to my will in sixth grade with my first set of heat rollers. By high school I moved higher up the hair modifying scale with the perm. I spent a couple of decades attempting to modify the hair God gave me until I grew weary and just let it be. You can imagine my delight when my hair began to wave, not as in greet with a gesture, but as in curve, on it's own, especially in humid weather. It was doing its curvy thing that day. I was overjoyed. And then Lady Cluck and Frown took hold of it. She brushed and combed and pulled and sprayed until my hair was clinging to my head like Saran Wrap.
With an obvious air of defeat about her, she announced she was done and whisked her plastic cape from around my neck. All in all her labors had taken about 15 minutes. She never spoke a word. No "Well, this looks nice." No "I hope the pictures turn out well." No "I enjoyed working with you" even. She just turned away to her next client and squealed in delight at my fellow agent. "Well, look at you! You are so pretty I'm not going to have to do a THING to you!"
So, my life as a cover girl began and ended that morning and I will go on being the plain girl that I am. The photos themselves turned out relatively decent. I even got a few positive comments and one not so positive one: "You looked so good I couldn't even tell it was you." Hmmm. Thanks for the compliment. I think I'll avoid the camera from now on.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Rose
I grew up where people had maids. That's what we called them, anyway. Rose came to our family in 1961, two years before I was born. She would ride the bus in the morning and be at our house by seven or so. Then we would take her home sometime in the late afternoon, often after she had prepared our supper. She would occasionally show up on Saturdays, but never, ever on Sundays.
Rose was an immense woman, and her dark, heavy, almost 6 foot, 250 lb. frame loomed large over my life. And she was strong. I would go to school and come home to find an entire bedroom rearranged or furniture transferred from my grandmother's house next door down to our house and she had done this. Alone. There wasn't a jar she couldn't open or hair she couldn't braid or a chicken she couldn't fry. She could iron for hours, watch soap operas for hours, and rock a sick kid for hours.
The first day she came to work she wanted to make my mother a banana cream pie to show off her handiwork. Rose had never used an electric mixer before but she set to work anyway with my mom's Mixmaster. Somewhere along the way she wanted to stop the thing but didn't know how so she did what seemed logical, she stuck her fingers in the beaters to stop them from turning. Best I can tell, her fingers were tangled and twisted and caught up in the beaters like spaghetti around a fork. And then Rose panicked. Her lofty frame grew wobbly and her face turned white. My mom was able to get her on the ground and called the fire department. They weren't able to do a thing for the poor woman but my father came home and, with some wire cutters, freed her strong, meaty fingers. Not a one of them was broken. Rose came back the next day and the next and the next for decades to come but never again used the electric mixer. Or any other electrical appliance.
Rose had a funny predisposition for kleptomania. It was as if, being part of the family in so many ways, she was free to make use of our possessions as she saw fit. One time my mother took her some food after she had surgery and there was Rose, on her bed with her head upon one of my mother's monogrammed pillowcases. My mother wisely didn't say a word. After the occasional visit to her home we would come out exclaiming "So THAT'S where that went!". I doubt she ever took anything of any real value, except for perhaps the Beatles dolls, but even if she had, we really didn't care. She was one of us.
Rose continued to work for my mother and my grandmother until 1991, when my grandmother went into a nursing home. Thirty years of love and loyalty, with some laundry and dusting thrown in for good measure. Even after that my mother kept in regular contact with her and I and my own family would go by and visit when we came in town. The last time I saw Rose she had shrunk a good six inches or so and I could see her eye to eye and I noticed something for the first time, she had the most beautiful eyes. Deep, dark BLUE eyes.
We never knew very much about Rose's history. Somewhere along the way I heard that her mother was born in the 1867 in Louisville, KY. Rose had to come to Chattanooga via New Orleans. Her husband had been killed in WWII. She had a son in St. Louis. But we were really her family.
A couple of years before she died my mother finally found a copy of Rose's birth certificate. She was born in April 2, 1896. She had come to work for us, to begin her almost 40 years as part of our family, at the age of 65. Rose died in February 2000, two months before her 104th birthday. At her funeral, in front of the urn full of her ashes, I got up and spoke about Rose and, with a voice full of longing and sadness and joy, told stories of growing up with Rose as a fixture in my life. My second mother.
Rose had made her burial wishes clear to my mother. Rose wanted to be buried in a dress that my mother had bought her, but Rose's son preferred cremation, seeing how it was less expensive. So cremation it was. About a year later the news story broke about the crematorium in Noble, GA that had not been cremating the bodies but was stockpiling them around the property. Lo and behold, Rose was there. I can't remember if they found her under a tree or if I just picture her sitting there, enjoying the shade, but there she was, toe tag and all. That urn at her funeral was nothing but a vase of Quickrete. I think she would have chuckled. So this time Rose got her wish and was buried. And her son got his wish. He never paid for anything other than a cremation.
Some people assume that those of us from the South, those of us who grew up with black maids, were prejudiced. I don't know. I guess we were, in some ways. Who isn't, if you get right down to it and are really honest? But we loved Rose and she loved us. And that is all that matters.
Rose was an immense woman, and her dark, heavy, almost 6 foot, 250 lb. frame loomed large over my life. And she was strong. I would go to school and come home to find an entire bedroom rearranged or furniture transferred from my grandmother's house next door down to our house and she had done this. Alone. There wasn't a jar she couldn't open or hair she couldn't braid or a chicken she couldn't fry. She could iron for hours, watch soap operas for hours, and rock a sick kid for hours.
The first day she came to work she wanted to make my mother a banana cream pie to show off her handiwork. Rose had never used an electric mixer before but she set to work anyway with my mom's Mixmaster. Somewhere along the way she wanted to stop the thing but didn't know how so she did what seemed logical, she stuck her fingers in the beaters to stop them from turning. Best I can tell, her fingers were tangled and twisted and caught up in the beaters like spaghetti around a fork. And then Rose panicked. Her lofty frame grew wobbly and her face turned white. My mom was able to get her on the ground and called the fire department. They weren't able to do a thing for the poor woman but my father came home and, with some wire cutters, freed her strong, meaty fingers. Not a one of them was broken. Rose came back the next day and the next and the next for decades to come but never again used the electric mixer. Or any other electrical appliance.
Rose had a funny predisposition for kleptomania. It was as if, being part of the family in so many ways, she was free to make use of our possessions as she saw fit. One time my mother took her some food after she had surgery and there was Rose, on her bed with her head upon one of my mother's monogrammed pillowcases. My mother wisely didn't say a word. After the occasional visit to her home we would come out exclaiming "So THAT'S where that went!". I doubt she ever took anything of any real value, except for perhaps the Beatles dolls, but even if she had, we really didn't care. She was one of us.
Rose continued to work for my mother and my grandmother until 1991, when my grandmother went into a nursing home. Thirty years of love and loyalty, with some laundry and dusting thrown in for good measure. Even after that my mother kept in regular contact with her and I and my own family would go by and visit when we came in town. The last time I saw Rose she had shrunk a good six inches or so and I could see her eye to eye and I noticed something for the first time, she had the most beautiful eyes. Deep, dark BLUE eyes.
We never knew very much about Rose's history. Somewhere along the way I heard that her mother was born in the 1867 in Louisville, KY. Rose had to come to Chattanooga via New Orleans. Her husband had been killed in WWII. She had a son in St. Louis. But we were really her family.
A couple of years before she died my mother finally found a copy of Rose's birth certificate. She was born in April 2, 1896. She had come to work for us, to begin her almost 40 years as part of our family, at the age of 65. Rose died in February 2000, two months before her 104th birthday. At her funeral, in front of the urn full of her ashes, I got up and spoke about Rose and, with a voice full of longing and sadness and joy, told stories of growing up with Rose as a fixture in my life. My second mother.
Rose had made her burial wishes clear to my mother. Rose wanted to be buried in a dress that my mother had bought her, but Rose's son preferred cremation, seeing how it was less expensive. So cremation it was. About a year later the news story broke about the crematorium in Noble, GA that had not been cremating the bodies but was stockpiling them around the property. Lo and behold, Rose was there. I can't remember if they found her under a tree or if I just picture her sitting there, enjoying the shade, but there she was, toe tag and all. That urn at her funeral was nothing but a vase of Quickrete. I think she would have chuckled. So this time Rose got her wish and was buried. And her son got his wish. He never paid for anything other than a cremation.
Some people assume that those of us from the South, those of us who grew up with black maids, were prejudiced. I don't know. I guess we were, in some ways. Who isn't, if you get right down to it and are really honest? But we loved Rose and she loved us. And that is all that matters.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Monkey See, Monkey Do?
I warned y'all in my last post that I would be throwing out questions. This one has been tumbling in my head of late and I just have to ask it:
If you are married, how did the marriage (or lack thereof) that you grew up with influence your marriage now?
On a related front, if you have children, how did that marriage influence how you raise and relate to your children?
To be really specific: IF your parents divorced, what impact does that have on your marriage and your parenting?
To be really, really specific: IF your parents divorced, do you find yourself holding your breath until you have been married longer than your parents were?
I think every person, no matter how awful or wonderful their family of origin, enters adulthood, marriage and parenthood with an idea of what they want to repeat and what they want to change. I certainly did. Mostly, I wanted to change things.
My parents didn't have a good marriage. They managed to stay together for 31 years and 11 months, but it was not a good marriage. I may or may not, one day, make my best attempt at a detailed analysis, but I know that my conclusions would be skewed by limited information and my own subjective experience. But as I moved my way toward adulthood and seeking a husband for life, I already had in my mind so many ways I wanted things to be that were different from my parents' experience.
On the whole and by the grace of God and with the help of my most awesome husband, I have experienced a marriage beyond my imagination. There is nothing like sharing my life, my whole life, with my best friend. When I have been fed up on a husband/wife level, I have hung on anyway because, after all, he's my best friend and what would I do without my best friend? I know that this level of companionship was not something that my parents ever had. On a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being darn near perfect) I would currently put ours at perhaps an 8.5. Room for improvement, but overall a pretty good thing.
Yet with all of this goodness given to me, I get uneasy. The other day I was thinking about how we are closing in on being married for 24 years. Statistically speaking, that's pretty good. Yet I was struck with terror. My parents were married for almost 32 years. Twenty-four doesn't mean anything, it doesn't guarantee anything. If my parents could throw in the towel after 32 years......All the marriage books and all the sermons and all the articles and all the counseling in the world still doesn't take away that uneasiness for me. In my world dads leave and moms are left holding the bag and cleaning up the mess.
That is just one example of how my personal experience still colors my marriage. Parenthood isn't excluded either.
Matt always remarks how I tend to take on more responsibility than is actually mine, especially when it comes to parenting and guilt. Only today was I able to explain to him that when I say that I feel like I've failed as a parent because I didn't do this and I didn't do that, that I'm NOT saying this because I feel he has no right or no role with my children, I am saying this because this is all I know. My father was absent physically and/or emotionally for most of my life. Other than the dispenser of the really, really hard spankings (in my tender tush experience), he pretty much had very little role in my life. In my experience it all falls on the mother (and is therefore always the mother's fault). Sometimes I even forget that there is a role for the dad in our family because I don't really know what dads do.
Again, it isn't that there aren't enough books out there to detail every jot and tittle of family life, it is just that, when the rubber meets the road, it's a case of Monkey See, Monkey Do.
I know that God is in the business of changing lives and changing patterns. But I think he usually does this by first pointing out to us that which needs changing in the first place. How can we give him the glory if we don't even know what he has done? If we aren't aware of the influences in our lives, we aren't aware enough to ask, "Am I doing what is best or right or healthy or am I doing what I know?" For some of us it is a matter of having to drive the truck out of the well worn rut and blaze a new trail.
If you are married, how did the marriage (or lack thereof) that you grew up with influence your marriage now?
On a related front, if you have children, how did that marriage influence how you raise and relate to your children?
To be really specific: IF your parents divorced, what impact does that have on your marriage and your parenting?
To be really, really specific: IF your parents divorced, do you find yourself holding your breath until you have been married longer than your parents were?
I think every person, no matter how awful or wonderful their family of origin, enters adulthood, marriage and parenthood with an idea of what they want to repeat and what they want to change. I certainly did. Mostly, I wanted to change things.
My parents didn't have a good marriage. They managed to stay together for 31 years and 11 months, but it was not a good marriage. I may or may not, one day, make my best attempt at a detailed analysis, but I know that my conclusions would be skewed by limited information and my own subjective experience. But as I moved my way toward adulthood and seeking a husband for life, I already had in my mind so many ways I wanted things to be that were different from my parents' experience.
On the whole and by the grace of God and with the help of my most awesome husband, I have experienced a marriage beyond my imagination. There is nothing like sharing my life, my whole life, with my best friend. When I have been fed up on a husband/wife level, I have hung on anyway because, after all, he's my best friend and what would I do without my best friend? I know that this level of companionship was not something that my parents ever had. On a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being darn near perfect) I would currently put ours at perhaps an 8.5. Room for improvement, but overall a pretty good thing.
Yet with all of this goodness given to me, I get uneasy. The other day I was thinking about how we are closing in on being married for 24 years. Statistically speaking, that's pretty good. Yet I was struck with terror. My parents were married for almost 32 years. Twenty-four doesn't mean anything, it doesn't guarantee anything. If my parents could throw in the towel after 32 years......All the marriage books and all the sermons and all the articles and all the counseling in the world still doesn't take away that uneasiness for me. In my world dads leave and moms are left holding the bag and cleaning up the mess.
That is just one example of how my personal experience still colors my marriage. Parenthood isn't excluded either.
Matt always remarks how I tend to take on more responsibility than is actually mine, especially when it comes to parenting and guilt. Only today was I able to explain to him that when I say that I feel like I've failed as a parent because I didn't do this and I didn't do that, that I'm NOT saying this because I feel he has no right or no role with my children, I am saying this because this is all I know. My father was absent physically and/or emotionally for most of my life. Other than the dispenser of the really, really hard spankings (in my tender tush experience), he pretty much had very little role in my life. In my experience it all falls on the mother (and is therefore always the mother's fault). Sometimes I even forget that there is a role for the dad in our family because I don't really know what dads do.
Again, it isn't that there aren't enough books out there to detail every jot and tittle of family life, it is just that, when the rubber meets the road, it's a case of Monkey See, Monkey Do.
I know that God is in the business of changing lives and changing patterns. But I think he usually does this by first pointing out to us that which needs changing in the first place. How can we give him the glory if we don't even know what he has done? If we aren't aware of the influences in our lives, we aren't aware enough to ask, "Am I doing what is best or right or healthy or am I doing what I know?" For some of us it is a matter of having to drive the truck out of the well worn rut and blaze a new trail.
The Written Word and Questions
In case y'all haven't figured this out yet, I'm a relationship kind of person. Not just in a task oriented vs. people oriented sort of way, but also in a cause and effect sort of way. I am fascinated with how our experiences color our thoughts and our thoughts influence our feelings and how both our thoughts and feelings, for better or for worse, govern our behavior.
So the other day I got the hankering to ask a question but, alas, there wasn't anybody around to ask it to. I suppose that my kind of questions would be appropriate for group discussions but finding a venue is tedious and my topics aren't necessarily the stuff of riveting social amusement. I could try to ask some of my questions in a church type setting, but I rarely have an audience. Anyway, I suck at the spoken word.
There is something about opening my mouth in a group of people that renders me, well, speechless. My brain circuits fry and my mouth dries up and my tongue turns to stone. I stammer a bit and look to my husband with pleading eyes and beg for help because of course he is bound to know exactly what I am trying to say. He gives me that helpless, exasperated, amused shrug and I, realizing that I am on my own, manage to blurt out a tumble of words and phrases that make about as much sense as the instructions for my washing machine which were translated into English by kindergartner from Seoul.
I learned long ago, after a rather unfortunate transaction with a realtor who must have authored the book Bulldozing for Dummies, that I could stand my ground much better in writing than on the phone with someone who took the descriptions of demanding and ruthless to new levels. On the phone I'm a wimp, but in writing I'm a confident, information machine and can turn bulldog, if need be, to protect my client.
On a more personal front it is just easier to let thoughts tumble in my head for a while until the words spill out. If it takes me 38 seconds to think of that word that was just on the tip of my tongue, so be it, and nobody's the wiser. I am also someone who really, really needs feedback. It is totally unnerving for me to speak up about something in a group only to be met with those awful blank stares and hollow eyes and question marks hanging in the atmosphere like half inflated helium balloons. Yes, I can see them there.
So it is with the written word I will stick. And I will ask questions. And I will want answers and discussion. Be aware that an invitation to written dialog is coming soon to a blog near you.
So the other day I got the hankering to ask a question but, alas, there wasn't anybody around to ask it to. I suppose that my kind of questions would be appropriate for group discussions but finding a venue is tedious and my topics aren't necessarily the stuff of riveting social amusement. I could try to ask some of my questions in a church type setting, but I rarely have an audience. Anyway, I suck at the spoken word.
There is something about opening my mouth in a group of people that renders me, well, speechless. My brain circuits fry and my mouth dries up and my tongue turns to stone. I stammer a bit and look to my husband with pleading eyes and beg for help because of course he is bound to know exactly what I am trying to say. He gives me that helpless, exasperated, amused shrug and I, realizing that I am on my own, manage to blurt out a tumble of words and phrases that make about as much sense as the instructions for my washing machine which were translated into English by kindergartner from Seoul.
I learned long ago, after a rather unfortunate transaction with a realtor who must have authored the book Bulldozing for Dummies, that I could stand my ground much better in writing than on the phone with someone who took the descriptions of demanding and ruthless to new levels. On the phone I'm a wimp, but in writing I'm a confident, information machine and can turn bulldog, if need be, to protect my client.
On a more personal front it is just easier to let thoughts tumble in my head for a while until the words spill out. If it takes me 38 seconds to think of that word that was just on the tip of my tongue, so be it, and nobody's the wiser. I am also someone who really, really needs feedback. It is totally unnerving for me to speak up about something in a group only to be met with those awful blank stares and hollow eyes and question marks hanging in the atmosphere like half inflated helium balloons. Yes, I can see them there.
So it is with the written word I will stick. And I will ask questions. And I will want answers and discussion. Be aware that an invitation to written dialog is coming soon to a blog near you.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The Wonderful, Awful Bathroom
I find it interesting that just one hundred years ago you could still buy house plans that did not include a bathroom. The concept of indoor plumbing was pretty new and I suppose that for those with limited means or access to technology, or perhaps for those prone to the thrill of adventure, the indoor "necessary room" just wasn't all that necessary.
Best I can tell from what I've seen (I'm a realtor) and read (I like history), by the 1920s most new homes came with a full bathroom and by the '50s the concept of a master bathroom or at least master half-bath seemed to be catching on, but it wasn't until the '70s that having 2 full bathrooms seemed to become the norm. Nowadays, any house with only one bathroom is considered "functionally obsolete," yet there are plenty of people out there perfectly willing to live in these houses and share their most basic facilities. However, the first thing that most home buyers will do when encountering a one bathroom house is try to figure out how to squeeze at least another toilet into the landscape of the home, stomach bugs being what they are and all. It is one thing to have only one tub, but yet another thing entirely to really need to go when the only bathroom is otherwise occupied. This may explain why I've seen so many toilets in basements. By themselves. Lonely, but useful.
Our first house was built in 1926 and had only one bathroom. When we lived there only two of us needed to make any real use of it (other than for bathing, of course) while the other two were too young and undeveloped to catch on to the concept and need. Our second house was built in 1925 with only one bathroom, but long about 1939 a half-bath was added when a porch was closed in. (We know that it was 1939 or so because that was what was stamped on the underside of the toilet tank lid. Isn't that a nice little trick?)
It was a wonderful, awful room at all of 3x5 feet. The toilet had been placed so close to the wall that you had to sit on it sideways if you were taller than a toddler. You could simultaneously throw up in the tiny, adjacent sink, if necessary, making it an excellent oasis for the gastronomically challenged. Efficient? Yes. Comfortable? No.
Because the toilet had been manufactured long before green building, long before low-flow toilets and water saving devices, long, even, before the first Earth Day, it flushed with passion and style and authority. Our kids wore cloth diapers and it was customary to dump and rinse out the solid waste (AKA poop) before exiling the wads of cotton to the pail. The first time I used this toilet for such a purpose I darn near lost the thing in the fight. I had not before and have not since encountered such sucking force from a piece of plumbing.
Once you were done with your business, whether it was sitting or dunking, came the hand washing adventure. The sink was original as well with a hot faucet and a cold faucet and never the twain shall meet. This made for a brief and, at times, uncomfortable hygiene experience.
By far the worst part about this room was its location: on the exterior wall of the house (correction: UNINSULATED exterior wall of the house). There was no heat source. One day I got the brilliant idea of putting a thermometer in the room to get a read on just how cold it really was in there. The little red line never got above 40 degrees. Over time the flushing mechanism in the toilet broke and so, in order to flush, you would have to take the tank lid off, plunge your hand into seemingly near frozen water, and pull up on the flap. It was pretty close to using an outhouse. In the winter we just waited our turn elsewhere.
For all the frigid, cramped, broken down-ness about this room, I loved it. A lot of "firsts" (of which I will not elaborate for fear of certain estrangement) happened there. In September 1993 I found out I was pregnant in that room, thanks to the window sill that held my pregnancy test. I managed to give my kids baths in that teeny, tiny sink with the hot and cold faucets. More paint and brownie batter and mud were washed off of hands and faces and feet than I can now imagine. It took me a while to discover that the old plaster on the walls served as entertainment and a certain someone, with great pleasure, sat and peeled it away, while taking care of other business.
After we had lived in the house for 7 years we decided to remodel the kitchen. Involved in that was moving the half bath to an interior wall. We demolished the old and built in the new. It was a great new bathroom with it's own character built-in and for the next 4 years we actually gathered a few memories in that room as well. But there was something just so wonderful about that old bathroom. That wonderful, awful bathroom.
Best I can tell from what I've seen (I'm a realtor) and read (I like history), by the 1920s most new homes came with a full bathroom and by the '50s the concept of a master bathroom or at least master half-bath seemed to be catching on, but it wasn't until the '70s that having 2 full bathrooms seemed to become the norm. Nowadays, any house with only one bathroom is considered "functionally obsolete," yet there are plenty of people out there perfectly willing to live in these houses and share their most basic facilities. However, the first thing that most home buyers will do when encountering a one bathroom house is try to figure out how to squeeze at least another toilet into the landscape of the home, stomach bugs being what they are and all. It is one thing to have only one tub, but yet another thing entirely to really need to go when the only bathroom is otherwise occupied. This may explain why I've seen so many toilets in basements. By themselves. Lonely, but useful.
Our first house was built in 1926 and had only one bathroom. When we lived there only two of us needed to make any real use of it (other than for bathing, of course) while the other two were too young and undeveloped to catch on to the concept and need. Our second house was built in 1925 with only one bathroom, but long about 1939 a half-bath was added when a porch was closed in. (We know that it was 1939 or so because that was what was stamped on the underside of the toilet tank lid. Isn't that a nice little trick?)
It was a wonderful, awful room at all of 3x5 feet. The toilet had been placed so close to the wall that you had to sit on it sideways if you were taller than a toddler. You could simultaneously throw up in the tiny, adjacent sink, if necessary, making it an excellent oasis for the gastronomically challenged. Efficient? Yes. Comfortable? No.
Because the toilet had been manufactured long before green building, long before low-flow toilets and water saving devices, long, even, before the first Earth Day, it flushed with passion and style and authority. Our kids wore cloth diapers and it was customary to dump and rinse out the solid waste (AKA poop) before exiling the wads of cotton to the pail. The first time I used this toilet for such a purpose I darn near lost the thing in the fight. I had not before and have not since encountered such sucking force from a piece of plumbing.
Once you were done with your business, whether it was sitting or dunking, came the hand washing adventure. The sink was original as well with a hot faucet and a cold faucet and never the twain shall meet. This made for a brief and, at times, uncomfortable hygiene experience.
By far the worst part about this room was its location: on the exterior wall of the house (correction: UNINSULATED exterior wall of the house). There was no heat source. One day I got the brilliant idea of putting a thermometer in the room to get a read on just how cold it really was in there. The little red line never got above 40 degrees. Over time the flushing mechanism in the toilet broke and so, in order to flush, you would have to take the tank lid off, plunge your hand into seemingly near frozen water, and pull up on the flap. It was pretty close to using an outhouse. In the winter we just waited our turn elsewhere.
For all the frigid, cramped, broken down-ness about this room, I loved it. A lot of "firsts" (of which I will not elaborate for fear of certain estrangement) happened there. In September 1993 I found out I was pregnant in that room, thanks to the window sill that held my pregnancy test. I managed to give my kids baths in that teeny, tiny sink with the hot and cold faucets. More paint and brownie batter and mud were washed off of hands and faces and feet than I can now imagine. It took me a while to discover that the old plaster on the walls served as entertainment and a certain someone, with great pleasure, sat and peeled it away, while taking care of other business.
After we had lived in the house for 7 years we decided to remodel the kitchen. Involved in that was moving the half bath to an interior wall. We demolished the old and built in the new. It was a great new bathroom with it's own character built-in and for the next 4 years we actually gathered a few memories in that room as well. But there was something just so wonderful about that old bathroom. That wonderful, awful bathroom.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Fit for a Queen?
Back in early '95 some friends were getting rid of a queen sized bed and asked if we wanted it. At the time we had 3 kids under the age of 5 who, strange as it seems nowadays, actually liked being with us. Especially at night. Our bed was full so an extra 6 inches of horizontal sleeping surface seemed like a dream come true and we took it.
This had been our friend's bed before he got married and he was not a small man. Plus, he had done what anybody does when you don't have to share a bed; he slept in the middle. Therefore, by the time the mattress made its way into our possession it was really less of a mattress and more like a large, springy bowl.
The mattress made its way in the wear 'n tear department serving as trampoline and changing table and sleeping surface to sometimes upwards of five people, the kids piled up like puppies on all sides of us. Within a year the bowl had deepened significantly. By then I was hugely pregnant (I was always hugely pregnant) and found getting out of the bowl a useless fight against laws of physics. Without the wherewithal to rig a pulley system or a catapult, Matt took to shoving me from the back any time I needed to exit the bed.
By the time Baby #4 made her appearance (ON the bed, by the way), we knew the vast expanse of springs, fabric and dust mites had to go. I would spend the entire night attempting to defy gravity by not rolling downhill into my husband. Sometimes I was unsuccessful and we crashed in the night like a couple of bowling pins laid to waste. Then one night I had just finished nursing my newborn to sleep. She was peacefully snoozing on the outside edge of the bed when I sat up and watched her roll, literally ROLL, downhill toward the middle. Like a burrito or maybe an egg roll caught in an avalanche.
From there on out my memory is fuzzy, likely due to lost sleep. The mattress was passed on to some unsuspecting soul or perhaps to the landfill, I do not remember. I do know that I have never taken a good mattress for granted again.
This had been our friend's bed before he got married and he was not a small man. Plus, he had done what anybody does when you don't have to share a bed; he slept in the middle. Therefore, by the time the mattress made its way into our possession it was really less of a mattress and more like a large, springy bowl.
The mattress made its way in the wear 'n tear department serving as trampoline and changing table and sleeping surface to sometimes upwards of five people, the kids piled up like puppies on all sides of us. Within a year the bowl had deepened significantly. By then I was hugely pregnant (I was always hugely pregnant) and found getting out of the bowl a useless fight against laws of physics. Without the wherewithal to rig a pulley system or a catapult, Matt took to shoving me from the back any time I needed to exit the bed.
By the time Baby #4 made her appearance (ON the bed, by the way), we knew the vast expanse of springs, fabric and dust mites had to go. I would spend the entire night attempting to defy gravity by not rolling downhill into my husband. Sometimes I was unsuccessful and we crashed in the night like a couple of bowling pins laid to waste. Then one night I had just finished nursing my newborn to sleep. She was peacefully snoozing on the outside edge of the bed when I sat up and watched her roll, literally ROLL, downhill toward the middle. Like a burrito or maybe an egg roll caught in an avalanche.
From there on out my memory is fuzzy, likely due to lost sleep. The mattress was passed on to some unsuspecting soul or perhaps to the landfill, I do not remember. I do know that I have never taken a good mattress for granted again.
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