"Memories, may be beautiful and yet. What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget." Cue Barbra Streisand and The Way We Were.
That song takes me back to Millersville State College, now known as Millersville University. The movie came out in 1973, and it struck a chord with me. The frumpy, kinda loud, intelligent girl finally gets her man, the gorgeous blonde Robert Redford. However, they don't get their happily ever after. So damn unfair! The music always brings a tear to my eye. Ah memories..... At sixty-six, I have more memories of adventures gone by, than I will ever have of adventures yet to come. Many of my fondest memories were of my college days and the people who wove that tapestry of my life. Often, I wonder what happened to these people I haven't seen in forty-four years. So, I stalk them on Facebook. The guys especially, I stalk the guys.
Yesterday, one of my FB groups shared the tune Midnight at the Oasis and I immediately shot back to Millersville, 1974, and Mark Q. Mark was an English major and in a number of my classes. He was imposing, a big handsome long-haired blonde guy in his denim overalls, a sailor's cap, and his bushy mustache. I called him Captain Kangaroo or The Walrus because of that mustache. He thought I was a good ole gal, and he laughed with me. We were good buddies. One of my dearest memories was the night before his graduation.
Mark was a good student, but a procrastinator. He had a paper to write and turn in by midnight that night if he wanted to get his diploma the next day. He asked to borrow my typewriter. I had the cream of the crop of typewriters. It was electric. It had a ribbon with correction tape built in, a luxury not everyone could afford. And all the keys worked. When he came to my dorm to pick it up, he was happy to learn that I came with it.
In his room, we worked for hours. Intense hours. But, for this English major nerd, fun hours spent exchanging ideas, debating what to write, laughing in exhaustion, and spelling difficult words out loud. English student fun. Some of the time, he'd write a section by hand and turn it over to me to type. When he was typing, I'd relax on his bed, pillows propped up against the wall as I flipped through his Playboy magazines. Then I'd go back to typing. Later, when he proofread the paper, he had to manually correct the number of times I'd typed Gertrude Skin instead of Gertrude Stine. Fun times. Maybe you had to be there?
By 11:00 pm we were finished. Then off to the library to make a copy. Time was running out. We jumped in his VW Bug and headed into Lancaster to find his professor's house. Those were the days before GPS, and we were lost. At ten minutes before midnight, we found the dark house, stuck the brown envelope with the precious paper inside his door, rang the doorbell once, and drove off high-fiving our success.
Back on campus, he walked me and my typewriter home. I carried a gift he'd given me, a lamp he'd made himself. If any of you are old enough to remember the masking tape covered Matuese bottles that were shoe-polished to look like leather then you can picture the lamp. I treasured it for years. Mark graduated. I met his parents the next day. He said many wonderful things about me and we parted for what I believed would be the last time I'd ever see him. It made me sad.
By now you're probably wondering why Midnight at the Oasis triggered that memory. Simple. That summer he told me he'd be working at a dive bar at the Jersey shore called The Oasis. A few weeks into the summer, I asked my friend Kay if she was up for an adventure. We decided to go to the Jersey shore, have fun on the beach, locate the bar, and surprise Mark. She drove and I navigated. We spent the day, and then the real fun began, finding the bar. Finally, we found it tucked away on an iffy street. It was closed. I was crushed. My crush was not there, and I knew I'd never see him again.
Driving home was bittersweet. We commiserated like girlfriends do. Eventually we were laughing and singing with the radio. And then I saw it. A Volkswagon Bug that looked exactly like Mark's. I screamed for Kay to pass it, but to slow down enough so I could get a look at the driver. It was Mark. He was as shocked to see me in the car next to him as I was to see him. I rolled down the window and hung out of it, waving and yelling. He was pumping his arm in the air, honking his horn, and waving frantically at me. Was this Kismet or what???? Then, he turned off the road to go one way, and we stayed straight to go our way. And, that was the last I saw of Mark Q.
Back to stalking guys on Facebook. I found him. He has had a wonderful life with a beautiful wife, two handsome sons, a home in Florida, and a dream job at Universal. He still had his moustache! He looked great. Except that he wasn't great. The messages on his public page were condolences to his family on his passing in May, 2018. How can someone who lives so vividly in my memory be gone?
So it's the laughter we will remember. Whenever we remember the way we were.
Thursday, August 29, 2019
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Stubborness
I am stubborn, especially when I think I'm right. I come by this characteristic naturally (Mom), and it's been a part of me for a long time.
In second grade, a friend (Joan Nobile) gave me some little figurines right before our bathroom break. I took those little guys with me, had a seat in the back stall, and played and played and played. It was a while before I discovered that I was alone. I sheepishly walked into the classroom where my classmates were engaged in a workbook activity. The teacher, Mrs. "Nasty" Norris was furious and after yelling at me for what felt like an eternity, she sentenced me to stand in the corner during recess for one week. The next day was rainy so the class played indoor games. Carol Marshall ( the Nelly Olsen of my day) taunted me endlessly, and I decided that would be my last day in the corner. The next day was rainy again, and I joined my friends playing a game. Carol was furious that I could be so defiant, and she ratted me out to the teacher who hadn't acknowledged the empty corner. "Aren't you supposed to be in the corner?" asked Mrs. Nasty. I stared her down and said nothing in response. Either my look to kill or her realization that the punishment was excessive caused her to back down and she said, "Oh that was last week, wasn't it?" I still refused to speak to her, but I nodded yes, went back to playing, and laughed to myself when the teacher shut Carol down and threatened her with a week in the corner for tattletaling. I was glad the incident was resolved so easily because I knew I wasn't standing in that corner again and my second grade brain was frantically trying to figure out my next step.
In ninth grade my typing teacher, Mr. Storti, brought a sick student to the Health Suite and jokingly called himself "Super Sam." He didn't know I was in the back room. So when I wrote a gossip-type column for the school newspaper, I hailed him a hero and shared the moniker with the school. He was livid, and rather than talk to the teacher who oversaw the contents of the paper, he yelled at me in front of the class and assigned me a detention for the following day. Shades of second grade! I wasn't serving that detention, no way in hell. Two days later he made me stay after class and questioned my not showing up. I told him I was never going to serve that detention. He was flummoxed. I was a good student, I did what I was told, and he knew I meant business. He sent me on to my next class and treated me horribly for the rest of the school year. I'm stubborn and he wasn't getting away with it. I bided my time. When I graduated from high school with a college acceptance into Millersville's teaching program, I wrote him a letter that explained my desire to be a teacher and how my experience with him would guide me through the years as a prime example of what I would never, ever, ever do to a student. We crossed paths once after that letter, and he couldn't look me in the eye.
I don't know if I ever treated a student in a similarly unfair manner. (If I did, feel free to write me a letter. I will grovel and apologize.) But, my first year of teaching was such a nightmare that I've blocked out many of the memories. I had no classroom management skills and learned on the job from my many mistakes. Had I not been stubborn, I could not have survived that year. Dead bird in a baggie in my desk with the misspelled note "your next." Back the next day. Called into the office to apologize to a student I sent to the office for his nine hundredth unexcused lateness. Back the next day. Breaking out in hives when the kids hid my car keys that I sobbingly searched an hour for with Russell Barnes, our beloved custodian. Back the next day. Birthday gift of a bag of garbage wrapped like a present and left on my desk. Back the next day. Called to the office to watch the assistant principal return a student's pen knife because he said he did not carve his initials into a desk, and she chose to believe him. Even though the initials were on his desk! Even though the whole class saw him! Back the next day. I was too stubborn to give up. Too many young and naïve teachers don't survive their first year. Failure was not an option for me, so I stuck it out. I'm so glad I did!
I am now involved in another test of wills with my new dog, Winnie the Poop. For eight years, she was allowed to do her business inside her owner's home on a pee pad. I told her that those days were over, and I swear she said, "It's on." Every day, four to eight times a day, the call of "Go pee" can be heard coming from my yard. Twenty minutes this morning, before coffee, in my nightgown and winter coat, we played Go Pee. She didn't. I watch her constantly. She has a favorite spot by the back door. My sneaky Stealth Shitter leaves me little logs proving that she is in it to win it. I have started giving her treats when she goes pee outside. She loves them, but still hasn't yet made the connection. She is the only dog I have ever walked who does nothing on top of the other dogs' scents. I dread the days of nice weather when my words "Go pee dammit" will float into my neighbors' windows and send them running to the bathroom. This stubborn dog is a challenge, but I will win. I have many more years of stubbornness on her. I taught middle school for thirty long years. Chew on that Winnie because you will learn to "Go pee" and you will like it.
In second grade, a friend (Joan Nobile) gave me some little figurines right before our bathroom break. I took those little guys with me, had a seat in the back stall, and played and played and played. It was a while before I discovered that I was alone. I sheepishly walked into the classroom where my classmates were engaged in a workbook activity. The teacher, Mrs. "Nasty" Norris was furious and after yelling at me for what felt like an eternity, she sentenced me to stand in the corner during recess for one week. The next day was rainy so the class played indoor games. Carol Marshall ( the Nelly Olsen of my day) taunted me endlessly, and I decided that would be my last day in the corner. The next day was rainy again, and I joined my friends playing a game. Carol was furious that I could be so defiant, and she ratted me out to the teacher who hadn't acknowledged the empty corner. "Aren't you supposed to be in the corner?" asked Mrs. Nasty. I stared her down and said nothing in response. Either my look to kill or her realization that the punishment was excessive caused her to back down and she said, "Oh that was last week, wasn't it?" I still refused to speak to her, but I nodded yes, went back to playing, and laughed to myself when the teacher shut Carol down and threatened her with a week in the corner for tattletaling. I was glad the incident was resolved so easily because I knew I wasn't standing in that corner again and my second grade brain was frantically trying to figure out my next step.
In ninth grade my typing teacher, Mr. Storti, brought a sick student to the Health Suite and jokingly called himself "Super Sam." He didn't know I was in the back room. So when I wrote a gossip-type column for the school newspaper, I hailed him a hero and shared the moniker with the school. He was livid, and rather than talk to the teacher who oversaw the contents of the paper, he yelled at me in front of the class and assigned me a detention for the following day. Shades of second grade! I wasn't serving that detention, no way in hell. Two days later he made me stay after class and questioned my not showing up. I told him I was never going to serve that detention. He was flummoxed. I was a good student, I did what I was told, and he knew I meant business. He sent me on to my next class and treated me horribly for the rest of the school year. I'm stubborn and he wasn't getting away with it. I bided my time. When I graduated from high school with a college acceptance into Millersville's teaching program, I wrote him a letter that explained my desire to be a teacher and how my experience with him would guide me through the years as a prime example of what I would never, ever, ever do to a student. We crossed paths once after that letter, and he couldn't look me in the eye.
I don't know if I ever treated a student in a similarly unfair manner. (If I did, feel free to write me a letter. I will grovel and apologize.) But, my first year of teaching was such a nightmare that I've blocked out many of the memories. I had no classroom management skills and learned on the job from my many mistakes. Had I not been stubborn, I could not have survived that year. Dead bird in a baggie in my desk with the misspelled note "your next." Back the next day. Called into the office to apologize to a student I sent to the office for his nine hundredth unexcused lateness. Back the next day. Breaking out in hives when the kids hid my car keys that I sobbingly searched an hour for with Russell Barnes, our beloved custodian. Back the next day. Birthday gift of a bag of garbage wrapped like a present and left on my desk. Back the next day. Called to the office to watch the assistant principal return a student's pen knife because he said he did not carve his initials into a desk, and she chose to believe him. Even though the initials were on his desk! Even though the whole class saw him! Back the next day. I was too stubborn to give up. Too many young and naïve teachers don't survive their first year. Failure was not an option for me, so I stuck it out. I'm so glad I did!
I am now involved in another test of wills with my new dog, Winnie the Poop. For eight years, she was allowed to do her business inside her owner's home on a pee pad. I told her that those days were over, and I swear she said, "It's on." Every day, four to eight times a day, the call of "Go pee" can be heard coming from my yard. Twenty minutes this morning, before coffee, in my nightgown and winter coat, we played Go Pee. She didn't. I watch her constantly. She has a favorite spot by the back door. My sneaky Stealth Shitter leaves me little logs proving that she is in it to win it. I have started giving her treats when she goes pee outside. She loves them, but still hasn't yet made the connection. She is the only dog I have ever walked who does nothing on top of the other dogs' scents. I dread the days of nice weather when my words "Go pee dammit" will float into my neighbors' windows and send them running to the bathroom. This stubborn dog is a challenge, but I will win. I have many more years of stubbornness on her. I taught middle school for thirty long years. Chew on that Winnie because you will learn to "Go pee" and you will like it.
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Life post Trixie
It's been three weeks now. Three weeks since a vet appointment for a consultation turned into a final goodbye. I guess I'm supposed to be over it, but I'm not.
Today my neighbor was walking her dogs. I stopped to chat a bit and pet her babies. I told her that Trixie was gone, and she was very sad for me. I cried all the way to the grocery store. And, then I had to sit in the parking lot before I could pull myself together enough to run into the store for my snow storm supplies. I got all teary again in the pet food aisle. I had turned down there by habit. Fifteen years of habit is hard to break.
My other neighbor has two dogs. I'm in love with the bulldog, but I'm not allowed to pet him anymore. He wiggles under the fence for continued attention, and his owner gets pretty annoyed with me when his dog takes off. So, I just wave at his smiling, slobbering face. And I go into my quiet house.
This weekend I went to my sister's house for the first time since Trixie passed. I expected her two dogs to look all over for her, wondering why she wasn't with me. They didn't. My nieces have never even acknowledged that Trixie died. That's not surprising since it's a constant coming and going of pets in their house. But I felt horrible the whole weekend. Looking at the kitchen couch reminded me that Trixie spent Christmas hiding under it and pretty much telling me her time was coming to an end. The back bedroom is cold, and I missed Trixie snuggling up to me to keep warm. Helen's cats hate me, so no cuddles from them.
I hear noises in the house. I used to shrug them off and attribute the sounds to the dog. Now, I'm always wondering, what the hell's that? I haven't figured out where to put her bed and bowls. Or maybe, I just won't hide them away because maybe, just maybe, another dog will use them.
I don't want another dog, or so I tell myself. I don't want the expense. The commitment. The mess. The work. All that responsibility. The possibility that I'll need to leave my home for a place that doesn't take dogs. The possibility that while she's healthy now, she is, after all eight years old....
I guess I should mention that I look at Petfinder all the time. One of the dogs keeps calling my name. She's eight years old, housebroken, loves kids and other animals, the whole bit. She was well-loved and given up by an older woman who couldn't care for her anymore. But, she's a Pomeranian mix and looks like Trixie. I stop there. There's no substitute for Trixie. I keep waiting for some family to snap her up, but every day she's still a picture on a computer screen. Her name is Sandy. She needs someone, but I don't know that it's me.
My heart is so broken.
It's hard to be old and alone. Poor Sandy.... I hopes she gets adopted, soon.
Today my neighbor was walking her dogs. I stopped to chat a bit and pet her babies. I told her that Trixie was gone, and she was very sad for me. I cried all the way to the grocery store. And, then I had to sit in the parking lot before I could pull myself together enough to run into the store for my snow storm supplies. I got all teary again in the pet food aisle. I had turned down there by habit. Fifteen years of habit is hard to break.
My other neighbor has two dogs. I'm in love with the bulldog, but I'm not allowed to pet him anymore. He wiggles under the fence for continued attention, and his owner gets pretty annoyed with me when his dog takes off. So, I just wave at his smiling, slobbering face. And I go into my quiet house.
This weekend I went to my sister's house for the first time since Trixie passed. I expected her two dogs to look all over for her, wondering why she wasn't with me. They didn't. My nieces have never even acknowledged that Trixie died. That's not surprising since it's a constant coming and going of pets in their house. But I felt horrible the whole weekend. Looking at the kitchen couch reminded me that Trixie spent Christmas hiding under it and pretty much telling me her time was coming to an end. The back bedroom is cold, and I missed Trixie snuggling up to me to keep warm. Helen's cats hate me, so no cuddles from them.
I hear noises in the house. I used to shrug them off and attribute the sounds to the dog. Now, I'm always wondering, what the hell's that? I haven't figured out where to put her bed and bowls. Or maybe, I just won't hide them away because maybe, just maybe, another dog will use them.
I don't want another dog, or so I tell myself. I don't want the expense. The commitment. The mess. The work. All that responsibility. The possibility that I'll need to leave my home for a place that doesn't take dogs. The possibility that while she's healthy now, she is, after all eight years old....
I guess I should mention that I look at Petfinder all the time. One of the dogs keeps calling my name. She's eight years old, housebroken, loves kids and other animals, the whole bit. She was well-loved and given up by an older woman who couldn't care for her anymore. But, she's a Pomeranian mix and looks like Trixie. I stop there. There's no substitute for Trixie. I keep waiting for some family to snap her up, but every day she's still a picture on a computer screen. Her name is Sandy. She needs someone, but I don't know that it's me.
My heart is so broken.
It's hard to be old and alone. Poor Sandy.... I hopes she gets adopted, soon.
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