Flashback Friday

I think a lot about this house that I live in. It's haunted.  When I say that, I don't mean by ghosts (although they are there too, I think).  Maybe I asked for this, buying my grandparents' house.  Well, there's no maybe about it...in fact, I guess that was the whole point.

My thoughts today center around us "kids".  When I was young, there were five of us cousins, four boys and yours truly.  It's no wonder that as an adult, I'm more comfortable hanging out with guys...it was a matter of survival when I was a kid.

We ran wild.  My PA cousins would come in for the summer, or a holiday, or just because, and all HELL would break loose.  We tramped through fields to explore neglected cemeteries.  We crossed train trestles with rivers below.  We played in creeks running through concrete culverts under the train tracks.  We put all of our pocket change on the tracks to be smashed flat by the trains.  We threw rocks at lazy black snakes dangling from the trees, and we built forts under and against any low-hanging bush or tree that  lent itself to it.  We raced go-carts on the "little road" in front of the house, no helmets or safety gear involved.  We walked to the bridge crossing the interstate and stood for hours getting truckers to blow their mighty horns at us, waiting for the thrill of the ones that honked under the bridge, because it was much, much louder.  

We did other less wholesome things, too.  We stole cigarettes from the old folks and snuck off with them.  I always had a castoff lighter to play with.  We sipped the foam off my grandfather's beers, with permission, and snuck sips of the harder stuff without.  My cousin would sic his dog after me just to make me cry, and I'd be furious at myself when I did.  I learned a lot of really cool cuss words and Pennsylvania slang.

Things changed when we got older.  More "cousins" were added, the "next gen," because even though we were all first cousins, they were much, much younger.  By the time those kids arrived, things had settled down considerably. We were all teenagers and more obsessed by "sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll" than by climbing over barbed wire fences and getting chased by angry bulls.  They were also watched a little more closely than we were in those idyllic years of the 70's.  So, they missed out on some stuff, but I know they also have their own things to remember.

"Honking the trucks" is one of the few crossovers.  That was something that we, as teenagers, could be trusted to do with the little guys, so we'd gather them up and walk with them to the bridge.  Still dangerous, now that I think about it.  I'm not letting Andrew go hang out on an interstate bridge alone any time soon! But they loved it just as much as we did.

It's been awhile since I've walked down there for any reason, much less to stand above the highway and make an ass out of myself.  Somehow, we never cared about that.

Mid-October 2009

As I've mentioned before, this week marks the anniversary of one of the most difficult times in my life.  Fall is a bittersweet season anyway, and always has been for me, but even more so now. 

There are so many things from last September and October that I don't really remember too many details of, and I regret that.  I wish I had written down specific days and events and thoughts so that I could reflect on them now, when I'm able to.  Of course, my mind was elsewhere, and we were busy helping to make Edna's transition as easy for her as possible.  I know that on this day last year, we were in full bedside vigil.  She was already lost to us in all ways but one, and practically every moment of the day and night was filled by trying to make sure Dad was okay as we watched her breathe and held our own breath as the pattern became more and more irregular. 

We are headed to the lake in a little while, for what is sure to a somber weekend.  Dad is struggling again as we reach this anniversary, after rebounding in the last couple of months.  I have had a difficult time balancing my own grief and distractions with encouraging him to continue to fight the good fight.  In what I hope will be a healing moment for him and not a re-opening of the wound, Dad wanted to host a memorial dinner at his house on Sunday night for family and close friends, so we'll be back for that Sunday evening.  It's sure to be reminiscent of the family gathering after the funeral service, and I got to looking through pictures of that earlier today.  Here are some of the more poignant photos and memories.

Close-up of the flowers in the casket spray.  The last gift we ever gave Edna.

 My dad with his brothers.  I am so happy that I took this photo.  You can't tell by looking at him, but Uncle Bob (middle) was fighting his own fight with an invasive brain tumor.  He was so happy that he was able to make the trip and be with his family.  Little did we know that in a few short months, we would lose him, too.

The family photo taken at the graveside.  I love this picture, although it breaks my heart that it takes events such as these to get us all together and posing for a photo. There are three generations in this photo.

 I know I'm probably breaking all sorts of internet safety rules by posting this, but I don't care.  The youngest generation meeting the past generation as Andrew and his cousin play on their great-grandparents headstone.  I know Andrew has had a lot of thoughts and questions about these people he never knew since, every time we visit the cemetery, and I'm proud of him for respecting and wanting to know about his heritage.

 Life goes on, even quickly after.  Kids are way more resilient than we are, and as thoughtful and perceptive as Andrew is, he's still able to move quickly on to the good stuff.  In this case, his Halloween costume and slinging webs in Grandpop's kitchen.

Ohio-WV Trip Summer 1982?

If I did some research, I could probably figure out exactly when and where this was taken. I'm kind of rushing through this though, because I'm exhausted and have to pack for the lake, but maybe my foggy memories of this childhood trip will sound familiar to someone and they'll pipe up.

That's me in front, of course--just about to turn eleven, I THINK. That judgment is based purely on boobs (lack of them) and hair, of course...I have no other evidence. That's Edna in the back, with those AWESOME sunglasses. We were definitely supermodels.

We were on a trip to Ohio--I'm not really sure why, other than we stayed with and old friend of my dad's who lived there. I'm not sure if we went there TO see him and his family, or if we were all just DYING to see Ohio and it was convenient. While we were there, I developed a huge crush on the older son, of course--who was probably 14 or 15 and had no clue I existed. But that's another story.

Actually, there's no story here at all, because I remember the crush on Ian and buying a cat carved out of a lump of coal at a giftshop somewhere. I also remember a tourist-trappy little place (probably with said gift shop) that had this funky little funhouse thing that we walked through. A room with a slanted floor is about all I remember of that, other than the fact that it was coal country, and everything sort of revolved around that. That's a riverboat in the background, somewhere along the Ohio River, but I don't think we did anything cool like actually take a cruise.

Anyway, I know my lack of detail is stunning. Sorry, I just liked the picture! Edna reads the blog sometimes, so maybe I'll twist her arm into commenting and telling the actual story. It would be nice to know it, since I've apparently killed those brain cells somewhere along the way. Until then, if you know where we were, speak up!

Flashback Friday!

Eighth Grade Finals were held today and tonight at the school where I teach. It just so happens to also be the middle school I attended ages ago. Traditionally, finals have been like graduation from middle school--some awards and acknowledgements of academic and other accomplishments followed by a dance that night.

As the years have progressed, some changes have been made to the lineup, but the basics remain the same: streamers and paper decorations in the same cafeteria where leftovers were served a few hours before; awkward and worldly 8th graders alike dressed in their finery; teachers who would rather be having a glass of wine or two (or three) on a Friday night chaperoning the dance; and monumental, life-changing social interactions.

As I flipped through a photo album in search of Flashback material, I came across this:

Can you guess which one is me? It shouldn't be hard. You know what? I remember buying my dress, and how excited I was about it, even taking pictures on the front porch before we left for the dance. But other than the faux memory I've created from looking at this picture, I don't remember a single thing that happened that night, or even whether or not I enjoyed it. Even though it appears as though I'm enjoying myself in the picture, that doesn't mean anything, because all through my teens, I did a darn good job of appearing to be happy when I wasn't.

The girls in the picture with me were my best friends. Insert us into any coming-of-age novel about a group of girlfriends in the 80s, and the descriptions would probably match. As girls will do in any decade, we tended to spend more time with a specific person sometimes, and we'd get into arguments or stupid girl drama quite frequently. Two of these girls didn't really even like each other much; the only thing they had in common was me. Some sort of double Venn diagram would be the best representation of the friendship, I suppose. Anyway, the point being that I relied on these friends quite a bit. If I were to be honest with myself, I'd admit that without them, I would have had no social life whatsoever. I like to be in denial, though, so let's just assume that I was as important in their lives as they were in mine at the time.

Jump forward exactly 24 years, and I only still talk to one of these girls, whom I've been best friends with since the first day of kindergarten. (Unless, of course, you call having someone on your "friends" list on Facebook staying in contact--I don't.) I'm not saying this to hurt anyone's feelings, knowing they could be reading this now because the link to this blog is on my Facebook profile--also objectively knowing (and okay with the fact) that they don't care enough about me at this point to click the link and find out what I'm up to or who I am now. We have our 20th high school reunion coming up this year, and I know that my best friend and I will go, but the others won't. There won't be any touching denouement or revelation to bring us back together, because nothing really split us apart but time.

Going back to the inspiration for this post--I wish there were some way to tell this group of 8th graders that the "stuff" they will go through won't matter in the long run--most of it, anyway. Most of it they will forget and only see faded glimmers of when they dust off their yearbooks every so often. I would tell them not to take things so seriously, including themselves, and not to waste energy on worrying about the small stuff. I would tell them to make choices carefully--both in their friendships and their actions, so that they don't have regrets over things they did and things they didn't do. Most importantly, I would tell them to enjoy the ride--it goes quickly, and before they know it, they will be middle-aged with a mortgage and debt, and looking forward to a few spare minutes after the kids are in bed to indulge themselves. I hope they had fun tonight, and I hope they remember it twenty years from now.

PS--Whooopeee!! 11 "Followers"! Welcome to Sara, the poetgirl!

Flashback Friday & More

We've neglected our Flashback Friday theme day recently. It's partially to do with the fact that during the summer, I had time to dig through old photos, scan them, edit them, etc., and these days, I'm lucky to even realize it's Friday. The other part of it was that I got kind of sad looking through old pics--the reminiscing that was supposed to be fun ended up depressing me or making me mourn for people who aren't around anymore. I do melancholy well enough on my own, without a traumatic trip through time each week. Anyway, a dear neighbor of ours gave me some pictures on Halloween night, and I immediately thought of the Flashback.I don't know if it's technically possibly to Flashback to something I didn't even witness, but I'm doing it anyway. I don't know what the occasion was for this little picnic--although what excuse does one need for an al fresco dining experience? Good weather, good wine, good food, and good friends--all of which are present in these pictures. My grandmother is the older lady in glasses and my grandfather is the roly-poly man in the brown shirt. I've mentioned that we live in Granny and Grandpop's house, right? This picnic is in the neighbor's yard, which still looks very much the same. I managed to get sad looking at these, too--see the dog staring longingly at my grandparents? That's PeeWee, Grandpop's chihuahua, whom I had almost forgotten about until seeing this picture. PeeWee disappeared mysteriously one night when I was about 11 years old, and broke my grandfather's heart. Anyway, I like these pictures. It looks like a very pleasant afternoon.
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In other news of the non-flashbacky variety, lest you think that the election passed me by without recognition, WOOHOO! We were ecstatic, to say the least, and stayed up all the way until the end of President-elect Obama's speech. I was moved to tears repeatedly, both from joy and from the overwhelming feeling of witnessing such a monumental historical event.

I would have blogged about election night earlier, but the little guy's been sick with some nasty stomach virus for the last few days. We stayed home together Thursday, with Andrew alternating between not eating anything at all and puking up whatever he tried to eat in momentary surges of appetite. Today he was better, though, and we all went back to work. Tonight we tried to go out to dinner with our friends, one of whom had just gotten a clean bill of health after a cancer scare, but just after the appetizers arrived, Andrew said he had to "gag," so we high-tailed it to the restroom. Well, he didn't make it, and ending up tossing his orange juice in the hallway to the bathroom (thankfully he made it out of the dining room--this is one of our favorite restaurants). So, we're home--he ate nothing, but drank some apple juice that we're hoping stays down, and he fell asleep in about 15 seconds flat. Any mom would say that they'd much rather be sick than have their little one be, and it's true--I'd take the nausea for him in a hearbeat. It's just so pitiful to hear him say, "I'm not feeling very well," with the most pathetic look on his face he can muster. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.