Clara's Travelling Tales (Storytelling Sunday)

We have been blessed with the opportunity to travel throughout Europe as a family.  The law school at which I teach offers a number of "summer abroad" programs, and my husband and I decided early on that we wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to take the kids and explore the world together. This summer, we'll be travelling to Dublin, Ireland for three weeks (where I will teach) and then to Barcelona Spain for a week's vacation.  Today, as part of Storyteling Sunday, organized by Sian of From High in the Sky, I thought I would share some travelling tales to celebrate our upcoming trip. Since Clara celebrated a birthday this past week, I thought it appropriate to focus on some of her stories from our summers abroad:
In 2002,  Clara was four; Henry was seven. We spent three weeks in Dublin, Ireland where I taught at Trinity College; one week in Northwest Wales touring castles; and one week in Edinburgh Scotland.  We walked the children everywhere and, for the most part, they were troopers about it.  Although occasionally, while we were consulting a map and trying to figure out how to get to our next destination, Clara would pipe up in her small four year old voice "We could always take a 'capsy.'"  (The last word being one of her own devising, a combination of cab and taxi).  And, once, when we stood at street level considering a restaurant (such establishments are often located on the second floor in Wales and Scotland), she looked up, sighed, and said very softly, "I hate stairs."  At the end of the trip, Paul and I were relieved that we had been able to book a nonstop flight home from Ireland to California.  After we had settled in, we explained the length of the flight to Clara.  Thirteen hours?  She looked at us, as if we were crazy, pulled her green blanket over her head and slept for the entire flight!

In 2004, Clara was six; Henry was nine. We returned to Dublin and added a week in London afterwards.  Clara attended a performing arts camp in Dublin and loved singing and dancing. When we went to London, we attended a showing of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and she was equally thrilled by the flying car and the ice cream trolley which came by our seats at intermission.  At the end of the show, confetti rained from the sky. She gathered some up. Later, in our apartment, she threw it up in the air, over and over again, reveling in the ability to create a celebration out of thin air.  Henry was overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of London.  Not so Clara.  She asked me in all seriousness, "Mom, if I move here, will you come visit me?"

In 2005, Clara was seven; Henry was ten. We headed East and spent three weeks in a farm house turned travel hostel in Prague Czech Republic (where I taught at Charles University). We spent long weekends in Rome, Italy and Vienna, Austria.  In Rome, I was a little hesitant about going up the dome inside St. Peter's Cathedral, but Clara sprinted ahead and so I had to follow! Clara loved drinking from and playing in the fountains found around the streets of Rome.  She also loved  all the cute Italian men who thought she was "bellisima" and showed her how to use the fountains to spray water at people in the crowd.

In 2008, Clara was ten; Henry was thirteen. We started with a week's vacation in Paris, France and then spent two weeks in Budapest, Hungary where I taught. We ended with a week in Venice, Italy. Clara was the only one from our family brave enough to go all the way to the top of the Eiffel Tower.  On our last night in Venice, there was a huge thunderstorm and tons of wind and rain.  Clara asked if she could go dance in the rain in Plaza San Marco.  She was shocked when we said, "yes."  Out she went! She danced and laughed, finally returning, soaked and beaming with joy.

Happy 14th Birthday Clara! I hope you enjoy this summer's trip and return with more tales tell!

************************************************
To visit other bloggers and read their stories, go to this link. You won't be disappointed. I promise.

Storytelling Sunday: "It's easy, mom!"

Clara: "Can I have your old camera mom?"
Me: "Yes you can, once you learn how to use it."
Clara: "I know how to use it mom.  It's easy. See?"
Yes, my love, I do.
*********************************************
This post is offered as part of Sian's Storytelling Sunday Year 2: Pictures (and just a few words). For more great stories, check out this link.
*********************************************
P.S. I posted my April stamp give-away a day early. But it's not too late to put your name in the draw. For a chance to win a set of very rare and quirky stamps, click here and leave a comment.

Storytelling Sunday: Squeeze Play

From Wikipedia:
In baseball, the squeeze play is a maneuver consisting of a sacrifice bunt with a runner on third base. The batter bunts the ball, expecting to be thrown out at first base, but providing the runner on third base an opportunity to score. . . . In a safety squeeze, the runner at third does not take off until the batter makes contact bunting, waiting for more certainty that the ball will go to a location from which it will be difficult for the fielding team to make an out at home plate. In a suicide squeeze, the runner takes off as soon as the pitcher begins to throw the pitch, before releasing the ball. If properly executed, a play at home plate is extremely unlikely. However, if the batter fails to make contact with the pitch, the runner is likely to be put out at home plate (hence, "suicide"). Therefore, the suicide squeeze usually requires a skilled bunter who can make contact consistently, even on difficult pitches, and a confident, aggressive base runner. These plays are often used in the late innings of a close game in order to score an insurance, winning, or tying run.

Suicide Squeeze all the way . . . 

And safe at home. For the go-ahead run.  Nice!
************************************************************************
This story, in pictures and words, is brought to you as part of Sian's Storytelling Sunday. For more great stories, check out this link.

Storytelling Sunday (Picture): The Armband

There are many things Henry is on the soccer field:  fast; hard working; coachable. Definitely talented. But there's one thing he has never been - a leader. It just has not been in his nature to stand up and fill that role.  
Until this year. 
Congratulations son.
*****************************************************************************
To see more stories for Storytelling Sunday, go to this link.

Storytelling Sunday, The Picture: Happy New Year

We got all dressed up last night and went out with our best friends to celebrate the coming of the New Year. We ate, we danced, we shot silly string at other revelers as we drove by.
Happy 2012!
*******************************
For other stories, visit Storytelling Sunday at Sian's blog.

Storytelling Sunday, The Words: One Last Christmas Tale

Sian is starting a new year of Storytelling Sunday, with a twist. She's focusing on telling stories with photos (or words, if you prefer). She's also suggested starting the year with a New Year's story, but I have one last Christmas story I want to share. Because when I told it to my 16-year old son, it brought such a smile to his face that I didn't want to forget it before I wrote it down. So, I created this art journal page.  It's simple, but Uncle Dave says that's okay.
The journaling reads: "Christmas, 1995. Henry was seven months old and waited and waited and waited for relatives to arrive so he could open presents. We piled his gifts around him on the couch. He opened the first one - Tigger slippers. He put them on. And promptly fell asleep!"
**************************************************************
To see more stories, click on this link.

Storytelling Sunday: Connected Memories

I woke up Friday already exhausted.  It was going to be a very long day at the end of a very long week. I couldn't remember the last time I had a chance to stop and breathe and relax, to sit quietly and just be. I had to skip my Thursday morning workout because I was drowning in work  assignment, family commitments and (most of all) volunteer work for my son's soccer team. I had driven the team to a soccer game on Thursday night, not getting home until after 10:00 p.m. And, on Friday morning, I rolled out of bed early because the soccer team had agreed to run a snack bar at a huge wrestling tournament hosted by the high school. I was in charge of opening the snack bar and overseeing it from 7:45 a.m. until 2:00 p.m. and then returning to oversee the closing shift from 5:00 - 7:00 p.m. I had arranged for a delivery of tamales to sell at the snack bar, and at mid-morning, the tamale man arrived.  
They smelled delicious - warm and savory and like my Grandmother's kitchen. I grabbed a couple of tamales and sat down in the sunshine to enjoy the taste of memory, mixed with chicken and masa and chili. And in that moment, so many memories came flooding back. Of the time I made tamales with my Abuelita in her kitchen in Texas. Of the many trips with my mom to neighborhood kitchens to pick up tamales for Christmas. Of sitting and sipping tequila with my father over a steaming plate of tamales on Christmas morning. 
For me, tamales are inextricably bound up with Christmas memories and my Latino heritage. They connect me with my childhood and with the generations who have come before me. And, since my son's soccer team is almost entirely Latino, they also connect me with my present and my future. I took a deep breath, finished my tamales and returned to the snack bar. Thoughts of my past and my future swirling through my head. 
At the end of the day, after my closing shift, I bought a dozen tamales, and passed them out to the students who had helped during the day and others I met as I walked across campus. Every person who took one smiled in anticipation, as if I had given them a gift.  
***************************************************************
This story is offered as part of Sian's Storytelling Sunday and is inspired by her Christmas Club storytelling project. The photograph above features a fork from my grandmother's silver plate table setting and a lace doily which she made. For more stories, go to this link.

Storytelling Sunday: The Summer of 1984

In the summer of 1984, Los Angeles, California hosted the Olympic Games.  It was also the summer after I graduated from law school and was set to take the Bar Exam, a three day pencil and paper marathon which law school graduates must pass before they can actually practice law.  I knew that fate had consigned me to spend a couple of hours each day in a "bar exam review course" learning precisely what I would need to know to pass the exam and then lots of other hours studying and taking practice exams.  I didn't know that my fate also include a summer filled with fun.
I suppose I could have lived with my parents and taken the review course somewhere near their home. But, for some reason which remains blurry in my memory, I decided to go live with my brother Petey and take the review course near him.
Perhaps the reason was because Petey had gotten me a job in his law firm.  He worked in one of the most prestigious law firms in Los Angeles - not as an attorney, but in their mail room. When he learned I was thinking about getting a job, he made several copies of my resume (which was good but not really impressive enough to work at Munger, Tolles and Rickerhauser) and put one in each attorney's mail that day with a note that I was studying for the bar but was interested in working a bit that summer.  One of the partners hired me to do some document review.  To this day, when people see that I worked at that firm and then look at the rest of my resume, they sometimes ask how I managed to get that job. I reply with a sly smile, "I knew someone who worked in the mailroom."  They don't believe me, but that's okay. 
Petey's apartment was a rocking place, located one block from the beach.  He and his friend John originally rented the two bedroom apartment, but when it got to be too expensive, they took in two more roommates to help share the rent. Shortly thereafter, they took in another renter, who was to sleep on the couch - he was an athlete in town to watch several of his friends compete in the Olympics.  Which meant that my "official" bed was now a mattress under the stairwell.  But that was okay.
Because it was a summer jam-packed with work and studying and countless hours of awesomeness. I remember the night before July 4 when we stayed up late, marinating ribs for the next day's BBQ, playing poker and drinking beer.  And I'm pretty sure I won at poker that night! I also remember making chili for a chili contest and hours spent playing on the beach.  Not to mention all the good times hanging out in the apartment, watching TV, talking politics and being part of a really vibrant life.  I was a bit worried that I wouldn't pass the bar exam, what with all this living going on. But, I passed the exam, and that turned out okay, too.
Because each week day morning, Petey and I would climb into his little white pickup truck and drive to the office.  I'd do some work, have lunch, often take a nap (I didn't bill those hours), do a bit more work, and then Petey would drive me across town to my bar review class.  He'd come back and pick me up three hours later.  Four nights a week, he'd add another two hour's worth of driving to his busy day just to help out his little sister.  Because that's the kind of guy my big brother Petey is . . . salt-of-the-earth, kind, helpful and giving. 
My big brother was born on November 13, 1959.  If you look on the calendar, you'll see he was born on Friday the 13th, which is supposed to be unlucky.  For all of us who know Pete, we know the opposite is true.  We are very lucky to have him in our lives. His birthday is next Sunday, and I dedicate this Storytelling Sunday to him.  Happy Birthday Petey! Thanks for everything. 
****************************************************************************
Today I am grateful for yoga, especially the new class added at my local exercise studio.

A Halloween Story - Storytelling Sunday

It's October, and in America that means it's time for Halloween. I searched my brain for an appropriate tale to share this Storytelling Sunday. I considered a story from my childhood about running around our neighborhood collecting candy in a pillow case because a paper bag just could not hold all that candy (and the one family that gave out full size candy bars). Or a story from my adulthood about almost winning a costume contest at a Halloween Party when Paul and I dressed as Frankenstein and The Bride of Frankenstein (realizing too late that we would have been a shoe-in for first place if I had been the monster and he had been the Bride).  I considered a poignant story about watching the last elementary school costume parade of my children's lives or a funny story about trick-or-treating with out kids (which we do as kindof a rolling party, drinking wine and beer and visiting with friends along the way) and the year we stumbled upon an "eyeball" themed party. 
Finally, I have settled upon a story about a Haunted House and the year Henry got his rodents mixed-up. The after-school program at the elementary school puts together a Haunted House each year. The students paint their faces as ghosts or zombies and build scenes of cemeteries and witch houses before dimming the lights and leading children through a variety of eerie vignettes. When Henry was in fourth grade (about 9 years old), I asked him what role he was going to play in the Haunted House, and he replied matter-of-factly "a hamster."  I was confused and pressed him, asking for more details about what he would be doing, and he said "some zombies will be eating me." I was still confused, but he grew frustrated with my questions, and continued to insist that he was going to be a hamster. 
On Halloween, I went to the Haunted House, waited in line, made my 25 cent donation, and followed the teacher through the door into the interior of the classroom, illuminated now by green strobe lights and eerie fluorescent blacklights. Our tour guide was dressed as a witch. She spoke in hushed tones and carried a flashlight, which she used to illuminate her face from just below her chin for maximum spooky effect.  As we walked through the various scenes, with fog from dry ice blowing about us, I kept looking for my son, the hamster.  We finally arrived at the last scene and there was Henry, laying on a table, has face painted green and a bowl with spaghetti arranged on his torso to look as if his belly had been opened and his intestines had poured out of his body.  He was surrounded by "zombies" feasting on his internal organs and a fellow student dressed in a lab coat and fright wig.  I listened as the teacher said, "And here is our final scene.  It's the laboratory of the Mad Scientist.  I guess he is done experimenting with that unfortunate human guinea pig."

Strong at Fifty (Storytelling Sunday)

Here's the story behind my page for August in my 2011 Intentions Journal. It's part of Sian's Storytelling Sunday. Click on this link to read more stories.
**************************************************************************
We left Stewart Island early for our 11 mile kayak paddle back to Friday Harbor and civilization. We had spent the last three days camping and exploring the Island, one of many in the San Juan Islands, off the coast of Washington state. While we hadn't seen any orca whales, we did see bald eagles and seals. More importantly, we had spent three days together as a family - playing hearts, shooting baskets, exploring tidepools, hiking trails , talking and laughing - without distractions from electronics and teenage friends.
The weather on our trip had been wonderful, but the guide was worried that the wind was coming up and the seas might turn. By leaving early, we hoped to paddle with the current and avoid having to paddle into a brisk afternoon wind.  And, for the most part, we succeeded.  But the last 45 minutes of the trip were rough.  We had already been on the water for five hours. Henry, my kayak partner in the front of the boat, was pretty beat. Although he can run forever and his thighs are starting to resemble tree trunks (the result of hours of playing soccer), his chest, arms and upper body (the things that would be useful for paddling) are still thin and boyish.  So, I knew that most of the work of those last 45 minutes - paddling against the current and into the wind - would fall onto my shoulders. 
Or, actually, fall onto my "core" - those wonderful muscles in the center of your body which define your abdomen.  Paddling a kayak, you see, is not really about how strong your arms are (although it certainly helps to have strong biceps, triceps and forearms). To paddle a kayak effectively, you twist ever so gently and use your core muscles to propel yourself. As we were gazing across the last long expanse of open water and Henry was wondering whether we would ever make it to our take-out point, I told him not to worry. Because I knew I could do it. All those hours I had spent at the gym this year, all those planks and push ups, all those miles run had made me not just "fabulous at 50" but also "strong at 50."  So, I dug in.  I admit it was tough. I sweated. I grunted. I made those little "I.G.N.'s " (Involuntary Girl Noises). But I dug deep and paddled us home. I treated it like a work out . . . telling myself that this is the part of the work out (the last part, the hard part) which really builds muscle, burns fat and reshapes your body. And it's true.
When we at last reached the beach and dragged our kayak out of the water, I lay on the grass in the sunshine. And I laughed. 

"Riding the Dog": a travel story (Storytelling Sunday)

In the United States, the oldest and most traditional long distance bus service is run by a company called "Greyhound." Taking a long bus trip is colloquially known as "riding the dog." As children, my parents drug us kicking and screaming gave us the opportunity to visit Houston, Texas each summer. Most of the time, we flew on an airplane, but one year my parents decided to put the four oldest children on the bus to Texas. I guess they felt that we were old enough to handle the trip on our own and that it was just getting too damn expensive to fly eight people roundtrip from Los Angeles to Houston. They flew with my two youngest siblings, while my older sister, two brothers (one older, one younger) and I rode the dog. 
I remember the trip well. It's a long way from southern California to west Texas. . . approximately 1400 miles! I remember breathing a sigh of relief 15 hours into the trip when we finally crossed the border into Texas. My excitement was quickly dashed when I realized that, given the size of Texas, we were still only half way to our destination! My parents had told us to only get off the bus when we needed to go to the bathroom, and generally speaking, we followed their directive.  We did disembark for one unscheduled stop when the bus driver instructed everyone to get off the bus at a diner which served his favorite pie, but we were extra careful not to get left behind. Other than that, we sat, slept and ate on the bus. After a day and a half, we rolled into Houston, feeling tired and grimy.
Now, my oldest brother was the apple of my parents' eye. As the first born boy, my mother spoiled him terribly. He also had mild asthma, which was a bit of a concern to her.  Well, not liking having to spend all that time on the bus, he disembarked and immediately let out some weak sounding coughs. He complained loudly about how the air conditioning on the bus had aggravated his asthma.  Sounding like Mimi at the end of La Boheme, he eventually convinced my parents that he couldn't possibly make the long bus journey home. It was decided that he and my father would switch places. My brother would fly home in style, and my dad would ride the dog with the three hearty kids.
Although we had made the trip to Texas a nonstop affair, after a day on the bus, my father decided we should disembark in El Paso and spend the night in a hotel. My father was a prolific story teller, and he regaled us with stories of the hotel we stayed in, the restaurant in which we ate and his various exploits in El Paso. He also decided that we should walk across the border into Juarez, Mexico. He agreed to buy each of us one souvenir of our choosing.  I remember looking at all the stalls and feeling a bit of panic. I didn't want to make the wrong decision.  I feared settling on one thing, only to find something I liked even better later in the day. My dad got a little impatient with my indecision, and I remember getting a little teary when he said that if I didn't decide soon, I would leave empty handed. Finally, I found it . . . the perfect souvenir. A wooden treasure chest, in which I could keep all the treasures of my youth. I took it home and, through the years, it housed all kinds of secret and sentimental curios.
We still occasionally tease my brother about how he weaseled out of the bus trip home. . . we look at him, give a weak cough and say "oh, my asthma is acting up." I still have the treasure chest my father bought me in Juarez. That's it, in the photograph at the top of today's post. There's nothing inside it right now; yet it contains the most important thing of all. It's full of the memories of that trip . . . of the dark nights in the bus, watching the mile posts go by; of the taste of that wonderful apple pie from the diner off the interstate; of my father's voice telling stories; and the vision of him walking the streets of El Paso and Juarez. The chest is empty of physical items, but it contains an even bigger treasure - the memories 0f riding the dog with my father.
***************************************************************************
I hope you enjoyed this travel story, brought to you as part of Sian's Storytelling Sunday. For other stories, check out this link.  Speaking of travel, I'm on vacation again. This week, the family is visiting Seattle, Washington and kayaking in the San Juan Islands. I've left some auto-posts for my blog but I may have trouble visiting your blogs and commenting until I return.

Storytelling Sunday: 4th of July Edition

What 4th of July story should I offer up for Sian's Storytelling Sunday?  Should it be a story from my youth, of how I scrimped and saved my coins to go to the fireworks stand? A story of me, padding up to the plywood window on my summer calloused and dirty bare feet to buy "pandas" and "snakes" and "Piccolo Pete's"? And how I then hid these away so my brothers would not steal them, only to realize they could not be found on the 4th and the howling and gnashing of teeth that ensued among cries of "Thief!" and "Not Fair!" (never to mention the sheepish feeling of finding them in the bottom of my closet later that fall).
Or should it be a story circa 1984 when I am studying for the Bar Exam, living with my brother in an apartment in Manhattan Beach, and all the fun we had staying up late into the night on the Third  of July because we did not have to go to work the next day! We marinated ribs for the BBQ and prepared ingredients for award winning chili and played low-stakes poker. . . and I won.

No, I think the story I want to share is from the Summer of 1983.  Paul and I were living in Washington, D.C., our nation's capitol. We went down to the mall to participate in the festivities (the mall is the central area, with the Washington Monument in the middle, flanked by the Capitol, the White House, and the Lincoln Memorial). The symphony played, and there were thousands of people there. Late in the evening, we needed to use the restroom. There were long lines at the portable toilets. Not feeling like we were able to wait, we noticed a large bush at the end of the row of port-a-potties. We ducked behind the bush to relieve ourselves, and when we came out, we noticed that a line had formed behind us.  People were queuing up to use the bush as a bathroom!
Wishing you have a wonderful holiday weekend. Enjoy the fireworks and the good times with friends and families. May you savor and remember these times. And may you always find a bathroom when you need one!
To read more stories today or to join in, head on over to this link.

Storytelling Sunday: My Mom's Best Friend

It's time again for Storytelling Sunday, sponsored by Sian of From High on the Sky. This month, I'm sharing a story from my Houston Memories Series. I based this particular card on this sketch at Die Cut Dreams., which I found with a little help from Jacky.   Now on to the story. . . .
During the summer that my sister and I spent in Houston, Texas, we lived with my Aunt Vera and Uncle Nano, but we often spent time or went on adventures with other aunts, uncles, cousins or family friends.  I remember one particular weekend we went to Galveston,  a beach town about an hour outside of town, with one of my mother's best friends.  My memory is a little hazy. It may have been "Crazy Janie," but I'm pretty sure we went with Ana Laura and her daughter. I remember playing in the sand and catching crabs on a pier.  At the end of the day, three sandy, sunburned girls dozed in the backseat of the big sedan.  There was no air conditioner, but we rolled down all the windows.  A warm, gentle breeze wafting in the windows made for perfect napping weather. 
Before I knew it, the car stopped at an old-fashioned car wash.  We asked Ana Laura if she was planning to wash the car, and she said "No. We're giving y'all a bath. We've got a funeral to go to, and we need to get you cleaned up."  This wasn't the sort of thing we did at home, but out we climbed into the spray of the car wash. Bashfully, we peeled off our suits, washed away all the sand, toweled off and climbed into clean, dry clothes.  
Wide awake now, we began to talk about the funeral. None of us had ever been to one before, and we were full of questions. Ana Laura told us that, it was actually a "rosary, not a funeral." We would pay our respects, say our prayers, and be on our way.  So far, so good.  But then Ana Laura stopped us all in our tracks when she told us that, "Yes, of course, there will be a casket, and we would be able to see the dead body." 
We drove along in silence for a while until the nervous giggles started. "What if he's not really dead?" we asked. "What if he sits up during the service?"   Before long, we had convinced ourselves that it was highly likely that the deceased would sit up and begin talking in the middle of the rosary. And we found the idea hilarious. We created a hundred scenarios of what he might say and how the parishioners would react. We made funny faces and talked in funny voices.  We laughed until tears were rolling down our face and our sides ached.
Of course, the moment we walked into the church, we were quiet and composed.  It was sober and scary, and we knew enough to be respectful.  We sat there. Quietly. And politely.
Until Ana's daughter whispered, "Look, he's starting to sit up." And then the giggles started again.  We did our best to contain ourself, but we just couldn't. And when I looked up, Ana was laughing too.
She gave up on the rosary and took us to get ice cream.  Three sunburned girls in sun dresses, eating ice cream, with one very patient mom smiling and shaking her head. And, in that moment, it was obvious to me why my mom had chosen Ana Laura to be her best friend.

Storytelling Sunday: The Helms Bread Man

Before sharing my story for Sian's Storytelling Sunday (discussed here), a few words about the design inspiration for my art journal page (you can click on it to enlarge it and see the details).  The yellow and grey color scheme was inspired by U.S. First Lady Michelle Obama's Easter dress, discussed in this blog post.  And the houses were inspired by Dina Wakley's post here.  The journaling reads "A man walked into their village and they could never guess the secrets he held."  Now, on to the story.
I've written before about the neighborhood in which I grew up. . . a group of houses built in early 1960's Southern California to hold the families of World War II veterans employed in the aerospace and related industries.  House after house filled with kids, ranging in ages from newborns to 21-year olds.  During the summer, we all hung out together. . . listening to music, going to the beach, playing football and baseball during the day and hide-and-go-seek after dark.  
Often the highlight of our summer days was the appearance of the Helms bread man.  A surly man in a hurry, he drove a truck through the neighborhood selling fresh bread, eggs and milk to the households. Families could run a monthly tab and count on him to deliver life's basic necessities. This picture is from a great page about The Helms Bakery and the Helmsman, though our bread man was not as kind as the one described in the article. 

The Helmsman had donuts and candy.  When we had spare change, we would stop him and survey his goods. He hated that.  He would scowl and rush us to make a decision, growling that he was running late.  One summer, one of our neighbors got a ping pong table and we spent hours playing our new game.  I remember one afternoon that summer when we heard the Helms Man going by, and we ran outside, ping pong paddles in hand to buy candy.  The Bread Man noticed our paddles and stopped in his tracks. He asked if we had a ping pong table, and when we said yes. He said, "Let me show you something."  With a bit of trepidation, we led him to the garage where he barked at us to go to the other side of the table. 
And then he performed magic with the paddle and ball.  He could make the ball spin and dance.  Apparently, he had been a world class ping pong player in his earlier days and never lost a taste for the sport. He was unstoppable as a ping pong player.  He rolled up his sleeves and he played for what seemed like hours, a smile which we had never before witnessed, gracing his face. We were dumb founded.  And the next day, he was back to his surly self.  I think he did stop and play once or twice more that summer, and it was always a shock to see the complete transformation he underwent when he came out from behind the truck and stood behind the net with a paddle in hand.
I recalled this story because DS Henry has a birthday on Monday and this year he asked for a ping pong table.  I can't wait to show him what I learned from the Bread Man.

Storytelling Sunday: Mothering

I grew up with six brothers and sisters in a close-knit family. We were raised in a sun-drenched neighborhood, built on land which used to sprout orange groves, but, which by the early 1960's, instead nurtured families whose fathers worked in aerospace and other Southern California "baby boom" industries. Unlike most of the other families in the neighborhood, my mother had to work to help support the family.  She worked as a hospital nurse for most of my childhood, working either the 7am-3pm, 3pm-11pm or 11pm-7am shifts.  Later, she would teach women to become licensed vocational nurses and work with children as a school Head Start Nurse, but those are stories from another time. These were the early days.
Nurses in those days had a certain look, very far removed from the  nurses we see today.  I remember watching my mother get dressed for work - putting on her starched white dress, adjusting her white stockings, lacing up her neatly polished white shoes and finally pinning her cap onto her gorgeous raven black hair.  She was busy, and I missed her a a lot. Only now as a working mother struggling to raise two children ("I occasionally think . . .  six!") can I begin to understand her life.  Which makes me appreciate the little moments all that much more.
I remember one very hot day.  I must have been in second grade.  My stomach hurt, and I was miserable.  I went to the office, and they called my mom at work to come get me.  She took me home, laid me in her bed (their room was the only one with air conditioning), gave me Popsicles and sat with me for hours.  I remember the crisp, coolness of the sheets and the way her knees looked, covered in white stockings, peeking out from under her skirt as she sat their next to me.  I remember feeling happy and cared for and loved.
What makes a good mother?  Is it the big things like raising six children to become happy, healthy adults?  Or the hard work of bringing home a pay check to support them? I think it's all of that, but I also think it's in the small moments of bandaging a knee or watching a school play.  It's those small moments of love and care. . . those small moments of mothering.
*********************************************************************
This post is offered as part of Storytelling Sunday, hosted by Sian at her blog, From High in the Sky .  For more entries, click on this link.

My first car (Story telling Sunday)

A true story inspired by one of Sian's Random Five Facts and posted to her story telling Sunday:

My first car was a 1963 Chevrolet Valiant Stationwagon. It looked a lot like the car in the advertisement above (still limping along in the computer department, so this is the best I could do). It was already fifteen years old when it came into my possession and not in the best repair.  Every morning, I filled it up with water (which leaked overnight) and checked the oil (which had to be replenished every week or so).  The biggest problem (probably related to these first two) is that it would overheat if I tried to drive more than a mile without giving it a chance to cool off.  No worries, though, as my high school was just under a mile from my house.  I was able to drive it to and fro.  And, at lunch, I knew every lunch hotspot within a mile radius of my high school. It served me well for my junior and senior years. When I went away to college, I left it with my parents.  None of my siblings would deign to drive it. It sat unattended in front of their house for years. And then one day it disappeared. Against all good sense, someone had stolen it!  A few months later, it was recovered.  The police told my parents it had been used in a robbery but had broken down during the get-away.  Apparently, the crooks lived more than a mile from the store they had held up. . .

When I Grow Up . . . (a story)

This is a "story book" I wrote for a Shimelle class called "When I Grow Up." I plan to use Sian's story telling Sundays as a way to finish up the art journal I'm making for the class. 

Once upon a time, there was a little girl.  When she grew up, she wanted to be a veterinarian because she had 52 cats and loved them all.  When she was a little bigger, she wanted to be a spy, so she could be just like Harriet.
When she was eight, she discovered that she wanted to be a photographer because she mailed away cereal box tops to get her first camera.
When she went to high school, she decided to become an architect because she liked to draw and plan.  She also thought about being a choreographer because she loved ballet but knew she really wasn't a very good dancer. When she grew up, she wanted to be tall and pretty, so she could have a boyfriend.
When she was in college, she wanted to be a photojournalist because she had gone to San Francisco to buy her first SLR camera and learned to develop black and white film.
In college, she decided to become a lawyer when she grew up because everyone said she would.

When she was in college, she thought about being a rock 'n' roll drummer and maybe an artist . . . just because.
After law school, she wanted to be an arbitrator, professor or author when she grew up because practicing law was kind of boring.
The older she got, the more she realized that, when she grew up, she really, really, really wanted to be a mom, so she could share her life and her love with her children.
When she got older, she no longer wanted to drum, but she really wanted to make art . . . because she realized she needed to.
And when she grew up, she was loved forever - just for being who she was - by a tall, dark, handsome man;
she became mom to the two most beautiful children in the world;
she taught and wrote about the law with passion; and
she took photographs and happily traveled the road to becoming an artist.
The End