Pandora's box...

I woke up this morning, and immediately realized there is nothing funny about this day at all. I have a headache, my sinuses are killing me, my teeth hurt, even my hair is aching. I think I will just go ahead and drop a hammer on my foot to take my focus off the pain in my head. So this is not a humor post. If you are in need of a laugh, you are in the wrong place. No. Really. Go away. I'm crabby, and I'm not afraid to use it.

As regular readers of this blog know, I am adopted. That is not a joke, perpetrated by an older brother who resents my existence. [If he really did, he would be much more devious about it. Maybe telling me that the flying monkeys from the "Wizard of Oz" would be coming by for me shortly if I continued to annoy him. I dunno. Just making up some hypotheticals here.] No, I am the real deal: unwed teenaged mother, unhappy family, ruined lives, misery and despair all around. And then, viola, all the problems solved by simply unloading the problem onto someone else. I think she may have been wise beyond her years, given what a sore trial I have been.

I give my mother credit. [That would be my real mother, not the biological one, by the way. Giving birth gets you a baby, watching them barf their guts out in the middle of the night and still thinking they are beautiful makes you a mother.] We survived my being 15, and she is nice enough to lie and pretend she never thought about giving me back. Personally, I would have returned me as defective merchandise a few times [years,] but she is made of sterner stuff.

Being adopted is a weird thing, to be sure. I have had people ask me what it feels like to be adopted. I can't honestly say if it's different than not being adopted, because I have never not been adopted. I don't know if I would feel more or less wanted, more or less loved, because I don't have anything to compare it to.

I do know that one time quite a few years back, someone asked my mother about giving birth to me (we were probably at a baby shower, I can't recall now,) and for a moment she was trying to remember. We laughed as I pointed out that she was not there when I was born, but that was one of the most genuine expressions of pure love in my life. In that moment, I understood my being adopted was simply not part of her understanding of who I am. The fact that I am adopted never arises, because I am hers, and she is mine, and it really is as simple as that.

To hear my mother tell it, and I made her tell it over and over again, I was never confused about where I belonged. She tells me that on the day they got me, January 3, 1962, I never cried. We visited my cousin on the way home (she was the first relative I met, and we have been close ever since, so she was yet another perk) and I fell asleep before we got across the Mendota Bridge, which is just a hop, skip and a jump from my aunt and uncle's house. Mom says she was prepared for me to be up all night for days, if not weeks, unhappy and crying. Instead, I went to bed and slept through the night, no problem, while she hung over my crib filled with panic and worry. Which was probably good practice for being my mother, come to think of it.

I often see in news reports a child being referred to as an "adopted" child, like they come with restrictions or limitations. Sort of a conditional member of the family. The implication is not one of quality, unfortunately, but that the kid is somehow not quite up to snuff.

For example, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman have two children together, who happen to be adopted. Why does the media, and by extension, why do we, think that matters? Are the children they have adopted somehow less their children than their biological children? Whatever you may think of them as people or actors, you see pictures of Tom and Katie, in particular, on the sidelines at the soccer games or attending school events often enough that you know it's a regular thing. And I'm guessing as they leave the house they are not saying, "Let's go see the adopted kids play soccer."

I don't really admire any of them, but I do appreciate the normalcy they bring to a very visible adopted family situation. They don't show it off, they just live as a family, and in doing so, make it apparent that adopted children live perfectly normal, happy lives. They are a weird poster child for normalcy, to be sure, but they are certainly far more normal than the Spears sisters and their three ring circus, biology not withstanding.

Of course, most adoptions aren't the high flying affairs of a Madonna or an Angelina, or a John and Cindy McCain, with endless money to spend, and unlimited exposure for all, sort of like a pricey parenthood public service announcement. That is not a slam on them, by the way, because in the end, they have taken responsibility for a child, or children, who otherwise may not have had a life at all. And that can only be seen as a good thing, because every child is worth saving.

But most adoptive parents don't have that kind of money, or that kind of power and exposure. For most, their only photo ops are arriving home on an airplane or driving up the driveway with their new member of the family, and the only adoring crowds are the relatives and friends who have watched them struggle to get to this day. What they do have, perhaps in even greater measure, is a desire and a wealth of love unmatched by almost anyone.

I am always bewildered at the decision of a young girl, unmarried, still in high school, who insists she is keeping her baby because she loves it, and can't imagine giving it away. I personally can't imagine keeping a baby when you are so young and unprepared and inexperienced. I think the most selfless love is found where you make the decision based on what is best for the baby, instead of trying to fulfill your own wants. But maybe that's just me.

But however positive the adoption may be, as an adopted kid, you will always have this Pandora's box of information that you don't know, and it is frustrating and tempting to open that box and see what it contains. I was adopted in the early 1960's, when there was no such thing as open adoption, and everything was shrouded in secrecy. When my biological mother relinquished custody of me, she signed me away completely, knowing that she would never see me again. That is not a leap of faith so much as it is throwing your baby from the burning building to the net below. I don't claim to understand the decision, but I certainly am grateful that she made it.

I don't know anything about myself, other than a few very general pieces of information, some of which are conflicting. I don't have any medical history. I don't know who I look like. I am not informed as to whether my biological parents are alive or dead. I don't know if I have biological siblings. I don't believe my biological father even knew I was born, but I don't know for sure, either. I have no information on education, or anything else that most people take for granted.

As tempting as it can be to open that box, I am not tempted often. Once the cover comes off, you can never slam it back down, and you are stuck with whatever knowledge you have gained. It is much less likely that you will find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, than that you will find regular people living a regular life, with good things and bad, but with whom you have very little in common.

And is that information vital to being happy? It doesn't seem to be. Because the happiness or satisfaction in my life certainly hasn't depended on knowing the answers. It is always awkward to explain that I have no family health history because I'm adopted, and even my kids are pretty limited. Breast cancer? Heart disease? I have no idea. On the up side, neither am I forced to claim the family history of Parkinson's and diabetes to be found in my adoptive family, so there is my silver lining peeking through.

My birth certificate looks a little goofy, because it wasn't officially filed until I was three. When I went to get my passport, I had to send a note along explaining the situation, along with my adoption decree, which was a little annoying, and sort of embarrassing, but certainly not the end of the world.

I can't think of a single other time that being adopted is ever even made note of. Most people who know me don't have any idea, and certainly, my relatives have never treated me any differently than any of my other cousins. In fact, on the contrary, I think I may have had special treatment, because everyone was so happy for my parents that we all found each other in the great big universe.

So, when a child is adopted, who benefits most? It's hard to say, because it seems to be one of the few life situations in which everyone wins. The biological parents have recognized, for whatever reasons, their inability to care for the baby they have created, and thus, are relieved of the responsibility. Which is especially good if they are young and not married, and a baby will prevent them from getting education and job experience they would need to get a good start in life. The baby gets a family that wants and will be able to care for it in a way it's own parents probably never could. The adoptive parents, who probably feel the luckiest of all, get the baby they have longed for and dreamed about and will love just as if that child were born to them.

So why, then, in the pro-choice versus pro-life debate, is adoption given such a tiny place? Why does it make people nervous, uncomfortable, edgy? When I mention that I am adopted, it can be a conversation stopper. People simply have no idea how to respond to that piece of information, even at my age. I see them struggle to decide if the appropriate response is sympathy, indifference, or encouragement, like it's a challenge to be overcome, but one that's not quite nice to mention in polite conversation. Sort of like a colostomy bag. Necessary at times, but let's not talk about it.

I am not a fringe person, and never will be. I am in the great, gray middle, the mushy area where you admit you don't have all the answers, and you don't deal in absolutes, because you think life is a little squishier than that. But I do wish, in the great abortion debate, that we would open the window and look at adoption a little more closely, and try to understand what the realities are. Why do we never hear from people who have participated in adoption? Why are the parents who have been blessed, and the blessings themselves, never asked to the table to partake in the discussion? There is something between all and nothing, and it is a win/win/win for all involved.

Each year as I celebrate my birthday, I wonder if my biological mother is still out there somewhere, and if she wonders about me. Does she wonder if she did the right thing? Does she worry that I am happy and safe? Does my birthday signify a happy day, or a sad day? I wonder, what does she feel?

I have had people ask me, if you could talk to her, what would you say? I know they think there are lots of profound questions I would like answered, or some deep feelings that I need to express. But the answer is much easier than that. I would say thank you for giving me life, not by giving birth, but by giving me away. As I celebrate my birthday this week, number 48 already, I hope you will know that I am sending you, not the love that belongs to my mom and family, but my gratitude, that piece of my heart which belongs to you.

Rain, rain, go away....

Into each life, some rain must fall. Well, we have had rain. And more rain. And more rain. In the current year, 2008, we here in Kansas City have not gone longer than nine days without some of the wet stuff falling from the sky. And I, for one, have had just about enough of it.

I would leave, but I think I might be the problem, so there would be no point. If I leave town, it will be nice here, and rain wherever I go. That's how it works. I'm not a rain goddess, I'm a disaster, like a hurricane or a tornado. Or a flood.

I have brought rain relief to drought stricken Florida. I am not kidding here, by the way. They were having a months long drought when my family went to Orlando on vacation. End of drought. Spring break has never been so damp. It was unbelievable, how much rain could come down in a week. They were talking evacuations by the time we left, so it was a good thing our time was up. On the upside, we spent a week at Disney World with almost no lines, so there is a silver lining in every cloud, I guess.

I have caused a flood, simply by planning a trip. They had record breaking rains in Hawaii when we went on our one and only trip there a couple of years ago, spring break again, and also broke the record for least sun. The precipitation started approximately 25 seconds after the non-refundable reservation went through, and kept on for a week after we got home again, just for good measure.

We went horse back riding in the rain, we went to the beach in the rain, we had an indoor luau because of the rain [the roof leaked,] we went for a submarine ride in the rain [you would think that wouldn't matter, but you have to get out to the sub somehow. Rock and roll is not a good thing in a small boat on a big ocean.] My daughter is the only kid I know who has ever been to Hawaii for a week and come home without a tan. By the time we left, they were having mudslides, and we had seen the sun approximately five minutes total. I was aggrieved to learn that it had been 75 and sunny the entire week in KC, but as I said, that's how it works.

I have heard talk that if I ever try to return, the National Guard has been ordered to stop me at the border because they cannot afford the clean up, but that might just be rumor.

I have been to Southeast Asia, and it rained there, too. That was an interesting experience, because their sanitary sewer projects have not kept pace with their undeniable economic boom. Thus, they have far more pavement than water runoff drains, which means when it rains, it floods. Everywhere. I was really glad I had gotten all my shots, because heaven only knows where that water had been before. I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to have nightmares again.

One would think, with my previous experience of never having gone on vacation in my entire life without bringing the rain, that I would always go prepared. But I am an optimist, and each time, I am just sure that this will be the time it doesn't rain. So I never have an umbrella. I have purchased umbrellas in Hawaii and Chicago, and three of them in Florida. I suspect that they mark them up when they see me coming. I am an economic boom all by myself, what with the poncho and umbrella sales I generate by my mere presence.

If you noticed a trend, we seem to travel on spring break a lot. Rest assured I am way ahead of you. I have tried to switch it up, just to fake out the rain gods, but no luck. I think they have a permanent satellite trained on me. "Uh oh, look out - she is talking to her cousin, the travel agent, now - get ready, a trip might be in the works - wait, wait, there we go - reservation made - prepare to open the heavens, here she comes - it's show time." Let the rains begin.

One of the most frightening storms I have ever been in was in Cancun, Mexico. Lovely place, normally. Or so I'm told. I had the extreme version, of course. I enjoyed a corner room overlooking the ocean. Or it would have overlooked the ocean, if only we hadn't had to have the giant wooden shutters closed the entire time, because of the Tropical Storm, 73 mph winds, that we were experiencing. The waves would lash the side of the hotel, the wind would whistle and rattle the shutters, the rain poured down, and the skies were black. Two days, we couldn't leave our building. The whole weekend trip spent in a lobby with a bunch of other disappointed tourists. All I know about Cancun is that they have smiling waiters, crabby tourists, and when they say open air lobby, you should bring rain gear during hurricane season.

For several years, I had a fear of tornadoes, which I srongly felt I had to overcome. It was hatched when I stood out on the front yard of my college trailer home one afternoon, calmly watching a funnel cloud develop. [You can just keep the white trailer trash jokes to yourself, thank you very much. I am the humorist here.] I kept calling into the mobile home to my then husband, "Someone is going to have some rough weather." Then it was, "Someone is going to have a tornado." Finally, as I saw it was heading straight for us, I yelled, "Uff da, we have to get to the shelter." Naturally, it was too late by then, so we rushed to the pole barn ag store next door and hid in their bathroom, singing "Itsy, Bitsy Spider" with Adam while the rain came down the spout. I don't like spiders either.

I decided a few years later that I simply must overcome this ridiculous fear of storms. Naturally, we were heading out on a mini-vacation at the time, driving from Memphis to New Orleans for the weekend. I cannot emphasize enough that if I were to wait for clear weather, I would simply never leave my home, because it rains wherever I go. Thus, I decided to overlook the ominous clouds that immediately began to build in the previously clear and sunny sky as I threw the hastily packed suitcase into the car.

I thought I had pulled a fast one, actually, because it was a last second decision, not something we planned and thought about. We simply tossed a few things together and took off, not even stopping for gas.

We got approximately 20 miles down the road when the tornado hit. We barely had time to pull under the overpass as that twister crossed over just above us, rain pounding so hard on the roof of the car we couldn't even hear ourselves arguing about whose fault it was that we were putting our small son in mortal danger. A few moments later, a Mississippi state trooper, [they always were the ones to be on top of everything,] drove up and motioned to us to roll our window down. He warned us that we shouldn't be on the road, as there were tornadoes in the area. Thanks.

They say that April showers bring May flowers. I don't know who got the roses, but I think I'll have to excuse myself now to go and get a thorn out of my side.

A new day

Today is September 11, and as a nation, we are remembering those lost on 9/11/2001 in the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center in New York City. There is nothing funny about that event, and I am certainly not one to intrude on the national outpouring of grief. That was a day in which our national consciousness was altered and we were changed forever, and it is appropriate to remember and recognize it.

Oddly enough, it seems that every generation has their day. For my son and daughter, surely 9/11 will be that moment they will never forget, when their world shifted, and they lost their innocence. They were both in school, and each of them remembers the events of the day in vivid detail.

Adam, in high school at the time, recalls watching on television in his classrooms through the day. The media, as bewildered and unprepared as the rest of the nation, tried to make sense of it all by replaying the scene over and over, talking endlessly about what happened and what was going to come next. The adults in his own personal world struggled to come to grips with what it meant as well. We all looked over our shoulders that day, wondering where the next attack would come from, and if we were all as vulnerable as we felt.

My little girl asked me that day if they were going to come to Kansas City and crash into our house, because for her, that was what she found most frightening. She wanted to know she was safe, and for the first time in her life, I couldn't assure her the way I normally would that all would be well. I was glad, at that moment, to live in the heartland, flyover country. I told her if we were going to be safe anywhere, it would be in the Midwest, because even our own countrymen couldn't seem to locate us. It made her feel better, but as a parent, that was small consolation.

On a personal note, I feel sympathy for my brother and his lovely bride, because they were married on September 11, 1998, ten years ago today. While, as he once rightly told me, they had the day first, and it surely is a day to honor because he and his wife found their soul mates, it is still a little hard to go out and celebrate while everyone else is mourning the destruction of the Twin Towers and the loss of life that occurred because of it.

For my own generation, I think the assassination of John F. Kennedy was probably that redefining moment. Although I was only three at the time, (I am a "barely boomer," sort of a Boom-X, really,) for the kids who were a little older, and certainly for the adults, I know it was one of those times that they look back and remember exactly where they were when they heard the news. The world was shocked and mourned with us, and we still remember that day each year, because it changed the way we understood the world, and perhaps, the way world understood us, as well.

Ironically, we have a personal connection with that day, too. My mother was born on November 22, 1926. So every year, when her birthday comes around, she gets to wake up to a reminder that this is a day for the nation to be somber and remember the dark side of human nature. And happy birthday to you. [Sometimes her birthday falls on Thanksgiving, so then she gets completely eclipsed. It's a good thing she's a Minnesota Lutheran, thus can just accept it as her cross to bear.]

Speaking of my mother, for her generation, the watershed moment of change was, of course, December 7, 1942, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and the United States was dragged, kicking and resisting, into World War II. They say history is written by the winner, which is, of course, strictly speaking, quite true. One of the problems with that is the loss of perspective, because it is presented as a sure thing. But the outcome, while always believed in, was not assured, and the struggle was desperate and genuine.

That day of infamy is gradually fading from our collective consciousness, as those who lived through it, and were changed by it, pass away from this earth. But it was truly an event that changed the course of the world, and for those who were a part of it, it changed them. And so we have all been changed.

For my grandparents, the obvious life shattering event was the Great Depression. Even the very wealthiest Americans were not sheltered from the events of that time, as the country went suddenly from boom to bust, almost overnight.

My own relatives, farmers all, were more fortunate than some, perhaps, because they had the opportunity to live off their own land. Although there were many hardships, don't even get me started on rumagrout, my mother had food on her table every day, and a roof that had been over her family's heads for three generations. For those in the city, soup lines and families living in desperate straights were all too common. The hardships were in plain sight, shared by most, and it changed how the nation viewed those less fortunate.

Those times were the root of programs that continue to lift families from the depths of poverty and homelessness even today. No matter what you may feel about welfare and social security and all the other social programs, we as a nation are undeniably better for showing our concern for, and sharing our national wealth with, those who have fallen off the edge.

It is ironic, I think, that we as a country are at our best when we are at our most vulnerable. It is in those times that our true national character emerges, and the spirit that created this nation is most visible.

We are, on the surface of things, a fractured, contentious group, unable to see any other point of view, demanding, greedy, and in election season, unreasonable and downright hateful to others whose opinions do not mirror our own. But underneath the superficial flaws there lies great compassion and strength, a dedication to justice and freedom, not only for ourselves, but for all people.

That is what makes me proud to be an American today and every day. I have never doubted for a single moment that we, as a nation and as individuals, will rise to any occasion, will make any sacrifice, that is necessary to preserve not only our freedom and our rights, but those of the very people with whom we disagree.

Although it scares the enemies of this great nation, we continue, each new day, to embody the final words of the Declaration of Independence, which read:

"We mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor."

On small towns....

The last few days we have heard quite a bit about the virtue of living in small town America, as if Mayberry is real, and Lake Wobegon is Oh-so-here. Well, I have news for those who have never lived in a small town - that is actually sort of how it is. Except when it's not. Which is often. Meaning, small towns, like everywhere, have good points and bad points, and usually the perception is not the reality.

I grew up in a small town. I am a hick, in fact. I know. Gasp. While my big city exterior may have confused you, I am, in fact, a farm girl at heart. I graduated from high school with 85 other silly teenagers, which means I was about as prepared for the real world as a less engaging Opie Taylor. Naturally, in response, I went to college, got married, had kids, and moved to the big city.

Raising city kids, I have now seen the other side, and I have realized there are a lot of pressures in growing up in a metropolitan area. But don't kid yourself, small towns have dramas of their own, and the shoals can be just as dangerous to navigate. You haven't lived until your misdeeds preceded your arrival home, because six people called your mother before you could get to her first.

Just kidding. I never did anything to warrant that kind of reporting. Coincidence? I don't think so.

When I go back to my small town to visit my mom, I am instantly returned to childhood, a time when walking down the street almost guaranteed you would run into five people you knew, some of them related. My kids are always amused to go visit their Grandma, although it's not nearly as fun since Bergh Drug Store went away. We never fail to see people who remember me from when I was little, and they are amused to find out I was not always as perfect as I am now. Okay, I'm not perfect, but I'm pretty fair. Well, I'm not too bad. Uff, all right, I'm good enough. Happy now?

My little community had about 1500 people living inside the city limits, and a lot more living on the farms that surrounded the town. We had 13 Lutheran churches, one Catholic church, two grocery stores, a hardware store, a drug store, and a five and dime. We also had a men's clothing store and a women's clothing store. This was before there was a mall on every corner, and buying something by mail was a Big Deal. So going to town was pretty exciting for a kid. You just never knew what would happen In Town.

Of course, it was not as exciting as when my mother was a girl. She has regaled us with stories of her exploits walking the busy streets of that same small town on a Saturday evening in her youth. NO, not those kinds of exploits.

When my mother was young, going to town was an exciting adventure, because everyone else went to town one evening a week, too. Stores stayed open late on Friday night so everyone could come in from the country to buy groceries and whatever else they needed. So on a Friday night in the summer, the streets would be full of people, shopping, talking, socializing. It was a community event, just like you would imagine in small town America. While the adults would visit and catch up on the news of the week, the teens would stroll the sidewalks, walking up one side of the street and down the other, checking out the competition, and what everyone else's families were up to. I am not joshing, this was big fun.

It was during the Great War, World War II, and everything was in short supply, including money. Walking the street was free, and it allowed you to share your life challenges with other people who had it just as bad as you did. My mother and her siblings did not just hop into the car [or was it a buggy? That could be just a nasty rumor....] and run off to town any old time they were bored. That was something that required planning and coordination, so everyone would have an opportunity to do whatever they needed to accomplish.

On the upside, everyone knew everyone, which means everyone knew everyone else's children, too. So crime was not exactly a wave back then. More of a twitch, really. One that got back to your parents long before you did. And parents back then weren't afraid of hurting their children's delicate egos, either. They punished, because they wanted to be sure you not only never did something like that again, they didn't even want you entertaining the thought.

My uncle Fritz was a bit of a handful, as we have heard him tell it. I have known him to allow that it's entirely possible if he had been raised in a city instead of on a farm, he may have been classed as a juvenile delinquent. Which is pretty ironic, since he grew up to be a truly God fearing, fantastic person, who volunteers in a prison ministry, among other things. Anyway, he has a few stories to tell, but the pertinent one for today is about a field, a horse, a wagon, and a couple of boys who were not kept adequately busy.

It was, as I recall the story, [and rest assured, if I have the details wrong, I have several relatives who will be happy to weigh in and correct me,] a nice sunny late afternoon, and my uncle and his friend from down the road, who went by the name of Buddy, were together, thinking up mayhem they could commit. I am not entirely sure what got into them, but on this day, I guess Satan held out a particularly shiny, juicy apple, and they could not resist taking a bite.

Anyway, Buddy's dad had just spent the day setting up shocks of oats in the field between the two houses. [I am going to let my uncle tell the rest of this story, because he tells it better than I do.]

But first, a shock, for any youngsters who may be reading this, were back breaking work, done by hand. Here is an explanation of what they are, and how they are done, straight from my very own mother. Consider yourselves fortunate to be able to hear from her.

Starting with the grain field, let's say an oats field, when the grain is ripe and golden it is cut with a binder. It's called a binder because there is twine in it that ties the grain stalks into just the right size bundles. These bundles when tied come out of the machine and just lie there on the ground. As soon as possible the shocker, the person who does the work, picks up a bundle one in each hand and places them together, one standing against the other, so they're leaning against each other. Then he takes two more and places them next to the two that are standing together. He probably will take two more and set it along side the four that are standing. When finished, this is called a shock.

After a week or two, when the grain is very dry, the farmer comes with his team of horses and a wagon and loads the shocks onto the wagon. He brings them to the barn yard where the threshing machine is located, and the bundles are tossed into the machine where the grain is separated from the straw. The grain comes out a leg of the threshing machine into a pick-up truck that brings it to the granary and the straw is blown onto a pile to be used in the winter for bedding for the cattle.

The oats are stored in the granary to be ground into feed for the chickens and the other farm animals, ie cows, pigs, horses.

Two bundles are usually saved to be put on two stakes that are attached on either side of a small out building such as a small corn crib which will feed the birds in the winter. These bundles are usually put out on Christmas Eve Day.

Here is the rest of the story, in my uncle's words. "We were driving a team of horses. So when we saw this inviting field of shocked oats, we said, 'lets do it.' What happened is that as the horses straddled the row of bundles in full gallop, the bundles would go airborne behind us. Quite a sight." Apparently, this was pretty big fun, right up until they realized Buddy's dad was watching them wend their way through that field, stalks flying every which way behind them, like a little hurricane moving across the landscape.

I will allow my uncle some dignity, and spare him the humiliation of public exposure on the discipline front, but I think it's safe to say that was a very long evening living with the land. And I think it's a sure bet he never did that again, or anything remotely like it. Which makes me think, perhaps those old people, our grandparents, might have known a thing or two about child rearing.

My own parents were not exactly worried about the psyche of their hot house flower, either. Punishment was doled out pretty liberally, as earned, and I don't remember anyone feeling bad about it, either, except maybe me. Well, probably not even me, since I usually knew it was all my fault, anyway. My mother, in particular, was never shy about who was in control, and it was not me. So if I was foolish enough to think I was going to be one up on her, I would soon be thinking again. However, that did not prevent me from trying. On one notable occasion, I was probably about three, I actually turned to a life of crime.

There was one grocery store in town that had a very sweet clerk, who would slip me a small piece of candy whenever we went through her check-out. Like most children would, I really looked forward to that candy, and didn't realize that it was a gift, freely given, not an entitlement. On that fateful day, we went to the store, and the piece of candy was not forthcoming. I'm not sure why, but for whatever reason, it seemed she wasn't going to give me my prize. So I figured I would just take the pressure off her and go ahead and select my own piece of candy.

Naturally, since I was choosing, I went for the biggest piece, a chocolate bar, the largest one on that rack. I plucked it from it's box, and had just the smallest twinge of fear that perhaps I had overstepped, but I really, really wanted it, so I overrode my misgivings. We walked out to the car, my mom and I, with the candy bar held sort of out of mom's line of sight, just in case I had pulled a bone headed move. I was already developing a keen sense of when I was poised for big trouble, and by that point, my radar was on high alert.

Is anyone surprised to learn that my mother spied that candy bar, and immediately honed in on the implications? Like my brother, she tries to make sure things are clear, so she asked me where I got the candy bar. She knew she hadn't paid for it, and I was not independently wealthy, so it was probably pretty clear to her that I had walked out of that store with stolen goods. But I was not all that bright, so I said, "She gave it to me." I still remember that tight, pinched look my mother got on her face, disappointment and anger and irritation all rolled into one. Even then, I could tell she wasn't going to buy that whopper.

My mother, fair minded as always, gave me another chance to do the right thing, and said, "She who?" There I was, caught with the ill gotten gains melting in my hand from the heat of all my lies, when I suddenly had the enlightened thought that the truth may serve me better in the current predicament. So I bravely admitted my lie, said I had taken it, and hung my head, no doubt going off like a sprinkler to put out the fire from the hot goods I was holding.

My lovely mother was not impressed. Have you noticed how all the parenting books these days advise parents to notice only the positive things their kids do, reward the appropriate behavior, and ignore the negative? If you don't notice, goes the theory, it will go away. I personally have not noticed that working especially well at the grocery store, Target, or church, although I have observed that today's parents do seem to have substantial hearing loss. My mother was not blind, deaf, or stupid. I was caught chocolate handed, and I was not getting away.

She marched me right back into that store, talk about your walk of shame, and made me 'fess up about what I had done. I am sure that I looked miserable and pathetic, because that is certainly how I felt, but I don't recall anyone going easy on me. The clerk took the candy bar back, shooting disapproving glances at me, while everyone in town certainly knew of my disgrace. Or at least, so I imagined. We went home, and I don't remember any further punishment, so I suspect my mother knew the humiliation had been what I needed, and decided to let those consequences speak for themselves. And I am here to tell you, I don't take a penny off the sidewalk today without checking around to be sure I'm not grabbing it from it's rightful owner.

I don't pretend to have all the answers to life's serious problems. The world is a much different place than it was when I was a child, and more different yet from when my mother was young. When you are on the outside looking in, small towns may give the illusion that they are a place where time stands still, that Mayberry can be found in rural America even today, and Aunt Bee just might be waiting for us on the porch with a smile and piece of pie. But I notice Opie grew up and moved away, and even Andy and Helen went to Mount Pilate. Although Mayberry is fun to visit, when you have to make the big choices in life, some of us just need the city lights. Maybe we're afraid of the dark.

On hurricanes, and I don't mean lamps....

My ex-husband has been called nothing more than a lot of hot air. I think that's fair. He is certainly full of it, anyway. He doesn't have a lot of sense, either. That old saying goes, "He doesn't have the sense to come in out of the rain." Check. That would be why he found himself on a beach in the middle of a hurricane.

It was 1988, and the hurricane was Florence, a little nonsense depression that blew up into a hurricane overnight, right at the time my own personal windbag was heading to the Gulf Coast to meet some customers and do some business entertaining. I will let you imagine the confluence of two great forces of nature colliding, but I think it's possible that Hurricane Florence was spawned by my ex-husband. Although I was supposed to go, I couldn't find a babysitter for our little boy, only three at the time, so we were left behind in Memphis, while he headed off for fun and adventure on the Panhandle beaches of Destin, Florida. I can't say I was too sorry, since I didn't like the looks of the storm I had been watching on the news during the last couple days before he left. He didn't take my worries any more seriously than he took that storm, so he was totally unconcerned about running into any possible problems.

The beach bum called me many hours later, quite awhile after he should have arrived, in fact, to gloat that he was standing on the white sand at the water's edge. Alone. No one there. Just him. Very weird.

He should have known something was up when every single car was headed in the opposite direction, and he was the only vehicle on the road going to the coast, but he never was one for following the crowd. Personally, I would have taken the road closed signs seriously. But being him, he probably thought they were clearing the way for him to provide a diversion for the waiting crowds.

So the next thing I know, the hurricane is all the news on the television, while he is calling me from the ocean front to tell me the waves were simply spectacular, but there was no one around to entertain. When I mentioned the possibility of a hurricane dampening the enthusiasm, he had no idea one was even on the horizon.

I pictured him standing on the sand in what he considered his stylish attire, flowing pants, tight shirt, little bits of his already thinning hair flapping in the wind, while he held the bartender hostage to his conversation, which was probably more deadly than the hurricane. I have to be honest, if I had to choose between my ex or a hurricane, I wouldn't bet against my ex to cause the most damage. Florence made landfall the day after he got there, the area he was in under a hurricane warning. Apparently he spent most of that time on the beach, oblivious, waiting for the crowd.

Which is sort of how he has spent his life. Waiting....

You wrung it out of me....

I hate laundry. There are a lot of daily routine type tasks that I dislike, but laundry probably tops the list.

I haven't always been a laundry hater. When I was little, I wanted to be a grown up, and thus, I was always trying to do whatever my mom did. When she decreed it was laundry day, naturally, I wanted to help, which actually means get in the way and create more work, but I was in there trying.

When I was young, which, in this case, means before high school, we had a washing machine that looked something like a medieval torture device. It worked like one, too, if you were cavalier about using it. It was called a wringer washer, a simple but effective tool, but not one to be taken lightly.

It would swish the clothes around in the main chamber, like a present day washing machine, but it didn't spin them. Instead, you got the water out of the clothes by feeding them through the wringer [pay attention, this is important information here] With A Long Stick.

The wringer itself hung on a movable arm above the water chamber so you could swing it around as you needed to rinse. As the soapy water was squeezed out of the clothing it would go back into the machine to be reused, so it was a water saving device, which would please the green advocates, and of course, my thrifty mother. Then, to finish the process, you would have two tubs of clear water next to the washer, where you put the clothes to rinse, wringing them out between tubs in turn, so by the end, they were clean, rinsed, and ready to dry.

On a side note, since you reused the water for each load, it was crucial that you do the loads in the right order, so as not to bleed darker colors into lighter clothes. To this day, I am all but incapable of doing my laundry in any other order, lightest to darkest, because it just feels wrong.

Anyway, the oldest wringer washers had a crank that you turned by hand to make the rollers come together and squeeze the clothes. However, my mother had the upgraded, newfangled electric version. More efficient, it's true, but also a little problematic, because sometimes you would get too many layers in there and it would jam. Or occasionally the wringer would pull the stick in with the clothes and get stuck. [You can see where this one is going now, I'll bet.] There was a release, and you would pull and yank to get the piece of clothing back out, so you could start wringing the daylights out of them again.

Not a terrible system, but not one without its risks.

My aunt and uncle were visiting with my cousins, Ahna, a couple of years younger than me, and Becky, who was a baby at the time. Back then, babies were not Huggied up and Pampered the way they are today.

Not to get off track here, but I must say, having been a mother, it's a lot cooler to "choose" cloth diapers when you have the alternative of disposable, or at least a laundry service that takes away the nasty ones and delivers fresh, sweet smelling clean ones every couple of days. It wouldn't make it worth it to me, I have to be honest, but at least you could feel self-righteous about it if you went that way. Save the trees and all that. I'm for it. As long as I'm not in it. But back then, in the dark ages of the 1960's, disposables were not mainstream, and cloth diapers weren't a lifestyle choice. That was just the Way Things Were.

So anyway, all this meant that every few days you would take that full pail of rinsed out diapers and wash them, then hang them out to dry on the line. As in clothesline, where they dry in the open air, and you get the real April Fresh smell instead of the kind in the bottle. You also got fly specks and the occasional bird offering, but they smelled really good.

So, my aunt, whom I very fondly still call by her childhood nickname Tootsie, although her real name is Alice, not surprisingly needed to wash diapers. I have no idea where Becky was, but Ahna and I decided that we absolutely had to help. I am certain my aunt was thrilled with the additional burden of having to keep an eye on us while doing what was already an odious chore, but she took it with good humor, and down to the basement we traipsed.

Ahna and I naturally wanted to "do" the wringer, since it was fun to see the water squeeze out of the clothing. I was feeding the machine from one side, while Ahna was pulling the clothes out on the other and moving them to the rinse tub. I am certain my aunt warned me repeatedly to use the stick to feed the clothes into the machine, and I am equally certain that the moment she turned her back on me I stopped using the stick, because it was harder to get the clothes into the wringer that way. Obviously, the next thing I knew, the washer was eating my fingers.

I stood there, sort of dazed, watching my now excruciatingly painful digits disappear into the jaws of the clothes shark, unable to do anything for a split second. But then I came to my senses and yelled. And Ahna yelled. Which meant my aunt, who I'm sure required a moment to size up the difficulty, probably yelled, too. I'm reasonably sure I screamed bloody murder, which is what my fingers looked like when that machine was done with them.

Fortunately, I had little fingers and my aunt was really quick. You have no idea how fast an adult can move until you have done something stupid, requiring them to rescue you. Tootsie got the machine stopped, hit the release, which as I recall naturally jammed, what with the thick load it was clenching, and finally removed my very sore fingers from between the rollers.

It was sort of interesting what happened over the next couple of weeks, as I lost three fingernails, one after another. No broken fingers, but a lot of pain and bruises, and everybody feeling bad because I was stupid. Oh for dumb.

But that's being a kid. Kids are dumb. They are constantly doing stupid stuff you have told them moments before not to do, just to see what happens. Every kid has their hand on the burner moment, where you KNOW, you have been told a million times, not to do something, but you just cannot help yourself, because it's so tempting.

Sometimes though, it's just not your fault. We grew up on a farm in rural Minnesota. Have I ever mentioned that Minnesota is obviously paradise, God's country for Lutherans? I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm Lutheran, if you didn't know, which means I am saved by God's grace, which is a really lucky thing, because you know the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I am always well intentioned. Anyhow, one thing about growing up on a farm is that you must do for yourself, because you have no money, and there's no one else to do it, anyway. Farm folk are resourceful. Being poor forces you to be resourceful, of course, but that doesn't mean it's not still a virtue.

Anyway, my brother and I were repairing the roof of this little building that sits next to the barn, which was very rotted and dangerous. My brother, being the kind of guy he is, warned me to follow him across the roof, exactly in his footsteps, so that he could test each step and make sure it was safe for both of us to walk across there. [See, I told you he was a great guy, sacrificing himself for me and all.]

I was an unhappy helper to begin with, because I would rather have been sitting in a tree reading a book, but I had been enlisted and he was a lot bigger than me, so I wasn't going to argue about it. There I was, trudging across this stupid roof, when suddenly, the floor dropped out from under me.

It knocked the wind out of me, so I couldn't yell, but he probably heard the crack as I dropped and landed with my back wedged against a 2X6, looking for all the world like a talking head. I would have laughed at the startled look on his face if only I could have caught my breath. He turned around and I wasn't there, and then I watched as his eyes, filled with disbelief, slowly dropped and located me around his ankles, gasping and pretty unhappy to be there.

As I believe I have mentioned before, my brother likes to get all the information before making a plan in any situation, so as I'm hanging there, he asked the obvious question. "What are you doing?" If I hadn't been in pain, I probably would have told him I was just hanging around, but I don't think I was in the mood. When we determined I could move, he lifted me out of there, and my long suffering mother took me to the emergency room or the doctor or somewhere. I know there were X-rays, and my back was injured, something was cracked, and they fitted me up with this elastic brace that I wore for awhile, until things were back to normal.

There is no moral to that story. Every story doesn't have to have a moral to be amusing. Sometimes it's just fun to muse.

One of my favorite lines is, "Well, you can do it, I guess, but don't come crying to me when it doesn't work out." I say this to my kids whenever they insist on doing something which I have already told them is going to be a mistake. Sort of like "I told you so" in advance. That way, you don't have to say it when it happens, which would just make you look smug. Instead, you get to look prescient. [Obviously, if it does work out, then it all just goes away, and you don't bring it up again.] Kind of win/win for moms.

Of course, any time you have a win/win situation, you know there has to be a lose/lose as well. In this case, it means you didn't know what dumb thing they were going to do, so you couldn't tell them in advance not to do it. However, and this is the important part, you would have known it was an asinine thing to do, and would have warned them against it, if only you had been given the opening. This means you lose, because you don't even get to say I told you so, even though you would have, if only you had known.

One time, my son's friend came over to borrow Adam's kite. Andrew was often a little scatter brained, and he lost everything, all the time. Naturally, when Adam went looking for him a short time later, he found Andrew standing in the empty field, roll of string still in his hand, with the end of the line fluttering on the ground, and no kite in sight. Adam asked him where the kite was, to which Andrew replied that it got away. When Adam observed that Andrew was not very bright to have allowed this situation to occur, Andrew's response was, "Well, you know how I am. You shouldn't have let me borrow it in the first place."

Well, at least he didn't come crying to me.

Little Broken House on the Prairie....

I recently read that 25% of all children live in a home with only one biological parent. More startling, while 18% of white children are in those one parent families, 35% of Hispanic children and over 50% of black children are growing up in the broken family model. Some kids are better off that way, of course, but doesn't that sound like we've lost a couple wheels off the wagon as a society? On the other hand, some wagons belong in the junkyard.

When I got married, I thought he was Prince Charming, and life would be happily ever after. But a funny thing happened on the way to the castle - Prince Charming threw a shoe and rode away with someone else's horse, and I wasn't Cinderella, either. More like the forgotten step-sister, holding a broken glass, which believe me, was definitely half empty.

So how does it feel to be the peasant, watching the royal family from afar? I have to be honest, it's not as bad as it sounds. That old saying, be careful what you wish for, because you might get it, could turn out to be the truth. Just ask the girl who rode away in the glass carriage. The carriage turned into a pumpkin, and Prince Charming? Well, he turned out to be a rat, now in someone else's trap. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And speaking of driving away, cars should have been the first sign that my marriage was crashing against the rocks on the beach. The first wave? A little red Porsche, ten years old, driven only in sunny weather, with slippers on the wheels. Okay, no slippers, but supposedly well taken care of. Should have checked under the hood, genius.

That was only the first in a succession of many fancy cars, too many to keep track of over the years. They came, they went, we never knew what we would find parked in the garage on any given day. They came in a rainbow of hues, with a variety of styles, but most of them had some little... quirks, which made dealing with them a challenge.

One car, in particular, stands out in my mind. It was a "kit car," built on a frame to look like something it wasn't. Which isn't a metaphor, but certainly could be. Anyway, this silver fake Lamborghini had a number of problems, including missing window frames, the wrong wheels, damaged paint, and a security system with a mind of its own. I called the car Hal, because it was definitely in charge. (If you require explanation for that literary reference, you need to stop reading blogs online and go to the library. Seriously.)

One morning, when Mr. Buff was heading off to his 4 a.m. work out, he set off the car alarm. This horn was not your average, run of the mill car horn. It was like a tornado siren, and it raised the alert throughout the neighborhood. I have to admit, that might have been the one time I ever saw him wish for less attention.

And speaking of having a mind of its own.... Well, it wouldn't turn off. That alarm went on and on and on, despite all of his frantic attempts to shut it down. Finally, when everyone within four square blocks was aware that he had that car, the alarm turned itself off for no apparent reason. Daggers were thrown in our direction from all sides for days after that fiasco. Which I must say is pretty embarrassing when you're out there in the yard in your jammies with your frilly little dog first thing in the morning.

But that car wasn't done with us. The most entertaining incident was the debacle of the locking doors. For some reason, Mr. Brilliant never had more than one key for any car, so it was critical that the key never got left in the car. Which of course means he always left his key in the car. One evening, he went out to caress his new love when he realized the doors were locked and the key was in the ignition.

Now, this was a pretty fancy car, and it had a pretty fancy security system, apparently designed by Houdini. One of the main features was that if you used a remote to lock the door, then you had to have a remote to unlock it again. If you used a key to lock the door, a key was required to unlock. There was no other way, no buttons on the door, no remote would work, nothing. So it was quite a conundrum, one which was obviously my fault, since I pointed it out. Naturally, having recognized the problem, it became my job to solve it.

The system was supposed to be fool proof, which certainly should have excluded my ex from owning the car in the first place. The alarm, which as you may recall was not exactly discrete, went off at the slightest provocation, and I was provoked. So within short order, the alarm was resounding throughout the neighborhood, alerting the masses that Hal was back; our family had been outsmarted once again by a machine. Lights flashing, horn sounding - I felt like Madonna in a stage show gone bad. And in the middle of it all, I simply could not stop myself from laughing, because the whole thing was so absurd, it was funny.

Ultimately, with some creativity, a fishing pole, and my daughter's very small arm, we got the keys out of the window, unlocked the door, and got the alarm turned off. The kids and I went into the house, leaving the grief stricken lover to wipe down the carcass after the kill. The kids and I agreed that night, you should never have a car smarter than you are. That kind of excitement we don't need.

And sometimes, Cinderella is better off outside the castle walls. Because if you are living in a fairy tale, chances are, you won't live happily ever after.