Independence Day

As a child, I looked forward to the 4th of July.  My family's was the fifth house in a row of  eleven houses. On that day, the neighborhood came out for a block party.  The kiddy pools were filled for the kiddies, and the beer coolers were filled for the adults. The neighbors barbecued (with charcoal) and partied late into the night.  I don't remember fireworks.  We surely weren't driven to see any;  the picnic tables and barbecues blocked the garages.  And the adults were really happy plopped in their lawn chairs and downing their brews. We kids had ice cream, sparklers, "punks," and fireflies.  It was a good time.

As an older teen and young adult, we had moved, and I don't remember much of a big deal being made about the holiday. Sometimes we went to a parade where Dad marched as a Pearl Harbor Survivor. Many times there were picnics with "The Survivors" that followed.  Occasionally we'd hear of fireworks at Villanova University. Sometimes we went, most times we didn't.  

And then I was hired to teach in Harford County and I was introduced to a Havre de Grace Fourth of July.

I belonged to the Tidewater Players, a local theatre group.  Each year we built a float for the parade.  I think the first one I worked on was Hello Dolly.  We had a staircase from which Rita Hurst would descend wearing the magical red dress.  There were five or six tea tables with handsome tuxedoed waiters bringing trays of champagne glasses to the  beauties sitting at them and dressed in long dresses, hats, and  elbow length white gloves.  Those gloves looked great as we waved to the crowd.  Songs from the musical played from the cab, and the crowd loved us.   My favorite float was South Pacific.  Rita and crew built a paper mache mountain.  We had a keg and spigot with running water so Lilma could wash that man right outta her hair. We were dressed in Polynesian garb or sailor suits and the colorful float won a nice award. Harry Malin, our group's beloved founder, played a drunken sailor catching a nap in the dinghy.  He was in his glory.  Afterwards, we would picnic at Flossie and Harry's home.  We'd watch the fireworks on Ernie M.'s boat.  We'd hit the carnival, and round out the evening at an Aberdeen bar.  Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end.  

For the past thirteen years, my family has come from the Philadelphia area to give my sister's kids a real Havre de Grace Fourth ( or Fifth or Sixth depending upon the day the holiday falls) experience.  They check in at the VanDiver Inn in Hdg.  (One year I called my sister in a panic because I'd been to an event at the Inn and realized she probably hadn't made her reservations and it might have been too late.  No problem. When Helen called John, her rooms had already been penciled in the reservation book.) The day before the event we have a real Maryland eating experience, crabs and chicken at the River Shack in Chestertown, MD.  Our spot to watch the parade is guaranteed by the VanDiver. We like to sit on the porch for the great view, and because the fans blow and the food and drinks are close. Afterwards, we nap off our Sangrias or go to the pool. We'd then barbecue at Dee Ashby's house.  We no longer barbecue; we order food from Pat's and let them deliver it so we don't have to deal with the traffic. (Smart move, huh?)  We used to watch the fireworks at Dee's house, but the trees have grown too tall.  Now we hike to the hospital parking lot and watch from the top level. Perfect view, and no fighting the traffic to get out of town.  This year was an especially perfect holiday because the weather was crisp and cool; unheard of for HdG in July!  

I hope you had a joyous time celebrating Independence Day.  If you didn't, then next year you must plan a trip to Havre de Grace for a true small town USA flag waving celebration!  Stop by the VanDiver Inn, and I'll treat you to a Sangria.

Who needs Vegas?

Yesterday while floating in the pool (before a child pooped in it and closed it for the rest of the day), a few of us were talking about dollar bills and the chat turned to male strippers.  I chuckled recalling my favorite stripper story, so I decided to share it with you today.

Many years ago, it was a big occasion in Ceciltucky when the male strippers came to Port Deposit.  They had been booted from Perryville and were homeless before the PD VFW offered the show a venue.  It was a big event - lots of food and all the beer you could drink.  Remember that beer detail, as it plays a big part in the events of the night.

Cheryl, Cindy, and I arrived hours before the show began because we wanted front row seats.  We came armed with board games (these were the days before smart phones) and books to pass the time.  The weather was iffy, and threats of a huge snowstorm kept a potentially huge audience at bay.

When the time arrived to start the event, the food was plentiful and lots and lots of beer was imbibed.  Lots of beer.  More beer than I could even contemplate drinking these days.  The men danced.  And stripped. And stripped - down to string bikinis.  Oh my!  We each had a favorite dancer and being in the front row, we were pulled on stage to dance with the guys. We kept our clothes on, thank you very much.

It began to snow.  Heavily.  Some of the women left.  We just drank more beer and the strippers had to work all that much harder to make an honest night's wage.

There was lots of money to be had.

At some point in the evening, the media was admitted to the VFW in order to report the story.  When warned of their presence, many of the women scurried to the bathroom.  Others hid their faces.  But not me!!!  Oh no!  I had beer power!  In front of the cameras, I hooted and hollered and waved a fistful of dollar bills.  The cameraman loved me.

Eventually, the fun had to end.  They ran out of beer.  We ran out of dollar bills.  The snow was treacherously covering the back roads.  We said goodbye to our newly purchased buddies.  And I sloppily said goodbye to my former students who had been just as surprised to see me as I had been to see them. We promised each other that what happened in Port stayed in Port. (For the record, I was not driving as a mini-blizzard had covered the roads and I was beyond buzzed.)

Picture this.  The middle school.  Monday morning.  Homeroom.  A student says, "Ms. S.  My dad was watching the news Friday night.  He told me you were on it!"   I had previously prided myself on not lying to my students, but you can bet I told him that he must have seen somebody who looked like me.  He believed me.  Because we all know teachers have no life outside of the classroom.

The Passing of a Great Guy

I whined a little bit on Facebook that I'd drawn a blank on blog topics.  A friend advised me to give it up and go out and have an experience.  Well, I had one.  I went to the funeral for a friend's husband.  He died suddenly, unexpectedly, and harshly while they were vacationing for the weekend at their summer home. This kind of grief is so big that it's hard to breathe.

When did life shift so drastically?  When did I stop going to weddings every month to now, when I seem to be attending funerals on a regular basis?

Today was brutal.  Over 300 people formed lines as long as those in Disney World to greet the family and say a prayer for their husband, father, friend.  Young children sobbed through the service because their Pop-pop wasn't going to play baseball with them anymore.  Joyce, his wife and my elementary school friend of fifty-five years, stood with her grieving children for more than two hours greeting the mourners. I sat with my friends, so sad that we weren't celebrating a girls' weekend at this, our most recent gathering.  Paul was a great guy, full of life!  We met a year ago, but he knew me through Joyce and he treated me like a long-time friend.

Paul was a registered organ donor.  We were given green rubber bracelets with the phrase Donate Life in English and Spanish.  I have marked my license to indicate my willingness to donate any part of my body anybody could ever want after I'm gone.  Hopefully, I expect to use it all up before I leave this Earth.  Honestly, who knows if I will?  I urge you to consider being an organ donor.  None of us know when our time will end, but it would be a comfort to our loved ones if we could live on not only in their hearts and memories, but in the actual living body of someone once in need.  There's tons of information on the internet to get you started.

The following quote reminded me of Paul, a man who both lived and loved life.  He will be missed.

"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." — Mark Twain 

Dirty Laundry

There's an expression about not airing your dirty laundry in public.  I'm not sure if people remember it.  In fact, what I've witnessed leads me to wonder if that piece of sage advice is ever shared in modern families.

The things that make it to television shock me.  I don't watch Tori Spelling's "reality" show, but a lot of others do; so, clips of it run constantly on the talk shows.  Tori and her husband are in marriage counseling because he cheated on her.  Rather than seek help privately, they have invited the cameras to their sessions and are putting it all out there for America to watch. This particular session was brutal - yelling, accusing, crying, snotty nose sobbing, whimpering, cringing. Well, I was cringing anyhow. Why are they doing this?  The obvious answer is money, but how much is the going rate for selling your soul to the devil? or the television network? I have no hope for that marriage.  If they really wanted to fix it, the healing process would be between them and their counselor.  Not them and their counselor, their director, their producers, their sponsors, their nosy neighbors - all million of them peeking through Tori's virtual windows while sitting in front of their televisions chomping on popcorn.

Facebook drama is a phenomenon that puzzles me.  Why would a person fight back and forth with family members on their pages for all of their "friends" to witness and offer opinions?  Dr. Phil, another hotbed of dirty laundry flapping in the wind, hosts all kinds of people whose families are in crisis.  Sooner or later, one of the members reveals the Facebook fight that became the snake pit of the family feud.  No wonder people are such messes.  They have all 200 of their most intimate friends telling them what to do.  Do these Dr. Phil people go back to their communities as celebrities?  Do they give autographs? Take selfies with their fans? Do these Facebook voyeurs turn the corner at the grocery store to avoid their "friends" in real life? Or do they block the produce aisle to discuss the daily drama?

No matter what you think of country music, listen to Miranda Lambert's Mama's Broken Heart.

i cut my bangs with some rusty kitchen scissors
i screamed his name til the neighbors called the cops
i numbed the pain at the expense of my liver
i don't know what i did next all i know, i couldn't stop

word got around to the barflies & the baptists
my mama's phone started ringin off the hook
i can hear her now sayin she ain't gonna have it
don't matter how you feel, it only matters how you look

go & fix your make up, girl it's just a break up
run & hide your crazy & start actin like a lady
cause i raised you better, gotta keep it together
even when you fall apart

If nobody in your family is going to warn you not to air your dirty laundry in public, let Miranda's mom and me be the first to do so.  Consider it a public service announcement. 

Now Where Did I Put That?

My goal today was to find two of my possessions that have been missing for months.  How could they be lost?  I have a small house. These things have their places, but they weren't there.

I spend a lot of my retirement looking for lost objects.  To be fair, I spent a lot of my working time looking for lost objects.  I have the prayer to St. Anthony on speed dial in my head.

Last July, I lost my keys.  That is a panicky loss.  I retraced my steps, emailed some HdG businesses to check their Lost and Founds, and tore things apart in the search.  Luckily, I keep a spare key at my friend Dee's house, so the loss wasn't a complete disaster.  The keys did turn up the next day, in my sister's purse. Don't ask either of us how they got there because we'll just point the finger at each other.

My high school yearbook went missing for years.  Years!  I exhausted all possibilities in the search for that book, but it was gone, and I mourned its loss.  A few months ago I decided to clean out the closet in the rarely used back bedroom.  I pulled a laundry basket full of linens out and emptied it so I could refold what I wanted to keep and discard the rest.  When I placed the navy blue basket on the floor to give me more room, it felt heavy.  There, at the bottom of the basket, was my navy blue yearbook.  How in the world did it end up there?

If I didn't know better, I'd think I had a problem like the one my buddy L. has.  Stuff disappears in his house. Then it reappears. Then more stuff disappears and reappears.  I told him that he has a ghost.  He denies it, even though his dog refuses to go down into their basement.  But that's another story.  I don't have a ghost.  I have a memory deficiency.

Today I was determined to find my jewelry making tools.  I had checked everywhere in the house, and this time I found them in my office where they were supposed to be.  They are kept in a black container that had fallen behind something else.  So, the room was straightened up a bit and the tools were recovered. Winning!

I've been looking for my CD case for so long, I was starting to think I'd have to get some modern technology thingie and download/upload/unload, whatever one loads,  all of my music.  I had been so frustrated for so long that I had convinced myself the guys at Jiffy Lube had stolen it the last time I had my car serviced.  Yep, they couldn't wait to get their hands on my show tunes!  Today was clean all the trash and junk out of my car day.  And I found my CDs tucked into a pocket in back of the passenger seat.  Hello Dolly!!

According to my scientific research on the internet, we spend roughly one whole year of our lives looking for lost items.  I don't know about you, but I need a better system to keep track of things.  As I age, time becomes more precious, and I'd much rather spend that year drinking  margaritas on a sunny Mexican beach.

Barbara Walters is Retiring

I've watched Barbara Walters all my life.  I think she was a real pioneer in the news world who threw open the door to serious women journalists.  She's retiring today, and she sure knows how to throw a celebration. Right now I'm tearing up as all the female television journalists influenced by her gather to honor her.

I envy her the retirement bash she's having.  After thirty years of teaching middle school children, my career ended with a fizzle instead of fireworks.  That year I'd lost about two months of school due to a broken leg.  My mother died.  I was not up for celebrating.

I'd had intoxicating plans for Ms. Snyder: The Final Tour  (which, of course, would have to wait until after state testing).  One thing I wanted to do was a book of my students' writings that I'd planned to bind for our school library.  I wanted to do a showcase presentation of students performing their original poems, stories, skits, etc. accompanied by food, decorations, and important guests. I'd hoped to make those last few months so creative that the kids would remember that particular language arts class for years to come.  I almost considered staying another year so I could do The Final Tour with the next group of students. Almost being the key word. :-)

Then, I wanted to host a bonfire in October.  I'd planned to have it catered (food is always important).  But most importantly, I wanted to invite all of my former students and their families to join in the fun and to bring any papers they may have held on to for burning in the fire.  But, I broke that same leg again in July, so .... no bonfire for me.

This is the season for retirements.  I hope everybody who retires has a wonderful experience.  I hope they are honored at parties.  Remembered for their good works. Joined by loving family and friends.  Celebrated like Barbara Walters!!

No matter how a career ends, the next step in life will be enjoyable.  Retirement can be great. While I may not have been able to kick up my heels at the end of my career, I do recognize and celebrate every day of health and freedom that I experience in retirement. People tell me I look younger; but well-rested is probably more like it. Whatever happens, I feel lucky to be retired.  I know many people who probably won't experience this luxury as the economy dictates they will need to work the rest of their lives just to survive. And that's a damn shame.

If you are retiring, do like Barbara Walters.  Celebrate your career.  Remember the good times. Enjoy the kudos.  Do not worry about how you will fill your days.  They will fly by, and you'll wonder how you ever got anything accomplished while you were working.

Congratulations on your retirement Ms. Walters!  And for any of you teachers getting ready to retire, invite me to your bonfire.  I still have papers that need to be burned.

Words

I love words, reading them, saying them, writing them. Occasionally I'll read a word, and it fills me with warmth because I like it so much.  The words bowl and platter are like that.

I'm not sure why I like those words.  Maybe they create images of  abundance:  a Thanksgiving table and a dinner full of specially prepared foods eaten by special people.  Bowl.  Platter.  Fill 'em up.  On the other hand, I don't feel the same about plate.  Turning nouns into verbs frequently annoys me.  When did people start plating their food?  Did they gold plate it, silver plate it, or arrange it on a plate? When did the word plate go Hollywood?

Text makes me respond differently.  It is also a noun that's been turned into a verb, but I like it.  I like the word text, the hiss of the x and the crispness of the t.  What I don't like is when people add an s to the word.  They no longer can pronounce it.  What they manage to say often sounds like a synonym for testicles, and it makes me cringe.

When I drive my niece to school, I pass the sign for a neighborhood called The Enclave.  Enclave, I love that word.  It sounds rich, sophisticated, exclusive, and secretive.  Someday when I write a book, my people are going to reside in a suburban enclave.  Or maybe they'll end up renting a row house in Philly.  I'm not sure yet; the book hasn't been written.

Plump is a favorite of mine.  It's not because I'd rather be referred to as plump instead of fat or obese.  But plump is a delightfully round word.  It defines itself when you say it out loud.  One must plump their cheeks to pronounce the word plump.  It's fun to say!

Snot's ok.  Mucous and phlegm make me gag.  I think that relates to my former profession.  I dealt with seventh graders and snot was an everyday occurrence.  But, if something turned into mucous or phlegm, that usually meant there was a lot of it and my stomach churns at the thought.

Conversate kills me.  Where the hell did that word come from, and why do the people using it think it makes them sound intelligent? Have a conversation or converse about a situation.  If you're going to conversate, do not do it around me or I'll have to give you an on the spot grammar lesson.

The word retard disturbs me.  If you are one of my former students, you better remember the correct pronunciation and definition of the word, and use it only when referring to slowing down the rusting process.  For most of my life, the term retarded referred to people.  It was a descriptive term in a time when words like Down Syndrome or mentally challenged did not exist.  While such a use of the word is now outdated, some folks still use it to describe people in a derogatory fashion.  When did that happen?  When did insulting someone with that term become commonplace?  Why?  And don't get me started on the currently in vogue variation of the word, libtard.  Anybody who hopes to impress his/her Facebook friends with the superiority of his/her conservative opinion only makes him/herself look ignorant by using such a word.

I need to make a list because I know there are other words I love or love to hate, but I can't recall them right now.  Maybe a Words: Part 2 will be a future blog.  What are your favorite words?  What words make you cringe?  Feel free to share.