It's OVER!!!

Kate Haruch, daughter of our dear friends Cinda and Jamie, is now a charming young lady who would probably be mortified at the story from which this blog title emerged. When Kate was very small, sitting through church meetings was sheer torture--as it is for most small children and, truth be told, for a good many adults. Kate and her parents often sat one or two rows behind us in church and none of us who were there will ever forget one particularly tedious Sacrament meeting that we endured together. At the conclusion of the closing prayer, while the chapel was still silent, Kate stood up, threw both fists in the air in a victory salute and loudly proclaimed, "It's OVER!!!"

Never have those words meant more to me than now, as I sit at my computer for a long overdue post, and gaze at that lovely piece of parchment paper that loudly proclaims IT'S OVER!! I can't even express how relieved I am--as my Dad used to say,"It's like beating your head against a brick wall....sure feels good when you stop."

Since graduation day on the 13th, it's been a whirlwind of activity with my (almost) entire family around me. Patrick was, sadly, unable to make it here and spent a miserable weekend in London trying to cajole American Airlines into coughing up an appropriate flight for him while he battled a raging fever. We missed him terribly, but he is happily on the mend and I hope to get him and Annike here again sometime next year. In the meantime, I have spent glorious hours visiting with my wonderful children and lavishing hugs and kisses galore on all five grandbabies. Sunday the 14th was particularly perfect--I spent most of the day lounging on my couch, with Cole sound asleep on my chest and Hailey, Nathan, Connor and Hannah playing happily beside me. It really, truly, does NOT get better than that.

SO--more pictures of my adorable family will be coming shortly. Right now I'm so tired I couldn't put a coherent sentence together with both hands and a flashlight so I'm off to bed. Merry Christmas to all and to all a Good Night!

Cole Wilson VerHoef

At long last and with maximum fanfare, Cole Wilson VerHoef arrived Wednesday, November 26, at 9:54am. Weighing 8 pounds, 5 ounces, and measuring 20 inches long, he is completely and thoroughly perfect. Jacey is doing very, very well, and she and Bryan couldn't be prouder. Hailey and Nathan are thrilled and although Connor isn't too sure about all this yet, he has been calling this sweet baby "Skipper" for months and months now, and is highly offended when anyone refers to him as "Cole," so he's already protective of this most welcome addition to the family.

We are SO blessed--it really is a new day!

Of garbage disposals, cigarette butts, and boy scouts...

Okay, so yes, the music does have significance and yes, the photograph above does too. I was going to photograph other areas of the house to demonstrate the effect my thesis has had on my housekeeping abilities for the last six months. And while it's true that I haven't a shred of dignity left, I did think that a shot of my bathroom, complete with overflowing trashcans, toothpaste encrusted mirrors, hairsprayed counters, and the outside wrapper from a feminine hygiene product static-electricitied to the wall, might be more than my gentle readers could take.

So instead, the photograph is what my "office" looks like today. You will be MOST happy to know that all ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY THREE pages of my thesis have been successfully printed twelve times and they are resting comfortably at Fayette Printing (except for the last thirteen maps and photographs that I will take to Howard tomorrow morning to be likewise printed and shuffled into the appropriate piles). I thought that inserting thirteen images into thirteen pages of a Word document wouldn't take long--figured I could whip that up in an hour or two last night. They're just pictures. No text. Just pictures with a small caption underneath. Silly me. Five hours later, the maps and photographs look lovely but no matter what I do, the page numbers are on the wrong side and each of the thirteen pages is labeled 107. Odd, isn't it, that after all those weeks of excrutiating writing and revising and revising and writing, all that stands between me and my diploma is a simple Microsoft Word function that refuses to cooperate. Go figure.

But it got me thinking. This is the kind of stress that tends to unhinge me. Not that I'm not already slightly unbalanced--it doesn't take much to drive me over the edge. But this kind of stress makes me do things that most college-educated people stopped doing when they were about 6 years old. An example or two to illustrate:

Some years ago, the following events all happened within just a few days of each other when I was experiencing unusually high stress levels. We had been in Georgia for a few years and things weren't going well professionally or financially for Randy and I and several of our children were beginning to sprout into teenagers and....well, if you've ever had, been, or known a teenager, you'll understand.

I was cleaning the kitchen one day and the garbage disposal jammed. Lost in thought, and being the good Navy wife I am, I fixed it myself, as I usually did. Reaching my hand in to remove the offending object, I quite deliberately turned the disposal back on while my hand was still stuck down the sink, holding the blades. Fortunately, we had a crap kitchen with a crap garbage disposal so my hand emerged with all five fingers reasonably intact.

It scared the snot out of me, but it apparently wasn't enough to force my brain to re-engage because just a day or two later, I drove to the gas station to fill up my vehicle. I went inside the station to pay for my gas and came back out to get in my white truck. When I opened the door, I noticed that there was blue carpeting where the red had been and that the floorboards were covered with cigarette butts. I actually GOT INTO THE TRUCK, wondering how my carpet had changed color and how those cigarette butts got there since I have never smoked in my life, when finally it dawned on me. This isn't my white truck. Not only was it NOT my white truck, I had not driven my white truck to the gas station--I had driven our BLUE station wagon to the gas station. Which means that from the time I placed the gas nozzle back in its cradle, walked 20 feet to the store, paid for my gas, and walked out, I had completely forgotten which vehicle I drove to the gas station in, in the first place. I am not making this up.

Finally, just a day or two later, I returned home from work one day very, very tired. I was wearing one of my favorite outfits that day, black skirt, sweater, and tights. I was a size 8 then (see picture below) and looked pretty decent in my black skirt, sweater, and tights. Anyway, when I got inside, I started to undress to get in my sweatpants and noticed that a truck had pulled up to the house. I remembered then that I had promised to help Benjamin's scout leader, Kevin Mackey, take the entire scout troup on a nature walk at the local elementary school. Well, I thought, I'm just too tired to do this today and I'm sure Kevin will understand. So I walked out of the house, up the driveway to the street, and stood there at the truck full of all those pre-teen boy scouts. It wasn't until I leaned my arms on the open window of the cab and looked down at my feet that it dawned on me that I didn't have a skirt on anymore. I had my sweater on, my tights, and a nice, black, lacy slip. No skirt. I looked at Kevin and said (brilliant deduction, here) "Kevin, I don't have a skirt on." To which he replied, "Well, I wasn't going to say anything..."

SO--on Tuesday, when this whole miserable ordeal is hopefully and finally over, wish me luck. I would really hate to show up at work without my pants or wearing my bra outside my shirt....

Stand by...

I had every intention today of creating a lovely slideshow of the costumes and other outfits my mother sewed over the years and then cap off this post with a picture of Randy in his famous Grande Conejo costume, along with the story behind it...

Unfortunately, I have the attention span of a 2 year old today and after tearing apart a number of rooms trying to find the right pictures, I finally decided this is a task for a calmer brain than I possess at present. So, at this point, the only two rooms in this house that aren't completely trashed are Megan's room (only because she is not currently living in it) and Annike's old room. The rest of the house looks like a "before" picture in one of the decorating magazines that are stacked knee high in my bathroom. (Oh, don't you dare snicker at that, you know you keep magazines in your bathroom too...)

SO--until I have finished my thesis and can finally reclaim what's left of my tattered life, you'll just have to settle for the promised picture of Bryan and Jacey on Halloween, 2003. I hope they don't mind that I've posted it here--Jacey looks adorable anyway and as for Bryan...well, he just needs to be glad I don't have a picture of him in the Spiderman costume that he's been brave enough to wear recently at the birthday parties of several of his nephews. Complete with tights....

As for the thesis--remember, we're not discussing this out loud lest a meteor should strike my laptop or a rabid squirrel attack my purse and make off with my thumb drive, but I am almost...sheesh, I can't even WRITE it, much less THINK it...I am almost nearly close to approximately more or less ready to be maybe terminado. That's as close as I can get to writing it--I'm reasonably certain neither my laptop nor my thumb drive speak Spanish...

By the way, did you know that the word "finished" means completed and ruined? Please continue to keep all fingers and toes crossed (prayers, lighting candles and other appropriate religious expressions are also welcome....;-)

Ghostbusters, Patsy, and Ghouls...oh MY!!

Okay, I admit it, I LOVE Halloween. Maybe it's the fond memories I have of scoring several pounds of candy in an old pillowcase while wandering all over Canoga Park with my chums as a child, or maybe it's the even fonder memories I have of Halloweens spent with my own children, but I just love Halloween! And now it's even BETTER, cause I get to watch my completely adorable grandchildren dress up and extort their share of candy from the extraordinarily kind people who live in their neighborhood. That's Hailey and Nathan in the picture above, by the way, since I know you couldn't guess just by looking at them. Where's Connor? Well, he had a costume malfunction and decided he'd rather be Spiderman than a medieval knight, so his picture will come later in this post.

SO, it was quite a shock when I called to check on my other completely adorable grandbaby, Hannah, only to find that her FATHER had decided to blow Halloween off this year. OH. MY. GOSH. This is mutiny. This is violating the prime directive. This is just plain un-VerHoef. While Jacey and I attempted to guilt him into purchasing a last minute costume (hell, a $1.00 set of fairy wings at the dollar store is better than nothing), I started thinking about some of the costumes I made for my children when they were little and we were broke. This one is one of my favorites:
This is Annike in 1980--is she just the cutest thing you have EVER seen, or what? Randy and I were starving students and, as you can see, baby number two (Bryan) was on the way so this costume consisted of her pink footed sleeper, two pink construction paper ears attached with pink yarn, and a wad of cotton balls glued to her bum. Perfect! She cleaned up on candy that night (most of which her father ate "just to be sure it wasn't poisoned.")

Later on, after Bryan and BJ's arrival, we had more disposable income, but we lived in Spain where Halloween was only celebrated in our little American enclave and not only was it tough to find costumes, by that time I sort of enjoyed the challenge of pulling together a costume from whatever we had lying around the house at the time. If the kids objected, I don't remember them verbalizing it. Anyway, this is Halloween 1987:

Aren't they too cute?!!! "Superman" ended up wearing his sister's red tights, his own underpants, shirt, and rain boots. A piece of red fabric pinned to his shirt served as an excellent cape. The "Ghostbuster" was every bit as easy--black rain boots, gray pants and shirt, hand-drawn logo stuck to his shirt with fusible webbing, and a "trap" fashioned from a Velveeta cheese box. It just doesn't get any better than this! They scored SIGNIFICANT candy that year. (and yes, Dad ate the requisite "just to be sure it isn't poisoned" amount, but by this time, the kids were wiser. They hid most of it.)

Now, lest you think that Halloween's just for little kids, here's a few more pictures to prove you wrong. The first is of darling Megan, somewhere around 2001, with her BFF Stephanie Snell, dressed in matching fairy costumes handcrafted by my mother (who, incidentally, sewed some of the most beautiful costumes you've ever seen).

And that was he-who-must-not-be-named, who actually let MY youngest grandbaby go costume-less this Halloween. I don't have a date for this picture, but it's a classic. He was in high school at the time (or maybe just after) and if you're a Monty Python fan, you should have recognized Patsy instantly....

Oh, and since this is an equal opportunity embarassment blog for ALL my children, I should let you know that I have an EXCELLENT picture of Bryan and Jacey on their way to a Halloween party somewhere around 2003, in their best "Spy Who Shagged Me" costumes. Let's take a vote, shall we, in your comments, as to whether or not I should add it to this collection.....hehehe...

Ain't Halloween grand??!!!!

Sleep. Drive. Work. Drive. Write. Repeat.

Couldn't resist a brief update today, and along with it, a tiny peek into my world. The post title says it all, but the picture at the top of the page might help explain. (Note the bed that hasn't been made since August) What you cannot see are the dishes piled up in the sink, the overflowing trash cans, the clean laundry that never gets folded--just dumped on various pieces of furniture throughout the house, and the stacks of unopened mail on every horizontal surface between my laptop and the garage door.

BUT...and this is top secret...I think I might actually be making progress!!! Shhh--don't repeat that out loud. This is very important. It's sort of like when you get an unexpected financial windfall--a raise or a tax refund--you must NEVER, EVER discuss it in front of a major appliance or the car. They can hear you. This is why they enter into suicide pacts with each other whenever you have extra money.

It's the same with my thesis. If I say that I'm making progress out loud, all the files on my laptop and thumb drive will spontaneously corrupt and little kilobytes will start dribbling from my USB ports and I'll have to start over. So this is just between you and me: I met with my thesis committee chairman today and she LIKED Chapter 1!!! Not "it's good, but..." or "it's coming along..." or any of the other kind remarks that I just know she makes so that I won't slip into that catatonic stare again or start sucking my thumb. She said "IT'S GOOD! I LIKE IT!" What this means is the light at the end of the tunnel might actually be light and not an express train to the nut house.

SO. Once again--keep all fingers and toes crossed for me...but do it quietly...I think my laptop is listening....

I am thankful for laughter...except when milk comes out of my nose...

I must say, the response to my last post was extremely gratifying!! Thank you one and all for your comments, your giggles, and your expressions of concern--they meant more than you can imagine! Unfortunately, it wasn't until the week after I wrote that post that things really went down the crapper. It has to do with both the thesis (which I spent four hours on and managed to revise five pages---I have 70 more to go, so you do the math...) AND the fact that I'm digitizing old family videos. This means I'm watching my life (when I had one) all over again and missing my sweetheart and my babies so much I can hardly breathe.

SO. When I went in to work on Tuesday, God must have had me in mind. On the breakroom table was this cartoon:

I could NOT stop laughing! I know it's a really dumb cartoon and not anywhere near the best that Gary Larson can produce, but it did the trick. So tonight, I've changed the blog title picture to one of my favorites. That's my grandbaby Connor, running through my backyard, trying hard to avoid getting pelted with giant marshmallows expertly fired from slingshots manned by his big brother and sister (AND his Mom and Dad--note the little white objects on the lawn behind him--more missed shots...) and having a blast!

THAT day was a really good day and truth be told, I have lots and lots of them. I just needed to put things in perspective.

Enjoy the music!

p.s. I did leave "Masochism Tango" in the playlist. After all, I've still got 70 pages of thesis to revise...

So near and yet so far...

Many of my lovely family and friends have followed my...shall we say...colorful progress toward securing my master's degree in history from the University of West Georgia. On the whole, the process has been a delight. I have loved every class, enjoyed every teacher, soaked up every experience, and performed every assignment required of me. My work has, apparently, been pretty decent. I don't like to brag, but I managed to pull off a perfect 4.0 GPA throughout my entire 36 hours (12 classes) of graduate coursework. The only thing standing between me and that coveted diploma is my thesis. It's just a paper. A 75+ page paper. A thoroughly researched, scholarly written, meticulously footnoted, professor-scrutinized, repeatedly revised, never ending PAIN IN THE ASS paper!

I am reminded of one of Randy's experiences in AOCS. When Gunny Buck wished to drive home a point to his hapless charges, he frequently did so with pushups. He would cheerfully announce that the squadron would be doing, say, 20 pushups. Heartened, the guys would drop down and get started. Just 20. No biggie. Gunny Buck would then begin the count: 1...2...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...4...5...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...well, you get the picture.

It also reminds me of giving birth to a first child. Somewhere in the 15th hour of labor, when your husband's loving encouragement just makes you want to run him over with the car, the thought begins to creep into the back of your consciousness....what if I'm the first woman to ever be in labor for a year? A decade? The rest of my life? Sure, it's never happened before, but what if it happens to ME?

This is the point I have reached with my thesis. This is the reason for the photo at the top of this blog (note the aspirin, kleenex, and CHOCOLATE). This is the reason for the particular song that's playing. This is the reason for the hammer in the "current pages of my thesis" graphic above. It somehow seems an appropriate symbol for this stage of the process. Imagine hitting your thumb with a hammer while driving a nail in place. Now imagine hitting it over and over and over and over and....well, you know what I mean. I've managed to cough up 60 pages of this interesting, little known story that I'm trying to tell. This is good. But it's not good enough. It needs revising. And revising. And revising. And revising....it's the process of turning this interesting, little known story into a valid addition to an already impressive body of historical knowledge that makes me want to slit my wrists with a spoon.

So, dear friends and family--keep all fingers and toes crossed that I'm up to the task. And if, by some miracle, I do manage to pull this thing out of my...head--and get it turned in in time for December graduation, be advised that I'm going to do something spectacular to pat myself on the back. This will NOT be a "dinner out and retail therapy" event--this is going to be a "check something off the bucket list" event.....Hawaii anyone???

and God bless the Haruches, Best Buy, and modern technology....

Okay, this is a post done quickly, but I am so anxious to share what I've spent the better part of two days and a sizeable chunk of my paycheck on. Please turn off the music player once you've gotten a taste of Lee Greenwood and then click on the video below. The scene: an LDS ward building somewhere in either Arizona or Utah, in the spring of 1991. The occasion: a guest speaker invited to discuss his experiences in Desert Storm. These are his closing remarks.

Enjoy....

...and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

This past Wednesday was an exceptionally good day at work. While I truly like my job on most days, Wednesday seemed to be a day when everything clicked. The all staff meeting that began the day included free MARTA passes with the promise of continued subsidies for those of us willing to try public transport--something I need to do since my commute time and costs are staggering. My co-workers, including my boss, were especially fun to be around. Our patrons were easy to please and generous in their comments about my knowledge and willingness to help. The last patrons of the day were a group of three elderly ladies that reminded me so much of my Mom--spry and cheerful and thrilled to have my help in finding information on their ancestors. I was riding high.


After closing up the library, I headed downstairs to return a call--one of my volunteers had left a message earlier saying that she wouldn't be coming in that day. I had a feeling she wasn't happy with us, but when I called her back, she let me have it--personally--with both barrels. It seems I had humiliated and embarassed her in front of a patron and my boss; I was always too busy to speak to her; she had an excellent relationship with my predecessor and all my coworkers, but there was something about my personality that she just couldn't stand and she did not think she ever wanted to work with me again.


Well, by the time she finished with me I was in tears and unable to hide it. I never contradicted anything she said, but apologized profusely and repeatedly and offered to put my apology in writing to her, my boss, and the AHC Director of Volunteers (which I did as soon as I hung up the phone). It didn't even faze her. She was every bit as angry with me when we hung up as she was when we started. Having dealt with angry people for decades in a number of customer service-type jobs, I have never failed to win folks over eventually. Not so this time. As far as she is concerned, I was scum, I am scum, and I will always be scum.


One pint of Ben & Jerry's and a Chevy Chase movie later, I was feeling somewhat better, but the very next day I put both my darling daughters on separate planes--one to England and the other to college in Idaho.


One pint of Haagen Das and a Bridget Jones' Diary movie later, I was still blubbering. Which leads me, oddly enough, to the point of this post.


I have, unfortunately, discovered the best kept secret of widowhood. It's what NOBODY ever tells you about being a widow. You can run around like the energizer bunny and have the most smashingly wonderful life imagineable and then you'll have one single, crummy, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day and BAM--it's like you just lost him this morning. You can take trips to spectacular destinations, retail therapy your guts out, but go home to find the washer died and BAM--it's like the funeral was yesterday.


Now, if Randy were alive, would that woman have been able to upset me so? Sure. If he were still here, would the plumbing still explode? Would the car break down? Would I still be unable to finish my thesis or sell the house? Would I still hate AT&T? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and HELL yes! It's just that being alone is sort of like building a house of cards. No matter how impressive it looks on the outside, it doesn't take much to bring the whole thing crashing down.


SO--to compensate, you learn a few things. You learn that music, movies, food, and Excedrin Migraine are acceptable weapons. ZZTop got me through his funeral, "Scrooge" will get me through next Christmas, Ted's Montana Grill will get me through my next anniversary, and a couple of Excedrin Migraine will get me through the Volunteer Orientation meeting next week that my pissed off volunteer may or may not attend.


I'll be okay. I'm a tough old broad. But if you ever hear Jimmy Buffett blaring at the threshold of pain while the kitchen trash is stuffed with empty Sticky Toffee Pudding ice cream containers and I'm spouting lines from "Blazing Saddles," check the computer. It's a sure bet the desktop finally rolled over and died....better hide the Excedrin Migraine....

A woman of many talents....

Sunday is family history day. I look forward to this day more than any other day of the week--I log on to xmradio.com, set the player to channel 4 (40s/big band music) and curl up with my ancestors. It has been said that I have more fun with dead people than with the living and while I staunchly maintain that this is NOT true, I have to confess that it could certainly appear that way. Well, maybe a little. Dead people don't leave dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor or steal other people's cell phone chargers when they can't find their own. But I digress....

Today I'm sorting through papers and photographs that belonged to my mother's mother, whom we affectionately called Dardy. Born Maria Ignacia Robbins in Buenos Aires, Argentina on the 24th of May, 1897, Dardy was a character in every sense of the word. If you looked up "perfect grandmother" in the dictionary, there would be a picture of her there. I've never known anyone with a wider array of talents or a more wicked sense of humor. She was a gifted seamstress--when we shopped together, I would point out a cute dress that I liked, and she would go home and duplicate it. From scratch. Without a pattern. She was a natural musician and could listen to a song on the radio and duplicate it on the piano although I don't believe she ever had a day of formal training. She was a gourmet cook--creating masterpieces from fruits and vegetables that she grew herself. She was a linguist--shifting effortlessly from English to her native Spanish (especially when she didn't want us to know what she was saying!) She was a woman of great dignity--but delighted in sitting on the floor to help me play with doll houses well into her sixties.

In the interest of space and time, I'll keep this post brief and focus on just one of her many talents. She was an artist. I just can't resist posting a couple of her drawings. This first one was torn out of a letter she wrote my mother--there's just enough of the letter left to indicate that this is a depiction of what she imagined the latest potty training session looked like. That's me, by the way, on the commode. In front of the TV. There's also a brief reference to my first visit to the emergency room after ingesting a bottle of Vitalis. For those of you under 50, this would be akin to drinking a bottle of liquid hair gel. Perhaps this potty training session immediately followed that episode, but I can't be sure.




This next is a portion of some drawings I found that are literally disintegrating. Drawn on both sides of a sheet of flimsy brown paper, there are images of a young couple cuddling on a couch, a few images of women in 40s style dress, and then this image of a woman in beach attire. I LOVE these drawings! As you can see from the image at the top of this post, Dardy also loved the beach. She and my grandfather, Colonel, lived in Hawaii during the late 30s and early 40s. She was apparently quite good at the hula. I think she was quite good at everything.

I had seen these drawings before today's family history session. But I did find something today that I had never seen before. Didn't even know I had it. It's a signed letter from none other than Norman Rockwell, written in November of 1955. It reads:



"Dear Mrs. Shutt: It was certainly thoughtful of you to send me an idea for a picture. I have just returned from a two month trip around the world, or I would have written you sooner. Your suggestion is really very good, but I usually paint only my own ideas. Not that they are better than some of those sent me, but because I believe I paint them best. I do greatly appreciate your interest, and thank you for writing. Sincerely, Norman Rockwell."


I'm not surprised that he took the time to personally answer her letter. He has always seemed like a pretty decent guy. I'm just surprised he didn't take her advice. Who knows, maybe my potty training picture would have ended up on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post....

You've been pranked.....

I got fired last month. No, really, I did--in spite of the post title, I'm not making this up. I was tasked with doing some research that required looking through the Atlanta Historical Society newsletters from the 1970s. While doing my scholarly duty, my colleagues and I stumbled upon a picture of my boss' boss, taken when he was first hired by the institution. I confess it was a most unflattering photo--he had a rather goofy expression on his face and he looked about fifteen. We were delighted! And I'm the first to admit that it was me who commented on how funny it would be to put said picture on the side of a milk carton.

WELL--my co-workers (including my boss) egged me on. The next day, a quart size milk carton (complete with black and white cow markings) was the perfect receptacle for the ridiculous photograph and a caption that read something like "Have You Seen This Child? Name: Mikey Rose. Last seen: At the Pig & Chick on Roswell Road. Age: SUBSTANTIALLY older than this photo." I placed it carefully on top of the coffee maker and waited patiently for my quarry to spot it. He did. And then he promptly informed me that I had had the shortest tenure of any of his employees, having held on to my job for less than one week.

This got me thinking. Pranks are a WONDERFUL thing--especially when you're on the pranking end, not the pranked end. A few classic examples spring to mind....

First, the Great Breast Pump Escapade. This is a classic, and brilliant in its execution. Many years ago Randy's mom, Alice, was asked to bring a White Elephant gift to a church party. She chose to bring an old breast pump. Bob Panian, the husband of one of her best friends, was the unfortunate recipient. Now this would be funny enough, but what happened over and over again for years is what brings this particular prank into the realm of genius. At every church occasion for years and years to come, Alice and Bob continued to exchange the same breast pump, each one trying to outdo the other in the method of delivery. One year Alice baked it into a cake--another year one or the other of them had it canned at the local cannery. They got more mileage out of that breast pump, I'm sure, than the baby it was originally purchased for! Classic.

I worked with a gal who's husband received a nearly life size inflatable cow as a gift. (Don't ask why--apparently he collected cow memorabilia and somebody thought this particular object would be a great addition to the kitchen counter). Anyway, my co-worker, the administrative assistant for the Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences at a local university, brought the cow to work, blew it up, placed it carefully in the Dean's office chair, and propped the current copy of the Journal of Higher Education in it's hooves. This is the same woman who later encased every single object in the Dean's office (desk, chair, phone, computer, books, etc.) in aluminum foil while he was on vacation. And yes, she's still employed!

But I think the best prank I have ever heard of, I discovered just about the same time I got fired. The Atlanta History Center is the proud recipient of the Olympic torch used for this summer's Beijing games. While doing some research on the whole torch-lighting thing, I stumbled upon this prank--arguably the best I've ever heard of.

It seems that in 1956, during the torch run for the games in Melbourne, Australia, a few blokes decided to protest the ceremony since it actually came into existence at the Berlin games, at Hitler's bequest (a little known fact). Anyway, as it came through Sydney, they decided to run their own version of the torch, which consisted of a chair leg, a plum pudding can, and a pair of underpants. (Yes, I'm quite sure alcohol was involved.)

What happened next is priceless--somehow the real torch runner got waylayed in the crowd and these guys with the flaming underwear were mistaken for the real thing! The crowd pushed them forward to the mayor of Sydney who, not expecting the torch so soon, officially received it for the city! By the time the mixup was revealed, the fake torch bearer slipped into the crowd--and into the prankster hall of fame! For more info on this delightful episode, click here. (scroll down to 1956 Melbourne)

SO--back to the milk carton incident. It turns out that getting fired is sort of a rite of passage at the Atlanta History Center. I was informed that a food offering was required in order to redeem myself. Two dozen carrot cake cupcakes later, I am still employed, and my exploits have been duly noted across the entire campus.

These are my people!

p.s. the photo at the top of the page is Deena Millett. When faced with such a lovely cannon, what else can one do?
p.s.s. if I have any readers, I would LOVE comments about your favorite pranks....

Losing my past

The phone rang last night at 11pm. Since I haven't been sleeping well lately, I wasn't asleep--but figuring that it was BJ, who used to have trouble remembering the two hour difference between mountain and eastern time, I answered it in my best groggy/cranky voice. It wasn't BJ. It was my dear, old friend Mark Fenstermaker telling me that his brother Jared, my high school sweetheart and first love, passed away early yesterday morning.

It's difficult to describe the sense of rootlessness that follows such a shock. Perhaps it's the cumulative effect of losing so many loved ones over the last few years, but I have this inescapable sensation that I'm losing my grip on my past. This feeling blindsided me for the first time a couple of years ago when I reconnected with my dear old high school buddy, Peggy Johnson Wagner. We hadn't talked in years but managed to find each other again and spent the better part of an evening catching up by long distance phone call. When I hung up the phone, my first instinct was to tell somebody about all the changes in her life and the way she has overcome so much adversity. And then it hit me. There was nobody left to tell. My Dad was gone, my Mom was gone, Randy was gone--all the people who knew me best or knew me when Peggy and I were kids--nobody knew about this friendship. Nobody was left who knew that part of me.

So I found myself on the computer, late at night, googling old friends in an effort to find some of the folks I knew in high school and college. And then I got blindsided again. In a search for my first college sweetheart, Mike Farr, I found his name on a list of alumni from Duke University Law School Class of 1983. But his name was at the bottom of the list, under a banner that read "Classmates who are no longer with us." Mike passed away in San Mateo, California, in 1997.

This is not to say that ALL my old friends and family have left me. Although my oldest brother, Mike, passed away in 1995, my big brother Chris is still very much alive and well. But Chris was grown and out of the house by the time I hit high school. As for friends, I'm supremely grateful to still be in touch with Mark, who was actually responsible for setting Randy and me up on our first date--and with Peggy, who was responsible for introducing me to the church--and with Tony Cano, who was Randy's roommate when Randy and I started dating. But they are the only ones who remember me before I grew up--the only ones who knew the person I was in 1973. They're my only links to my Palm Desert past.

SO--I've gotta talk a little about these two fellas who've left us way too soon. I feel like I NEED to, since my friendships with them now exist only in my mind. If THAT's not a scary thought, I don't know what is...

I met Jared when I was just 13. I was gangly and awkward and sporting braces with those gawd-awful rubber bands that tended to catapult across the room at THE most inopportune times. I was, frankly, amazed that he took a second look at me, but he did, and we "went steady" all through high school. To the left is our prom picture--below is his senior picture.

I remember he drove a little green Datsun pickup truck and he loved vacationing in Idaho--I think the desert never really suited him and he was glad to move back north after high school. His family had some land in Anza, a high desert community between Palm Springs and San Diego. It was always cooler up there and we used to drive up there whenever we could and spend the day wandering the property, talking, and snoozing in the back of the truck. It was a peaceful place and I loved being there with him. We were both big John Denver fans and "My Sweet Lady" still takes me instantly back to Anza--it was "our" song. He moved on to greener pastures not long after high school, but long before I was ready to let him go. In fact, I dropped out of college briefly midway through my first year because I was so homesick for him. It wasn't until my second year in college, on semester abroad in England, that I finally realized he wasn't the one for me and then I spent years telling myself he was a lousy boyfriend, which really wasn't true. We were both just young and overly dramatic. I was lucky to end up with a life that was really quite perfect (until recently), but his was much different. He wrote me late last year and described failed marriages and difficult relationships with his children, but he spoke of it all with characteristic good nature--not a trace of self pity. I really wanted to see him again. I'm really sorry that I never will.

After that failed first semester in college, I managed to tear myself away from home the following September and gave BYU another shot. It was a good decision. There was something magical about my second round at the "Y." Almost immediately I found myself having the time of my life with a bunch of kids from my student branch. I don't even remember exactly when I met Michael Don Farr, but my roommate, Jeanine Hagler, and his roommate, Joe Bourgea, and I started spending a ton of time together. No pairing off, just hanging out along with a bunch of other kids from our branch. I think I had a crush on him pretty much right from the start, and by the end of the year we had convinced ourselves that we were serious about each other. We weren't right for each other, but that didn't stop us from having a blast planning our futures as law partners.

(Yeah, like I could EVER be a lawyer!)

We figured we'd call our law firm "Farr, Farr, and Farther." We didn't have an "our song"--when he'd call me on the phone, the first thing I'd hear would be an impromptu falsetto rendition of the "Oh sweet mystery of life, at last I found you" song from Young Frankenstein! It fit our wacky relationship perfectly. The night before my 19th birthday, I got a message telling me Mike was looking for me and to call him back. When I did, he told me he wanted to be the first one to wish me a happy birthday so he took me to a late night movie in Salt Lake so we'd be together at midnight when the new day arrived. It was one of the most romantic things anybody's ever done for me! Here's a picture of Mike sitting on my bed, being his usual goofy self...

We wrote each other faithfully throughout his mission to Quebec, and writing that "Dear John" letter when I met Randy was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. It was the right thing, of course, and we were able to get together again with our respective spouses while Randy and I were at BYU--it was great to see him so happy. Now I often think of his wife and what she went through just a few years before I did.

I miss you guys.

Workin' for a livin'.....

Oh joy, oh rapture--after TWENTY months of unemployment (well, some of that was UNDERemployment, but we won't quibble here...) I am actually gainfully employed full time once again! I am the Reference Manager at the Kenan Research Center which is the archives branch of the Atlanta History Center. To say that I'm thrilled would be the understatement of the year--I get to spend my days helping patrons use our collections for research into such diverse subjects as family history, Civil War history, architectural history, gay and lesbian history and a multitude of other fascinating topics--and I get a paycheck, full benefits, and a ton of paid time off during the year to boot! It really just doesn't get much better than this for a die-hard history geek like me.

I spent my lunch break on Saturday (I work Tuesdays through Saturdays) sitting at a patio table at the back of the museum building, looking out over the acres of spectacular gardens that meander through our campus. You have to understand that the AHC is located in the heart of Buckhead, one of the most upscale areas of Atlanta, and sitting at that table you would never know you were in the center of the city. With the wind whispering through the trees and the birds singing and the faint scent of gardenias on the air, I couldn't help but revel in my good fortune and reflect on other jobs I have had--jobs that were, shall we say, somewhat less satisfying.

One of my very first jobs after high school was working as a ward clerk at Indio Community Hospital in the emergency room. One of our attending physicians was a former MASH doctor who served in Korea and was famous for his good looks and somewhat unorthodox ways. My desk was in front of his and when checking in patients, I often had to bend over my desk to hand them their paperwork. Shortly after one such occasion I remember him leaning over me with a smile as he walked past my desk and advising me in a conspiratorial whisper, "You wave that thing in my face one more time and I'm gonna bite it!"

I remember when Randy was on his first WESTPAC deployment, I worked as a bookkeeper for an auto body repair shop in National City (a suburb of San Diego) where my boss explained that one of the perks of my job was that I could leave the building early enough to get out of the neighborhood before dark. I guess the concertina wire and junk yard dogs provided adequate security during daylight hours. I was pregnant with Benjamin at the time, and while fighting morning sickness it was not unusual to get that "somebody's behind me" feeling while sitting at my desk, and turn around to see a four inch palmetto bug (that's the polite term for a cockroach) crawling up the wall behind my desk. Once, I opened the office refrigerator to put in my morning sickness snack (cucumbers, cottage cheese, and soda crackers) to find the entire top shelf filled with the biggest fish I have ever seen--glassy eyes, scales, and all.

The Georgia State Farmers Market provided another memorable job for me. I worked as a switchboard operator and later as an accounts receivable clerk for a produce house in which I was one of very few women in the building. The fact that I was married with four children didn't seem to faze a number of the warehouse guys, salesmen, and even customers who were, I swear, THE most oversexed bunch it's ever been my misfortune to encounter. The theory was that because they worked six days a week from 5AM til 4PM, there was no time at home for romance so they spent all their working hours thinking about it. That was the theory. I liked them--I found their country boy common sense and southern dry wit really fun. But for some of them I think the "theory" was just a smokescreen for the fact that although God gave them a brain and their most valued body part, He only gave them enough blood to run one at a time. Their brains never stood a chance. I put up with five years of various and assorted good natured suggestions involving my anatomy and the copy machine and the nearest Holiday Inn, knowing that most of them were all talk and no action. It was sort of like working in a college frat house, I suppose, but I never felt threatened and, after all, none of them had anything to offer that was better than what I went home to every night. Here's a picture of me on my 40th birthday, enjoying my toilet-papered desk and "Lordy, Lordy, Sue's 40" decorations.


SO--on Tuesday when I go back to work, open my office door (YES, I have my VERY OWN OFFICE for the first time in 52 years!), and glance at my business cards (YES, I have my VERY OWN BUSINESS CARDS for the first time in 52 years!), I will sit there smugly and I will feel very, very grown up and very VERY grateful! (Oh! and the picture at the top of this blog? That's my Dad, workin' for his livin' at Boling Field in Washington, D.C., in 1947. I wonder if he ever chased my mother around the desk? ;-)

Road Literature 101: Hooters and Humps

I just got back from a most excellent road trip to Utah and Idaho where I was able to reconnect with dear friends, family, visit with my wonderful children, AND get my hands on my youngest grandbaby, Hannah. Is she not the cutest thing you've seen in a long time? You've really gotta check out BJ and Kimberly's blog for more pictures--this one just doesn't do her justice!

Here she is with her proud Mommy and Daddy:

And here is gorgeous Megan with a decidedly different hairdo (yes, Annike, I told her that it's too dark--but the red highlights are really pretty)

ANYWAY, I was lucky enough to make most of the trip by air, thanks to American Express and Delta Skymiles, so I only traveled by car between Salt Lake City and Rexburg--a distance of about 270 miles or so.

As I headed down the highway with Canned Heat playing at the threshold of pain, I found myself thinking about all those looooong road trips by car when my children were small. We traveled a lot and with four kids, a car is usually the cheapest way to get there.

It's amazing what you can learn on a long drive with children. For example, I learned that although a screaming toddler can be kept quiet in his carseat all the way from San Diego to Palm Springs by simply feeding him one raisin at a time for the entire 2 1/2 hour trip, the next several days produce a rather spectacular series of diaper changes best handled in hazzmat gear, goggles, and industrial strength rubber gloves.

I learned that bringing massive quantities of crayons for my budding artists sounded like a great idea, but you'd be amazed at what they do to a rental car's upholstery when forgotten on the vinyl seats in New York City summer heat. Trust me, take colored pencils.

My brother in law, Russell, learned that when his niece says she is feeling carsick after a late night visit to McDonald's, DO NOT tell her to "wait until the next exit" or you'll spend a significant amount of time trying to clean the barf out of a brand new Ford Bronco.

I learned that after offering the older children drinks over ice, at least ONE of them (to this day I'm not sure who, but I'd bet money his name starts with Bry and ends with an) will put an ice cube down the baby's shirt while she's buckled securely in her carseat. She didn't cry, but the look on her face in my rear view mirror forced me to pull off the road since I was laughing so hard I couldn't see to drive.

And I also learned that trying to cram a large economy size package of "nappies" (diapers) into the trunk of a tiny British rental car during a three week tour of England, Scotland, and Wales is an excellent incentive to finally toilet train the three year old they were purchased for.

But aside from the things you learn from your children, you'd be amazed at what you can learn from the things you see as you gaze out the windows of the car. On a Christmas holiday trip to Maryland, we discovered that although it might be politically incorrect to wish the world a "Merry Christmas," it's perfectly acceptable to include big boobs in your holiday greeting.

If the image is too small, let me just point out that the marquee sign between the fake palm trees proclaims "Happy Hooterdays."

We also observed during a trip to Cheddar, England, that the cows there might prefer munching on babies rather than grass????

This particular sign was spotted just outside the entrance to the London Dungeon (note the creepy "snowman" on the wall). This is, of course, a "G" rated blog, but I must say that one could interpret the bottom sign in a couple of ways--either English pelicans have wonderful sex lives or perhaps they resemble....camels?????

And I had to include this one for the Hogwarts lovers among us. Apparently there really IS a platform 9 3/4--can't remember if this is Victoria or Paddington Station, but somebody there has a sense of humor....Harry Potter would be pleased....

And finally, we spotted this one in Rexburg, Idaho, at the entrance to a doctor's office complex. I have not the smallest idea what the hell they're talking about--any ideas?

Anyway, you just can't deny the educational benefits of travel. And just remember this, no matter how excruciating those annual pilgrimages to Wally World can get, just be thankful you aren't in the photo at the top of this page. That's my grandmother, Ruth Hardy, traveling in Arizona in 1917. No crayons, no nappies, no McDonald's, no AIR CONDITIONING.

How ever did they manage!?

Semper Fi meets Anchors Aweigh

Memorial Day isn't what it used to be. Billed as "The Official Start of Summer," the true reason for the holiday tends to get lost in the shuffle of furniture sales, barbecue cook-offs, and zero percent financing on the SUV du jour. Don't get me wrong--I love barbecue and nobody on the planet enjoys a sale more than I do. But it seems like the TV stations are the only ones who remember--THAT's where you'll find the Memorial Day marathons of movies like A Bridge Too Far, Tora, Tora, Tora, and my latest personal favorite, The Great Escape.

SO--in honor of what this holiday REALLY stands for, I thought I'd share a few recollections of life with a Navy man. I'm sure most people are familiar with Hollywood's version of the process whereby rootless drifters become Naval aviators, a la An Officer and a Gentleman and Top Gun. What follows here is the TRUE story. I am not making any of this up!

My sweetheart, Randy, finished his bachelor's degree at BYU in December of 1980. Fascinated with cars and airplanes, the only jobs that were available at that time for a Political Science major just didn't fit the bill. He just didn't want to become an outside sales rep for Georgia Pacific, or a desk jockey for any of the rather anemic companies that set up recruiting booths on campus. On his way home from school one day, he happened to pass by the Navy's recruiting booth and it was love at first sight. I was appalled at the prospect of getting into the Navy--it wasn't the military that bothered me, it was the deployments. Was I gonna stand by quietly and watch my husband sign on for a job that would take him away from me for six to eight months at a crack on a regular basis? Not only NO, but NOOOO! So I pitched a fit and whined and complained and he interviewed with a few companies and then promptly headed off to Aviation Officer Candidates' School (AOCS) at Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, in January of 1981. I was nine months pregnant at the time and, too pregnant to fly, I stood there at the airport gate in Salt Lake City with my three year old daughter, Annike, and watched him fly away. So much for pitching fits, whining and complaining...

At that time, AOCS had changed the program just a tad and the first week of training was called "NAVIP" week. I think it stood for Navy Very Important Person week or some such nonsense but the point was, it gave the potential candidates a week to undergo all the physical and mental testing required BEFORE official training started. This is very important. On the first day of official training, the guys would all have their heads shaved. What AOCS officials found was, massive numbers of candidates would either wash out or "DOR" (Drop On Request) during the, shall we say, rather intense training, and then would find it difficult to get a job given their rather intense appearance. And trust me, it was intense. Randy's own daughter would have nothing to do with him for the first few minutes of our reunion because someone had taken her Daddy and replaced him with this bald-headed ex con. But I'm getting ahead of my story.

The first week went well, according to Randy's letters, although he made the mistake of watching a movie about the Hanoi Hilton the night before he reported which made him sort of second guess his decision. But he passed all the physical and mental testing and stood poised with his comrades to endure the next fourteen weeks of abuse at the hands of the Perris Island Marine Corps drill instructors who would pretty much beat them into submission--or, I should say, beat them into officers. (If you've ever seen An Officer and a Gentleman, you sort of know what I mean)

Anyhow, now I must introduce Gunnery Sergeant Buck Welcher. A Vietnam veteran, Gunnery Sergeant Welcher (or Gunny Buck to his colleagues) is easily the most intimidating man I have ever known. Here's a picture I was lucky to get (and yes, I most certainly DID ask permission first).

Gunnery Sergeant Welcher was tasked with taking the forty or so guys that entered training with Randy and turning them into Naval Officers. It was a responsibility he did not take lightly. His reputation preceeded him. It was widely known that he had a photograph on the desk in his office in which he was posed with his arm thrust through a gaping hole in the chest of a dead Viet Cong, flipping the bird to the photographer. Did I mention he was intimidating?

SO. It's the night before the first day of this excruciating experience. All of the guys are really nervous and apprehensive. Nobody knows quite what to expect. Nobody sleeps much. About all they know at this point is you NEVER look a drill instructor in the eye and you ALWAYS use "SIR" before and after every statement. As in, "SIR, YES SIR!" and "SIR, NO SIR!"

Just before dawn, the entire squadron is awakened by the sound of several large metal trash cans being tossed down the length of the barracks hallway, accompanied by not one, but several drill instructors shouting, "GET ON LINE!!" (meaning, get in the hallway, backs to the wall, at attention, and do it yesterday) Stumbling from their bunks, forty grown men scramble at top speed to get in the hallway and get lined up. In such instances you do NOT want to be the last one. In fact, you don't want to do ANYthing that would draw attention to yourself in any way.

Now, let me pause a moment, leaving our forty men sweating profusely in their underwear amid the shouts of the drill instructors, the clamor of the trash cans, the chaos of it all. Well, I should say thirty-nine men were sweating in their underwear. One of the guys standing next to Randy decided he'd get a head start on things and had slept in his uniform. Wrong. Very, very wrong. Remember the part about not attracting any attention to yourself? The drill instructors were all OVER this guy. Randy remembers Gunny Buck screaming just inches from Randy's ear, "GET THOSE CLOTHES OFF!!"

Remember how you're not supposed to look a D.I. in the eye? Randy didn't--and he sure as hell wasn't going to ask questions. So, amid the chaos, he scrambled back to his bunk, took off his underwear, and re-appeared in no time flat back out in the hallway, at attention. Buck naked.

It wasn't long before he realized that he was the only naked man in the hallway. AGAIN, scrambling at breakneck speed he darted back to his bunk, put the undies on, and back out into the hallway at attention. With all the commotion still focused on the guy with the uniform on, Randy fervently congratulated himself on rectifying his mistake without anyone being the wiser.

It wasn't until much later, at the end of course party at the club, that Gunny Buck confessed that he had seen the whole thing. In his words, "It took all my years of Marine Corps training to keep from busting out laughing! I had to take my Smokey Bear off and put it over my face to keep it straight!"

I think Randy was his favorite from then on. That first week is always fondly known as "Poopie Week." Nobody ever explained why, although I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it has to do with the distinct possibility of having to change one's trousers after coming face to face with a screaming D.I.

Here are more unfortunate "Poopies," wearing their "chrome domes" and being "PT-ed" (physical training) for some indiscretion:

But things got better over time. Gunny Buck was tough, you couldn't find anybody tougher. But he was also fair and won the undying respect and admiration of the men that he trained. When Randy got the news that I had safely delivered Bryan, that baby I was waiting for when AOCS began, it was Gunny Buck who saw to it that Randy was allowed to call me. It was Gunny Buck who insisted Randy buy Bryan his first football. He never let that tough guy image slip--Randy remembered him quietly asking about me and Bryan, all the while holding a lit cigarette lighter just inches from Randy's ear--removing a loose thread in Randy's uniform. Nice cover-up for a personal conversation.

And here's our little family together again, just before Randy's commissioning--have you ever seen more adoration on any little girl's face??

Randy was commissioned on May 1, 1981, and we spent ten of the best years of our lives in the Navy. I am SO glad that he listened patiently to my whining and complaining about his decision and then did it anyway. He was right. I loved it! And Gunny Buck? When I asked permission to take that photo, he told me "Hang on to it--it'll be worth something some day." He went on to Hollywood to become the technical advisor to the film An Officer and a Gentleman. If you look closely, you can see him jogging by with his class in tow, as Louis Gossett, Jr. tells Richard Gere, that's what an AOCS class SHOULD look like.

Aviation Officer Candidate School Class of 04-81:

The "Silver Dollar Salute"

Ensign Randall W. VerHoef and Gunnery Sergeant Buck Welcher

Semper Fi.

Mother and Daddy

Having managed to almost finish the first chapter of my thesis, I decided to reward myself yesterday with a trip to the Georgia Renaissance Festival. This annual event actually deserves a post all its own since I could certainly go on at length about my longtime love affair with the Tortuga Twins and the delicacies available for sale there--including the King's Codpiece. But I digress...

After my satisfying day at the RenFest, I drove home, admiring the newest addition to my ring collection (a celtic design thumb ring) while my hands rested on the steering wheel. I was struck, not for the first time, at the appearance of my hands. I have my Mother's hands. When I load my no-longer slender fingers full of her turquoise jewelry, the resemblance is truly uncanny. This isn't a bad thing--I love my Mother more than words can express--and while I would prefer the size 4 ring fingers I had when I got married, I realize age brings imperfections and I'm okay with that. What concerns me is the image I see when I look at myself in the mirror. Most women my age see their mothers. I see my father. In drag.

My Dad was a handsome guy, don't you think?

I just think he looks much better as a man than I look as a woman who looks just like him. Does that make sense? Anyway, in honor of what should have been my parents sixty second anniversary on June 1st, I thought I'd write just a bit of their story.

My Daddy, Arthur Jackson Hardy, Jr., was known as "Jack" during his early years, and "Andy" once he began serving in the Army Air Forces. After serving in the 8th AAF in England during World War II, he was transferred to Boling Field near Washington D.C., to become the Chief of the Personal Equipment Branch at Continental Air Forces HQ.

Here's my Mother--she was a stunner wasn't she?

My mom, Margaret Osburn Shutt, was the daughter of a Colonel in the Army, had just barely turned 18, and got her first job as a clerk typist in the same office. Well, the sparks flew and they had their first date on Halloween--it ended up being a scary event for poor Mother. In her words, "We were invited to a party at some people's house that your father had known in England and it was supposed to be strictly "casual," so, being 18 years old, I wore a skirt, sweater and "bobby sox" (the rage of the day). EVERYONE ELSE there had on cocktail dresses, stockings and high heels. I was so humiliated I didn't know what to do but bravely entered into all the games and such but I've NEVER forgotten it! I was really furious and your father felt badly for me but guess he was so in love it didn't matter a hoot to him. I never dated anyone else and by Christmas we were engaged!"

Here's a picture of them ring-shopping in DC:

Gas and cars were still in short supply in those days, so Daddy usually rented a car to take Mother out but on one snowy evening, he decided to take a bus from DC out to Clinton, Maryland, where my Mother lived with her parents (always known to us kids as "Colonel" and "Dardy"--another long story!) in a furnished home that they were renting. Well, the weather was terrible and the bus driver had to stop the bus to put chains on in order to make the trip. Daddy offered to help the driver get the chains out of the luggage compartment. The bus continued on its way to Clinton, and Daddy and Mother had a lovely evening together. When it came time for Daddy to return to DC, my grandmother, Dardy, wouldn't hear of it. The weather was too bad and the trip too dangerous. Daddy would stay in the guest room for the night.

In the wee hours, Daddy began to dream--in his dream, he was helping the bus driver with those chains and became locked in the luggage compartment of the bus. Frantically pulling on the compartment door (in his dream) he awoke in his future in-laws guest bedroom when the headboard of the bed he was sleeping in cracked in two as he desperately tried to get out of that bus compartment!

An inauspicious beginning to a lifelong love affair! They were married on June 1, 1946, in the post chapel at Andrews Field, Maryland. Is this a couple in love or what?

I'm lucky to have a letter written by Dardy to my Dad's mother, Ruth, (who wasn't able to attend) just three days after the ceremony. In Dardy's words, "Andy stood at the altar all eyes (and love written all over his face) when the bride came in. Without a single mistake the ceremony went off and I hope never to see anything sweeter than our Margaret looked like in her long bridal dress and veil. She looked so like an angel, so young, and above all so sure. They were the dearest looking young couple!" Her letter also mentions the fact that they were not too sure about the quality of the wedding pictures since the photographer had been tasked with stirring the punch for the reception while the wedding party was at the church. By the time they returned, he was rather sloshed. Doesn't seem to have dimmed his talent much, tho, huh?

They honeymooned in Lake Lure, North Carolina, and the rest, as they say, is history. Here are a couple more of my favorite photos:

So, if I do look like my Dad in drag and if my hands do look just like my Mother's--well, I can live with that. I can't think of any two people who I'd rather be like.


Now if I could just figure out a way to have my Dad's face and my Mom's hands and Cameron Diaz' body, I'd have nothing left to wish for....

Conflict avoidance...

Okay, so I lied. I promised myself (and a number of my children) that I would not spend time on a blog until I finished the seventy-five page thesis that has been the thorn in my side (pain in my butt, fly in my ointment, bee in my bonnet...), for lo these many months.

My thesis is not necessarily an unpleasant task. I am still fascinated with my topic (German POW camps in Georgia) and after spending literally months wading knee deep in the records of the Provost Marshal General's Office and the War Manpower Commission in both Washington, D.C. and just up the road at the regional archives, I have managed to give birth to a thesis statement, I have coughed up an outline, I have even managed to write the first two pages of this masterpiece.

So why am I sitting at my computer at 8:00 on a Saturday night working on a blog that will not contribute to said thesis and has nothing to do with graduation requirements? It's called "conflict avoidance" and I have raised it to an art form. I can hear myself now, telling my middle school students, "If you spent as much time WORKING on your project as you do WHINING about it, you'd be finished already!" Please don't tell them, but I was talking total crap! In reality, whining takes less time and much less brain power than working.

Closely related to whining is rationalizing. "I worked reeeally hard on it yesterday, so I can relax a bit today." "I don't have anything to do on Monday, so I'll work all day Monday on it and make up for not working on it today." Or my personal favorite, "I really do work better under pressure and it's not the last minute yet."

SO, kind family and friends, this constitutes my very first attempt at blogging. Whether I have written well, whether I have made you smile, whether you'll be interested enough to check back later on to see if I've updated my blog remains to be seen. What is absolutely CERTAIN, however, is that I have NOT written my thesis. But it's the day before Mother's Day and I deserve the day off. Right? Riiiight......