Air Raids

I spent the first 8 years of my educational career in Catholic school. And the stories everyone tells are true. The nuns were an interesting lot, as were some of the "lay" teachers. I actually had a teacher in 5th grade that would stand at the front of the classroom and scream at the top of her lungs "YOU IMPUDENT B**BS!!" That was her way of correction and discipline. I'll cut her a little slack, though. There were 66 of us kids in the class and she was by herself. All day. Everyday. I think "crazy" was a part of the job description.

I'm sure some of the customs in the school I attended were very similar to any other school. Order. Keeping your desk neat. Not talking when the teacher was talking. Raising your hand. When the "raising your hand" thing became problematic, though, was when you were either: 1. sick to your stomach, or 2. had to go to the bathroom. In the case of #1, usually by the time a kid raised his or her hand, it was too late. Those are stories for another time. And in the case of #2, more often than not, the answer to a bathroom request was a resounding "no." Which made for several messes in the classroom on a regular basis. I always felt really sorry for the custodian who had to carry those bags of stuff to clean up after children. I was fascinated by how it worked, and thought it was some secret formula that only Catholics had, but I still didn't want to USE it.

We did a couple of things in Catholic school that weren't done in public school. Anytime we heard an emergency vehicle, we prayed for the person in the ambulance. It didn't really matter if it was a police car or a fire truck, we were just told to pray for the person in the ambulance. We didn't stop what we were doing to pray, it was just assumed that we would when the siren went by. Our school was on a fairly busy boulevard, so it happened quite often.

We were also taught a special greeting to be used when another teacher, nun or priest entered the classroom. Especially the principal of the school. When the dignitary entered, we were to stand immediately beside our desks and say with confidence "Praise be Jesus Christ, good morning/afternoon Sister Theogenia (or Bernardia, or whomever the principal happened to be at the time.) I'll admit to being one of the kids that changed the entire meaning of the phrase with my voice inflection, though. Depending on which word you emphasized, it became very disrespectful to the principal and to the Lord. I think my brother, Ming, started that trend.

In our school, there were never snow days, but there WERE heat days. With no air conditioning, when the temps got over about 90*, we closed the doors and went home. It usually didn't get hot enough until a little later in the day, so we only got about one of those a year, sadly. And as I walked home in that heat, I really pondered the wisdom of closing the school. Wouldn't it have been better to succumb to heat stroke where we could be tended to instead of along some sidewalk where we would dehydrate and turn to jerky before anyone found us?

But other than someone losing their lunch, or some other kind of disciplinary indiscretion, the most exciting time in school came when the air raid sirens went off. At 10:00 on the last Friday of each month, they wound up. Some days I remembered, and eagerly anticipated them. Anything to break up the monotony. But on other days, they completely took me by surprise and scared the junk out of me. At the sound of the sirens, we were taught to climb under our desks with our head on our knees and hands covering our necks. It was called "duck and cover" and we did it more often during the Cuban missile crisis. I'm not too sure what good that would have done if radiation was involved, but it was the position to be assumed, and so we assumed it, and never questioned.

It always took some time for the teacher to regain control and continue teaching after one of the drills. Understandably, with such large classes. And when a dignitary graced us with their presence while she was trying to restore order, even loud name calling couldn't accomplish the task.

Fear not, for I am with thee;

Be not dismayed, for I am thy God:

I will strengthen thee;

Yea, I will help thee;

Yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of 

My righteousness.

Isaiah 41:10

Duck and Cover

Nicknames

My mom loved unusual names.  I think it was because she wanted exceptional children. She probably knew that we weren't going to be anything extraordinary, but at least our names could be. Mom and dad didn't really agree on what to name the children. Older brother was named after my dad, and he was okay with that, but my name, and my little brothers name kind of came out of left field. Mom loved them because they were so unique.  

In his quiet way dad protested, especially with my name. He called me by my middle name for quite a while. He might not have been able to verbalize it at the time, but I think he knew that my name would be a challenge. I was an unattractive child, with buck teeth, glasses and a speech impediment. Needless to say, I've never loved being the center of attention, and my name is a MOUTH FULL. If I had been thinking, I would have changed it when I turned 18. 

When asked for my name, I usually give "Martha Stewart." It worked well for me when I used it as a laser tag identifier and beat a bunch of teenagers. I must have been channeling my inner felon. But when I called and ordered pizza and gave that name, the kid taking my order actually hung up on me. Uh....... hello?

Anyways, dad was the master of nicknames. His family was always twisting names around, and it continues as the family grows. His sister was named "Sarah", but everyone knew her as "Sally." Dad was always called "Norky", and my mom hated it. He called us kids by nicknames as well. Some were just terms of endearment and it was always kind of a treat to hear him use the same names for our kids that he used with us. 

One of the funniest nicknames my dad ever used was for his boss. Dad was a dental lab tech for an orthodontist named Dr. English. He was a short guy with big hairy arms and sausage like fingers. Dentists didn't use gloves at that time and I'm sure you can imagine what it was like to be a child sitting in his chair. Dad always referred to Dr. English as "Stubby". Stubby seemed okay with it.

My older brother was 10 years old when little brother was born. He was so excited to have a brother instead of another sister. It didn't really matter that they were separated by so many years. Older brother picked up one of his nicknames because little brother couldn't say his name. It always came out "Mingy". So the rest of us began using it as well. "Mingy" became "Ming", which became "Emperor Ming" as he got older.

My little brother was tagged by our cousin, Chris. We vacationed in Mammoth every summer and one year, Chris came with us. Little brother was about 2-ish and loved to run around without his diaper. It was quite a funny sight  and the nickname "Buns" was the obvious choice. We all spell it differently. Mings' spelling of choice is "Bunz", whereas mine is "Bunns". I think Buns himself prefers to ignore the fact that he was even given such a nickname.

We used to just shorten his given name, but it always sounded like we were saying "Grunny". I think little brother should be thankful for "Bunns."

Be kindly affectioned one to another 

with brotherly love;

In honor, preferring one another;

Romans 12:10

Driving the Gremlin

When I was in high school, driver training was required. It consisted of one semester of classes, and was taken everyday. The first part of the semester would find us in a classroom setting with driving simulators which had a steering wheel, and other simple dashboard accouterments, an accelerator, and a brake pedal. They were just a series of box like things all facing a pull down screen on which our "driving" was displayed. There wasn't any connection between what we were doing and the movie playing on the screen, but it was intended to be good practice and was the best technology the 60's and 70's had to offer.

The coaching staff were the driver's ed. teachers. They sat in the back of the classroom and napped while we "drove" the simulators, and when the second part of the semester rolled around they actually had to take us out in real cars, on real streets, and try to survive our real driving. This must have been their punishment for majoring in Phys. ed. 

We went out 4 at a time with a coach in the car, and all he had was a brake pedal on his side of the front seat. I'll never forget Coach Brown screaming at one of the boys to "Go ahead and drive into the intersection against the light!! I'd LOVE to die today!!" before he slammed on the brake and gave us all whiplash.

In drivers ed. we watched a movie or two, intended to scare us into driving responsibly. They always contained just the right amount of screeching and crashing sounds, and blood, guts, and flashing lights. They closed with a stern warning from law enforcement professionals on the dangers of distracted  driving. Who was to know that one day we would be cruising along with movies playing, satellite sound systems blaring , GPS navigation systems nagging us to turn so they don't have to "recalculate", in cars that are full of cameras, lights, bells, and sensors that would drag us back into our respective lanes if we wandered too far, all while talking on the phone?!  And now, drivers ed. is no longer required. ............Seriously?

 My dad always bought AMC cars. I think it was because they were more affordable, so we grew up in Ramblers. And when he upgraded to a Gremlin, I thought that was pretty cool. I remember the brakes always being sketchy in the Gremlin. So dad taught me how to pump them to keep them working. 

When I turned 15, my dad decided to get a jump on the system and take me out to give me a little experience behind the wheel. It was an era when seat belts cost extra, and air bags hadn't been invented yet, there was no such thing as a cell phone if you had a problem, and we lived in Southern California. Great.

We took a drive up to the back side of Irvine Park, where the roads were hilly, narrow, and winding. He pulled over, got out and made me get behind the wheel, explained that if I kept the center seam of the hood lined up with the right edge of the road, I "should" be ok, sat back and said "go." I wanted to throw up. I wasn't ever a scared-y cat, but that  particular road was not the one I wanted to be surprised with my first driving lesson on. 

But I put it in gear, floored it, and took off. Dad grabbed the dash, and strongly suggested I slow down some. He wasn't a yeller, and managed to contain his panic while I figured out the art of driving while madly concentrating on keeping the seam lined up with the pavements edge. His hair was already white by that time, so he survived the lesson looking exactly like he did before it began. 

I actually passed my driving test on my first attempt, and was proficient even on the freeways by the time I turned 16. I ended up being the primary pick up and delivery driver for my dads business, so spent a lot of time driving the Gremlin. Pumping the brakes. And praying it would stop. 

....we let her drive.

...and so were driven.

....all hope that we should be saved was then taken away. 

Acts 27:15-20

Razor Burn

Remember those old razors  that required you to unscrew the bottom of the handle and insert that thin, deadly piece of metal in it? It was with fear and trepidation that men took those things to their faces, and I'm fairly certain that they ALWAYS came away hacked up in one manner or another. What is so interesting is that they were called "Safety Razors". Seriously? Though I suppose that after a long bare straight razor, these  DID look safer!

When these razors were popular, houses like the one I grew up in, were built with a magical slot in the medicine cabinets in which to drop the blades. I can remember dropping in anything that would fit through those slots and being amazed at it's magical disappearance. Bobby pins, pennys', (though not too often because you could buy stuff with them then!) slips of paper, potato chips, pieces and parts from my brothers toys...... Poof! They were gone!

Every once in a while I'll catch a home improvement program on TV and when the walls of these mid century homes are opened up, I always laugh at all the detritus that pours from the walls behind the old medicine cabinets. I guess that stuff really didn't disappear. It was just being stored away for an archaeological dig. 

It was with one of those old safety razors that I learned to shave. My dad is the one who taught me. He got me all set up with a mug and shaving soap and a badger hair brush. Barbasol had already been available for quite some time, but dad liked the soap and brushes, so that's how he taught me. I think it was the ceremony of getting the water just right, and then wetting the brush, rubbing it over the soap in the bottom of the shaving mug and then applying it to your face......... And it smelled really good too. Clean and fresh. 

He gave me a Fire-King Jadeite coffee mug to use. And the whole process was pretty cool........... until I had to actually take that razor to my legs. Or worse yet, my arm pits. I was 12, and it was time, but my skin wasn't ready for such abuse. And I didn't realize that you didn't necessarily know you had cut yourself until the blood started gushing down the drain. Those things took forEVER to heal. My mother was pretty stingy with band aids too, so I usually walked around with little pieces of toilet paper stuck to my legs with a styptic pencil. 

It was also through this process that I became intimately acquainted with razor burn. So, my dad introduced me to shaving powder. I made quite a picture walking around with my arms held out away from my body because my pits were so burned that I couldn't put them down, sporting a layer of shaving powder that rained down on whatever I was wearing, with torn up pieces of toilet paper randomly glued to my legs. I'm so sorry you missed it. 

When I learned that the women didn't shave in Europe, I kinda' wished I had been born in France. 

...as they observe your chaste and respectful behavior. 

Your adornment must not be merely external-braiding the hair and wearing gold jewelry 

or putting on dresses; 

but let it be the hidden person of the heart, 

with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, 

which is precious in the sight of God. 

1 Peter 3:2-4

Classic Shaving

A Rainy Day 10 on 10

The weather makes this a great day for indoor projects!

Too wet to work outside today.......

........ but you'd be welcome anyway!

I missed National Doughnut Day, so this was  breakfast!

Ummmmmm, I "borrowed" my husbands work shirt

 This violet has been knocked to the floor by the littles, and had furniture dropped on it. 

It's a little bare in spots where leaves are broken, but 

"takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'!!"

Today, this table gets a face lift!

Hmmm, if I mixed these colors.................

Well, well. The sun DID come out!!

This guy is fixin' to get a clematis vine neck tie......... 

in a few weeks when it grows up the bed springs!

A quiet place

Therefore, be patient, brethren, 

until the coming of the Lord. 

The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, 

until it gets the early and the late rains. 

James 5:7

Joining "A Bit of Sunshine's" 10 on 10 project

My Favorite Hairbrush

When I was 6 years old, my mom was diagnosed with an ovarian cyst. At the time, that meant absolutely nothing to me, except it seemed to involve a lot of worry. I've ram dumped a good bit of my childhood, and my mother says it's for the best. But that ovarian cyst has become a part of family legend. When it began to kick, my life changed forever.

That's how I found out that I would no longer be the youngest child in our family. Mom wasn't misdiagnosed, but there was a baby inhabiting her personal space as well as the cyst. I don't remember much about her pregnancy, but I do remember watching her and my dad drive off to the hospital. She was wearing a bright orange terry cloth bathrobe. Snapshots from childhood are odd things.

A few days later, my folks came home bearing a little baby with a wrinkled up forehead and introduced him as my new brother. Of course, the older brother, Ming, was ecstatic! I didn't really care that it made me the only girl between the boys, and I thought having a baby around would be pretty cool. And it was. Even when he did the typical baby things like messing all over everyone with the typical baby emissions.

He was a pretty cool little kid. Before we knew it, he was as wide as he was tall, with a triple E shoe width and a Brylcreem comb over. Even though my brothers were 10 years apart, they were always pretty tight. Ming didn't even get upset when little brother kneed him in the eye for stealing his favorite blankie. Though Ming didn't take it quite so well when little brother broke all the wheels off his model cars.

Little bro came to be affectionately called "Bunns." Or "Buns" or "Bunz" depending on who was writing it. He referred to himself as "BNPN". I remember him coming home from kindergarten one day insisting that was his name and that was how it was written. He was quite adamant about it. He has since learned the proper spelling for his name, but it's quite common to get things from him signed "BNPN" even to this day.

I spent a fair amount of time with my little brother. We played outside a good bit, and often walked together to the market around the corner. My mom started working in a card shop near the market when we were kids, and  often after school we would walk over there just to check in.

By the time little bro had grown into his pre-teen years, he had begun to develop a pretty wicked wit. And it was that wit that spelled the end of one of my most prized possessions. One day while walking to the market around the corner, he was doing a little good natured teasing. And because I had no comeback, I did the next logical thing and smacked him on the shoulder with my favorite hairbrush.

I can't tell you why I was even carrying it. My hair was long and straight so I didn't spend much time on it in those days, and I never carried a brush with me. But this particular day I had it in my hand and it was the only weapon with which to retaliate. And so as he laughed, I smacked his shoulder, and as if it happened in slow motion, my favorite brush broke in two and the business end crashed to the sidewalk. The air rushed from my lungs as if pulled out by a vacuum. I was crushed. It was the coolest brush ever, and it's demise only resulted in making Bunns laugh harder. Little creep.

Life moved on. The hairbrush ended up in the trash. Little brother was already taller than me when "he broke my brush", and soars to even greater heights now. His wit has mellowed and  I've worked hard at moving past this enormous loss. It was blue, you know? The hairbrush. It was blue.

Behold,

 how good and how pleasant it is 

for brothers to dwell together 

in unity! 

Ps. 133:1

Sitting in Sambo's

My family was an average middle class white family, and probably the only thing that made it remarkable was the fact that there were so many of us. Our family reunions involved so many branches of the family, and so many people in each branch, that we had to wear color coded t shirts, name tags, or both. Renewing old relationships were always fun during these times together. We usually rented or reserved an entire park for the affair. No one really had a house big enough to host them. 

My dad was a mid westerner, and family was pretty much all that mattered to him. He didn't aspire after riches, he was kind of a jack of all trades, and not afraid to try anything. He earned his degree in the school of hard knocks, and the skills he picked up along the way served him well. He wasn't perfect, but he was a good guy and well liked. 

As I got into my teen years, I spent a lot of time trying to keep up with my dad. He functioned on very little sleep, as he had a full time job that was probably 10 hours a day, and he also did "side work" at the kitchen table long into the night. We didn't live extravagantly, and in fact it amazed me when I found one of his old pay stubs and found that he had been supporting a family of 5 on $160 dollars a week. We didn't have government assistance in those days, and I don't think he would have taken it even if it was available. 

He worked hard and took care of not only us, but often his mom and other family members as well when they needed it. My gramma had been widowed when dad was 14, and he never had anything but sweetness for her. His dad would have been proud to see the man his son became and the way he treated others. 

I often accompanied my dad when he went out for coffee in the evening. He was a total diner guy. You know that kind of place that when you walk in, you immediately smell like grease and cigarette smoke? His favorite place near our house was a Sambo's. They eventually became politically incorrect and were absorbed into another larger company, I think. But it was just a diner kind of place with simple food that served breakfast and bottomless coffee 24 hours a day. 

One night I remember sitting in Sambo's with him and watching a car pull into the parking lot. Dad's back was to the lot, but I could see clearly out the window. And as the car pulled into the spot next to the building, with it's headlights shining in my eyes, he didn't bother to hit the brakes and proceeded to drive into the restaurant. As I finished exclaiming "holy crap", the window shattered and the first booth ended up in the second booth space. 

Thankfully, the car wasn't travelling too fast, so it stopped shortly after it entered the building. I'm sure my eyes were bugging out as I watched it happen. Dad just turned around, watched the dust settle for a  minute or so, gathered that no one was hurt, and then turned back around to face his coffee cup. All he said was "Humph", shook his head and began to laugh. The king of one liners had nothin'. 

I never learned to like coffee. Or cigarettes. And I'm kind of glad, because I'm pretty frugal. Coffee and cigs are just too expensive. Yeah, I know.......... not good for you, second hand smoke, blah blah blah.......... and I agree. But it was the cash that kept me clean. 

That phrase should be on a t-shirt. "It's the cash that keeps me clean" We could wear them to the family re-unions. 

There is nothing better for a man 

than to eat and drink, 

and tell himself that his labor is good. 

This also I have seen that it is from the hand of God. Ecc. 2:24

Sambo's interior

The "Fodge"

I went on a camping trip with my family when I was about 11. It was ................. interesting. Dad was so excited about the trip. He bought the tent, Coleman stove, lantern, sleeping bags for the whole family and the other various and sundry items needed for a successful camping trip. 

We actually caravaned part of the way with my Aunt Polly and Uncle Bill and their 3 kids. Two of their children were boys, and Aunt Polly's weapon of choice to maintain order in the station wagon was a fly swatter. This was in the 60's, so we pretty much went anywhere we wanted in the car, whether it was moving or not, so driving behind them was quite entertaining. Every 3 minutes, Aunt Polly was whacking on one of the boys with the fly swatter as they tried to escape over the seats. Full out, wind up for a home run swing swatting them. It was hilarious to watch through their back window. 

We were in our own car, packed to the gills and hoping for the best from this new adventure. I was sandwiched in the back seat with my two brothers while my parents held down the fort in front. It was a little more peaceful in our car, but not by much. We were of the "stop looking at me!" "that's MY window!" "mom, she's touching me!" "stop breathing my air!" crowd. Regularly, mom would turn around to yell over the verbal jousting. But when she focused her ire on a specific child, the others would hide their laughter behind their hands and point at the one who was getting it. Most of the time, we managed to do it without her seeing us, and compounded the agony of the one being scolded.

The camping trip turned out to be one from H-E-double hockey sticks. We nearly washed away when we camped by a creek in Utah, nearly blew away in the Badlands, and nearly froze no matter where we put down stakes. My brother snored, and one night I layed awake in my sleeping bag completely terrified all night because I was sure there was a bear outside the tent. 

My other brother felt any stress pretty acutely, and he really struggled with his stomach. I couldn't blame him. It was not a fun time. When the tent nearly blew away, and we had absolutely no light on a moonless night, we ended up in a cheap motel. Not sure if that was any better.

Anyway, the camping bug never really left my dad. He decided some type of camper would be a better way to go, so he and his brothers built one. He picked up a truck that was half dodge, and half Ford. I can't remember which half was which, but I do remember the conversations that centered around what it should be called. He ended up deciding that "Fodge" was the way to go. 

The truck was an old one and so the gypsy camper he built for it was the perfect choice. It had a curved roof and a cute door in the back, and my mother was mortified. It was NOT her idea of a camper. But dad was so happy, and I was pretty impressed by what he and his  brothers were able to turn out. I don't think he was ever able to finish the inside before being pressured to "get rid of that thing." He did hold on to the truck for quite awhile, though. 

I wish I had a picture. But maybe your mental images are pretty good. I haven't been camping since the early years of our marriage. And it was a lot of fun. Must be because we left the flyswatter at home.

Each of us is to please his neighbor for his good,

to his edification. Rom. 15:2