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June 07, 2007

From Dad, Chapter Six: Thelma Louise

Chapter 6
Introducing Thelma Louise
By Roderick M. Brown

December 31, 1937. It was cold out, not snowing or windy, just cold. Jack, Dick, Dugal and I were banished from the house. I can’t say for certain that Alex was with us or not. He was kinda little to be pushed out into the bitter cold day. In fact I wasn’t sure I was supposed to be out here shivering and turning blue.

There was a reason for this expulsion from our snug nest. There was a strange auto in our driveway along with DG’s Model-A. The strange auto belonged to the local doctor from Pulaski, probably Dr. Crocker. I believe Dr Crocker had delivered all of us kids at home, in the little garage and now on the farm the last new member of my generation was about to enter this cruelly cold and barren, snow covered little part of the world.

As an eight year old boy along with my brothers we were not to be allowed to witness or be near the birth of a child. We were all told to go outside and behave, which we were doing. It was not very enjoyable and not a lot of conversation was going around. Other than an occasional muffled cry there was nothing but silence from the house.

After about an hour and a half, I was ready to head for the barn. At least it would be a little warmer with the cows but Jack and Dick said we should stay together for one reason or another. Shortly thereafter there were several loud cries, more like screams and then a very faint little cry. Jack, the authority on such things announced,” The baby is here.”

This didn’t change a hell of a lot for us. It was still cold out. DG came out on the side porch carrying a package wrapped in an old blanket and called Dick to the Porch. Handing the package to Dick he instructed him to take the package out back behind the pig pen, soak it good with kerosene and burn it up. Of course Jack, Dick and probably Dugal had seen calves born and were aware of the placenta or after birth that accompanied the new born. I was totally ignorant and didn’t want to know anything about it.

Dugal in one of his rare moments of eloquence was rambling on with all sorts of misinformation and misconceptions. After a short while we headed back towards the house and quietly entered the warm kitchen. Several pans of hot water sat on the stove but all seemed to be in a normal state of affairs. Just then the door from mom’s side of the house opened and into the kitchen came DG and Dr. Crocker.

Dr Crocker was assuring DG that the baby was perfectly normal. It appeared healthy and Mrs. Brown knew more about taking care of babies than he did so he might as well leave. Which he did. DG made a big fuss about moving things around on the stove and asked about the cows and what time did we need to start milking. Dick gave a profunctual reply and the four of us boys headed through the hall door to mom’s room.

Mom looked pretty well as though she had been through the wringer, which indeed she had. The baby with fat pink cheeks was sound asleep. We didn’t say anything for a minute and then I saw that half smile and the wink as she said, “That’s the end of that.”

We managed to find some bread and jam for supper that night and by next morning every thing was back to normal. Mom was up early, got the stove going, made coffee and got out the stuff for oatmeal. When I came scooting through the door in my escape from the upper room with no heat, the others were already there and mom was introducing our new sister, Thelma Louise Brown.

Her sister Sally coolly acknowledged her presence and looked for other amusements. We all mumbled a howdy of sorts and Jack said,” Let’s eat!” So much for social graces.

March 12, 2007

New Meaning

When I was a kid, we weren't allowed to say the word "fart." We had to say "fluffy" instead. Yes, our friends laughed at us and called us dorks, but we eventually recovered from the trauma.

Today I saw this and I decided that I may need therapy after all.

Meanwhile, if you're really bored and have a metric butt-ton of gummy bears, you too can make one of these

February 15, 2007

Happy Day-After-Valentines Day

I love the smell of big hair in the morning, and because I'm determined to bring back the 80s any way I can.

Listen to the whole thing! TRUST ME! Plus, it's a cool video - It's one continuous shot from beginning to end.

February 14, 2007

Happy Valentine's Day

Because nothing says love like a little 80s music, big hair and tight, ripped Levis. Enjoy!

January 18, 2007

60 is the new 40. Secrets, lies and the inevitable

I'm watching the Today Show and they're talking about how women in their 60s are now the new 40s. I'm relieved. My real age is something I rarely willingly admit to anyone, but this new "acceptance" of aging might cause me to change my mind.

I have lied about my age online. I despise any online forum that requires you to publicly display your birth year - and I always type in the year 1978 when asked.

It's a lie. I don't feel guilty about doing it though. I rather doubt I will EVER feel guilty about doing it. Most often I simply choose not to disclose my age at all. It's nobody's business anyway and I rather resent online forums that try to typecast me into a specific group based on my age.

I'm 38. I was born in 1968, graduated high school in 1986, got married for the first time in 1995, married for the second time in 2004, had my first child in 2005 and will be having the second (and last) child in 13 days.

Next year, in June, 2008 I will turn 40. That's FORTY. And it scares the bananas out of me. How is it that I feel the same as I did at 18? When I hear about people who die in their forties, I think, "Damn, that is SO YOUNG!" Yet, when I was 18, I didn't think you could safely get any closer to "ancient," or death, than 40.

Back then I believed people in their 50s, 60s or more were living on seriously borrowed time. I didn't know anyone over the age of 70.

I was a late bloomer on just about everything in my life: responsibility, accountability, building confidence, being allowed to date, career, college, marriage, having a family, growing boobies, growing girly hips.

I never paid any attention to my age, or how people treated others differently based on their age, until I went back to college in my thirties - and I learned very quickly that my true age should never be revealed to other students. I was surrounded by thousands of 20-something students who rarely accepted anyone over the age of 29. Why would I choose to intentionally ostracize myself when I could actually pass myself off as one of them?

I'm a firm believer in "If you've got it, use it till you wear it out and can't get away with it anymore." That's when I'll just be that pathetic old lady who wants to look 40 years younger than she really is. But I'll be 80 by then, and I won't give a rat's ass anyway. ;-)

Here's to 40. In a year. (why rush it?)

January 13, 2007

Meatloaf in March

Tonight I'm taking it easy, watching 100 Greatest Songs from the 80s, loving every minute of it, and an ad for Meatloaf's upcoming tour flashes across the screen. Syracuse, March 22.

I'm so digging out my Jordache jeans, white leather Nikes with the red swoosh, turquoise flipped-up collar polo shirt, splashing on some United Colors of Benetton perfume and going to see Meatloaf in concert. But only after emptying the entire contents of a can of Aquanet on my perfectly feathered do.

May 09, 2006

Seamstress Genes

More pictures? You got it. You may regret it.

My Mom used to sew most of our clothes for us growing up, which I feel is amazingly cool. I never have time to sew for members of my family, so I can really appreciate all the time and energy she put into making our holiday clothes (a new outfit for Easter, and a new outfit for Christmas, every year). The only thing I would have requested differently is non-matching dresses. We were geeky enough without being dressed like Cindy, Jan, and Marsha Dorkfest.

Not to brag, but Mom was one of those SuperMoms you hear about sometimes. Every day she baked bread and a hearty, healthy meal for us. She sewed our clothes for us, cleaned, baked cookies, reupholstered our furniture, stripped paint from and refinished all of our wood furniture, canned vegetables, hung wallpaper, made homemade granola, she even CHURNED BUTTER for us.

People, she CHURNED BUTTER!

It's pretty funny, because now she stores grocery bags in her NEVER-USED oven and only eats deli foods. I guess all those loaves of bread made her kind of hate cooking.

At any rate, we all get a good giggle when we look at these pictures. Enjoy!

And I don't want to hear any "BOY IN A DRESS" comments!

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May 07, 2006

Adirondack Weekend and Pictures

Congratulations to Jack and Ruth Wheeler (Jack is my cousin, Ruth is his new bride) on their weekend wedding in the Adirondacks! It was a beautiful event, and everyone had a grand time! My immediate family decided to head home a day early because of the chilly weather, and because Elizabeth is on the tail end of a second ear infection. We want to avoid a third.

It was really wonderful to see all of my relatives - I wish I had more time to spend with all of them. Uncle John - send measurements! I was absolutely serious about making a kilt for you!

My sister, Shannon and her husband Gary have been borrowing photo albums from various family members, and for the past year, I've been pestering her to put some on a CD for me. After I pinned her down and licked her face, she finally made me a copy (after kicking and swearing at me).

I spent an hour this morning going through each one. If I had to pick only one favorite, it would have to be this one:
papa02.jpg

This is my grandfather, William Wheeler. He was an amazing man, and this picture gives you a tiny glimpse into the life of one of the heroes from my family history. He was a New York State Trooper and a "Rough Rider" from Troop D, stationed in Oneida, New York.

That image really makes me proud to be a member of his family.

Elizabeth liked the picture too. She pointed at the horse and said "pppppppppppppp," which is her word for the sound a horse makes, and also her sign of definite approval.

Shannon provided me with hundreds of pictures, and as time allows, I'm hoping to post a few more for you all to see. For now, I'll leave you with the typical "Heather the Brat" family picture and story. For reference: I'm one and a half years older than sister Shannon.

Who: Me and gullible sister Shannon.
Where: The sandbox
What: A feast

The scene: Standing before my mother is a screaming Shannon and a guilty-faced me. She asks simply, "What happened?"

Between sobs, Shannon chokes a tale of woe. Somehow I had convinced her that my "Sandbox Surprise" was a giant, tasty pie.

With great compassion, Mom wipes away Shannon's muddy tears, and explains carefully, "DO NOT listen to Heather when she tells you that DIRT is PIE. It's not pie. It's dirt. Dirt doesn't taste good. So the next time she tries to convince you that she has made pie, DO NOT EAT IT."

Shannon nods, sniffles, and heads back out the door.

Mom issues a warning to me: NO MORE MUD PIES ARE TO BE FED TO YOUR SISTER!

Five minutes later I lead a crying Shannon by the hand, back through the door. This picture was taken at that very moment as I delivered my sobbing sister to my mother.
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Mom asks: "Shannon, what did you do?? I told you that she is feeding you mud - those are NOT pies! "

Defeated, muddy, and empty of excuses, Shannon cried, "But Mom, she told me they were COOKIES!"

April 14, 2006

Bite me, Mastercard.

Here's my response to Mastercard's request for contest entries to their "Priceless" campaign:

Going to college and paying for it without any loans: A crapload of debt on the Mastercard

Stupidly thinking that Mastercard money was almost like "free" money and saying YES to three more Mastercard offers: Another crapload of debt on THREE ADDITIONAL Mastercards

Many years of Mastercard debt on four cards: More money wasted on interest than I care to admit, and a whole lot of ignorance on my part.

Finally paying off that last effin' Mastercard: Priceless

Okay, so they haven't ALL been Mastercards, but there were four of those evil boogers, and over the past several years, I've managed to whittle the balances down, very, very slowly. One by one I've been diligently paying them off. Finally this week, I made a grand payment on one of the remaining two, and now I am down to ONE LONELY CREDIT CARD.

The last time I had only ONE credit card, I was 18 and very foolish.

However, if I have budgeted correctly, I should be able to pay the final card off within two months. For the first time in many, many, MANY years, I will be debt-free. I can't even remember what being debt-free feels like.

Tequila, anyone? This is a perfect excuse for a celebration. (As long as I don't put it on the card.)

April 13, 2006

Recently Reminisced Randomness

Growing up I lived in a very rural area outside of Pulaski (known for excellent kayaking and fishing on the Salmon River, so maybe you've heard of it). There's a lot of farming out that way. Stevie wore the most incredibly cool boots. Ever. They were simple cowboy boots, but I'd never seen anything so wonderful. As a kid, I didn't have a very keen sense of fashion - I was a total tomboy, so if the garb didn't work well in the swamp while catching frogs, odds are I wouldn't wear it.

I came home and told my mom about Stevie's boots and, not being on the cutting edge of cowboy fashion, she apparently didn't know what the Hell I was talking about. She suggested they were "shoe boots." I asked what "shoe boots" were and she told me they were rubber boots that you slip on over your shoes. Then she told me she had a pair that I could have.

I went rummaging through mom's closet and found them - a pair of black rubber boots that my Granddad wore over his shoes to keep them clean in the mud. I slipped them on my feet and posed in front of the mirror for hours. I had boots just like Stevie's and I felt like a Goddess. Of course they were about 5 sizes too big for my feet, and since Stevie didn't wear shoes under HIS boots, I wasn't going to wear shoes under MINE.

For one entire summer I wore those foolish things, clomp-clomping around the back forty with my sisters in tow. I wore them with shorts, dresses, my bathing suit. I wore them with EVERYTHING.

One day my cousin Heidi and I, along with my sisters and two other childhood friends were on our way to swimming lessons and I had on my shoe boots. The drive to swimming lessons took us right past Stevie's house, which was somewhat dilapidated and located right in the midst of a dairy farm.

Now, from birth to about 5th grade, Heidi was kind of a bully. She was about 3 months older than me, bigger and a lot tougher (she had older brothers and sisters). She was not afraid of me, that's for sure. She also knew that my boots were an attempt to pay tribute to Stevie, and "outed" me for my crush earlier that day.

Upstate New York dairy farms have a unique odor in the summertime - and Stevie's farm was no different. As we approached the farm, I strained my neck hoping to see him playing in the yard. Heidi picked up on it, and shouted in front of everyone, "Stevie's house smells like cows! You better plug your nose or everyone will know that you loooooooooooooove him!"

I was utterly humiliated and heartbroken that she would betray me like this, but I held my ground while the other girls laughed at me and held their fingers over their noses. I didn't plug my nose, and I glared at Heidi as we passed Stevie's house. I don't think Stevie ever knew how much I liked him and his cowboy boots. But I certainly was devoted.

So, point of the story? I guess there is none, other than it sucks being smaller than your bullying cousin. I sure would have liked to kick her ass that day.

A few years later Doug Britton tried to lift up my skirt and show my underwear to the class. Heidi beat him down. From that day forward, Heidi was ok in my book.