Sara Marberry's Blog

Valentine's Day Facts

2012-02-14T17:32:00.000-08:00

A friend sent me this:

Today is Valentine's Day, a big day for greeting card and candy sales, which goes back more than 1,500 years to the Feast of St. Valentine established in the fifth century, though nobody is sure exactly which of the many martyred Valentines it is the feast day of.

The ancient Romans had a fertility festival celebrated at mid-February of every year. The festival was called Lupercalia in honor of Lupa, the wolf who was said to have suckled Romulus and Remus, who went on to found the city of Rome. Lupercalia was a pagan fertility festival celebrated with sacrifices of goats and dogs, with milk and wool and blood.

Young men would cut strips from the skins of the goats then strip naked and run through the city in groups, where young women would line up to be spanked with the switches, believing it would improve their fertility. Lupercalia was still wildly popular long after the Roman Empire was officially Christian, and it's not difficult to see why the Church would have wished to have a different sort of holiday take its place.

Chaucer gets credit for establishing St. Valentine's Day as a romantic occasion, when in the 14th-century he wrote in The Parlement of Foules of a spring landscape "on seynt Valentynes day" where the goddess Nature watched as every kind of bird came before her to choose and seduce their mates.

In the early 15th century, the Duke of Orleans wrote a Valentine's poem to his faraway wife while held captive in the Tower of London. Shakespeare mentioned the sending of Valentines in Ophelia's lament in Hamlet. And hundreds of years later, with the advent of cheaper postal services and mass-produced cards, the tradition of sending lacy love notes on the holiday was enormously popular with the Victorians.

In 2010, more than 1 billion cards were sent worldwide.

Jordan Rae The Lion: A Poem by Ruby Atteberry

2012-02-01T20:07:00.000-08:00

Note to all: Jordan is my niece who graduated from college in May and is teaching in Korea this year. We miss you, Jaybird, but know you are doing good work! This is poem my Grandma Ruby wrote about her after she saw this photo of her dressed up for Halloween.

Halloween time was here
And 17-month old Jordan
Filled us all with fear.

Like a lion she was dressed
To sound like one she did her best
With a pumpkin held in place
And lion whiskers on her face.

And all the pictures that were taken
They did not look like she was faken.

She acted as if all was real
That’s how she wanted us to feel.

Now we will watch as she grows
And what she will do no one knows.

Word Play

2012-01-29T10:40:00.000-08:00

I recently ran across the Washington Post Mensa Invitational, which invites people to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Or, simply supply a new definition for an existing word.

I forwarded the winners to some of my family members and we came up with our own words:

Celebritee: those of fame and fortune (not necessarily great golf skills) who play in the pro-am golf tourneys with the real golfers.

Chubbub: chaos caused by the violent movement and activities of overweight people.

Circumseizeion: the act of arresting someone who cheats in a skins game.

Dotcommotion: the act of moving from working at one Internet company to working at another.

Forecast: the likelihood the group behind you in golf will hit their ball into your group.

Frenzy: the compulsion of some people to accumulate as many "friends" as possible on social networking sites like Facebook.

Newtopian: an ideal president in some people's mind.

Prelific: the anonymous, uninteresting part of something before it later becomes famous and talented.

Reflexion: the sudden impulsive jerk response that happens when one unexpectedly sees oneself in a mirror.

Add your own!

Finishing is What Matters

2012-01-22T19:10:00.000-08:00

Judson is a Down’s kid who swims on my son Wesley’s team at Evanston Township High School. He’s not very fast, but has good form and can dive off the blocks and do a flip turn.

Which is a lot more than most of us could do.

Judson has a swimmer’s body, with a little waist and big shoulders. When he swims in our meets, we all cheer as he methodically does his laps. Sometimes, he’s not sure how many he’s supposed to do.

But Judson always finishes. And when he does, he often pounds his chest or looks up to his mom and gives a fist pump. I would give anything if Wes did that after finishing a race.

“If he didn’t have Down’s, who knows how good a swimmer he’d be,” Judson’s dad said to me recently after we watched him do the chest pounding thing. “He’s a competitor.”

I love that ETHS supports kids like Judson to swim on the team. We had another boy with Down’s several years ago. In all the high school meets I’ve been to over the past four years in the Chicago area, I can’t recall another team having one, let alone two Down’s kids.

Once, our coach put Judson in a relay with Wes and some of the better swimmers at a freshman meet. They won their heat – I suspect probably the only time Judson ever came in first in his high school career.

Watching Judson swim reminds me about what is good about the sport. It’s not about who finishes first – but rather finishing and doing better than you did before. It’s about cheering your teammates on – even if they are the last ones to touch the wall. It’s about being part of team and feeling good about it.

New Year's Eve Memories

2012-01-01T16:55:00.000-08:00

“This is going to be the best oyster stew ever,” Dad declared, stirring the pot and peering at a milk-stained recipe. The men always made oyster stew for New Year’s Eve. It was a favorite of my dad’s and he always wanted everyone to like it just as much as he did.

But only my brother Eric, husband Richard, and brother-in-law Bruce were true fans. We women made our own soup – corn chowder or some other interesting recipe from Cooking Light. As they got older, our kids started trying the soups, but in the early days we were making them something else to eat as well.

“Men, men, men, men,” Eric chanted, as he tasted the soup. Apparently, oysters were supposed to make you more virile. Someone probably thought of that so that more people would eat those nasty little things. Blech.

For the 20 years that my parents lived at Lake Bloomington, our New Year’s Eve family tradition was to stay in, make food, play games, make predictions, and go to bed shortly after midnight. Sometimes, we’d dress up. My nieces especially liked this. While the adults were cooking, they’d do their hair and make-up and put on sparkly dresses and heels.

“Alison, where are your clothes?” my sister-in-law Stacy asked. The kids had finished eating, left the dinner table, and were running around the house. We adults were savoring our meal and making the most of our last night together before Eric and Stacy left to go home to Seattle.

“I’m hot, so I took it off,” a naked 7-year old Alison stated. Stacy rolled her eyes at the rest of us and decided she was too tired to fight it. She had two other little ones – Will and Henry -- who still had their clothes on.

Alison ran off, calling to the others, “Com’on you guys, it’s almost time for Crazy Dancing!”

Crazy Dancing was started by Eric during one of our early holiday breaks together when he cranked up Glenn Miller’s “A Train” on the CD player, pulled me off the couch, and we started hop’in and bop’in around like fools.

After that, every New Year’s Eve, we’d burn playlists, repeating some of our favorite dance tunes and adding new ones to create our own little flash mob in the basement of the lake house. The kids, of course, LOVED Crazy Dancing. We adults used it to show off our coolest dance moves.

“Feed the chickens!” Eric shouted over the pounding music, flicking his hand like he was spreading feed in the barnyard. We imitated him. “Mow the lawn!” He pretended to pull a starter cord. So did we. “Get the groceries!” He pulled imaginary boxes off the shelf. We did, too.

Try as we might, none of us could twist as good as Richard. Or busta moves like Lee. Have Sue’s rhythm. Mom and Dad watched more than they danced. Stacy was often more concerned with getting kids to bed than wanting to mimic Eric’s moves.

But it didn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. Crazy Dancing on New Year’s Eve downstairs in the lake house was what you made of it. And, inevitably, it would end with most of us, on the floor wiggling like crustaceans to “Rock Lobster.”

After that, we’d get the little ones off to bed and retire to the great room. There we would play games, make our yearly predictions (Will Stacy and Eric have another child? Will Mom and Dad buy a second home? Will Bruce give up the department chairmanship?), watch the ball drop, kiss each other at the stroke of midnight, and go to bed.

Favorite Crazy Dancing Tunes
“Down by the Lazy River,” the Osmonds
“Greased Lighting,” John Travolta and the cast of “Grease”
“King Tut,” Steve Martin
“Rock Lobster,” the B52’s
“The Twist,” Chuck Berry
“Car Wash,” Rose Royce
“Hey Ya!” OutKast
“Pump It,” the Black Eyed Peas

Holiday Greetings

2011-12-22T20:47:00.000-08:00

I haven't sent out Christmas cards yet this year. I'm not sure why. Just too much other stuff going on. Plus, I don't have a creative idea in my head for this year.

So what? Everybody pooh poohs the holiday letter anyway. I actually like getting holiday letters -- but only if they aren't too self-serving.

That means no litany of EVERY exotic place you've visited in the past year. And no run down of ALL your ailments (that's you, over 40s crowd). EVERY one of our kids are special. Unless you've made a career CHANGE, we don't want to know about it.

That said, here's my holiday letter:

--We didn't go anywhere exotic. Just Fort Lauderdale to watch Wes swim in the Y Nationals. And to Wisconsin for a week at Coon's with my family.
--We are all healthy. Except for Richard's back, knees, and most other joints. (Okay, our dog is incontinent.)
--Our kid is special. Going to Bucknell University next year to swim (D-1!) and study engineering. Proud of him, we are. Go Bison.
--We are still doing what we were doing last year. Working for The Center for Health Design (Sara) and being a substitute teacher for Evanston Township High School (Richard).

But most of all, we are thankful for friends and family members. God bless each and every one of you -- Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year to everyone!

Love,

Sara, Richard, and Wes (Cody, Vinnie, and Lilly, too)

Christmas at the Lake House

2011-12-13T19:29:00.000-08:00

Editors Note: This is an excerpt from a longer piece I wrote about our family holiday gatherings at my parents' house at Lake Bloomington in Central Illinois.

“Butter! I had that once,” my niece Ali’s squeaky high voice sang out above the chatter at the kids table in the great room. She was about 7 years old at the time and eating crescent dinner rolls with her little brother Will and cousins Jordan, Dana, Wes, and Lee.

“Com’on, Ali, you’ve had butter before,” Jordan said, laughing.

“No, really! My mom doesn’t let us eat that kind of stuff,” Ali replied. “She’s soooo mean.”

Over at the adult table, I looked at my brother Eric, who shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s right, butter is not good for you,” his wife Stacy said from the kitchen, loud enough so all the kids could hear. “So we don’t serve it at our house.”

But there was plenty of butter and fat at the lake house at Christmastime. Mom piled the round glass side table in the great room with all sorts of baked goods and candy – including bowls with at least three different kinds of M&Ms. Try as we might, it was hard for any of us to resist the Candy and Dessert Table – even Stacy.

The rival to the Candy and Dessert Table was the Deep Freezer – a full-size horizontal mega appliance in the garage that housed a treasure trove of frozen dessert foods, from ice cream and sherbet to Dove bars, popsicles, and long-forgotten cakes and cookies. The Deep Freezer was so big that you could only see what was near the top. The rest of the food in there just seemed to accumulate and settle.

We shared the cooking duties during the week, with each married couple taking turns preparing meals and cleaning up. To make sure none of us shirked our duties, Eric created a sign up sheet. The deal was that Mom and Dad always paid for the food, and it was okay to go out or bring food in. Either one of those required planning, since the only restaurant at Lake Bloomington was a roadside bar called the Green Gables.

And, if you chose to cook, you had to drive 30 minutes into town and shop for groceries, or else get someone else who was running an errand to do it for you. So, it required planning.

Despite the hassle of grocery shopping, we cooked often. It sort of became a badge of honor to prepare a tasty meal for the family to enjoy. With 15 different palettes and people of all ages, that was not always easy. Stacy doesn’t eat red meat. Bruce doesn’t like tomatoes. Lee doesn’t like pizza. And so on.

“This is spicy,” Dad said after taking a bite of the curry chicken Richard and I had prepared for dinner. “My eyes are starting to water.”

I gave Richard a look, and said, “Well, you know we like spicy food, but we made it milder than usual.”

“Well, this is hot. I need another glass of milk. And pass the bread. I can take a little heat, but this is really spicy.”

I looked around the table to see if anyone else had any smoke coming out of their ears. It was hard to tell. They’d decided not to weigh in on Dad’s proclamation. But later I noticed that there seemed to be a lot left over.

Religious Tapes, Soap on a Rope, and A Brush

2011-11-26T10:08:00.000-08:00

“I hate the family gift exchange,” Bruce said emphatically. “The gifts are so lame.” When he first married my sister Sue more than 20 years ago, Bruce would put a lot of time into picking out his man gift for my extended family grab bag, wrapping the gifts himself, taking special delight in finding the perfect present.

“Oh come on,” I chided him. “You’re into it.”

“Religious tapes, soap on a rope, and a brush,” he replied.

“What?” I asked.

“Religious tapes, soap on a rope, and a brush,” he repeated. “Those are some of the gifts I’ve gotten over the years. Pretty lame.”

Well, I can’t say that I blame him. Those are pretty lame gifts. I mean, what normal person would pick those gifts out anyway? Come to think of it, one year I got a marriage manual from Cousin Brad – a religious zealot who used the family holiday gatherings to try to recruit people to his church.

Certain individuals never buy anything new -- they simply re-gift things that they’ve received that they didn’t want and have never used. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with this, as long as you haven’t used it.

I actually encouraged my husband Richard to do this when I found the labeler he’d received the year before from Kevin in his workshop in its original packaging. Sue, who finds special pleasure in buying the perfect gift for everyone, no matter who the person and what the occasion, finds this unconscionable.

“Kevin never buys anything new,” she told me after the last gift exchange, wrinkling up her nose. “He has an entire bin of things he just pulls from each year.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that if you haven’t opened or used them?” I asked.

“I suppose it’s okay, but one year when Richard forgot to buy a grab bag gift, Dad gave him the leather tie carrier case I’d given to him as a Christmas present a few years before,” she exclaimed, still sounding hurt. “He’d totally forgotten I’d given it to him!”

Obviously Dad hadn’t needed or wanted a tie carrier case. It was a lame gift that was perfect for the Family Grab Bag.

A grab bag rule is that when you are showing everyone what you got, you can’t say the word, “nice” to describe it, like “I got this nice tie case” or “I received this really nice set of religious tapes.” It is surprising how often people use the word nice to describe gifts they really don’t like. Also, Family Grab Bag veterans also know what types of gifts certain individuals are prone to buy – so you can get pretty good at guessing if you pay attention.

Aunt Jane, who loves Johnny Cash and even served as president of his fan club a while back, always used to bring Johnny Cash-related items. I once got a Mama Cash cookbook from her. Uncle Ken (Aunt Wanda actually) often buys golf balls, golf towels, golf hats, or University of Illinois clothing items. My mom favors dish towels and placemats.

Over the years, we have done some variations on the grab bag theme of man and woman gifts, such as a white elephant (kind of like re-gifting, but can include stuff you’ve used and don’t want anymore, like an 8-track tape player) and movies. Sue and I are pushing for unisex gifts, which she insists would not be hard to buy.

“What kinds of gifts would be unisex?” I asked her.

“Well, how about picture frames,” she answered. “Men need picture frames to put on their desks.” Hummm. Not every man in the family has a desk job.

“Or cooking utensils,” she continued. “Bruce would love to get that.”

“Yeah, but not every man is a cook.” I say to her, thinking of Cousin Rolf or Uncle Ken.

“Okay, okay, so maybe it wouldn’t be that easy, but I think we should try it,” she states. “And we need to reinforce the no food rule. This year, someone gave a box of cookies.”

“A box of cookies,” I repeat, trying to remember.

“Yes, and they were all crumbled,” she says. “Kevin got them. I heard Pat say, ‘Those are homemade cookies – I made them myself.’”

After the grab bag is over, people often do exchange gifts with one another. They also sometimes help the person who got their gift figure out how it works. I observed Cousin Emily's husband Jim helping my dad put on the headlamp he’d received and explain its many uses.

My son Wes participated in the grab bag for the first time a few years ago. He was adamant that he wanted to pick out a “manly” gift to give.

“It doesn’t have to be ‘manly’,” I told him. “Just something you think most of the men in our family would like.”

“No, Mom, it has to be something a real man would like,” he insisted. “Like a pocket knife or an axe.”

I couldn’t convince him otherwise. So, he got a pocket knife, which was chosen by Cousin Gayle’s husband Steve and not stolen by anyone else. Wonder if Wes thinks the dress socks he ended up getting are manly? Maybe he would have rather received the headlamp or cookies? Actually, sometimes, I’d rather have some of the man gifts than a set of dishtowels or a candle.

In the end, I suppose the point of the Family Grab Bag gift exchange is not to get something NICE, that you REALLY like, but to give us something entertaining to do when we’re all together. If, per chance, you get something GOOD, it’s a bonus.

iDad

2011-11-07T19:27:00.000-08:00

I love everything Apple. Like being a Democrat, I think it started with my dad.

His first computer was an Apple II. Introduced in 1977, the 4K (yes, 4K) RAM version cost $1,298. I remember looking at it in his basement office at 1021 Gregory Street. A strange putty gray box with the iconic Apple logo and a floppy disk drive. 1977 was the year I graduated from high school.

I didn't have a computer in college. We still used typewriters. When the Mac was introduced in 1984, Dad bought one. I got one, too. The 128K RAM version cost $2,495.

Dad bought Apple stock and continued to buy Macs as new models were introduced. He missed out on the iPod, but was one of the first people I knew over the age of 70 to buy an iPhone. He had one before I did.

A couple of years ago, we bought Dad an iPad. He already owned a Kindle, but embraced the iPad like a true Apple geek. I think he sold his Apple stock a while ago (damn) and probably now regrets that decision. He doesn't yet have an iPhone 4S. But I bet he'd love Siri. My iDad.

Alcohol, Drugs, and Risque Messing Around

2011-10-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

The horses thundered by me in a blur. I was standing by the fence in the infield at Churchill Downs watching the 107th running of the Kentucky Derby. It was 1981 and I was a senior in college.

It wasn’t my first trip to the Derby. But it was my first time watching it from the infield. When I was 14, I went on a father-daughter trip to spend the day at Churchill Downs with my Dad and his friend Herm and Herm’s daughter Cheri. We sat in the grandstand, wore fancy hats, and actually saw the horses run all the way around the track. I was young, naïve, and not at all worried about being seen with my dad.

“Show us your tits!” the guys yelled as my Chi-O sisters and I approached the entrance to the infield at 10 a.m. seven years later.

“Bite me!” my friend Sherry shouted back. Six of us had taken a road trip in Darlene’s old rusty Chevy to the Derby the spring of my senior year at Northwestern. We’d left Evanston, IL, stopped and crashed for a few hours in someone’s hotel room, and driven the rest of the night to get to Lexington, KY, in time for the festivities.

The Sherry I was with this time was a Wisconsin native -- a prankster, rabble-rouser, and not afraid of anything or anybody. Our ringleader. She was wearing a manish-looking striped polo shirt, her big butt and thighs bursting out of her tight jeans. And even though she had the biggest tits of all of us, she wasn’t about to show them to anyone.

“Keep moving,” she commanded to us, pushing her way through the crowd. We made our way to the infield. It was already a teeming mass of people who were drinking beer and having a good time. This made me a bit nervous and scared, but I decided to go with the flow. I was still somewhat naïve. Sherry scouted out a good spot and we threw down our blankets and crashed.

It was Sherry’s idea for us to go to the Derby that spring of my senior year at NU. Darlene, Toni, Judy, Lori, and I had been game. Except for Lori, we were all seniors – bored with school and itching to have an adventure.

“Where are we going to stay?” I asked.

“We don’t need to stay anywhere – we’ll just drive down there and drive back,” Sherry answered. We can even sleep in Darla’s car if we need to.”

So we made signs that said “Derby or Bust,” and “We’re Gonna Cure the Blues,” taped them to Darla’s Blues Mobile, and took off for Louisville.

In 1974, Dad, Herm, Cheri, and I drove there from Normal, IL, in Herm’s Cadillac. We stayed in a motel in Columbus, IN, on the way down. Herm, who was an executive at State Farm, had used his contacts to get us box seats in the grandstand. It was cloudy and rainy that day. We bet on a few races and enjoyed looking at the people and horses. I don’t recall even noticing all the party people in the infield. My dad bought us virgin mint juleps and we watched and bet on the races leading up to the Derby.

My friends and I drank beer on that sunny day in the infield seven years later. We also drank real mint juleps that were too surgary and sweet. Decked out in our Chi-O sweatshirts and sipping our beers, we tried to blend into the crowd. If the genteel southern ladies who founded our sorority had seen us there that day, they would have kicked us out for sure. But, hey it was 1981, not 1891.

“We made a friend!” Sherry gushed, as I peered up at her from down on the blanket, shielding my eyes from the sun.

“Yeah, a cute guy,” Darla intoned, spilling her beer on me. She was a music major who was studying to be a violin teacher. She had blonde hair, a toothy smile, and big, thick glasses and was also from Wisconsin.

“Where is he?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“He’s a camera man with a local TV station,” Sherry explained. “He’s working with a reporter who’s doing a piece on the infield for the 10 o’clock news. We’re going to be on TV!”

Turns out the cameraman was a 30-something skinny guy named Keith who was a Vietnam vet. He had nice hair and soft eyes. And he promised to get us on the 10 o’clock news.

“We took a walk in the infield that day,” Dad told me. “ Herm and I tried to shield you and Cheri from the most blatant display of alcohol, drugs, and risque messing around. As I recall, it was a short walk.”

That blatant display was exactly the story Keith and the reporter were assigned to get on my second trip to the Derby. And from what I could tell, there was plenty. But I wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone or getting high – I just wanted to have fun with my friends.

In the infield with my Chi-O sisters that day in 1981, we watched the people instead of the horses. At the end of the day, we were tired and not looking forward to making the six-hour drive back to Evanston.

“We have to stay to see the 10 o’clock news,” Sherry declared. “Let’s find a bar with a TV.”

“Okay, but then what?” I asked. “Are we going to drive back to Evanston?”

“Keith said we could stay with him,” she replied. “He lives on the second floor of a house and he said we could crash on his floor.”

Oh God, I thought, could we really do this? He seemed nice enough, but you never know. There were six of us and one of him, so the power odds were in our favor. His intentions seemed honorable – you know, help out some 21-year old college girls who were tired from partying all day and needed a place to crash. His reporter colleague knew we would be there. How old was he anyway? 30? We had a car so we could leave if things got weird. And we had Sherry to protect us.

How would I explain this to my mother?

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go find a bar, eat some food, watch the news, and then figure out what we’re going to do.”

When Dad, Herm, Cheri, and I left Churchill Downs, we drove several hours to the same hotel we’d stayed in on the way down in Columbus, IN. We ate dinner and went to bed. The next day, we got up and drove home.

Keith’s piece on the Derby infield was really good. I can’t remember it exactly, but I do recall that it was a humorous look at all the risqué messing around that was going on in the infield that day. It made the 10 o’clock news and Sherry and Darla were featured for about five seconds. They were wearing their Chi-O shirts and holding a beer. Keith and the reporter guy met us at the bar to watch the news and afterwards we drove over to Keith’s house to crash on his floor.

After the others fell asleep, I stayed up talking with Keith. I woke up the next morning feeling a bit fuzzy, with that arid, puky taste in my mouth that comes with drinking too much beer and eating greasy food.

“What happened between you two?” Sherry demanded, pulling me aside.

“Nothing,” I replied. “Nothing at all. We just talked.”

Now that I think about it all these years later, it was pretty stupid for us to have stayed overnight at a strange man’s house. We were really lucky that nothing bad happened to us. For all we knew, Keith could have been another Ted Bundy – the serial killer who murdered two Chi-Os at Florida State University in 1979.

We went with Keith that morning over to the television studio where he burned us a tape of the Derby segment, plus another great piece he’d done on a hot air balloon race. We said our goodbyes, promised to stay in touch, piled into the Bluesmobile, and drove back to Evanston. After that, Keith and I spoke on the telephone a few times and maybe even exchanged a few letters. I still have that tape somewhere, but it’s in a format that I can’t play on any machine that I own.

This past weekend at our 30th Class Reunion at Northwestern in Evanston, I caught up with Darla and Judy. We reminisced about the Derby trip, and realized that now, as parents of high school and college age kids, we would come down hard on our kids if we found out they did what we did that weekend in May in 1981. But the world is a little different today. What hasn’t changed is the innocence of youth.

Lake Bloomington: Tubing

2011-09-18T19:37:00.000-07:00

“Mom, will you take me tubing?” Wes asked. It was a weekday in August and he and I had come down to spend a few days at my parents’ house on Lake Bloomington to tube and water ski when there weren’t so many boats on the water.

“Sure.” By that time, I had mastered the art of pulling children of all ages on the tube behind our 13-ft. Boston Whaler. Wes was about 13 years old at the time and liked rides that were as wild as possible. I got my mom to be the spotter.

“Do you want me to do Circle of Death?” I asked as we were idling out, looking sideways at my mom who was wearing a life jacket and looking nervous.

“Yes!” he answered. “Hit it!”

“Okay” I shouted to him, glancing ahead. “Hang on mom.”

“I will,” she answered. Even though she wasn’t totally comfortable in the boat and didn’t know how to swim, it wasn’t the first time she’d been a spotter for a tube ride.

For safety reasons, Lake Bloomington had all these rules about where and when you could pull skiers and tubers (not before noon and not after 7 p.m.). And you couldn’t have an engine on your boat that was greater than 40 hp or pull more than one person on a tube or water ski at a time. Weekends tended to be pretty busy on the lake, with lots of boats churning up the water.

We roared away from the dock and I started turning the boat back and forth so Wes was whipping across the wake. He was flapping around on the tube and loving every minute of it.

Circle of Death is a tube pulling technique in which you drive the boat at high speeds around in a circle 3-5 times. This churns up the water and creates 2-3 ft. choppy waves in the middle of the circle. Then you cut back and turn so the tube is whipped across the wake right over the choppy waves. If the tube hits the waves just right, it dumps the rider off every time.

“Mom, that was awesome!” Wes gasped after a successful Circle of Death dump, shaking his head and spewing out water.

“Are you okay?” I asked as we slowly drove by him so he could grab the tube and climb back on. I looked at my mom and she gave me a wary eye.

“Yes! Let’s do it again!”

“Okay.” I idled out and gunned the engine just as he was climbing aboard the tube. He gave me a look and struggled to hang on and get himself situated as the tube began to plane on the water. That was another one of my favorite boat driver tricks. “Ready or Not” it should have been called.

Pulling your kid behind a boat on a tube is great fun because makes you happy to see them having so much fun. But the thing is, I had spent the first part of Wesley’s life trying to keep him out of harm’s way and was now trying as hard as I could to bounce him off that tube behind a speeding boat into hard, flat water. What was I, crazy? Nope, just trying to give my kid a good time. And having a good time doing it.

What Would Grandma Ruby Say?

2011-09-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

Driving down to my parents' house last week, I saw hundreds of huge, silver wind turbines out in the corn and bean fields of Central Illinois.

They look to me like giant insects -- aliens looming over the prairie. Out of place in this flat land, where only barns and trees are larger than the ordinary person. Their blades turn slowly, or some not at all. Where is the wind, really?

What would Grandma Ruby say about these modern day windmills?

"She probably wouldn't like them at first," said my dad when I asked him about his mother, who hated anything modern as far as I can remember (long hair, television, short skirts, microwaves, credit cards). "But I think she'd come around when she found out how much money farmers are being paid to put them on their land."

According to my dad, this could be as much as $7,000-$9,000 per turbine. You put 10 of those monsters on your land and you can make $70,000-$90,000 a year.

I'm all for alternative energy. It just looks strange to me to see these things sticking up on the prairie. What will they think of next?

Above the First Floor

2011-09-01T19:37:00.000-07:00

When I was in college way back when in the dark ages, men were not allowed above the first floor in our sorority house.

Seems weird today, doesn't it?

My college friend Rob reminded me today of the time that I called him and said, "Get your ass over here and bring a bottle of Scotch. I'll sneak you into my room."

My roommate Toni and I had a room on the end of the Chi-O house at Northwestern on the second floor right by the stairs. We were seniors. I knew I could sneak Rob up with no problem.

He came over and brought the bottle. I snuck him up the back stairs and we started drinking the Scotch. All of the sudden, there was a knock on the door.

"Hi Sara, it's Kathy."

Oh, no, the house mother. A 30-something divorcee who had taken the job a few months ago when our 60-something grandmother had been fired.

"What do you want?"

"Just want to talk"

"Rob, get into the closet," I hissed, pointing to the sliding doors. He complied.

Kathy came into the room and we shot the breeze for about 20 minutes. I think she really did just want to talk. Or maybe she did know that there was a MAN in my room.

At any rate, she left and I let Rob out of the closet. He snuck back down the stairs and went back to his dorm room. I kept the bottle of Scotch.

Memories of the Gray

2011-08-25T20:07:00.000-07:00

Ever since I can remember, there has been a Gray Reunion held in August at Weldon Park in Central Illinois. When I was a kid, it meant a day off from church for a day of hard play, good food, and a visit to my grandparents' farm afterwards. My relatives were there, smiling and happy, glad to see each other once again and enjoy a nice summer picnic in the park.

Driving into Weldon I'd look for the old Standard Oil gas station out on the main road, the grain silos sticking up out of the small clump of houses, the cemetery where my grandfather Ray is buried, a sign that read “Weldon: Population 550,” and finally the park where that marvelous, gleaming cannon stood proudly near the road.

The moment Dad stopped the car, my sister I would bolt past everybody with a quick “hi” and head for that WWI relic, where we would play with our cousins for what seemed like hours until lunch was called. I had my make believe “room” on the left side of the big silver monster with a window that actually opened to look out the front.

It also had a seat, plus a secret compartment and other moving parts that hadn’t been welded down that we could push and pull.

While we were busy playing on that cannon, the grown-ups were sitting around talking. There was Uncle Bill and Uncle Virge, Grandpa Willie and Grandma Ruby, Aunt Leita and Uncle Andy, plus a whole bunch of others. My Dad roamed around with his camera of the moment, capturing the images of the day.

When everyone finally got there, it was time to eat. And eat we did...beef noodles, homemade meatballs, county fried chicken, home-grown tomatoes, corn and potatoes, baked beans, salads of every kind, chocolate cream pie – and more.

If we were lucky, we could get out of attending the meeting that followed, but most of the time, Dad made us sit quietly and listen; while the cannon silently waited for us to come back and play. Sometimes Sue, Mindy, Brenda, and I performed the entertainment -- singing, reciting a poem, or playing our musical instruments.

We weren’t the only star attractions. Grandma Ruby always had a poem, someone would tell a funny story, and my cousin Nancy did a Karate demonstration one year. After the meeting, Uncle Bill would bring over watermelon for everyone, and then it was back to the cannon for us -- or a walk down the road to Stein’s Grocery, and then out to Grandma and Grandpa’s farm in the late afternoon for guess what? Leftovers.

Today the Gray is a shadow of its former self. We still gather in Weldon, but no one plays on the cannon and no kids have performed any entertainment in a while. The food is still great, though, and there is still watermelon and lots of visiting.

The elders -- my Dad, Aunt Wanda, Uncle Ken, Aunt Jane, Dad's Cousin Cherry and her husband Corwin want the reunion to continue, but the flock is dwindling. I can't say that it's an event I look forward to, but this year I felt that tug of tradition that said to me, "You can't let this die after 88 years." Maybe that was my great great grandfather talking to me.

Or maybe it was the gleaming silver cannon at the edge of the park with my long forgotten fingerprints all over it.

Lollapaworried

2011-08-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

My son Wes is going to Lollapalooza tomorrow.

Lollapalooza is a multi-stage rock concert in Grant Park in Chicago.

According to Wes, EVERYONE in his age group is going to Lolla. So he is going, too. On the L. Down and back.

I am worried and concerned about this.

When I was his age, I was tooling around town with my friends trying to moon people. Our idea of a good time was going to Monical's Pizza.

Oh how times have changed.

Eminem is going to be performing at Lollapalooza. That dude's lyrics are R-rated and then some.

There are going to be mosh pits, drugs, and booze at Lolla. How can there not be? Hello, it's a rock concert.

"People are going to try to steal your iPhone on the L," I told Wes. "Keep it outta sight."

"I know, Mom, I know," he replied.

"And be careful when you take your wallet out to pay for things."

"I know. I know."

"People will bump you and try to distract you just to take your wallet or phone."

"I KNOW. I KNOW. Mom, STOP."

But he doesn't know. He's 17. He's never had a bad thing happen to him in his life. Yet he's way beyond Monical's Pizza. Much more worldly than I was at his age.

But still my little boy.

Children ARE Starving in Africa

2011-07-15T19:25:00.000-07:00

I gave the "children are starving in Africa" speech to Wes today.

He came home from a swim meet hungry and declared that there was nothing to eat in the house. When I looked in the refrigerator, I saw a week old package of lunchmeat that he hadn't eaten. It smelled really bad. I threw it out.

"I buy this food for you, but you don't eat it. Children are starving in Africa, you know," I said to him.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I heard my father's voice saying the same thing to me 40 years ago when I was struggling to finish the food on my plate that I didn't particularly like. Spinach. Carrot jello salad. Peas. Yuk.

"My dad said this to me when I was a kid. I'm saying it to you. I expect you to say it to your kids someday," I stated.

"As a matter of fact, I saw a photo of a starving child in Africa the other day on the front page of the Wall St. Journal," I continued. I fished the paper out of the recycling bin and showed it to Wes. It was a picture of a half starved little boy -- A refugee from Kenya -- sitting in a bucket. His ribs were showing.

"This breaks my heart. I threw out bags full of food several weeks ago when the power was out. And here is this little boy with nothing to eat," I told Wes.

"Think of Bucket Boy the next time you say there's nothing to eat in this house."

"You waste food, too," he responded.

"That's true," I agreed. "But I don't feel good about it."

The conversation ended there. Later, I cut the picture of Bucket Boy out of the paper and put it on the counter.

It's hard to tell how much of what you say gets through to a 17-year old. But maybe Bucket Boy will remain imprinted in Wesley's brain and someday he will understand what I'm talking about. I can only hope.

A Brush With Han Solo

2011-07-14T19:33:00.000-07:00

Han Solo aka Indiana Jones aka Harrison Ford is on the cover of the AARP magazine this month. He is turning 69. Almost 70.

Han Solo is almost 70 years old? How can that be?

I saw Harrison Ford once. Wes and I were in Manhattan visiting my friend Jackie. Wes was about one year old. It was 1995. Jackie lived at 59th and Lexington and I was pushing Wes in the stroller. It was morning and we were going out for coffee.

The three of us were crossing the street and there was a news kiosk on the corner. As I glanced up, I saw Harrison Ford turning away from the vendor with a newspaper in his hand, that familiar furitive glance on his face. He almost bumped into me.

"Daddy," I heard Wes say. "Daddy." I looked over to where Wes was pointing and saw a man jogging in the street. Wesley's dad was a runner at the time.

I glanced back toward the kiosk and Harrison Ford was gone.

So, during Wesley's first brush with celebrity, he was looking at the jogger in the street. Jackie and I had a good laugh about that. Several years later Wes would come to know and love Han Solo and all the other Star Wars characters.

But that day in Manhattan, the man who played Han Solo was just a guy crossing the street. Which was probably just fine with him.

The Love of Waterskiing

2011-07-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

I learned to waterski and tube as a kid up at Coon's Franklin Lodge on Trout Lake in Northern Wisconsin. Coon's is a slice of heaven summer resort my family has been going to for a week in July since I was 12.

Much of the land around Trout Lake is owned by the government, so there aren’t many houses or other people living on the lake, making Coon’s a pretty secluded place. Until a few years ago, you couldn’t even see lights from any other houses when you looked at the lake from the Coon’s dock at night. And the water is so clear that you can see to the sandy, rocky bottom until the water gets deep.

I loved riding in the ski boats at Coon's watching others waterski or tube. The first tubes were just plain old black rubber inner tubes with a canvas belt wrapped around them to hold on to. They were slippery as all get out and hard as rocks.

As teenagers, we girls would lay flat on our stomachs on the tubes and get whipped from side-to-side by demon male boat drivers. Eventually, we’d fall off, skipping across the water like stones.

“Oh my God, my swimsuit bottom fell off,” my cousin Mindy yelled at me after we both wiped out.

“What?” I exclaimed, watching the boat turn around to come for us.

“My suit is around my ankles!” she replied as Chip pulled the boat up. He was a cute young man that every girl in camp had a crush on.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Her suit fell off!” I said.

“Really.” He said, looking to see if he could get a glimpse of one of her large naked breasts. “Need some help getting it back on?”

Mindy did manage to get her swimsuit back on all by herself and we got back on the tube for another wild ride. I stopped tubing in my 20s when I realized that sitting or lying flat on a tube getting flung back and forth behind a boat going 30 mph wasn’t all that comfortable on my insides.

Skiing is a different matter, though. I love to waterski, especially on Trout Lake on a day when the water is calm and smooth as glass. Because Trout Lake has sand bars, there are never many other boats on the water, which makes it an excellent skiing venue on a still day. Cutting back and forth behind the speeding boat with the wind in my face and the water spraying in a rooster tail behind me still gives me a thrill. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because at 52 years old, I can still get up on one ski. But that wasn’t always the case.

“Get in the boat, we’re go’in for a ride,” Rick the boat boy instructed me. He was a college kid who was working the waterfront that year at Coon’s.

“Just you and me?” I asked, feeling a bit flattered and nervous at the same time.

“Yep, just you and me,” he answered. I was about 13 years old and had been trying to get up on one ski for the past several days without any success. Just as the boat would start to pull me out of the water, I’d tumble to the side, not able to find my balance on that 5-inch wide piece of wood. My arms hurt and I’d drunk gallons of lake water. To make matters worse, the Coon’s boat pulled skiers from the shallow water by the dock where there was always a crowd watching.

We sped away from the dock over to a secluded cove nearby where the water was deep. Rick stopped the boat abruptly, threw one ski overboard, and said, “Okay, jump in. You’re gonna get up this time.”

I hopped into the water, feeling the rush as the cold hit me. Teeth chattering, I shoved my right foot into the ski boot and put my left foot behind in the sleeve. Rick threw the tow rope to me and idled the boat out.

“Hit it,” I shouted, struggling to keep my ski straight. Rick gunned the engine and I held on as the boat tugged me against the rush of the water and popped right up. Just like that.

And I have never had a problem getting up on one ski since then. Somehow that college boy with the white stuff on his nose knew that what I needed was some space away from the crowd.

The Life and Times of BD

2011-07-03T14:38:00.000-07:00

I looked down and saw the pavement through a hole in BD’s stick shift casing. “Oh no,” I thought. “Is this car going to fall apart before I make it back to Valparaiso?”

I was driving 65 mph on the Skyway, on my way back from visiting my boyfriend John at Northwestern for the weekend. It was late at night – not exactly the best time for an 18-year old girl to be on the road by herself driving on Chicago’s south side. BD was the 1972 Datsun 510 my parents had given to me to be my college car. It was basically a piece of tin crap – with cheap plastic seats, paper-thin body, and of, course, no airbags. And the color...well.

“That car looks like baby diarrhea!” one of my dorm friends declared the first time she saw it. “BD -- we’ll name it BD.” And so it was christened. I had never really thought anything about the color of the Datsun until that very moment, but could never look at it again without thinking of poop.

BD served me well in my freshman year at Valparaiso. I was the only one of my friends that had a car and since there wasn’t a whole lot to do in that sorry town, I mostly drove him back and forth to Northwestern or my hometown of Normal, IL. Now that I think about it, my parents probably gave me BD so I could go visit John and come home occasionally. Plus, my sister had a car and my parents were all about being equitable.

When I transferred to Northwestern the fall of my sophomore year, I brought BD with me to Evanston. John and I had broken up and I joined a sorority so I could have a place to live on campus since dorm space was limited. Parking was also at a premium, so I was constantly moving BD from one spot to the next, hoping that he wouldn’t get towed.

Then, winter came.

“What the heck is this?” I looked at the fresh dent in BD’s hood one cold Sunday morning. It was the shape of a beer keg. I had parked BD behind a small house-like campus residence hall that wasn’t far from the sorority quad. “Boys,” I thought. “Guess I won’t park here anymore.”

I found another nearby lot and safely put BD there. Or so I thought. After a big snow, I came out to dig BD out and found another dent – this time in the front of the hood. It was exactly the shape of a snowplow. “Poor BD,” I thought. “He’s really taking a beating.” I bit the bullet, bought a parking sticker, and moved BD to the Evanston Parking Garage for the remainder of the winter.

BD was eventually replaced by a Honda Prelude and I can't remember what happened to him. Once I got the 'Lude, though, BD was history.

Litte Jordan Rae

2011-06-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

Twenty-two years ago the first grandchild in my immediate family was born.

Richard and I were at my mom and dad's house in Lake Bloomington, IL. We'd flown in from New Jersey to attend a a baby shower for my sister Sue. It had been a long day of opening presents and talking to relatives. The men had gone golfing. We'd been in bed for a few hours when I heard a knock on the door.

"Sara, it's Dad. Sue's water broke. We're going to the hospital."

"Oh my God. Really? Richard, let's go." I couldn't imagine not being there for the big event.

"Ugh," he groaned, turning over. "No way. I'm not going."

"What do you mean? We have to go!" I said.

"I'm tired and I'm not going," he replied.

I sighed and sank back into bed. I couldn't sleep. I was too excited. After about two hours, I poked Richard again.

"I'm going to the hospital. You can come with me or you can stay here."

"Okay, okay. Let's go," he replied.

We got to the hospital and waited for about three hours with my parents and Sue's husband Bruce.

Baby Jordan was born in the wee hours of the morning. I'll never forget Bruce coming into the waiting room, his face all flushed -- so excited -- "It's a girl!"

I saw mom and baby 45 minutes after she was born. So beautiful. Happy Birthday, Baby Jordan!

How Annoying!

2011-05-29T16:56:00.000-07:00

I heard an interview today with a couple of NPR reporters who have written a book that probes the science of what annoys us.

I have to admit that I'm one of those people who seem to get irritated by things that people do that no one else notices.

Once, I counted how many times a speaker said the word "um" during a presentation at once of our meetings. I tallied them up on a piece of paper and during the course of an hour, she uttered more than 80 ums.

What annoys some people doesn't even bother others. But my guess is that we all have our own pet peeves. In no particular order, here are a few things that annoy me:

1. People on airplanes who don't wait for those sitting in the rows front of them to exit before they rush down the aisle to get off the plane

2. Loud cell phone talkers

3. Sarah Palin

4. Rule-breakers

5. Smoking

6. People who only talk about themselves - or their kids

7. Fingernail clipping in public

8. Donald Trump

9. People who don't recycle

10. New Trier

What bugs you?

Fireworks

2011-05-22T19:13:00.000-07:00

“We should stop and get some fireworks,” Richard said to me as we crossed the Illinois-Wisconsin border yesterday on our way to Milwaukee and saw signs advertising fireworks. “We need fireworks.”

“We live in a city,” I reminded him. “We can’t set off fireworks in the city.”

“You can if they don’t catch you,” he responded.

Ah, the forbidden truth of every fireworks junkie.

My dad, who is an upstanding citizen, pillar of his community, devoted church-goer, has always loved to set off fireworks.

“Okay, everybody stand back! I’m gonna light it,” Dad shouted.

It’s 1972 and I’m 13 years old. Dad is setting off fireworks in our back yard in Normal, IL on the Fourth of July. We take cover. Zing. Pffft. Whirr. It shoots into the air and we all cheer. Our neighbor, Mrs. Threllfall, calls the cops.

“Everyone, stand back! I’m gonna light it,” Dad shouted.

It’s 1999 and I’m 40 years old. Dad is setting off fireworks off his dock at Lake Bloomington on the Fourth of July. We take cover. Zing. Pfftt. Whirr. It shoots into the air over the water and we all cheer. He shoots off another one. And another.

It’s great until the neighbors shoot off a whole shitload of fireworks that put ours to shame. We laugh. Shown up by the neighbors. We retreat into the house to play bridge.

“Come on everyone, it’s the millennium. We have to set off fireworks,” I say. We go out at midnight and shoot off a few bottle rockets off my mom and dad’s deck as the clock turns over to 2000. The neighbors follow suit.

So I have to admit, even though it always made me nervous to see my dad setting off fireworks in our yard or off his lake house dock, it was fun. And no one ever got hurt. Guess we were lucky.

Water Polo Anyone?

2011-05-07T17:18:00.000-07:00

Water polo is a tough, physical game. First of all, those who are skilled enough to play this obscure sport have to be in good enough shape to swim and tread water for four 7 minute periods. Even when the clock stops for fouls or change of possession, they still have to tread water.

Second, water polo players spend most of their time fending off or trying to get away from their opponents, who are attempting to drown them by kicking, elbowing, scratching, poking, and pushing them under the water. When contact happens (and it happens pretty much all the time), usually one person ends up underwater, popping up spitting and gasping for air, and shaking the water out of his eyes.

The refs call fouls, but they can't really see what goes on under the water. Or what goes on between every two players in the water.

"He was pulling my suit down," my son Wes told me about a particularly aggressive opponent in a recent match. "And that's not cool. So, I kicked him in the face. His coach saw me do it, too, and wanted the ref to call a foul."

"Did he stop pulling on your suit?" I asked.

"Yep."

The first year Wes played water polo, I knew nothing about the game, so I had a hard time following it. Basically, it's soccer in the water, but with complex rules about how you can handle the ball and make contact with your opponent. Players also wear these goofy caps that are designed to protect the ears, but make everyone who puts one on look like Rocky and Bullwinkle.

But this year, I'm into it. I sort of know the rules and understand the strategy. And I can totally appreciate what a physical sport water polo is and the kind of shape these guys have to be in to play at a winning level.

Wes has a rocket arm (all that baseball!) and is a good swimmer, so he scores a lot. And that's been fun to watch. Go Wildkits.

Camping

2011-04-24T09:28:00.000-07:00

“We’re going on a camping trip this summer,” Dad told me over the phone in May of my freshman year at college.

“You’re kidding, right?” I answered.

“Nope. Renting an RV and driving out to Yellowstone. All of us,” he replied.

“An RV. How big?”

“It’s a 23-foot mini-motorhome. You and Sue will sleep in the bunk above the cab, Eric will be on the bench, and there’s a table that folds down that your Mom and I will sleep on. It’s gonna be fun.”

Oh GOD, shoot me NOW. I thought. This is NOT how I want to spend even one minute of my summer vacation. I’d hated my freshman year at Valparaiso, recently been dumped by my boyfriend, gained 10 pounds, and was facing the prospect of working part-time at the sporting goods department in Bergner’s for the summer. The only good thing was that I was transferring to Northwestern in the fall. But that was three months away.

“Your sister is only going on part of the trip and is flying home from Denver because she has to get back to her job,” Dad continued. Ah yes, of course. While I would toil that summer at the mall making minimum wage a few hours a week selling running shoes to middle-aged men, Sue had a real job working at the corporate headquarters of State Farm in the HR department.

“Why can’t I fly back, too?” I whined. “How long are we going to be gone?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks? No way. I’m not going for three weeks. I don’t want to go anywhere with you guys for three weeks. You have ruined my life!”

“You’re going. You don’t have a choice.”

And so that is how I found myself in a truck camper traveling across the U.S. in June with my 11- year-old brother, 20-year-old sister, and parents. I’m sure Yellowstone was beautiful and Mt. Rushmore impressive, but I was so unhappy that I don’t remember much of these national parks. I’m scowling in all the photos, looking fat, grungy, and tired.

What I do remember about the trip is that the bunk that Sue and I slept in was so small that if I turned on one side, my face was two inches from the wall. If I turned on the other side, my face was two inches from Sue’s face. And if I turned on my back, my face was two inches from the ceiling. To make matters worse, my dad snored. LOUDLY. Every night.

I woke up one morning in the bunk bouncing against the wall and ceiling trying not to fall out as the camper sped down the road. We’d dropped Sue off in Denver and were heading to Yellowstone. My mom liked to get an early start so we always left wherever we were to get to wherever we were going next before I was up. Something wasn’t right. I felt that familiar pain in my lower abdomen and realized, to my complete and utter dismay, that I had gotten my period. In the middle of Yellowstone. In a FRICKING RV. With my little brother.

I rolled out of the bunk and knocked on the cab window. “Mom, Dad! I need to ask you something.”

“What is it?” they yelled as they slid the window open.

“Do you think there is a drug store out here?”

“Are you kidding?” Dad answered. But my mom knew right away what had happened. So did my little brother.

“We’ll see what we can find,” Mom shouted. “But it may be awhile.”

Great. I sank back down into the bench and glared at Eric. We drove into the park and made our way to Old Faithful, where there was a hotel with a gift shop that had toiletries. While my mom went into the shop, I stared across the parking lot at the gushing geyser trying to imagine what I would have done if they didn’t sell feminine products in Yellowstone National Park and hating my sister for getting to fly home. My mood worsened.

“Hey, Sara, we bought you something,” Dad said a few days later as we were hanging out at a strip mall while some mechanical problem in the RV was being fixed. He was smiling and Eric was lurking behind him smirking.

“What is it?” I snapped.

“Here.” He handed me a plastic card. It said, “Official Bitchers Society of America” on one side and, “Bitch, bitch, bitch” on the other. While I looked at it in disgust, they howled with laughter.

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “This really makes my day. Why don’t you both just shut up already?”

When we were 60 miles from home and the trip almost over, that damn RV broke down -- again. By that time, everyone else was tired of camping, too, and just wanted to be home. Suddenly, they found themselves feeling the way I had been feeling the whole trip. Dad took a picture of Eric and I standing in front of the broken down RV in a gas station with a sign that said, “Normal or Bust.” I am scowling and look fat, grumpy, and tired. Eric is grinning. Sue had to drive from Normal and pick us up.

Historic Pool in Jeopardy

2011-04-10T16:02:00.000-07:00

The crumbling Fort Lauderdale Aquatic Complex is on its last legs. This year at Y Short Course Nationals, we spectators were forced to scramble for tickets and sit on deck because the 1,500 seat stands had been deemed by the City as unsafe.

Originally built as the Casino Pool in 1928, it was the first Olympic sized pool in Florida. For nearly half a century, the Casino Pool remained at the forefront of the swimming scene, witnessing a great deal of American swimming history.

A beautiful Spanish-style facility, the outdoor Casino Pool was engineered by Clifford Root and filled twice a week with salt water directly from the nearby Atlantic Ocean. Salt water. Imagine that.

In 1965, the Casino Pool was rebuilt into a world-class outdoor aquatic complex with two 50-meter Olympic-sized pools, a diving pool, teaching pool, and a spa. It also became the location of the International Swimming Hall of Fame.

Today, the only thing that is world-class about the Fort Lauderdale Aquatic Complex is its location on the Intercoastal waterway two blocks from the Atlantic Ocean. The concrete pools are peeling and cracking as are the surrounding buildings and structures housing the locker rooms, restrooms, and stands.

But it is still a great swimming complex, and for many of us Y swimmers from the North who participate in nationals every year, it is an experience like no other. Because we really don't get to swim in outdoor pools that often.

City officials have been keeping the facility patched together for 10 years and a $71 million proposal is on the boards to rebuild the complex and add a waterpark. But this dang economy may kill it. And force Y Nationals to move somewhere else, which would be a real shame.

If the City invested in the complex, it would reap the rewards many times over during the 20-30 year life of the facility. The Y Nationals alone bring in $3-$4 million in tourist dollars to the area.

And hey, if they need some fundraising advice, how about this -- send a letter to every swimmer who has ever competed or attended a camp at the Fort Lauderdale Aquatic Complex and ask them for a donation. I'd give. Wouldn't you?

Or, do like the baseball parks do and get a corporation, like Speedo, Nike, or TYR to pony up some cash and name the complex after them. The Speedo Hall of Fame Aquatic Complex. Michael Phelps, can you help? This is your sport, man.

Be Nice

2011-03-27T17:50:00.000-07:00

I heard a really good speaker the other day at a conference in Chicago. Neurosurgeon Ben Carson spoke about growing up as a poor black child in Detroit; how his mother inspired him to learn; his failures and ultimate successes in separating Siamese twins who’d been joined at the head; and how he’s promoting education and leadership skills among today’s youth through a scholarship fund.

This guy’s story is so good, they even made a movie about him starring Cuba Gooding Jr.

The one thing that he said that has stuck with me ever since is that he told us to be nice to people — for a whole week. We tend to get so caught up in our own struggles that we forget that everyone else is struggling, too.

And usually, if you’re nice to people, they are nice back. The woman behind the airline counter whose been there since 5 a.m. The taxi driver who tells you that he's trying to lose weight. The person sitting next to you on the plane. The waiter who’s serving you lunch. Your spouse. The people you work with (even the ones you don’t like).

You get the idea. Try it. Be nice. For at least a whole week.

Food-Deprived & Sedated, But Still Conscious

2011-03-19T12:42:00.000-07:00

Since I'm in the hospital experience business, I'm always alert to the nuances of being a patient when I get the chance to be one.

So, the other day when I went to Evanston Hospital for my FIRST colonoscopy (oh the joys of being 50+), here's what I observed.

First of all, everyone introduced themselves. "Hi, my name is Karen, I'll be checking to make sure you are who you say you are." "Hi, my name is Rita, I'll be putting in your IV and attaching your heart monitor." "Hi, my name is Darren, I'll be wheeling you into the procedure room and bringing you a blanket." "Hi, my name is Nikki, I'll be the nurse will be assisting Dr. Mehta."

Of course, I am making their names up because I promptly forgot them because my brain was not functioning properly from lack of solid food for 24 hours. But I liked the friendly approach.

Then, I noticed as I waited for about 20 minutes in the procedure room for Dr. Mehta to finish up with his last patient, that there was rap music playing. Not loudly, but loud enough for me to hear it.

Yo, what's up girl? Ain't gonna ask it. I dead 'em all now, I buy the caskets. They should arrest you. Or whoever dressed you. Ain't gonna stress you. But I'mma let you know. Girl, you be killin 'em. You be killin 'em...

I like rap music. But not right before someone is going to sedate me and stick a probe in my you know what.

Darren also left the door to the procedure room wide open, so that everyone walking by in the hall could see me lying there on a gurney with an oxygen tube in my nose. I musta seen the same guy go in and out of some supply room about 20 times before I decided to just close my eyes.

When Dr. Mehta finally arrived, he told me that although I would be sedated, I would still be semi-consicous during the procedure. He was right. While I didn't feel a thing, I could hear Nikki the Nurse talking. Loudly. But she wasn't talking about medical things, such as, "Dr. Mehta, are you ready for the lubricant now?"

She was saying things like, "Did you hear about Charlie Sheen's new tour? Doesn't he have a lot of balls? I'd go see him just to see what a fool he'll make of himself. He's not even cute anymore. I used to like his show. Did you ever watch it? Monday nights..."

When you're performing 10-20 colonoscopies in a day, I suppose they are routine, and like all people who work together, you don't just talk about work. But if the doctors and clinical staff at Evanston Hospital are trying to be more patient-friendly, then they have to realize that even a semi-conscious patient is still a patient.

As far as I can tell, the quality of my medical care was first-rate. I'll wait until I see the bill, but I think on a scale of 1-10, it was probably a 9 or 10. For the rest of it (including the design of the built environment -- the focus of my work), I'd give 'em a 4 or 5.

'Nighty-Nite Bulls

2011-03-12T13:58:00.000-08:00

The championship Bulls of the 1990s are reuniting tonite at the United Center. When they were making their run in 1996, our son Wes was about two years old and he loved watching the games with us.

One night Wes was having trouble sleeping. I was in his room rocking him, and to get him to buy into the concept of going back to sleep, I started naming everyone I could think of that he knew who was sleeping.

"Grandma is sleeping; Grandpa is sleeping; Daddy is sleeping..." I ended my litany with “...and Reggie Redbird is sleeping, Willie the Wildcat is sleeping, and the Bennie the Bull is sleeping.”

After a few moments of silence, he looked up at me and asked, “Is Dennis Robin [Rodman] sleeping? And Michael Jordan?”

The Imcomparable Mr. Bidwill

2011-03-09T07:37:00.001-08:00

I heard yesterday that Jim Bidwill passed away. Mr. Bidwill was my first boss in 1981 when I worked at The Merchandise Mart in Chicago as a communications coordinator in the marketing department.

Bidwill was a seasoned marketing and event planning pro and a no-nonsense kind of guy. He bossed and bullied most everyone he came into contact with, but he knew his stuff so you had to respect him. You also didn't want to screw up in front of him, because you knew he'd call you on it – often in front of others. But he also wasn’t stingy on praise.

He was politically well-connected in Chicago and even had ties to the National Democratic Party, through the Kennedys, who owned The Mart for many years. Teddy Kennedy would answer his phone call, as would both Mayor Daleys. Whether it was promoting the newest tenant in The Mart or the next mayor of Chicago, Bidwill was a master.

"We've got a retail tenant opening a store on the first floor," he said to all of us in the office one day. "The press is coming and we need a crowd. Everybody, get down there and act like you’re interested. It’s Rent-A-Crowd time."

At heart, he was a softie. During my first floorcovering market at The Mart, he worried that I'd be vulnerable to the slimy carpet salesmen who were in town for the convention and wanted to pick up young women. "Stay away from those guys," he warned, because he, too, knew what it was like to want to pick up young women.

“Does the 156 bus stop here?” he asked a young women he’d spotted at the bar we were at, having a drink after a long day at work.

“No, I don’t think so,” she answered. “You have to go over to Michigan Avenue to get it. Where do you want to go?”

“Ah, works every time,” he winked at me and sidled up to her, hoping to continue the conversation. It always amazed me that he could pick up women, because as a middle-aged man, he was slightly overweight, balding, and had a ruddy complexion. But his persistence and humor—and connections—helped him win them over. He knew practically anybody who was anybody in the city of Chicago.

Bidwill was the mastermind behind NeoCon, which has grown into the largest commercial furnishings exposition and conference in North America. And, he served as Chairman of the Chicago Convention and Tourism Bureau. He was a great ambassador for the city.

An Irishman to the core, he loved St. Paddy’s Day and celebrated it with gusto. He’d invite the Irish Rovers bagpipe troupe to come and play at The Mart and then we’d follow them to whatever bar they were going to. Whenever Bidwill asked me to go somewhere with him – political fundraiser, lunch at the M&M Club, opening day at Wrigley -- I rarely turned him down. I wanted to experience as much of his world as I could.

And I learned a lot from Mr. Bidwill. Among other things, he taught me to always question the answer, be proactive instead of reactive, write with a voice, and treat those you want favors from with respect and those who want favors from you with grace. He also taught me about good food and wine. Bidwill had many flaws and rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. But he was loyal, honest, and had a ton of integrity. I couldn’t have asked for a better teacher on my first job.

Rest in peace, Mr. Bigwell. I’ll raise a glass of “Chatow Nerf De Papei” and listen to Old Blue Eyes in memory of the good times we had together.

The Highs and Lows of Baseball

2011-03-06T09:22:00.000-08:00

Note: This is a re-write of a piece I posted several years ago. Now that baseball season is upon us and Wes has given up the game to concentrate on swimming, I'm feeling bittersweet.

The summer my son Wesley was nine years old, he was on a travel team and discovered what it was like to play competitive baseball. A lot of the boys on the team were bigger and taller, and most of them could throw and hit the ball just as good – or better – than him. But he was fast, had a good arm, and was a fierce competitor.

His coach, Bob, was a tall, athletic, middle-aged guy’s guy who did a stint in the major leagues as a catcher. He came from a working class family on the south side of Chicago and was tough on the boys, yelling at them from the dugout before and after every play.

“Move to your left,” he’d shout at an outfielder in his nasal Chicago twang. When the boy would move to his right, Bob would bellow, “Not that way, you moron. Your other left!”

I never minded that Coach Bob yelled at the boys, because he also always praised them when they did something good. And they listened to him. And learned from him. Plus, he made me laugh because every once and a while he’d blurt out something that was really funny.

“Even a blind squirrel can sometimes find a nut!” he’d bellow when an outfielder dropped a fly ball.

“If you were standing on grass, it would be dead!” This when the shortstop didn’t move to snag a ground ball.

“Get the ball. We’re not at Sox Park!” as the ball slipped by the catcher and rolled toward the backstop.

From the start, Wesley wanted to be pitcher, catcher, or shortstop, because those players get most of the action. Coach Bob rotated the boys and gave most of them a chance to pitch if they showed any skill at it and encouraged them to practice on their own.

“Mom, will you play catch with me?” Wes asked me one Sunday afternoon.

“Sure,” I said. “Where do you want to go?” Because I knew our tiny front yard would not cut it any more for a boy who was starting to throw the ball harder and farther.

“Let’s go to the school playground, so I can throw some pitches,” he replied.

He and I walked to the playground at his school down the street, where there was a backdrop and a field that was mostly dirt. We threw the ball back and forth a few times, practicing pop flies and grounders to warm up.

“Ready to catch some pitches?” he asked, after a short while.

“I’m ready. Let’s do it,” I said, striding over to the backstop with a confidence I didn’t necessarily feel.

“I can do this,” I thought to myself. I crouched down opposite him, and he wound up and zinged a hardball into my glove. “Ouch.” I thought to myself again, shaking my hand. “He’s packing some heat.” I caught two, maybe three or four more pitches and started to feel more nervous. Zing. Pfumpf. Smack. The pitches seemed to be coming harder now. “I can do this,” I reminded myself.

On the next pitch, my fear got the best of me and I pulled back slightly as the ball zoomed toward me. It bounced off my glove and hit me in the side of the head. The pain was sharp and hurt like a sonofagun. I tried not to cry as I struggled to stand up and get my composure.

“Mom?” Wesley asked, in a worried voice. “Are you okay? Mom?”

“Yes,” I finally answered, staggering around, holding back the tears, a growing lump forming on my head. But I knew that I couldn’t quit just because I got hit. I could hear Coach Bob yelling, “Whatsamatter, you can’t take a little pop in the head? Get back out there you big wimp!”

“I’ll catch five more pitches,” I told Wes, sighing and crouching down into the catching position. Zing. Pfumpf. Smack. “He’s not letting up,” I realized as Wesley hurled the ball toward me. “I can do this,” I said to myself. And I did.

Later that summer, Wesley went on to relieve the starting pitcher on the team to pitch a no-hitter and finish out the game. He gritted it out as catcher, did his time in the outfield, and had a few stints as shortstop. He got hit by a pitch and stayed in the game. His team lost in the first round of the playoffs to a team they beat the day before. “That’s baseball,” one of the other moms said with chagrin as the final out was called and my heart sank.

Watching nine-year-olds play that summer, I gained a new appreciation the complicated and complex game of baseball. That fall, the Cubs won their division and lost to the Marlins one out away from making it to the World Series to face the Yankees after an overzealous fan named Bartman interfered with a fly ball. It was also the last year that I played catch with my little boy Wesley.

#261

2011-02-26T14:28:00.000-08:00

I was the 261st person to enter the pool seating area yesterday for the state swimming preliminaries at New Trier High School. About 1,700 people followed me.

That's right, 2,000 parents, relatives, friends, and students crammed into the New Trier Nanatorium for four hours to see which 12 boys in each event would make it to the finals the next day.

To get #261, I arrived at New Trier at 9:15 a.m. and waited in the gym for five hours until they began letting us in groups of 25. I got a pretty good seat in the pool area and spread myself out to save seats for the other parents of boys on our team who had higher numbers than I.

The pool area was hot. It was noisy. When the meet finally ended at 7:30 p.m., all the spectators were sweaty and exhausted. Swimming is not an easy sport for either the competitor or spectator.

My son Wes qualified for four events at state, but didn't make top 12 times in any of them. But he made it state, posted times in the top 20 and 30, and I was so happy that I was there to watch him.

Super Bowl Dilemma

2011-02-01T18:37:00.000-08:00

"Mom, you can't root for the Packers, it would be like rooting for New Trier," my son Wes said to me.

He's right. I would never root for New Trier -- the arch rivals to Evanston Township High School where Wes is a standout swimmer. Under any circumstances. Forgetaboutit. So why would I root for the Packers, the arch rivals to our own beloved Bears?

Well, for one thing, I like Wisconsin. Especially Northern Wisconsin where my family has been vacationing every summer for almost 40 years.

I also have many friends and a few relatives who live in Wisconsin or are from Wisconsin. I'm truly happy for them that their Packers have made it to the Super Bowl

Does that mean that I should turn into a cheesehead on game day? I think not.

But I'm also having trouble with the idea of rooting for a team that has a quarterback who abuses women. The same one who won the Super Bowl only a few years ago.

Perhaps I shall just remain neutral and enjoy the halftime show. I like the Black Eyed Peas. Hummm.

Not So Favorite Foods of My Childhood

2011-01-23T18:21:00.000-08:00

I grew up without fresh vegetables. They really didn't exist in our house. My mom was of the canned food generation, which is kind of strange since she grew up tending a garden.

Perhaps my memory is bad, but about the only fresh vegetable I remember eating were raw carrots and corn on the cob (is corn a vegetable?).

To get us to eat fruit and vegetables, my mom would do things like put pears in lime green jello and shredded carrots in orange jello. The shredded carrot-orange-jello concoction used to make me gag. I mean literally, GAG.

"Your mom worked very hard preparing this meal and you will sit here until you eat all of it!" Dad would state as I tried to force the little pieces of carrots down my throat along with the slimy jello. "There will be no gagging or throwing up at this table!"

I found out that it was really hard to stop the gag reflex once it started.

Mom's three bean salad -- a staple she used to make for pot lucks and picnics -- was another dish I could never eat. Green beans, lima beans, and pinto beans in some vinegar sauce - something I'd probably like now, but couldn't stand as a kid.

And canned spinach. Who feeds that to kids? My parents did. YUK.

I'm sure there are lots of things I make that my son hates. Like beet salad, steamed cauliflower, and cooked peas and carrots. But I have never made him eat shredded carrot jello salad or canned vegetables. And I probably never will.

What are your horror foods from childhood?

Dazzle Us

2011-01-18T19:42:00.000-08:00

I'm going to a fundraising event at our YMCA this Saturday and I have to dress up. It's called the "Crystal Ball." The invite said to "dazzle us."

I love to dress up.

But I don't want to spend a lot of money on a new outfit that I won't ever wear again. So, I went to TJ Maxx and got a shimmery silver top to go with some black dress pants. It cost $20. Then I went to Forever 21 and Claire's and got some cheap bling for another $30. The only thing that I needed was some silver shoes.

DSW Warehouse didn't have any silver shoes that I liked under $50. I couldn't do it. So, I came home and looked in my closet. I found some cloth covered beige Nine West shoes that I'd bought 16 years ago to wear in my brother's wedding.

"I could paint these shoes," I thought. Bazinga.

I went to our local craft store -- Tom Thumb -- and bought silver fabric paint, brushes, some fake rhinestones, and glue. It cost $27. I painted those shoes and they look fabulous. And I haven't even added the rhinestones yet. I'm feeling so CRAFTY. I may have to go back to ceramics class.

For under $100, I have a kick-ass outfit to wear to the Crystal Ball. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. Yeah baby.

A View from the Stands

2011-01-17T19:22:00.000-08:00

Why is it that we parents today feel like we have to be at EVERY single one of our kids sporting events? Do our kids really care if we are there? Do they notice if we're not?

I played on the varsity tennis team for three years in high school. I really can't recall if my mom and dad came to EVERY single one of my meets. I'm sure they were at some of them, but I don't remember it mattering to me. Because they were present in so many other aspects of my life.

My son Wes is a swimmer. Swim meets have to be about the most painful sporting event for parents to attend. Most of our meets are indoors, so it's loud and hot. Your kid swims for about 30 seconds at a time and then you wait two hours for him to swim again for 30 seconds. He can't even hear you cheer because he's under water.

When I was a senior in high school, I qualified for the state tennis meet, which was in Arlington Heights, IL, about three hours from where we lived. My parents did not attend the meet, nor did I expect them to. Maybe they knew I'd lose in the first round.

I cannot imagine not attending a state swim meet in which Wes is swimming. 'Course the state swim meets are always at our high school or nearby New Trier. But if it was three hours away, I think I'd still go -- even if it was just to see him swim in one event for 30 seconds.

Or would I?

Car-Less

2011-01-13T21:16:00.000-08:00

My friends are tired of me complaining that I have no car. But it's true. My 16-year old son Wes has confiscated my car.

Yes, I have no one to blame for this but myself. But I work from home and don't need a car to get to the office. And Wes is a swimmer. So, during swim season, he gets up almost every morning at 5:30 a.m. to go to practice. Do I want to get up at 5:30 a.m. to drive him to practice? NOPE.

Wes also needs a car to come home for lunch. COME HOME FOR LUNCH? I know what you're thinking. But, you see, because he's burning so many calories swimming, Wes eats what normal people eat in a week just for lunch.

Okay, I exaggerate. But Wes eats a lot. And he needs to eat a lot to keep his weight and strength up to compete. He can't possibly take that much food to school and if he was buying it at school, it would cost a fortune.

Still, being without a car during the day (my husband Richard drives our other one to work) feels a bit strange. Thankfully, I live within walking distance of a Starbucks. And a gourmet food store. And the library branch, Post Office, bank, and the Japanese restaurant...I could even walk to the hardware store if I had to.

And, we do have a third car -- Richard's "fun" car -- a 1971 Jeep CJ7 that has no heat, doors, or a top, which I could drive if in a pinch. Realistically, however, we can only drive the Jeep when it's warm and not raining, which in Chicago is about 12 days a year. And there is no way I'm letting a 16-year old drive that death trap -- even in warm weather. It's sitting in the garage right now enjoying a long winter's nap.

In the end, having no car makes you plan better. And to think of alternate ways of getting places (think BIKE, TRAIN, WALK). So, it's not totally a bad thing. But I miss my car. And I really can't justify buying a fourth car just so I can drive anywhere I want on a whim. When I really need my car, Wes and I work it out. And that's okay for now.

No Chips for Me

2011-01-09T16:01:00.001-08:00

I'm a Premier Executive flyer on United. That means that I always get to sit in Economy Plus (more leg room), board early, check a bag with no fee, and get upgraded if available.

Recently, I was on a full flight going to San Francisco. I was sitting on the aisle, as is my preference. Towards the end of the flight, the attendant came down the aisle, leaned over me and the guy in the middle to offer the gentleman on the window his choice of snacks.

"I guess being a Premier Exec doesn't mean much," I said to the guy in the middle.

"Whadda mean, I'm a 1K," he replied. "You must be a Global," he said to the gentleman, who nodded yes. Apparently, United hadn't been able to upgrade him to first class.

Here I was feeling really good about being a Premier Exec and United only offers chips to the Global guy. I get nothing. I'm a loyal United customer, but just because I don't fly around the world, I don't get offered any chips. Chips, for God's sake. There is something wrong with that.

United's whole red carpet thing bugs me, too. They board first class, Global, and 1K on a tiny red carpet mat. Does that make them feel special? Maybe United should start giving them chips as they board as well.

10 Christmas Memories from My Childhood

2010-12-19T08:06:00.000-08:00

Compiled with help from my super siblings, Sue and Eric.

1. Santa’s Final Check. Prior to opening presents on Christmas morning, my dad would make us wait for what seemed like an eternity at the top of the stairs until he went down and “checked” the Christmas tree.

2. DQ Christmas Tree. Cutting down a fresh Christmas tree is overrated. My best memories are going to the Dairy Queen lot and picking out the first one that looked good. On the way home, my dad would always declare, “This is the best Christmas tree ever!”

3. Holiday Games With the Aunts, Uncles, & Cousins. For years, we played a Mad-Libs version of “The Night Before Christmas” in which people were asked to write down words that were inserted into the story. Also, “The Twelve Days of Christmas” sing-a-long in which people were divided into groups and assigned one of the 12 “gifts” to warble at the appropriate time. “Five golden rings” was always the killer.

4. Making Cookies With Mom. A yearly tradition that involved rolling out the dough, cutting the shapes (Santa, reindeer, Christmas tree, star, etc.), baking, decorating (with frosting!), and eating. Loved that raw dough.

5. Bringing Advent Home. Lighting the candles and taking turns reading from the Advent book in our living room. Painful. Guess my mom and dad thought we weren’t listening at church.

6. Stocking Stuffers. Among other things, Santa always brought us underwear, candy canes, and an orange (never eaten).

7. Low-Key Christmas Eve Service. A quiet, come-as-you want, early evening meditative service at First United Methodist Church-Normal with music and candles. Back home in time to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” before heading to bed.

8. Christmas Camp. The year we met my mom’s side of the family at some church-owned campground in Indiana. Cooked food together, tromped through the snow-covered woods, played games, and slept in bad bunk beds waiting for Santa to come on Christmas Eve.

9. Did She Really Say That? One year after Grandma Gove opened her present at our family holiday gift exchange, my cousin Mary Kay blurted out loud, “Is that a vibrator?”

10. Candlelight Service. Prior to Christmas Eve, a music and caroling service at First United Methodist Church-Normal that culminated in passing the flame to one another to light individual candles while singing “Silent Night.” Sometimes too long, but always worth it.

My Dad The Cubs Fan

2010-12-08T18:39:00.000-08:00

The following is a letter my dad recently wrote to the Cubs organization to schedule a day for him to throw out the first pitch at a ballgame.

When I am thinking about how much fun it will be for me to throw out the first pitch (for the first time) at a Cubs game, I am motivated to recall some other “first times” for me as a Cubs fan.

in the summer of 1941, with not even a dream about the following December 7th, I went to visit my friend Phil, who lived down the road from our country house near Weldon, Illinois. As a 7 year old, I had never been more than 50 miles away from my home, and was pretty green about the world.

To my surprise, Phil had a picture of this baseball team he called the Chicago Cubs, and, lo and behold, he was listening to them play baseball on the radio. He knew all the player’s names, and he was cheering wildly for guys named Bill Nickolson, Phil Cavarretta, Stan Hack, Peanuts Lowery, and a little guy, named Dom Dallessandro. I liked him and Cavarretta because they were left-handed- just like me. It was the first time I had ever heard the Cubs play, but by no means the last.

We had an old battery radio, which was basically only used to listen to the WLS Barn Dance on Saturday night, and possibly to Jack Armstrong and Lum and Abner during the week- if we did our chores.

Even though the battery wore down quick, I convinced my Dad to let me listen to the Cubs, and a lifetime of being a fan began.

The first time I went to a real Cubs game was on July 1, 1948, when I was 14 years old. The father and mother of another friend of mine--Terry--who were more worldly than my parents, invited me to go to Chicago with them and actually see a Cubs game. The only catch was that they three of them were all Cardinal fans, so I had to cheer for the Cubs on my own.

The Cardinals were ahead 3-1 with two outs in the bottom of the seventh, with Hal Jeffcoat and Eddie Waitkus on base. Andy Pafko came up and hit a home run over the centerfield wall, putting the Cubs ahead to stay, 4-3. Needless to say, this experience did it--I have been a Cubs fan ever since!

It seems fitting to thank the Cubs Organization, and all the managers and players over the years, for all the fun and enjoyment they have worked so hard to provide for fans like me.

And of course, in the true Cubs fan spirit of a 76 year old guy, I fully
expect the Cubs to win the World Series in my lifetime!

Black Robbers (A True Story)

2010-11-24T11:52:00.000-08:00

Supposedly this story was told to David Letterman on one of his recent shows. I don't know if it's true or not, but I thought it was funny.

On a recent weekend in Atlantic City , a woman won a bucketful of quarters at a slot machine. She took a break from the slots for dinner with her husband in the hotel dining room. But first she wanted to stash the quarters in her room.  "I'll be right back and we'll go to eat" she told her husband and carried the coin-laden bucket to the elevator. As she was about to walk into the elevator she noticed two men already aboard. Both were black. One of them was very tall and had an intimidating figure.

The woman froze. Her first thought was: "These two are going to rob me." Her next thought was: "Don't be a bigot; they look like perfectly nice gentlemen." But racial stereotypes are powerful, and fear immobilized her.  Avoiding eye contact, she turned around stiffly and faced the elevator doors as they closed. A second passed, and then another second, and then another. Her fear increased! The elevator didn't move. Panic consumed her. "My God," she thought. "I'm trapped and about to be robbed!"

Her heart plummeted. Perspiration poured from every pore. Then one of the men said, "Hit the floor." Instinct told her to do what they told her.  The bucket of quarters flew upwards as she threw out her arms and collapsed on the elevator floor. A shower of coins rained down on her.  "Take my money and spare me," she prayed.  More seconds passed. She heard one of the men say politely, 'Ma'am, if you'll just tell us what floor you're going to, we'll push the button. The one who said it had a little trouble getting the words out. He was trying mightily to hold in a belly laugh.

The woman lifted her head and looked up at the two men. They reached down to help her up.   Confused, she struggled to her feet. "When I told my friend here to hit the floor," said the average sized one. "I meant that he should hit the elevator button for our floor. I didn't mean for you to hit the floor, ma'am." He spoke genially. He bit his lip. It was obvious he was having a hard time not laughing.

The woman thought,"My God, what a spectacle I've made of myself." She was too humiliated to speak. The three of them gathered up the strewn quarters and refilled her bucket. When the elevator arrived at her floor they then insisted on walking her to her room. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet, and they were afraid she might not make it down the corridor.   At her door, they bid her a good evening.

As she slipped into her room she could hear them roaring with laughter as they walked back to the elevator. The woman brushed herself off. She pulled herself together and went downstairs for dinner with her husband.  The next morning flowers were delivered to her room; a dozen roses. Attached to EACH rose was a crisp one hundred-dollar bill. The card said, "Thanks for the best laugh we've had in years."

It was signed by Michael Jordan and Eddie Murphy.

There's a Fungus Among Us

2010-10-31T11:47:00.000-07:00

The other day my dad had his annual physical and reported to my sister, brother, and I that all was well, except for a nodule on his lung that the doctor thought was probably a fungus.

I promptly emailed him back -- copying my siblings -- writing that hopefully it was nothing more than a fungus and then he could say there's a "fungus among us." Both my siblings had the exact same thought as I when they read his email -- because that saying was something Dad blurted out a lot when we were kids.

So, now all we have to do is hear the word "fungus," and we immediately think of that quirky little saying. It's part of our family DNA.

Besides saying "There's a fungus among us and malaria in the area," when people appeared to be sick, my dad also liked to say "Off like a dirty shirt!" whenever we were leaving for somewhere. Or, "Off like a herd of turtles to the Shell Station" when going to the gas station.

I don't know where my dad got those sayings -- maybe they were passed along to him by his mother or father. But I do know that I've got to start saying them to my son so we can preserve the family DNA.

Armed and Dangerous With a Gavel & Nail Clippers

2010-10-16T11:13:00.000-07:00

The other day I had to fly to Boston for a board meeting. I was going to carry my bag on, when I realized that I had to bring the ceremonial gavel that we use for our meetings.

Would a gavel make it through security, I wondered? Although it is made of wood, it looks like a hammer. I could probably hurt someone if I hit them hard enough in the head with it.

But could I overcome a flight attendant and hijack an airplane with a gavel? Most likely not. However, the TSA used to think that nail clippers were dangerous, and you just never know...

So, to avoid any potential hassle or, God forbid, having to throw the gavel away in the security line trash bin, I decided to check my bag and tried to remember when we didn't have to think about such things.

Love of the Bean

2010-10-10T17:33:00.000-07:00

My family loves chili. I give credit for that to my dad, who, when we were kids would always order chili when we went to Steak 'n Shake. In fact, I think the reason we went to Steak 'n Shake was so my dad could have chili.

About 16 years ago, my brother decided to start a chili cook-off tailgate for the football games when Northwestern played Illinois in Evanston. Being a graduate of both schools and sharing my dad's love for chili, he thought it was a fitting way to celebrate the rivalry.

The idea was that people who wanted to could bring chili to the tailgate. Everyone would taste all the chilis and then vote for the one they liked best. The winner got a prize.

My brother and his family moved to Seattle a while back, but my husband and I still carry on the chili cook-off tradition. We don't always do it for the NU-Illinois game (this year it is at Wrigley Field!), but choose a home game.

Chili is best eaten outdoors when it's really cold. It was almost 80 degrees yesterday in Evanston for the chili cook-off this year. The chili die-hards in my family and circle of friends came with their best recipes or ones they'd found on the Internet (including Obama's recipe) and we all tasted and voted. Obama didn't win this time.

The thing about chili is that no one person has the same tastes when it comes to this chunky stew. Some like tomato-ey chili. Others like beany chili or spicy chili. And many like meaty chili. Some don't like meat at all. So no one usually wins the chili cook-off two years in a row.

One year my dad actually used Steak 'n Shake chili in his "homemade" concoction. It won. So go figure.

Click here for one of my favorite recipes -- the "All American Chili" from Cooking Light.

Some Shakespearian Moments from My Childhood...

2010-09-18T14:14:00.000-07:00

...Or famous quotes from Hamlet that my brother Eric and I recall our father saying.

Scene 1:
(boy is scooping dog poop off the garage floor with a rusty snow shovel)

Dad: Eric! What are you doing?

Eric: Hoisting with my own petard!

Dad: Alas. Poor Eric!

Eric: Though this be madness, yet there is method in it

Scene 2
(girl is mowing the lawn on a riding mower)

Dad: Sara. Don't go over the railroad ties! (loud motor sounds)

Sara: What? To be or not to be, that is the question.

Dad: The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Sara: (drives by pile of dog poop) O, woe is me; To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

Dad: Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?

Sara: (goes over edge of railroad ties while turning the wheel the opposite way) AHHHHH.

Fool Me Once

2010-08-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

A while back, Richard and I gave my parents a thin metal sculpture of a heron that I found at a garden shop in Sausalito, CA. We thought it would be perfect for their house on Lake Bloomington.

They stuck the heron in the ground by the water overlooking a small cove. You could see it from the road by their house, as well as from the water.

It looked so real that people cruising by in their boats would point and take pictures of it. The first time their neighbor saw it, she called my dad all excited.

"There's a heron in your yard," she gushed, laughing when Dad told her it wasn't real.

Even the real herons on the lake thought it was one of them. They would periodically come and sit on the pontoon boat near the fake heron trying to make friends.

Dad got quite a kick out of people and birds being fooled by the metal heron.

Recently, after my parents finally sold their lake house, Dad moved the metal heron to the yard at his new townhouse, which sits at the edge of a golf course. One of his neighbors got all excited and started taking pictures of it.

"You dodo, that's not a real bird," one neighbor told another.

"More fun with the heron!" Dad wrote to me in an email.

I was worried that Mom and Dad would leave the metal heron at the lake house, because he seemed so at home there. But he looks pretty good sitting up on the hill overlooking the golf course (pictured above). Maybe the geese will try to make friends with him and the golfers will take pictures.

Carma

2010-08-03T20:38:00.000-07:00

There’s a unique connection between men and their cars. It’s a fascination that starts at a young age and continues forever.

My husband Richard has had a whole garage full of interesting cars – from an Aston Martin that he crashed on a mountaintop road to a VW Beetle that he pained red, white, and blue and drove in the Evanston 4th of July Parade. When I met him more than 26 years ago, he had a sporty black Toyota Supra.

His latest fun car is red 1973 Jeep CJ7. He bought it about 10 years ago from a teenage kid who’d sooped it up with big tires. It has a roll bar, but no top, no doors, no headrests, and only lap belts.

“I drove one of those things in the war,” our then 80-year old neighbor Bud said the first time he saw it.

Richard took off the big tires and took out the back seat and he cruises around town in the warm months – when it’s not raining -- with our dog Cody.

“Let’s go for a ride in the Jeep,” he said to me the other day. I only ride in it occasionally because in my heart I really think it is a Death Car. But it was a beautiful summer day and I was thinking it would be nice to take a drive along Lake Michigan.

“Okay,” I said, wondering if he had a destination in mind.
He wanted to drive on the highway. Go fast and feel the wind in his hair. So that’s what we did.

I have a lot more hair than him, so it blew like crazy as we speeded down the Edens Expressway, passing semis and SUVs – me gripping the side with white knuckles. We got off at an exit, turned around, and went back.

“Wasn’t that fun?” Richard asked when we arrived home.

“Sort of,” I said.

As you can imagine, Wesley (pictured), our son also wants to drive the Jeep. And although I know any parent in their right mind would not let a 16-year old boy drive a Death Car, we have let him drive it to short destinations. I guess when you think about it, the cars I rode around in when I was a kid -- with no seat belts or airbags -- were Death Cars, too.

We have three drivers and three cars, but one of them we can only drive in warm weather when it’s not raining. This scenario sort of works in the warm months, but really falls apart when it gets cold – the months when Wes has to get up at 5:30 a.m. to go to swim practice. So, I tried to get Richard to get rid of the Jeep.

“You can’t make me sell my fun car!” he pleaded.

Nope, I can’t. So, for now, we’re coping. But I see a fourth car in our future.

Top 10 List of What Makes Coon's Unique

2010-07-24T12:48:00.000-07:00

Every July, my family goes to a resort in Northern Wisconsin called Coon's Franklin Lodge. We've been doing this since 1972, when I was 12 years old. We just finished our 38th year at Coon's this past week.

I'm going to write a longer piece about Coon's as part of my memoirs, but in the meantime, here's my Top 10 List of What Makes Coon's Unique:

10. A lake with clear, refreshing water and very little boat traffic.
9. The Coon family -- on its 4th generation of owning & operating the resort.
8. Cabin girls, who make the beds and bring fresh towels every day.
7. No television or telephones, except in the Lodge.
6. Loons, eagles, and leeches.
5. Cleaning up and dressing for dinner.
4. Not having to cook -- being served three meals a day in a dining room.
3. Tennis at the woods courts.
2. Sandbars.
1. Friends and family coming together for the same week every year.

Anybody have anything to add?

Things I Learned From My Dad

2010-06-20T18:24:00.000-07:00

Shoot a basketball like a guy.

Be gracious under pressure.

Catch and throw a baseball.

Be an optimist rather than a pessimist.

Love of cats.

Drive a stick shift.

Math.

You can get mad, but don't stay mad.

Humility.

Be good to your mother.

Golf.

Work hard, but play harder.

Generosity.

It's good to laugh.

There's always two sides to every story.

God IS in the details.

The Horse Barn

2010-06-13T17:06:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, I had a horse. I think one of the main reasons my parents agreed to get one is because a new riding stable had just opened about two miles down the road from our house. Here's an excerpt from a longer piece I'm writing about the barn:

The barn was down a gravel road out past the cornfields at the edge of Normal -- the town where I lived in Central Illinois that was a twin city to Bloomington. It was a big grey metal structure that sort of looked like a large tool shed. A farmer had built the barn for his daughter on a piece of his land.

Looking at it from the front, you could see two huge doors that opened on the left and right to reveal two corridors with 20 flanking stalls. A small door in the middle let people into the barn when the large doors were closed. In-between the stall corridors, there was an indoor arena and two tack rooms – one for the English riders and one for the Western riders.

It had dirt floors and smelled like horse manure, fresh sawdust, and leather polish. Dust kicked up from horses plodding around the arena regularly covered everything in the barn. A radio sitting on a shelf near the arena was perpetually tuned to WLS, blaring out Top 40 tunes – unless someone changed it to the country and western station, which not very many of us at the barn liked. There was another arena outdoors and a large pasture with long grass out front. In the back were corn and bean fields.

“Sit up straight,” my instructor Kathy commanded, as I struggled with my first Western riding lessons in the outdoor arena that first summer. “Point your heels down and keep your head up.”

I quickly learned how to handle Chubby. He was a 7-year old quarter horse gelding with an easy gait that was the perfect mount for a 13-year old girl. He wasn’t much in the looks department – a plain brown horse who had rubbed out a bare spot on his tail. But he had a quirky, gentle personality and he and I got along just fine. Chubby and the barn soon became the focus of my life.

He liked to eat his blankets and would freak out periodically when being loaded into a horse trailer. And he never liked it when I walked him away from the barn. He was okay to be put in a horse trailer and driven away, but to walk down the road was a different story. He’d whinny and get all nervous. But, like all horses, he could be subdued by putting a twitch on his lip – a loop of rope fixed to the end of a handle that acted as sort of a clamp. It didn’t hurt them, but it sure scared them into submission

Chasing the Squirrel

2010-04-25T14:09:00.001-07:00

The other day I let my 12-year old dog, Cody, out the back door into the yard and watched him make a beeline for a squirrel who was scampering around the base of our crab apple tree.

Cody is supposed to be a bird dog, but he could care less about birds. It's squirrels he's after.

It occurred to me as I watched him take a flying leap off our back porch and tear after the squirrel that we could all learn a lesson from Cody. Because even though he never has actually caught a squirrel, he still tries as hard as he can to get one every time he sees one.

He's come close a couple of times, but the squirrels always manage to shoot up the nearest tree and Cody is left looking around the base wondering what happened to them. He doesn't seem to know that they go up the tree. Or maybe he doesn't care.

I suppose we're all chasing squirrels in one way or another. And although victory is always sweet, the thrill we get while chasing our squirrels is also rewarding. If you happen to be an old dog, the fact that you're still even chasing squirrels makes it even better.

Having Fun at Rummagefest

2010-04-18T15:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I worked at my church's annual Rummagefest. I was assigned to the Clothing & Accessories Room, which is a big room with racks of hanging clothing and tables of piled clothing. Also, boxes of shoes, socks, belts, hats, handbags. And tables with jewelry and sunglasses.

My job was to make sure no one left the room without getting their items priced. At first, I just spoke to people when they spoke to me, watching over them like a sullen security guard. Then, about halfway through my shift, in the spirit of the "Gate Guys" who I met last week at the Y National Swim Meet, I decided to start having some fun.

I put a white cowboy hat on my head, donned some goofy sunglasses, and hung a hanger to my apron. When people entered the room, I'd greet them with, "Welcome to the Clothing and Accessories Room! We have some great stuff here. Treasures everywhere!"

Some people just ignored me. Others smiled. Some even said, "Nice glasses" -- to which I'd respond, "Do you want to buy them?"

The kids were the best -- looking at me like I was a crazy person. Mostly when I asked them if they liked my glasses or hat, they'd say "no." But one girl towards the end of my shift actually said "yes," and when I asked her if she wanted to buy them, she said "yes." So I sold the goofy glasses!

In the end, it was a much richer experience for me -- and I hope also for those who came to the Clothing Room at Rummagefest. Amazing what a difference being friendly and fun can make.

Last Day at Y Nationals

2010-04-10T17:54:00.000-07:00

Today Wes swam the 100 breast, which I missed because I was in the Swimming Hall of Fame looking at the wax figures of Olympic swimmers Mark Spitz and Johnny Weismiller (better known as the guy who played Tarzan).

I was told the 100 breast wouldn't start until 10:15, but when I left the Hall to go to the spectator stands at 10:08, they were already on Heat 14 of the 100 breast. Wes was in Heat 10.

I was going to lie to him and tell him I saw his race, but I couldn't do it. And I really enjoyed the Swimming Hall of Fame. It has everything you ever wanted to know about swimming, diving, water polo, and synchronized swimming.

For example, it was only after 1,000 women and girls drowned in New York because they were wearing these dress-like suits for swimming (because God forbid, they couldn't show their legs or breasts) that society accepted a different garb for females. Overall, it was fascinating to see the evolution of swim suits in the past 100 years.

And I have to admit, I couldn't pry myself away from watching the video of 2009 400 Relay where Jason Lezak overtakes the world record holder in the final leg to win the race. In fact, I watched it three times. It still gives me chills.

Most swimmers know Kiefer as the swim shop that sells suits and aquatic gear. But Adolph Kiefer won a backstroke medal at that 1936 Olympics and went on to found his company in Chicago. He was responsible for inventing the nylon tank suit in 1948, as well as numerous other swimming innovations. His picture and medals are also in the Hall.

I could go on, but I'd encourage anyone who is ever in Ft. Lauderdale to visit the Swimming Hall of Fame. I guarantee that you'll find it fascinating, no matter what your sport.

More from the Y National Swim Meet

2010-04-09T14:37:00.001-07:00

Sitting in the hot, humid Florida sun for 4-5 hours a day really makes you tired. This Y meet is so cool, though. 1,675 swimmers from all over the country. Who knew New Jersey was such a swimming powerhouse?

Wes is here with four other girls (now two) from our Y. So far, he's dropped times in all his events, but one. He's really focused and swimming well. I hope this inspires him to work harder to get to finals some day here. But, the kid works pretty hard as it is...

The girls have dropped times as well. Allison prepared and read the opening day devotion, which was pretty cool. Evan is swimming good, and even did a time trial in the 400 IM today. Honore and Maddy did as well as could be expected in the medley relay and Honore did a couple of time trial events.

Time trials are interesting. These to give the kids who didn't make the Y National cut time another chance at qualifying, and it's what is great about Y swimming. There were 25 heats of the 400 IM girls time trial today. Only 24 of them have a chance at making finals next year, but what the heck? If you're here, you gotta try.

Congrats to Konner Scott from Leaning Tower Y in Niles, IL, and a long-time rival of Wesley's in the backstroke and IM. He made B and C finals in the 100 and 200 free.

Tomorrow I am going to go to the Swimming Hall of Fame. I hear there is a wax figure of Mark Spitz that is missing it's middle finger on one hand. What is that about?

Observations from the Y National Swim Meet

2010-04-08T14:27:00.000-07:00

I'm in Ft. Lauderdale this week watching my son Wes and 1,674 other girls and boys compete in the YMCA National Short Course Swim Meet.

The meet takes place at an Olympic-sized outdoor pool that was built in the 1920s. It's so old that they don't open part of the spectator seating because it is not structurally sound. That means seating is at a premium, but they have these "Gate Guys" at every entrance who playfully direct people to and from the bleachers, kidding and joking with them the whole time. It's a brilliant strategy...people who would normally be pissed off are diffused because of the congeniality of the Gate Guys.

The first few times I heard the announcer say something about the Gate Guys, I thought he was saying the "Gay Guys." Funny how that seems appropriate for a YMCA meet where the signature song is one by the Village People.

The pool is right next to the International Swimming Hall of Fame (which I've yet to visit) that has pictures of Johnny Weismiller and Esther Williams on the outside. How cool is that? Although I have to admit, I never thought of Esther Williams as a swimmer. Didn't she do some form of water ballet for the movies?

On Wednesday night for the Opening Ceremonies, the theme was Hollywood. There was a parade of athletes and many creative costumes. My personal favorites were the boys dressed as Elvis, girls as Marilyn, and boys with grass skirts and coconut boobs. There were also many boys in Speedos, bow ties, and nothing else. You gotta hand it to swimmers -- they have no hang ups about their bodies.

Who's To Know?

2010-04-03T13:02:00.000-07:00

I drink decaf coffee. Gave up having that jolt in the morning about 20 years ago. In fact, I don’t drink anything with caffeine in it. I eat chocolate, but that’s another story. But, when I order decaf coffee in a restaurant, how can I be sure that I’m really getting decaf?

Oh sure, they have those coffee pots with the orange tops that are supposed to signal that you’re getting decaf. Who came up with that? What if someone makes regular coffee and puts it in the decaf pot? I'm sure it happens all the time.

One of my friends told me his father asks the waiters from whom he orders decaf coffee from after dinner for their telephone numbers, That way, if they gave him regular coffee and he can’t sleep, he can call them and wake them up to share in his misery.

Makes you wonder how many things in this world aren’t what they say they are.

Like how about those rolling plastic sanitary toilet seat covers they have at O'Hare Airport? (Men – I’m not sure you know what I’m taking about; this may just be a woman thing.) You go in the stall and wave your hand in front of a sensor and the plastic cover on the seat rotates to the next spot. It makes a screechy noise so you know it’s really working.

But do they ever change the plastic? What if the same plastic has been rotating around the seat forever and it’s really not all that sanitary? Who’s to know?

And do you really believe that making an online purchase using your credit card is safe? Most websites have explanations like “Why Making Online Purchases Using a Credit Card is Safe.” But are they telling the truth?

Actually, I make a lot of online purchases using my credit card and have never experienced theft. It’s only happened after I gave my credit card to a waiter in a restaurant.

And what about our parents? When we’re little, they tell us about things like Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. In fact, they invent elaborate stories – lies even -- to keep us believing in them as long as they can. “Why are there so many Santas?” we ask. “Well,” they lie to us, “Santa has many helpers because he can’t be everywhere at once.” Then we grow up and tell the same lies to our own children.

Sick Days

2010-02-24T19:04:00.001-08:00

I've just spent the last three days sick in bed with a cold and mild case of the flu. It's been awhile since I've felt bad enough to not get out of bed and drag myself to my office. I haven't even exercised in a week, which really feels strange for someone who hardly goes a day without power walking, playing tennis, or doing strength training.

When I was a kid, being sick meant you got to stay home from school and watch TV. Shows I remember watching were "I Love Lucy," "The Andy Griffith Show," "The Dick Van Dyke Show," "The Price is Right," and the "10,000 Pyramid." My mom would feed me Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and slather Vicks Vapo Rub on my throat at night.

I didn't watch alot of TV when I was under the weather this week -- a little bit of the Olympics, a bad movie "On Demand," and a couple of shows on my DVR. Mostly, I slept and read. Didn't really even look at email or check Facebook. Maybe I needed to disconnect and recharge. I thought about putting Vicks Vapo Rub on my throat, but decided against it. I ate some Campbell's Tomato Soup (low salt) and indulged in comfort food like macaroni and cheese and vanilla ice cream with chocolate chips.

In the end, though, it still sucks to be sick.

Hitting the Slopes

2010-02-07T11:11:00.000-08:00

Once again, I probably won't get to go snow skiing this winter. Too many other things going on right now -- plus, it doesn't make sense for my family to go because my son Wes is a serious swimmer and it would be stupid for him to risk getting hurt during swim season. But with the winter Olympics upon us and all the snow that's just been dumped on the East Coast, I'm getting the itch.

I'm not a great skier, but I always have fun and enjoy it when I do. Growing up in flat Central Illinois with non-skiing parents did not give me much opportunity to ski as a kid. The first opportunity I got to snow ski was when I was a high school senior and one of my friend’s parents organized a day trip to Devil's Head in Wisconsin. I spent a good deal of time that day on the bunny slope trying to master the tow rope and learning how to stop without going into the creek. Why anybody would put a creek at the end of the bunny slope is still a mystery to me. Most of what I remember about that first time is how I felt the next day. Every muscle in my body ached, and my shins throbbed.

So began my snow skiing career. I continued to frequent the short, icy hills of Wisconsin and Michigan throughout my college years and even went on a trip to Steamboat Springs, CO. It was a bad year for snow that year in Steamboat, and only the top of the mountain was open. The only way to get down was to ski down a steep, difficult run that was half mud, half snow. I was scared and nervous the first day I did this, and after that, I opted to take the chair lift down like the wimp I was.

Then I married a man who was an experienced skier. Richard had spent a whole year being a ski bum in Steamboat after graduating from college. Unlike me, he skied with perfect form and grace. The first few times we skied together, he tried to push me to do more on the slopes. But I know my limitations. I am a mediocre skier, not interested in moguls or black diamond runs. I’m lucky if I can keep my skis together and carve a turn. But I am athletic, so I can fake it pretty well.

A few years ago when Wes was 11, we went on a ski trip to Breckenridge, CO. It was Wesley's first ski trip out west, and our first since before he was born. I had a new pair of parabolic skis, but Richard insisted on using his 20-year old equipment. We rented skis for Wes, plus a helmet. I felt a tad guilty not renting a helmet for myself, but Richard would have nothing to do with it. “Don’t need no helmet,” he growled.

We did a few runs – Wes and Richard racing down the hill, with me bringing up the rear as a slower, more cautious skier. On about the third run down I came upon Richard with blood dripping from the side of his face. Seems he had run into a tree branch near the edge of the run and scraped his ear. So, down to the health clinic we went to get him patched up. About $800 later and after a lecture from the doctor about wearing a helmet, Richard appeared and said to me, “Let’s go have lunch, rent helmets, and then go out again.” So we did.

About the third run of the afternoon, I came upon Richard again. This time, he was sprawled on the ground, with his arm at an awkward angle. “I’m not okay,” he said to me. He had caught an edge and fallen on his shoulder -- right under a chair lift, so all these people were gawking at him, yelling, “Are you okay? Do you want us to get the ski patrol?” The ski patrol came with a stretcher and snowmobile, and took him back down to the clinic. About $1,200 later, he was released, diagnosed with a dislocated shoulder. Arm in a sling, his ski trip was over and our first day on the slopes was done.

We went back to our condo and decided to order pizza for dinner. Things seemed to be under control when all of the sudden, Wes started screaming in pain, saying he was going to throw up. Suspecting altitude sickness, we called the hotel concierge, who referred us to a mobile altitude physician. We called this guy and he told us we needed to get Wes on oxygen right away or he wouldn’t recover to enjoy any of the rest of the trip. The mobile altitude doc showed up at 10 p.m. dressed in ski clothes. He gave Wes a shot, hooked him up to an oxygen tank, and soon he was sleeping. About $500 later, the doc left, and we went to bed. Wes woke up the next morning and said, “I feel fine, let’s go skiing.”

He and I skied the next two days together -- him racing down the hill, waiting for me at the bottom while I more cautiously made my way down. We managed to survive the rest of the trip without any more injuries or sickness. In the end, our medical bills probably cost more than the whole trip, but the experience was priceless.

Excuse Me, Can I Have Your Pretzels?

2010-01-17T14:16:00.000-08:00

I travel for business about once or twice a month. Usually I don't talk to the people sitting next to me because I like to use the time to work or catch up on my reading.

But last week was one of those times that I did have a conversation with the person next to me and was glad that I did. I was sitting in an aisle seat United's Economy Plus section and most of the middle seats in that section were still empty as the plane from Chicago to Dallas was boarding. There was a young girl with a huge plastic bag of clothes stuck under the seat in front of her in the window seat -- I suspected the bag she'd checked had been overweight and to save money she had emptied part of it. "Good," I was thinking to myself, "We'll have a little more room to spread out."

At the last minute, an older slightly overweight gentleman loaded down with two bags huffed and puffed his way onto the plane, bumping everyone as he tried to locate his seat, which, of course, was the middle seat right next to me. He squeezed himself into the seat and the plane took off.

I spent the first half of the flight reading the paper. When the flight attendants offered snack boxes for purchase, I bought one. Plastic bag girl also wanted a snack box, but didn't have a credit card, so the man in the middle offered to buy it for her. "That's nice," I thought. "A random act of kindness." As she and I were sharing the items in our snack boxes that we didn't want with the man in the middle, he started talking to me.

At first he talked about his grandkids and all the traveling he and his wife were doing. They'd been to just about every place that my parents' had been to in the last 10 years -- China, South America, India, etc. Then he said something about playing in a tennis tournament and I told him that I was a tennis player. And that's when the conversation turned interesting.

He had played for Michigan and had been involved in the United States Tennis Association for some 40 years. We talked about the USTA's league program and I shared that I played on several competitive teams. He said he was piloting a new rating system to better quantify an individual's ability and was hoping to get the USTA to accept it. We both agreed that the current rating system is very arbitrary and creates a lot of problems.

He did most of the talking and I most of the listening, but it was a fascinating conversation -- one that I never would have had if I'd just stuck with my normal routine of working on the plane. It strikes me that every day we make decisions like this that affect our lives in big or small ways.

Interesting Facts About My Family

2010-01-03T19:32:00.000-08:00

My paternal great-great-great grandfather, Wolfgang Odoerfer, came to the U.S. as a Hessian soldier and fought for the British during the American Revolutionary War. He was captured and defected to the American Army.

My Aunt Jane McCraw was President of the Johnny Cash Fan Club.

My maternal grandfather, Sabin Gove, worked on the line in a Caterpillar tractor factory.

My cousin, Nancy Casey, started Roger Ebert’s Overlooked Film Festival (Ebertfest) at the University of Illinois.

My father, Phares O’Daffer, was drafted into the Army during the Korean War, but only served three months because the space race had started and all math and science majors were discharged.

My mother, Harriet Gove O’Daffer, was a premature baby, weighing about 4 lbs. when she was born.

My son, Wesley Marberry, holds 24 individual swim team records at the McGaw YMCA in Evanston.

My paternal grandfather, Ray O’Daffer, died in a farm accident involving a post-hole digger when my father was 15 years old.

Descendants of my paternal great-grand parents, Emmett and Alice Gray, have been holding an annual family reunion in August for 86 years.

My mother was elected to the School Board for Unit 5 in Normal, IL, where she served for several terms, including one as President.

A Horse Tale

2009-12-06T15:50:00.001-08:00

Editor's note: This is another from my personal essay series that I recently re-wrote for my writing class.

The fall that I was to turn 13, my mom and dad finally agreed to buy me a horse. “Save up $30,” my dad told me, “and then we’ll go buy you a horse.”

Those words were magic to my adolescent ears. To have a horse of my own had been my dream for years. I had read every horse book I could get my hands on, seen every horse movie, and collected and played with Breyer horse models in my room for hours on end. But the closest I’d been to a real horse were the ones at the Lost Valley dude ranch where my family vacationed one summer in Colorado, others on occasional campground trail rides, and the old pony Jackie at my grandparents’ farm.

I actually thought $30 would buy a horse. So I mowed the lawn, babysat, and did other odd jobs to save money. Finally, one day, I went to my dad and said, “I’ve got $30. Now let’s go buy a horse.”

Today, most people do a lot of research before they go out and purchase anything as significant as a horse. But the Internet didn’t exist then and my dad and I thought we knew everything there was to know about buying and owning a horse. After all, he had grown up on a farm and I was well read on horses and good around animals. As luck would have it, there was a brand-new stable barn a couple of miles down the road from our house where we could keep my horse. So, we decided that the best thing to do was to buy a young horse so I could raise and train it myself. My dad looked in the paper and found a horse breeder who had some purebred American Standard fillies for sale not far from where we lived.

My dad and I went to the breeder’s farm and picked out a filly, which he purchased for $2,000. In 1972, that was a lot of money for a horse. American Standard horses are typically raised to be racehorses -- those that pull buggies around the track. The breeder, sensing a sucker sale, did not have the integrity to explain to my dad that this filly might not be the best first horse for a young girl. He agreed to deliver her to the stable barn near our house after the check cleared.

The barn had been built by a local farmer, Mr. Hinthorn, for his daughter Kathy to operate. Kathy was an experienced horsewoman who was about 20 years old. She was in charge of this brand new 40-stall barn with an indoor arena. Kathy was a practical, serious, shy young woman with a dry sense of humor. When we arrived at the barn to accept the delivery of my new horse, she took one look at the skittish little filly and I, and pulled my dad aside for a talk. She convinced him that raising a filly was not the right path for an inexperienced 13-year old girl.

The breeder agreed to take the filly back, but not at the full purchase price. He was to be the first of many unscrupulous horse traders we came across in this business. Kathy had a friend, Dave Wilson, who had a six-year-old quarter horse for sale that she thought would make a good first horse for me. Quarter horses, which get their name because they can run faster than any other horse for a quarter of a mile, are the ranch workhorses; a versatile breed with muscular chests and flanks. My dad purchased Illini Chubby for $1,000 and engaged Kathy to give me riding lessons. We used my $30 to buy a halter, lead, and grooming equipment.

Chubby was a sorrel, which means he was all one color – a reddish brown. He had no white markings and his mane was the same color as his body hair. He had a tiny scar on his withers from where he had turned himself upside down as a colt in a horse trailer. His dam was Deb’s Chubby and his sire was Illini King Hand, a national Western style show horse champion. Dave had shown Chubby with some success locally, and had trained him well. He was no beauty as horses go, but Chubby had an easy gait to match his easy disposition. He was the perfect horse upon which to learn how to ride.

I took to Western style riding naturally and Kathy was a good teacher. She was patient and firm and also showed me how to take care of Chubby. Not only did I spend hours riding him, but I also spent hours grooming him. The barn became my home away from home and during warm months, would often ride my bike four miles on a dirt road to get there and back. I loved to brush Chubby and give him baths. Now that I think about it, he must have liked it, too – who wouldn’t want a brush massage every day?

Although Chubby was an easy-going horse, he did have a few personality quirks. Sometimes he would refuse to load into the horse trailer, balking at the last minute when being led up to it (hence the reason for the scar I mentioned before). He also had a bad habit of taking off and chewing up the blankets I put on him in the winter. Either he was bored or he just didn’t like the idea of the blanket, but nine times out of ten, it ended up in a wad on the floor of his stall.

I also learned never to turn Chubby out into the dirt-floor arena after I had brushed and/or bathed him, because one of his favorite things to do was to roll on his back in the dirt. He could roll all the way over, too -- which my Grandpa Willie always said was a sign of a good horse. Chubby also couldn’t stand to walk out of sight of the barn. In a horse trailer, he was okay, but the few times I tried to walk down the road with him, he whinnied and cried the whole time until we returned.

Soon after my lessons began, Kathy encouraged my dad to let me compete in horse shows. The first show I participated in was at the University of Illinois in Champaign. It was a two-day show, the first of which was for registered quarter horses only, which meant that the competition was much stronger. Chubby and I were in the 13 and under Western Equitation event, where you are judged on how you ride the horse. The judge makes all of the riders and horses walk, trot, and canter around the arena. Then, he brings them into the center of the arena and makes each horse and rider back up – one at a time. Sometimes, the judge also makes the riders and horses do another exercise, like a figure eight. Then, he stands behind the line of horses and riders and decides who will place first, second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. Chubby and I placed sixth in our first event together.

The next day, we competed in an open horse show at the same arena and took first place in the 13 and under Western Equitation. I was hooked. I joined 4-H Club and Chubby and I competed for the next two or three years in many horse shows with modest success. We went to the Illinois State Fair in Springfield, up to a major show in Northbrook, and even over to one in Carmel, Indiana several times. My parents, and sometimes my older sister Sue and little brother Eric came to watch, but often I just went to the shows with Kathy and her husband Kevin.

There were always other kids I knew at the shows and I quickly became aware of who the competition was. Chubby and I generally did pretty well at open shows, but the registered quarter horse shows were much tougher. There were kids at these shows that who were competing at a national level, with full-time trainers, horses that cost twenty times what Chubby cost, fashionable clothes, and expensive tack. Their parents paid for advertisements in the Quarter Horse Journal – a magazine I read cover to cover every month – and their names were regularly printed in the published show results.

I’m proud to say that Chubby and I got our names printed in the QHJ published show results twice. Every ribbon and trophy that we won required a lot of hard work. Before each show, I spent hours practicing with Chubby -- grooming him and polishing his tack. My dad always made me do extra work around the house to buy things like silver decorations for my saddle or fancy show halters. Probably, if I’d pushed a little harder, I could have gotten my parents to agree to let me go to a national show. But I really didn’t have a good enough horse. So, when Chubby began to go a little lame (as horses are prone to do), we sold him and went off in search of a better horse. I felt that a piece of me left with him when I saw his new owners drive away with him in their horse trailer.

We paid a hefty $5,000 for my next horse, Sur Miss (a.k.a. Missy), but she had nowhere near the heart that Chubby did. Missy was high-strung and difficult and I never had much success with her. Within a year, she, too, went lame and we sold her for a loss at an auction. I had no regrets watching her leave the auction arena. Most likely, I would have been able to persuade my dad to buy another horse that would allow me to compete nationally. But I was ready to move on, to start college in the fall. Since then I have only ridden horses occasionally on trail rides where all they let you do is walk or trot.

I still have dreams about Chubby in my sleep and am grateful that my parents gave me the opportunity to own a horse. Among other things, it taught me responsibility, humility, and that you can have lots fun even if you don’t always win. And, although I finally threw away my horse trophies a few years ago, I still cannot bring myself to give away those Breyer horse models upon which those dreams of owning my own horse were built. Maybe someday I will have a granddaughter or grandson who will love them as much as I did.

©2004, 2009 Sara Marberry

Passport Nazi

2009-11-08T12:05:00.000-08:00

One morning a few years ago, I found myself sitting on the cold, hard, shiny floor of my local post office at 8 a.m. The day before I had realized that my passport had expired and I was scheduled to fly to Toronto to give a presentation (for which I was being paid) to a group of hospital executives.

Of course, I didn’t discover that my passport had expired until 4:45 p.m. the day before, so I was unable to get anyone on the phone that could give me all the right information. After scouring the government website, I determined that I could fly if I could get proof that I had applied for a new passport. And my local post office passport office opened at 8:30 a.m.

Or so I thought. I got there at 8 a.m. so I could be the first in line. Postal carriers were scurrying in and out, gathering the day’s mail for delivery. I got to the passport office door and there glaring at me were several signs stating that the office hours were 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., and to wait HERE to be called.

So, I sat down on the cold hard floor, whipped out my paper and began my wait. This would only work if I could get in and out the door by 10 a.m. to get to the airport on time to make my flight. No problem.

Or so I thought. At 8:30 a.m., a middle aged, medium sized African American woman with a scowl on her face opened the door of the office, peered out at me and said, “Passport application?”

“Yes,” I answered, a tinge of hope in my voice, thinking that maybe she would take me early since I was there sitting on the cold hard floor.

“Office opens at 9,” she stated.

“But the website says you open at 8:30 a.m.,” I pleaded, not wanting to sit on the cold, hard, shiny floor for another half an hour.

“I’ve been trying to get them to change that,” she replied and withdrew into the room, leaving the door ajar.

“Passport Nazi,” I thought, thinking of the “Seinfeld” TV show episode about the “Soup Nazi” in the deli who gave Jerry and his friends a hard time when they tried to order soup.

In the meantime, several other hopeful desperate applicants arrived. I could hear the Passport Nazi in her office shuffling papers and wondered why, if she had anxious customers waiting, she didn’t just start helping them? Surely, there were down times during her day when she could do whatever she was doing now.

But this is the government. A bureaucracy not known for service. And didn’t the Passport Nazi care that, as a tax-paying citizen, I was helping to pay her salary?

Finally, 9 a.m. came. “First person in line,” came the call from within. I scrambled up, entered her office, and explained my situation to the Passport Nazi, only to learn that even if I applied for a passport at this office, it had to be in process in order to get the necessary documentation from the State Department that would allow me to travel to and from Canada without a valid passport. That would take 2-4 days.

The Passport Nazi matter-of-factly told me that even if I went downtown Chicago to the passport office that day, I wouldn’t be able to speed the process up, much less have any hope of flying to Toronto in the next 24 hours. “You need an appointment and they are very busy,” she said, like a true solider of the Third Passport Reich.

Accepting defeat, I decided that since I was there, I’d apply for a new passport anyway. So, I went through the process, paying extra fees to do it in person, have my photo taken by the Passport Nazi right then and there, and get expedited delivery. And who says the government is not a business?

The good news (I guess) is that I thwarted the Passport Nazi and flew to Buffalo that night and then drove to Toronto. Turns out that, back then, you didn't need a passport to cross the border into Canada if you were traveling by car. Now why didn’t she tell me that?

©2009 Sara Marberry

A Little Philosophy from Crash Davis

2009-10-30T19:07:00.000-07:00

In honor of the Baseball World Series (Yankees coach Joe Girardi is a Northwestern grad and Illinois native!), I offer the famous quote from the movie "Bull Durham" uttered by "Crash" Davis played by actor Kevin Costner. (Edited for young readers.)

"Well, I believe in the soul, the [man's sex organ], the [woman's sex organ], the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."

RIP - Patch

2009-10-11T21:06:00.000-07:00

Today, I had to put my beloved cat, Patch, down. She was about 10 years old and had kidney disease. We had spent the past six years giving her meds three times a day and an IV once a day to keep her kidneys functioning. But, the day had come when she just wasn't able to fight it anymore.

Unfortunately, that day came after the day when I had celebrated my 50th B-day year by throwing a disco party for 80 of my closest friends and relatives. The highs and lows of life -- one day you're on top of the world; the next, you're crying your eyes out.

But Patch - or Pitchy-Pooch, as I liked to call her, was a once-of-kind cat. She had such a personality and was one of my best friends. She liked to sleep on my bed -- always on at the foot or sometimes right in between my legs. I loved her and she was part of our family. Always there, always demanding our attention.

She would howl to go outside -- and once there, would prowl the neighborhood looking for chipmonks and birds. She caught plenty, and brought them home to eat. Many a time, I would be working in my office when I would hear her outside meowing. When I'd open the back door, I'd discover that all she wanted to do was to show me her catch.

One summer when I was on a conference call and had the windows open in my office, I heard the sounds of a cat fight outdoors. Not wanting my little Pitch to get hurt, I put my call on mute and ran outside to chase the bad cat away. She came in and I resumed my call -- and no one was the wiser.

Another time, late in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. I answered it and there was this very well dressed man holding Patch in his arms. I said, "Yes?" "Well," he said, "Your cat was out on the walk greeting everyone walking home from the train, and I thought she might not be safe." I thanked him and took Patch from his arms and hugged her.

She also used to follow my dog, Cody, and I on our morning walks. We'd start off at a brisk pace down the street and I'd look back and she'd be trotting along behind us, pretty as you please. I'd shoo her away, and she'd dart into a neighbor's bushes, but I was never sure she wasn't back there tagging along. When we'd get back to the house, she'd be sitting in front.

Another one of her favorite things was to come into my office when I was working. She'd jump on the desk and sit under the desk lamp. When she got tired of that activity, she'd walk across my keyboard. Often, she would meow at my closed door -- which was either a sign that she wanted to go out or get a treat.

Patch was a calico cat -- brown, white, and black. She had a brown spot on her nose that made it look dirty. Three days before she died, she stayed out all night. She must have known it would be her last night on the town. She loved to be outdoors. Rest in peace, my sweet kitty.

Damsels in Distress

2009-09-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

What is it about men and changing flat tires? It may be the last gallant thing that they do for us women (although a man actually opened a door for me yesterday) -- and we should definitely take advantage of it.

I could change a flat tire if I had to, but I really don't like doing it. Once I had a flat tire when I was on my way to play in a tennis tournament in the summer. I was about 10 minutes from my brother-in-law's house, so I called him for help. While I was waiting, I decided to get out of the car and try to at least find the spare tire, jack, etc. I happened to be wearing a short tennis skirt. Within seconds, another man stopped to help me. Now I know that whenever I have a flat tire, all I have to do is put on a short tennis skirt and stand by the side of the road.

Another time, again, on my way to play a tennis match, I got a flat. But I was on the expressway and there was no place to pull over. It was also a winter day with sub-zero temperatures so I couldn't pull the short skirt trick. So, I limped along to the next exit, which also happened to be where the tennis club was. Not wanting to forfeit, I played the match and then called my car-guy friend Mike for help. Of course, my husband could have come to change the tire, but he was working that day.

My friend Debra told me that she and her sister were driving someplace once in her sister's car when they got a flat. They limped into a gas station and some fresh-faced young man changed the flat for them for no charge. He didn't know them from Adam, but rose to the occasion to help damsels in distress.

Perhaps changing tires is fun for men (you know, the tool thing). Or they get some satisfaction from it. Like mowing the lawn. Or maybe it's just that chivalry is not dead -- at least on the road.

Sailing on San Francisco Bay

2009-09-13T13:50:00.000-07:00

Last week, I went sailing on San Francisco Bay, which is one of the most exciting and challenging big-city places to sail a large boat. Why? Because the wind always blows.

It wasn’t my first time on this bay. Years ago, the then president of the organization I work for arranged sailing outings each year in conjunction with our board meeting. He fancied himself a sailor, but was not a master at it by a long shot.

We’d all meet at the Sausalito Marina, where it was usually sunny and warm. If we had more than five people, then we’d rent two boats. I was always on the boat with our fearsome leader. As he would put on his wool hat, gloves, and foul weather gear, some of us would begin to wonder what we were in for. Leaving the marina, we’d gawk at the big boats and the fancy houses on the nearby hills. As we put up the reefed sails and turned off the engine, all seemed good.

But then we’d hit The Slot.

The Slot is the place where the Golden Gate Bridge spans San Francisco and Marin County. And every day, the wind comes howling through there at about 25-30 knots. As soon as you hit The Slot, the boat immediately heels over with the rail dangerously close to the water, leaving the less seaworthy scrambling for the high side of the boat.

This was always the time our fearsome leader would ask me to take the wheel while he went below to break out the chips and salsa and put on more foul weather gear. Also at this point, the waves start crashing over the front of the boat, pretty much soaking everyone. Now, mind you, I have plenty of large boat sailing experience, so I can do this. But it still makes me a tad bit nervous.

Once we made it through The Slot and cleaned up the spilled chips and salsa, we’d jibe and head along the San Francisco shoreline and sometimes go under the Bay Bridge. That part was usually pretty uneventful, as the wind is much calmer near the shore.
One time as we were heading back from the Bay Bridge through The Slot toward Angel Island, I was at the helm when one of the passengers suddenly said to me, “Sara, do you see the boat?”

“Yes,” I replied.
“Sara, do you see the boat?” he asked again.
“Yes,” I replied again.
“Do you see the boat?” he asked once more, slightly anxious.
“Yes,” I replied once more, slightly annoyed.
“Then why are you going to hit it!” he yelled.

Startled, I looked under our sail and saw a larger sailboat bearing down on us on a starboard tack. I turned the wheel and missed hitting it by about 10 feet. I had been looking at another boat off to our right. This one, which had the right of way, had been hidden by my boat’s sail. The captain must have thought I was being a jerk and not giving way.

Then one of our board members bought a sailboat, which he kept in Sausalito. He was an excellent sailor who knew exactly what he was doing. This made everyone feel extremely comfortable. People in our group would surreptitiously choose his boat over the one captained by our fearsome leader. But, somehow, I always got stuck on his boat.

The boat I was on the other day was a very seaworthy 40-something ketch captained by a very capable sailor. It had a fixed dodger so we didn’t get wet. We didn’t put up all the sails, so we didn’t heel over too much. My friend and I were asked to wear white soft-soled shoes, so we made a stop at T-J Maxx and got some cheap sneakers. They were so white that we could have used them as beacons in the dark if we got lost.

It was a beautiful day and the wind was howling as we went through The Slot from the Berkeley Marina toward Angel Island. And guess who was at the helm?

©2009 Sara Marberry

Leaving the Lake

2009-09-08T20:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the last Labor Day my family and I will spend at my parents’ house on Lake Bloomington in Central Illinois. Fittingly, it was a beautiful day. Unlike many August months in the past 20 years they have lived there, there had been so much rain this summer that the city had not pumped any water out of the lake. So, it was full, the sky was blue, and the temperature was in the high 70s.

We sat on the dock, swam, watched the boats go by, went tubing and skiing, took a few boat rides, caught some fish, and tried not to think about the fact that this would be the last time we would ever do any of these things in this setting.

My parents are downsizing and moving into town for all the right reasons. They are tired of driving an hour roundtrip to shop, go to church, attend a concert, see their friends, etc. They are tired of the hassle of keeping up a big house and maintaining a lakefront property with boats. And they want to be closer to hospitals and clinics when the time comes that they may need more urgent care.

But I am sad. Sad because the lake house was very special and we all shared such good times together there. Not that we won’t continued to share good times together at my parents’ new place, but it will be different. Sad because the lake house is the only house my parents have lived in since all their grandchildren have been alive. Our kids, like us, look forward to going there because it is fun to be together in a setting where there are so many things to do – not only on the lake and nearby but also inside the house itself. I’m sure it is a big part of what has bonded us as a family.

People have asked my sister, brother, and I why we don’t buy the house and keep it in the family. But the reality is, if my parents didn’t live there, it would not be the same. Plus, it’s a big house that would require year-round upkeep and we’re all too busy to spend much time there. It would be better to preserve our memories and know that we had 20 great years that are now part of the fabric of our lives.

So, it is the end of an era. I know it is sort of cheesy, but thanks, Mom and Dad, for the memories!

Water Tubing

2009-09-02T18:55:00.000-07:00

Whoever decided to drag an inner tube behind a boat was brilliant. It is one of the most fun things you can do as a kid.

But as an adult, tubing is excruciating. I mean, you're being dragged behind a boat going about 30 mph, bouncing up and down with water slamming against your body from all sides. Kinda like a washboard on steroids.

I have all sorts of tubing memories -- cousin Mindy falling off losing her suit bottom; husband Richard flipping our Whaler while pulling some tubers; uncle Ken taking a ride in his 70s; nephew Will tubing the circumference of Trout Lake; our German relative Astrid, a nun, grinning from ear-to-ear on her maiden voyage.

In addition, I have learned how to be a good tubing boat driver. My son actually requests me to pull him. I do this thing called the "Circle of Death," where I drive around in a circle until these huge waves build in the middle and then I cut back to take the tuber over those waves. Often, it is the only way I can dump teenage boys.

What I find ironic is that for the first 7-10 years of his life, I protected my son from all dangers, but when he gets on that tube now, all I want to do is figure out how to dump him off. I'm not really worried about him getting hurt, I just want him to have fun.

People on the lake my parents live on pull tubers behind their pontoon boats. We call this "pon-tubing." How lame is that?

My sister and I took a tube ride about two years ago. It was sorta fun, but I wondered what I was thinking. I think I'll just stick to waterskiing.

Six Degrees of Separation from Camelot

2009-08-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

Along with most of the nation this week, I've been mourning the passing of Senator Ted Kennedy. He was the last of the brothers and the next to last of a group siblings from a storied family devoted to public service.

I once met Teddy Kennedy. I was working in the communications department of The Merchandise Mart, a giant furniture mart in Chicago that was owned by the Kennedy family for many years. He was in town and was holding a press conference, and I was one of several Mart staff that was pressed into duty that day to help out.

Eunice Kennedy Shriver also came to several Mart sponsored events while I worked there. Her husband, Sargent Shriver, had run The Mart before he got into politics.

Now Christopher Kennedy, one of Bobby's sons, runs The Mart. It is no longer owned by the family, but Chris stayed on after it was sold. Guess he likes Chicago. I have met and spoken to Chris several times, and he seems to be doing a pretty good job running the place.

Even if I didn't have some tangible connection to the Kennedys, I think I would still feel like I did. After all, America has followed their lives for so many years. And now it is the end of an era. And thank goodness that there lots of Kennedy grandchildren, including Chris, who are still doing good in this world.

Cat Boxes in the Living Room

2009-08-18T19:53:00.000-07:00

Last year one of my work friends told me that she had put her cat box in her living room because her cats were too old to walk to the room where it had been before. I told her that I would never put a cat box in my living room.

Yesterday, I put a cat box in my living room.

My cat, Patch, who has kidney disease, decided that she no longer wanted to go down to the basement to use her cat box. She had started peeing on my throw rugs by the front door and at the base of the stairs in the living room. So, unless I wanted to wash these rugs twice a day, I had to move the cat box.

Patch, who is 10, was diagnosed with kidney disease about five years ago. When she started having problems, we took her to a kidney specialist who told us it would cost $1,000 to give her some tests.

That seemed like a lot of money, so I called up my dad and asked him if I should spend $1,000 on my cat. I could afford it, but I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.

My dad asked me if my cat had given me $1,000 worth of love. Of course she had. So we spent the $1,000 and have spent a lot more since then. Now she's ailing and peeing on my rugs and I'm not feeling all the love all the time. But I can't let her go, just yet.

And so, the cat box will stay in the living room. For now. Unless, of course, we have company.

Memories of the Gray Reunion

2009-08-03T18:27:00.000-07:00

Note: This is another in my personal essay series, written quite a while ago, but still relevant. The 86th annual Gray Reunion will be held this Sunday in Weldon Park.

Ever since I can remember, there has been a Gray Reunion held in August at Weldon Park. When I was little, it meant a day off from church (unless Mom and Dad snuck in the early service on us) for a day of hard play, good food, and a visit to Grandma Ruby and Grandpa Willie’s farm afterwards. Everybody was always there, smiling and happy, glad to see each other once again and enjoy a nice summer picnic in the park.

As we would drive into Weldon, I would see the old Standard Oil gas station out on the main road, the grain silos sticking up out of the small clump of houses, the cemetery where my grandfather Ray is buried, a sign that read “Weldon: Population 550,” and finally the park where that marvelous, gleaming cannon stood proudly near the road.

The moment Dad stopped the car, my sister and I (and later our little brother) would bolt past everybody with a quick “hi” and head for that cannon. There we would play for what seemed like hours with our cousins until lunch was called. I always had my make believe “room” on the left side of the big silver monster with a window that actually opened to look out the front. It also had a seat, plus a secret compartment and other moving parts that hadn’t been welded down that we could push and pull.

I could almost imagine us picking the thing up and charging across the cornfield much like the forgotten soldiers of WWI. No modern day video game could match the fun we had as kids on that old artillery weapon. (Above left: my son and his cousins on the cannon in 2002.)

While we were busy playing on that cannon, the grown-ups were sitting around talking and watching us. There was Uncle Bill and Uncle Virge, Grandpa Willie and Grandma Ruby, Aunt Leita and Uncle Andy, plus a whole bunch of others. My Dad was always roaming around with his camera trying to get a picture of everybody while they waited for the rest to arrive.

And when everyone finally got there, it was time to eat. And eat we did! There was always quite a spread of food. Beef noodles, homemade meatballs, county fried chicken, home-grown tomatoes, corn and potatoes, baked beans, salads of every kind – and more. Chocolate cake with creamy fudge frosting won over three bean salad every time!

We could eat absolutely anything we wanted and then go back for more. The highlight for everyone was when Uncle Bill brought his wheel barrel over, full of the biggest, juiciest watermelon you’d ever seen. It even looked good to me, and I don’t even like watermelon.

If we were lucky, we could get out of attending the meeting that followed, but most of the time, Dad made us sit quietly and listen, while the cannon waited for us to come back and play. Of course, there were times when my sister and cousins performed the entertainment -- singing, reciting a poem, or playing our musical instruments. No matter how bad we were, we always got a big cheer from the crowd.

Now, we weren’t the only star attractions. Grandma Ruby always read her poems, someone would tell a funny story, and I seem to remember something about my Dad’s cousin Cherry and some clothespins. One year, my cousin Nancy did a Karate demonstration, but failed to break the wood – if only it had been a tennis ball she was pounding! After the meeting, it was back to the cannon for us, or a walk down the road to Stein’s Grocery, and then out to Grandma and Grandpa’s farm in the late afternoon for guess what? Leftovers.

Not so many years have passed since these fond memories of mine and the reunion still goes on. Yes, some of the faces have changed, with a few more wrinkles, a grey hair or two, some pounds lost or gained…or maybe a tiny kid with knobby knees grown into a fine young man, some new spouses, and lots of additional grandchildren to start the generation all over. And a few of the familiar faces are no longer there, but we remember them in our hearts and minds and know that the spirit of this day lives with their legacy.

The ones who still return to Weldon Park in August have taken time out of their busy lives to participate in a very special tradition. The renewed warmth and special caring that comes out of this family get-together is unmatched by anything else. It is a tradition that should be shared by all coming generations of this family.

And I guess I’ve come a long way from that little tomboy who used to think that the most important part of the Gray Reunion was playing on that old cannon. But in a way, the cannon is sort of a symbol of all that has remained unchanged about the Gray Reunion. It’s been standing there proudly over the years, watching people come and go, and will probably still be there for years to come. It will get a new coat of silver paint now and then, but everybody knows that the original army green paint still underneath is a lasting reminder of years gone by.

©1984 Sara Marberry

Tips on Working from Home

2009-07-12T11:07:00.000-07:00

Except for a year or so here and there, I've been working full-time from a home office for the past 18 years. Before that, I commuted to New York City from New Jersey 50 minutes on a train each way; and prior to that, I drove my car 45 minutes each way or took the "L" from Evanston, IL, to downtown Chicago.

As a remote employee, I stay connected with co-workers by phone, email, and Skype. And I travel to the office about once a month. I like the flexibility, short commute, and ability to have a presence when my son comes home from school or is around in the summer.

People often tell me they could never work from home. They need the contact with people and think that they aren't disciplined enough to stay focused on work while at home. And I admit, it isn't for everyone. But if you establish a few simple "rules" and follow these guidelines, it really isn't that hard.

1. It is important to separate your work from your home life, so don't work from your dining room table or desk in the corner of the family room. If possible, your home office should be a separate room with a door.

2. If you are going to be working there 8+ hours a day, make your home office a place that is comfortable and attractive. Buy a good office chair, a nice desk, and have adequate storage and lighting. Plants and artwork are also good.

3. Install a separate phone and fax line for your office. Again, create boundaries by not answering your home phone when you are in your office and not answering your office phone when you are "at home."

4. Treat your home office like a real office. Establish a routine like you would if you were going somewhere else to work -- get up, exercise if you exercise in the morning, take a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and go to the office. Don't lounge around in your pajamas or sweats all day. When you leave, change your clothes like you would if you were coming home from an outside office.

5. Don't be distracted by housework or chores. It's okay to put a load of laundry in the washer when you take a break, but don't be consumed by this.

6. Establish rules for family members. My rule is that if my office door is closed and my husband or son knocks on the door and I don't answer, then I am on the phone and can't talk. Only if it is an emergency, do they then enter (this works most of the time!).

7. Lock up the dog or cat when you need to make an important phone call. It's not too professional for people to hear barking or meowing in the background while you're talking to them. (Although, one time I do admit, when I was on a conference call, I heard my cat having a fight in the backyard, and I put down the phone and ran outside to go rescue her. I came back a few minutes later and no one knew I had been gone!)

8. It's okay to look at work email over the weekend or after you've left work during the week, but don't answer it unless you want people to think you work 24/7 because your office is in your home. And, set up separate work and personal e-mail addresses.

9. Don't spend more than one hour trying to solve a computer problem. Find a good computer consultant that makes "house calls" and use them whenever it is necessary. Your time is better spent doing your work.

10. Invest in the latest technology. If you are going to compete with regular office workers, you need to have what they have.

©2009 Sara Marberry

Love a Gangster

2009-07-07T19:32:00.000-07:00

I saw the movie, "Public Enemies" last weekend -- the new film about John Dillinger starring Johnny Depp directed by Michael Mann. I thought it was really good, but my dad had a slightly different view.

He liked the movie, but he was upset that it made you root for the gangsters. Even though John Dillinger was a killer and a bank robber, you didn't want him to get caught. The movie actually portrayed him as a compassionate gangster (oxymoron?) who didn't kill for killing's sake, but only shot someone if they were shooting at him.

Not only did I like the gangstger, I also liked the law officer played by Christian Bale. His character, Melvin Purvis, is portrayed as a decent, intelligent man.

I get my dad's point, but it's still a movie. Entertainment. I don't doubt that many people are influenced by the movies and TV these days, but if we start requiring that all films and TV shows take the high moral road, then is it entertainment any more?

Get Those Girls Up!

2009-06-27T15:55:00.000-07:00

I visited Schwartz's Intimate Apparel shop in Skokie, IL, today to purchase some bras and swimsuits. A no-nonsense woman named Myrna waited on me. As I stood in the dressing room and removed my shirt, she looked at the pathetic bra I was wearing and proclaimed, "Honey, that doesn't do anything for you."

According to Charla Krupp, author of the book, "How Not to Look Old," 70-85% of women are walking around in a bra that is too big or too small. Bra experts, she says, suggest that middle aged women should get refitted for a bra at least once a year. ('Cause, our boobs, change as we age, don'tcha know?)

I've never been properly fitted for a bra until today. Myrna not only taught me how to put it on (you're not supposed to hook it in front and twist it around and up; this stretches it out), but she taught me where the back strap should be -- level across the narrow part of your back beneath your shoulder blades -- and how to wash it (don't use Woolite). As my cousin Nancy says, "the girls are now up!" Or at least more up than they were.

Myrna also helped me pick out some fabulous swimsuits, ruthlessly looking at my bottom, saying, "You're not too bad down there." I know, Myrna, I know.

©2009 Sara Marberry

Dog Day Afternoon

2009-06-21T18:30:00.000-07:00

We have an 11-year old crazy shorthair pointer named Cody. While he has always been my husband, Richard's dog, I take him with me on power walks every morning and feed him. So I kinda think he respects and likes me. But he's still a little crazy.

Richard was away last week on a mission trip for our church. Before he left, he said, "You have to take Cody to the dog beach while I'm gone." I didn't say yes and I didn't say no. The last time I took Cody to the dog beach, Richard told me to take a piece of bacon. If Cody started running away from me, he said, "Just hold out the bacon and he'll come right to you."

At the dog beach, the dogs run back and forth and back and forth until they are ready to drop. Cody was a bit younger then, and he ran back and forth and back and fourth and then right by me and my bacon -- out the gate, and down the street where he was finally captured in someone's yard. I vowed never to take him to the dog beach by myself again.

So I don't know what I was thinking last Sunday, when I decided to take Cody to the dog beach. We got there, and he ran over to the place he always does his business and did his business. While I was picking up his business, he ran down to the other end of the dog beach (a good 3/4 of a mile), jumped in the lake (Michigan) and began to swim around the breakwater to the people beach.

By the time I got down there, he was almost around the end, and all these people sitting on the rocks above the dog beach were watching him and sympathizing with my plight. "He's almost there," they yelled, thinking he might not make it. "He's on the beach," they observed.

Now I knew that Cody liked to swim, and could probably swim to Mackinac Island if he chose to. In fact, if there was a Doggie Olympics, he'd get the gold medal in the 500 meter swim. But I did not need the stress of having to track him down at the people beach. Somehow I climbed over the fence, up the rocks (without getting hurt), and walked over to the people beach, where I was met by several whatever teenage lifeguards.

"Yeah, we saw a dog," they said. "He's over by the boats." I started walking out onto the sand. Pretty soon, Cody came bounding towards me, ears flapping, all happy like. "Whoo Hoo," he was probably thinking. "The people beach is much more interesting than the dog beach! Why does she look so mad?" I grabbed him by his collar and said, "We're done." We walked back to the car, past the people on the rocks who were relieved that I managed to retrieve him. I will never take him to the dog beach again. Maybe.

©2009 Sara Marberry

Leaving the Barn

2009-06-07T15:35:00.000-07:00

I had a quarter horse named Illini Chubby when I was a kid. Chubby was a pretty easy going horse -- perfect for a 13-year old girl to learn to ride, groom, and show. Most of the time I rode him in the outdoor or indoor arenas at the barn or on the grounds near the barn, which was about two miles outside of town.

Occasionally, though, my friends and I would ride our horses into town just for a change of pace. Now, when my trainer and I put Chubby in a horse trailer and drove him away from the barn, he was fine. But, whenever I rode him away from the barn, he would get really nervous, whinnying and acting really dorky the whole time. As soon as we would get within sight of the barn again, he would calm down.

My husband Richard is sort of the same way. He doesn't like to leave the house on Friday or Saturday nights. He always has fun when he does, but it is a real chore to get him to go. He'd rather stay home, cook, enjoy his yard, read a book, or watch television on the big screen TV. I like doing those things, too. But not all the time.

A few weeks ago I suffered through two hours at all-school reunion party at his alma mater, Evanston Township High School. Because the party was at ETHS, they didn't serve any alcohol. We got there early and met only two people from his class of 1,000 that were there that he knew. One of them asked me if I was his daughter. Did I say there was no alcohol?

As we were pulling into our garage coming home from ETHS, the phone rang. It was a friend who had been at the reunion asking us if we wanted to meet them for drinks/dinner. With a sinking feeling, I asked Richard if he wanted to go...but I knew he wouldn't. The horse was already back at the barn.

©2009 Sara Marberry

Eating in the Car

2009-05-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

Note: This is another in my personal essay series that was written about 10 years ago.

When I was a kid, eating out was a regular family activity. Most of the time, we didn’t go to fancy restaurants -- because there weren’t any in the town we lived in. For a quick meal, we usually we went to one of two places -- the Steak ‘n Shake or Dog ‘n Suds.

As an adult, I don’t care much for eating in the car, but whenever, we went to these fine establishments, that’s what we did, and it was fun. At Steak ‘n Shake (their motto was, “In sight, it must be right!”), we’d pull into the parking lot in our station wagon, and my dad would back carefully into a spot so we could see the menu posted on a huge sign in front of us.

In a short while, a car hop in a white shirt, white pants, black leather belt, and Steak ‘n Shake cap would scurry out to the car to take our order. My dad always ordered chili; my sister, brother, and I would get steakburgers, fries, and a shake; my mom got a burger but never ordered fries.

There were no toys or Happy Meals -- we were just fine entertaining ourselves in the back seat until the food came on a tray that was hooked to the window. Curb-side service was so much fun; rarely did we eat inside (however my mother could stand this, I don’t know).

Once, a high school date took me to Steak ‘n Shake to eat dinner. I was so thrilled to be asked out on a date that I didn’t care where we ate -- even if it was burgers in the car in a parking lot.

At the Dog ‘n Suds, the routine was slightly different. There, you’d place your order by talking into a speaker that was on the menu sign posted outside the car window. At Dog ‘n Suds, my dad would order a chili dog; my sister, brother, and I would get burgers, fries, and a root beer (served in a frosty mug); my mom broke down and ordered onion rings. A car hop would bring the food to us on a tray, which again, was precariously hung from the window.

To this day, whenever my siblings and I see a Steak ‘n Shake, root beer stand, or even a restaurant with an “n” in its name, we get nostalgic and start craving the food. Our spouses don’t understand what the attraction is -- after all, it’s just burgers and fries, isn’t it? It’s one of those special family things that only those who experienced it together can understand. It’s part of our genetic coding.

Alas, the fast food restaurant experience has changed, and my desire for that type of food has waned. The only reason my son wants to go to McDonald’s is for the toy, not for the atmosphere or the food. We almost never eat in the car, unless we’re on the road. But we’ve started our own tradition -- the Walker Brothers Pancake House my son calls “the pancake store.” We go there for brunch on Sundays or for an occasional weeknight dinner. It does have atmosphere and the wait staff knows us. It’s our place – much like the Steak ‘n Shake was to my family those many years ago.

©1999 Sara Marberry

What Were They Thinking?

2009-05-13T20:22:00.000-07:00

As a parent, you do lots of things that your kids find strange, and often make fun of you later on in life – or, at the very least, wonder, “What were they thinking?”

When I was a teenager, my parents decided to take the family on a trip to Hawaii one winter. We lived in Normal, IL, about a two-hour drive from Chicago’s O’Hare airport. Now, when you live downstate IL, you’re often apprehensive about going to the big city.

For some reason, my parents decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive our Buick station wagon to O’Hare and leave it in the parking garage for a week. So, instead, all five of us piled in to our Datsun 510 and rattled up Route 55. I remember sitting in the back seat with my brother, sister, and a big suitcase.

I doubt we all wore seatbelts, and I know the Datsun didn’t have airbags or anti-lock brakes. I’m not sure it even had a radio. And of course, if thieves were going to break into a car in the airport parking garage, they would have picked our station wagon over a Cadillac, Mercedes, or even a nice Ford sedan (because all those rich people in Chicago drove better cars that us Normalites). What were they thinking?

And, we never wore sunscreen as kids, either. Which makes me sure I’m going to get skin cancer some day. On that same trip to Hawaii, after spending the first day playing gleefully in the salty sea and waves, I spent the next day in the bathtub trying to cool my burning skin. A few years later, the same thing happened in Florida. I actually passed out in the bathroom from sunburn on that trip. I don’t really blame my parents for this, since no one really used sunscreen back them, but come on, what were they thinking?

When we were kids, my dad also used to let us and our friends sit on the roof to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July. We lived in a split-level house with a slanted roof. One section of the roof near where we climbed up was always covered in slimy, juicy mulberries. And of course it had to be dark to watch fireworks. My mom never joined in the fun, leading me to believe that she was down on the ground muttering, “What is he thinking?”

The first winter we had a dog, my parents would not let it in the house. They both grew up on farms where animals lived in the barn. Since we did not have a barn, one of my dad’s friends gave us a used doghouse that they placed in the farthest corner possible from our house. I remember walking gingerly out in the cold and wind with a pan full of warm milk to feed our cute little Sheltie puppy, Buffy.

When it got really cold (as it tends to do in Central Illinois in the winter), my dad moved the doghouse and pen into the garage and put a heat lamp on it. You can imagine how fun it was to clean up the soiled newspapers that lined that pen. Perhaps it was that first year of trauma, but Buffy never did learn where to go the bathroom; her favorite spots continued to be behind the car in the garage and down in the basement by the pool table. What were they thinking?

I know all of these experiences have shaped me into the person I am today. I drive my car all the time to O’Hare, always use sunscreen, never let my son and his friends sit on the roof to watch fireworks, and let my dog live in my house.

To Fish or Not to Fish

2009-05-03T18:43:00.000-07:00

Note: This is another in my personal essay series written about 12 years ago.

Fishing is a sport I’ll never understand. First of all, you have to get up real early in the morning to do it. And I don’t like picking up worms and other gross things and having to put them on the end of a very sharp hook. And what fun is it to sit for hours until anything happens?

Perhaps my dislike of fishing was due to a poor angling upbringing. My father, who, as a child, used to bonk water moccasins on the head in the creek on the family farm, fancied himself a fisherman. My first memory of fishing was when I was about eight years old and we were on a family camping trip at a lake in Central Illinois. My dad rented a boat and he, my sister, and I went out one morning to fish. After cruising around for a bit, my dad found a spot he thought was good next to a dead tree that was sticking up out of the water. He stopped the boat, baited my line, and then cast the hook right into that tree. We spent the next two hours trying to get the line untangled from the tree.

So you see, I have never actually caught a fish -- and I’m 37 years old. Am I missing something? On a recent Saturday morning, I found myself -- at 7:30 a.m. -- driving with my husband and our two-and-a-half year old son over to one of the local parks to fish. The Parks and Recreation department had organized a kid's fishing day, complete with poles, bait, and a pond newly stocked with fish. It had also enlisted a group of local fisherman (probably like my dad) to hand out bait and help the kids catch fish. Fortunately, there were no dead trees sticking out of the water.

I had told my husband that I would only go on this fishing excursion if I didn’t have to touch a worm or a fish. Some sport, I was, huh? We picked out our spot -- and my husband baited the hook and cast the line into the water for our son. Almost immediately there was a bite -- and the sneaky little fish took his worm.

All around us parents were helping their kids catch fish. We were told that there were bluegills and a few good-sized catfish in this pond. Soon, my husband hauled in a small bluegill and we praised our son for catching it. (When you’re two-and-a-half, you believe anything your parents say to be true.) A guy next to us hooked a couple of catfish and let some kid haul them in. The kid’s mom wanted to take a picture with the fish, but the kid didn’t want to hold them -- my kind of kid!

As I watched the people around me getting so excited about catching fish, I tried to figure it out. Surely it’s not because there is any great battle between man and fish -- not at this level of sport, at any rate. Was it the imagery of that slimy worm floating out there deceiving some poor stupid fish into biting it? Triumph of man over nature? The anticipation of a nibble -- not knowing if it is a three-inch crappie or three-pound catfish? (A fish named “crappie,” how appropriate.)

Maybe it’s a man thing, although I know there are many women who enjoy fishing as much as men. I also know that fishing in the ocean or on a remote lake up in Canada is a lot different that fishing in Central Illinois or at your local park pond.

I heard a guy on the radio recently who had called into a Chicago sports station to complain that they didn’t ever talk about fishing. The Bulls had just finished winning their fourth NBA championship, and this guy wanted them to talk about FISHING?

I don’t really like to eat fish, and don’t enjoy looking at them either. When we were young, my dad bought a fish tank. He went to the pet shop and got the 20-pound aquarium, filter, gravel, plastic plants, fake rock caves, and a bunch of dumb little fish. My sister and I killed a lot of them by overfeeding them. My dad, who was in charge of cleaning the tank, would wait until we could no longer see through the green algae that grew on the side of the glass, to do this task. It stunk, and the fish usually didn’t survive the cleaning ordeal -- so it was down the toilet for them.

Maybe I should feel sorry for fish, after all, what kind of life is it swimming around and around a stupid fish tank waiting to ride the porcelain wave or living in some murky lake? B O R I N G. They don’t even close their eyes to sleep!

My son seems to like fishing -- and now my parents live on a lake in Central Illinois. The last time we were down at their house, my dad helped our son catch three fish. I suspect my dad has been practicing. I guess I am going to have to show some enthusiasm for this sport (but I’m still not touching those worms or fish). I think I’m going to go out and buy all the men in my life a Popeil pocket fisherman tomorrow.

©1996 Sara Marberry

Pollwatching

2009-04-19T12:48:00.000-07:00

A little over a week ago, I volunteered to be a poll watcher for our local elections. One of my friends was running for alderman (woman?) and asked me to help out.

So, I found myself getting up at 5:30 a.m. to go stand outside in the cold for three hours. In our town of approximately 100,000 people, only about 7,000 voted in this election, which is pretty pathetic, given last November's turnout in the national election. But it was Spring Break week and who cares about local politics anyway?

Only 2 people came to the polling place I was stationed at in the first hour. And because pollwatchers have to stand 100 feet away from the door to the polling place, virtually no one walked by, unless they were cutting through the school parking lot to get to the train.

Being a poll watcher can be pretty boring in these conditions. What made the whole thing worthwhile, however (besides my friend winning) was the young man who was there with me volunteering as a poll watcher for one of the mayoral candidates.

He and I chatted for nearly three hours straight (except for when I went home to warm up for about a half an hour). He had recently graduated from college, had worked on the Obama campaign in Ohio, and was now looking for a job. His perspective on Obama's first days in office, being a college student in today's world, and working on a political campaign was really interesting.

We laughed together at one of the "crazy" alderman candidates who stopped by to put up his signs and gave us an earful about how our little old local candidates where part of the "machine" and had millions of dollars to spend. We stomped our feet and tried to stay warm. His candidate's wife came by and gave us coffee. We gazed hopefully at the 36 people who eventually came to our polling place during our stint, but didn't hand out one single piece of literature.

He told me he was on the "short" list of about nine people for a job at Greenpeace that he was expecting to hear about that day. I wonder if he got it?

The Amazing Game of Baseball

2009-03-28T13:44:00.000-07:00

Note: I wrote this five years ago as part of a personal essay series I started before becoming a blogger. My son is still playing baseball; made the Freshman A team at our high school. They played their first game today and won 8-3.

My 9-year old son likes baseball. Last summer, he played it for the first time as a “serious” athlete when he played on the Travel Team for our city. He wasn’t as big or as tall as some of the other boys on the team, but he is fast, has a good arm – and is fiercely competitive.

He quickly determined that he wanted to be pitcher, catcher, or shortstop, because players in those positions get most of the action. So, he started practicing his pitching. And one day he asked me to go out and practice with him.

I played a lot of sports as a kid and am still fairly active. I’m a competitive tennis player who plays “serious” tennis 2-3 times a week, power walks almost every morning, and goes to the gym 2-3 times week to do strength training. I can still get up on one waterski and can hit a golf drive almost 200 yards. But I never really played baseball or softball, aside from engaging in a game of catch with my dad every once and a while.

But I agreed to go with my son to the playground to practice. We tossed the ball back and forth a few times, practicing pop flies and grounders to warm up. Then, he asked me to catch his pitches.

I can do this, I think to myself. I crouch down opposite this would-be Kerry Wood, and the first hardball zings into my glove. Ouch. He’s packing some heat. Not bad. I’m proud of him. I catch two, maybe three or four more pitches with growing trepidation. Zing. Pfumpf. Smack. I can do this, I remind myself.

On the next pitch, my fear gets the best of me and I pull back slightly as the ball zooms toward my glove. It bounces off the glove and hits me in the side of the head. It hurts like hell. I try not to cry as I struggle to stand up and get my composure. “Mom?” he asks. “Are you okay? Mom?”

“Yes,” I finally answer, staggering around, holding back the tears, feeling the growing lump on my head. But I know that I can’t quit now just because I got hit in the head. After all, what example would that set for him? I have to “get back on the horse” and show him that to play baseball (or any sport competitively), you have to be tough.

“I’ll catch five more pitches,” I tell him, sighing and crouching down into the catching position. Zing. Pfumpf. Smack. He’s not letting up. I can do this. And I do.

Later that summer, he goes on to relieve the starting pitcher on his team to pitch a no-hitter. He grits it out as catcher, does his time in the outfield, and has a few stints as shortstop. He gets hit by a pitch and stays in the game. His team loses in the first round of the playoffs to a team they beat the day before. I gain a new appreciation of the complicated, hard to play, amazing game of baseball. It’s the year the Cubs win their division and lose to the Marlins one out away from making it to the World Series to face the Yankees. I can’t wait for next summer. But I probably won’t be catching any more of his pitches.

©2004 Sara Marberry

A Gardener's Tribute

2009-03-12T17:58:00.000-07:00

I come from a family of farmers. Both my grandparents had farms, as did my great grandparents, great great grandparents, and so on.

Both my grandmothers were excellent gardeners, too. My Grandma Gove, whose family lost their farm in the Great Depression, had a huge extra lot by her city house where she and my Grandpa Gove grew corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, raspberries, and more. My Grandma Ruby tended the garden on her farm while my Grandpa Willie plowed the fields and planted corn and beans.

My Grandma Ruby also had a magic touch with plants and could pretty much make anything grow that she wanted to. When she died eight years ago at the age of 97, people bought plants and flowers for her funeral. My parents gave me one of those plants, which up until recently had thrived despite my not-so-good gardening skills.

Then one evening while we were out, our dog Cody went bezerk and ate all the plants I had on the floor or close to the floor. Bit them off down to the nubs, leaving only a few lone stalks. We came home to dirt and leaves on the floor beside each plant in our dining room and living room. It was like a team of locusts had come through, leaving mayhem in their wake.

I was afraid Cody would go at 'em again, so I decided not to replace the plants right away. Maybe they would grow back, I thought. Well, low and behold, the Grandma Ruby plant (above) IS growing back! How appropriate for a plant that was given to me to honor the memory of a woman who could make anything grow in a plot of dirt.

Backwards Babies

2009-03-06T08:08:00.000-08:00

Note: I wrote this eight years ago as part of a personal essay series I started prior to becoming a blogger.

Why is it that dads always put babies’ clothes on backwards? Is it because they have no sense of style? Don’t really distinguish between front and back? Are dyslexic when it comes to clothes?

A business colleague of mine from New York was recently in town for a conference and she brought her 6-month old baby boy. Naturally, I wanted to see the child, so we arranged to meet outside a showroom in The Merchandise Mart.

When I got there, she was in the showroom and her husband was standing outside in the corridor with the baby. He was nervous because he hadn’t spent that much time alone with the child yet, and he’d already put in a 6-hour day on his own (try 12 sometime, buddy). He was ready to turn baby over to mom.

I oohed and ahhed over the baby, and put forth my best mother skills to make the little guy smile. Finally, my friend emerged from the showroom. Before hardly acknowledging me, she barked at the dad, “You put his clothes on backwards!”

“I thought the buttons went in the front,” he mumbled, sheepishly, a bead of sweat forming on his lip.

“And the big huge bunny on the back?” my Irish-Catholic no nonsense friend said, as she stripped the child down to his nappies and re-arranged his clothes in front of The Merchandise Mart crowd.

“What does it matter?” he pleaded, knowing it was a lost cause.

“Well, I certainly don’t want to go trotting him around The Mart showing him off and having everyone think his mother doesn’t know how to put his clothes on right!” said my successful friend. You go girl, I thought, giving the dad a sympathetic smile.

My brother-in-law, who is a very involved dad, used to put my nieces’ clothes on backwards when they were babies. My sister thought it was funny, but scolded him just like my friend. Now, one of her daughters routinely puts her clothes on backwards. And she’s eight years old. Must be a learned skill.

I once wore a blouse backwards to work when I was a lowly assistant editor at a magazine in New York City. I thought it was sort of fashionable and different. The publisher’s assistant, a street-saavy, gum chomp’in, loud-mouthed Brooklyn gal, noticed it before I even sat down at my desk. “Whaddya wear your shirt backwards for?” she demanded in front of everybody. I slunk away and pretended ignorance, which is probably what she thought about me anyway, being from the Midwest and all.

The first time my brother babysat for my son when he was a baby, he put the diapers on backwards. Uh, hello? The diaper manufacturers put people pictures on the tape that goes in front to show us smart adults how to do it. Now he has two kids of his own and is very skilled in diaper changing and arranging. I have no idea what his record is for putting clothes on backwards.

I think that when it comes to babies, men are just basically following women around being told what to do. If we weren’t in the picture, all our babies would have the bunnies on their backs and the tape people on their butts. And our children wouldn’t ever eat lunch, make their beds, brush their teeth, or take baths. How come grandpas never put babies’ clothes on backwards?

©2000 Sara Marberry

Bald and Not Wearing a Blue 70

2009-03-02T20:03:00.000-08:00

My son just finished his first high school swim season. He's now bald. That's right, boys shave their heads in swimming right before they swim in all the big end-of-the-season meets, like conference, sectional, and state. It's supposed to make them swim faster. But I think it just makes them look like cancer patients.

Swimsuits are also an interesting thing. Before high school, my son wouldn't have been caught dead in a miniscule Speedo that would barely fit a Ken doll. But all the boys wear them in high school, until they get to the big meets, and then they wear the high-tech water-whisking suits that cost upwards of $200. The latest is a full body suit called a Blue 70. It costs close to $500.

My son didn't want a Blue 70. He said it was too "flashy." When I asked him what that meant, he said, "Well if you're wearing one and you beat the kid in the lane next to you who isn't wearing one, he would say the only reason you beat him is because you were wearing a Blue 70." Was that really my 14-year teenager old talking?

Last weekend, he competed in our District Y meet. His goal was to break the District record for the 100 back, which he did. The boy who held the record was waiting to swim the next race and just happened to be in the same lane as my son. When he finished, the boy immediately reached down to shake my son's hand. What a class act.

Reality Check

2009-02-16T15:24:00.000-08:00

I drink decaf coffee. Gave up having that jolt in the morning about 20 years ago. In fact, I don’t drink anything with caffeine in it. I eat chocolate, but that’s another story. Anyway, the problem is, when I order decaf coffee in a restaurant, how can I be sure that I’m really getting decaf?

Oh sure, they have those coffee pots with the orange tops that are supposed to signal that you’re getting decaf. Who came up with that, I wonder? But, what if someone makes regular coffee and puts it in the decaf pot?

One of my friends told me his father asks the waiters from whom he orders decaf coffee from after dinner for their telephone numbers, That way, if they gave him regular coffee and he can’t sleep, he can call them and wake them up in the middle of the night and share in his misery.

I have never resorted to such threats, but it causes me to wonder how many things in this world aren’t what they say they are?

Take those rolling plastic sanitary toilet seat covers they have at O'Hare airport. (Men – I’m not sure you know what I’m taking about -- this may just be a woman thing.) You go in the stall and wave your hand in front of a sensor and the plastic cover on the seat rotates to the next spot. It makes a screechy noise so you know it’s really working.

But I always wonder if they ever change the plastic. I mean, what if the same plastic has been rotating around the seat forever and it’s really not all that sanitary? Who’s to know?

And do you really believe that making an online purchase using your credit card is safe? Most e-commerce websites have explanations like “Why Making Online Purchases Using a Credit Card is Safe.” But are they telling the truth?

(Actually, I make a lot of online purchases using my credit card and have never experienced theft. It’s only happened after I gave my credit card to a waiter in a restaurant.)

And what about our parents? When we’re little, they tell us about things like Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. In fact, they invent elaborate stories – even lies -- to keep us believing in them as long as they can. “Why are there so many Santas?” we children ask. “Well,” they tell us, lying through their teeth, “Santa has many helpers because he can’t be everywhere at once.” Then we grow up and tell the same lies to our own children.

Long Lost Friends

2009-02-01T12:54:00.000-08:00

Okay, so last summer when my 14-year old son decided to get a Facebook page, I decided I needed to get one, too, to find out what it was all about. So I got a FB and promptly forgot about it.

Then, about three months later, I started getting emails from people I went to high school with asking me to be their FB friends. So I started looking at FB, adding pictures, writing on my wall, and adding friends. I was surprised at how many people my age (and older!) had a FB. I thought it was just a teenage thing.

Now my teenage son won't let me be his friend on FB, and I don't really blame him. But my two teenage nieces and nephew did. When asked why, they said something like, "Well, Aunt Sara is cool. And she's not our mom."

And FB isn't the only social networking tool I'm on. I'm also on LinkedIn and Geni. I don't really spend much time on either of those (I mean, who has time to do all this stuff?), but I'm sort of hooked on FB as a new way to communicate with my friends and extended family members.

The thing is, I have "friends" on FB that I haven't spoken to or thought about in 30 years. People I barely even knew and didn't even associate with in high school. But there is something about high school that bonds us. It's our roots -- who we were before we became who we are. Where our values come from. So, it's natural to be curious about people from high school and want to connect to them.

I haven't figured out yet how to link this blog to my FB, but I know there is a way.

Best Day

2009-01-25T15:48:00.000-08:00

When asked "what was your best day ever?" some of the days that come to mind are my school and college graduation days, wedding day, or the day my son was born. But perhaps the best day ever was the day I competed in a horse show in April 1975.

I was 15 years old that day, a tall skinny girl with long hair and a ruddy complexion. My trusty mount, Illini Chubby, was a registered quarter horse and we were competing in a western-style show sanctioned by the American Quarter Horse Association (AQHA) in Champaign, Illinois.

Now Chubby, as his nickname would imply, was not a glamorous horse. He was all one color (reddish-brown) with a skinny neck and big head. Because he liked to eat his blankets (rather than wear them in the winter to keep his coat short and smooth), he was rather shaggy looking that April day.

To make matters worse, his tail had a bald spot at the top where he had satisfied an itch all too often.

But Chubby was a great horse, with a gentle disposition and easy gait. After years of begging my dad for a horse, he finally had given in and bought Chubby with the idea that it would be good for me to learn how to ride and take care of an animal. When we originally purchased Chubby, we had no intention of competing.

My riding teacher, Kathy, had other ideas, however. After I proved to be a pretty good equestrian, she convinced my dad that competition would be good for me. Since Chubby had been shown by his previous owner, it was the natural thing to do, she argued. So we had been competing for the past two years with moderate success.

Chubby and I were good in Western Equitation, a class in which the rider is judged how he or she handles the horse. We had been to the County Fair, the State Fair, and all over the state of Illinois gathering up ribbons and trophies.

It had not been easy -- competition was tough, and it seemed that the parents of many of kids I rode against had unlimited funds to spend on this very expensive hobby. They had horses that cost 20 times what Chubby did, and saddles dripping with sterling silver.

And although he paid for boarding, upkeep, and lessons, my dad made me work for almost every extra dollar he spent on Chubby. If I wanted a new saddle or a fancy bridle, I had to work around the house or yard to pay for it. Each time before we went to a show, I spent many hours training and grooming Chubby and polishing his tack all by myself. There was no fancy motor home for me to change my clothes in at the show -- I often used the back of Kathy's horse trailer, which was soiled with horse poop.

I didn't know it at the time, but this show in Champaign was to be the last time Chubby and I competed together. He had developed chronic leg problems that would force us to retire him from competition several months later.

However, since this was an AQHA show, many of the top kids in the Midwest were there -- some of whom had competed and won top prizes and points at the national level. They had all the fancy equipment, clothes, and their horses were sleek and well-groomed. I had seen their pictures in advertisements in the AQHA Journal many times. I felt outclassed on my shaggy horse with the gimp and a little scared as we rode into the arena.

As if he knew this was to be our last show together, Chubby performed beautifully, with no sign of soreness. After we did our individual figure eight exercise in front of the judge, a friend, who was also competing in the class, said to me, "You did real good, the judge was really looking at you!" I was nervous as we all trotted to the center of the arena to line up for a final look-see by the judge.

A few moments later, the announcer called out my name for first place. I was astounded. How could we have beaten all those famous kids with their $20,000 horses and $1,000 saddles? I must have been dreaming. But, on that day, Chubby and I were the best. Shaggy coat and all, our substance won out over their style. I was on top of the world.

I never did win another first prize, even after I got a (supposedly) better horse that I never did like, and which we ultimately sold at a loss. And even though I haven't shown competitively in more than 30 years (or even ridden a horse except for trail rides), I still remember that day -- in Champaign, Illinois, in April 1975 -- when I beat out 22 other riders to win first place in Western Equitation on Illini Chubby -- as my best day ever.

Curious Case

2009-01-24T09:40:00.000-08:00

I went to see "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" recently with my sister. A week later, I still find myself thinking about this interesting film.

The premise of the film is this: a boy is born with an old body, but an infant mind. He grows up aging from old to young physically, but ages young to old mentally. Along the way he meets a girl and falls in love, but there is only a short space in time when their mental and physical ages are in synch.

As we reflected on this film, my sister and I thought it was all about timing and the role timing plays in life. She wrote to me: "The characters only had that one window of opportunity where the timing was right and they could have a meaningful relationship. Every other time, it wasn't right and didn't work. Either their ages were too extreme, or there were other relationships--like when he showed up to see her dance, and she was involved with someone else, his timing completely threw her off--or they were in different locations, etc."

There's a place in the film where the narrator (the boy) describes an incident in terms of the timing of a series of events -- if this hadn't happened, something else wouldn't have happened, etc. The night we went to the film, a series of events happened that put us in the same restaurant as a friend my sister knew in graduate school that she hadn't seen in 25 years. First, I messed up on the movie times, so we decided to go to a later show and eat dinner first. Second, we decided to go to that particular restaurant over another because we felt like it. Third, my sister's friend and her husband were going to go to another restaurant, but it was too crowded so they came to the one we were at.

Timing really is everything.

A secondary or parallel theme to the film is aging, with some interesting nuances around sexual attraction. He feels he looks too old for her when she tries to seduce him the first time and doesn’t succumb. She feels she looks too old for him when he comes to see her as a youth, but sleeps with him anyway. Maybe it was different because they already had intimate knowledge of one another, but he’s actually an old man in a young body which means he doesn’t really care that she’s no longer young.

In Case of A Water Landing

2009-01-17T10:38:00.000-08:00

I fly almost 50,000 miles a year, which averages about once or twice a month. I must admit whenever I heard the words, "In case of a water landing, your seat back cushion can be used as a flotation device," I've always thought, "Yeah right, if there is a water landing, we're all goners."

Now that a plane has made an emergency landing into the Hudson River in NYC and everyone survived, I think I will pay more attention to the seat back cushion thing. Of course, the reason everyone survived was partly based on luck -- ferry boats just happened to be nearby, there was no boat traffic on the river, the fuel tank was not full, etc. But it was also based on pilot skill and the crew's ability to get everyone out of the plane in a timely fashion.

My friend Mike, who is a car geek and knows how to fix almost anything, told me he was puzzled about why we can't design plane engines with protective screens so that birds don't get caught in the engines. Maybe it's an aerodynamic thing -- but, when you think about it, if we can design sophisticated space stations and all sorts of other gizmos, why can't we design plane engines that repel birds?

Sorority Stuff

2009-01-15T18:38:00.000-08:00

Typical stereotypes of college sororities include visions of blue-eyed, blondes wearing pearls and pink cashmere sweaters sitting around watching soap operas and eating candy. My sorority experience was anything but that. We were brainy, smart girls who preferred sweatpants to sweaters and sports to soaps. We didn’t join because we believed in sisterhood and all that crap, we joined because we liked each other and felt a sense of belonging. The framework of the sorority brought us together, but it was the relationships with each other that kept us together.

A few years ago, I attended an alumnae luncheon for my sorority (which is actually a fraternity, but it’s too complicated to explain). Anyway, it was the first such event I’d gone to since I graduated more than 25 years ago. I went because one of my good friends from the sorority, Christine Brennan (pictured above top left in the dark blue shirt holding a trophy), was a featured speaker. Chris is a well-known sportswriter and television commentator who made a name for herself covering the Tonya Harding-Nancy Kerrigan ice skating scandal at the 1994 Olympics. She was also the first female sportswriter to be permitted in an NFL locker room.

The author of several best-selling books, including an autobiographical story about her dad’s influence in cultivating her love of sports, Chris is a sought-after speaker and spends much of her time traveling the country talking to various groups.

If I had been asked to introduce Chris at this luncheon, I would have told the women in the audience that for all her success and fame, she is still basically the same Chris I knew in college – a curious, fun-loving, loyal, unassuming person who is fiercely devoted to her family and absolutely loves sports. She even looks almost the same as she did in college.

At this luncheon, Chris followed a speaker from the national office of the sorority, who was clearly out of touch with her audience. That woman gave a Stepford wife-like talk about how wonderful the sorority is, espousing its traditions of sisterhood, and acknowledging various women in the room who had given so much to…er, um the sorority. I found myself wondering how many other women in the room besides Chris are well-known and accomplished in their fields and didn’t really give a hoot about the sorority at this point in their lives.

The woman’s speaking style was flowery and sing-songy and she was reading from a speech that she had obviously not prepared herself. I looked around at the other women at my table and felt a sense that every single one of us thought she was a buffoon.

Then came Chris, who proceeded to take the podium with no notes and just speak from her heart about her experience at the sorority and the potential that women today have to make a difference in the world. She told funny stories about her “sisters,” and had us all laughing and reminiscing. She told me later that she felt she had to do something to change the tone after the Stepford wife speaker. It worked. She warmed our hearts and I realized once again why I did join a sorority – to connect with people like Chris.

Football Fan

2009-01-11T15:12:00.000-08:00

I’ve always been a football fan. It goes back to my high school days when we had games on Friday nights.

Unfortunately for me, I was in the marching band and we had these uniforms that made us look like telephone poles, so there was no way that I could look cool going to a football game. So I settled to just be part of the whole show.

We would strut out onto the end zone and march down the field playing our pre-game tune. I think people paid attention. Then, we got to go sit in the stands and watch the game until halftime when we’d go back out and stumble around trying to do formations and play at the same time. After that, we made a beeline for the band room and changed our clothes to look semi-normal for the rest of the game.

Now it may sound like I was more concerned about my appearance than watching football. But, I did watch the games, and even though I didn’t know much about football, I liked watching those guys trying to run away from each other and avoid being tackled. When I was a junior, my high school team made it to the state championships, which was totally cool. We lost, but what a memory!

My college football years were not so great. I went to Northwestern University, a Big 10 school with a lackluster athletic program and mediocre facilities. We couldn’t compete against the recruiting strength of the other Big 10 schools like Ohio State, Michigan, Iowa, and Wisconsin. So our teams sucked. In fact, the whole time I was at NU, we never won a game. My friends and I would go to the games, but after the first 15 minutes, it was always hopeless. We’d be down 49-2 before you could blink an eye. So, we would usually find other ways to have a good time anyway.

We had great cheers, though. Because we were a bunch of “smart” kids, when we were getting pasted 89-0 by Iowa, we would chant: “Our SATs are higher! Our SATs are higher!” Or, “That’s alright, that’s okay, you’re gonna work for us someday!”

I’ll never forgot the day I saw a picture in the Chicago Tribune of an Interstate 90 sign, in which someone had scrawled some words beneath the numeral 90 so it read: “Interstate, 90; Northwestern, 0. It was funny because it was true.

My son, who just started high school this year, has a former NU football star as his humanities teacher. D’Wayne Bates (pictured above) was a wide receiver for the 1995 NU team that made it to the Rose Bowl. My husband and I were among the NU faithful that traveled to Pasadena that year to witness NU’s loss to USC. It would have been nice to win, but hey – we made it to the Rose Bowl when it still mattered. Upon graduation, Bates was drafted by the Bears and finished out his six year NFL career with the Minnesota Vikings. Injuries forced him out, and he went back to school to get a Masters and became a high school teacher and football coach. How cool is that?

I'm Back

2009-01-10T11:36:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it's been awhile since I've come back to this blog. I started it about four years ago to find out how blogs work. Since then I've taken a new job and have been distracted by other Web 2.0 tools like Facebook and Linked In -- as well as being the major blogger for the organization I work with, The Center for Health Design.

But I'm going to start posting again on this blog semi-regularly. Is anybody out there reading all this stuff?

Buying Shoes

2005-10-11T11:59:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I loved going to the shoe store with my mom, picking out some shoes to try on, sitting down on the chair, putting my foot up on a shoe stool, and having the shoe salesman (it was usually a man) put them on my foot.

The salesman would always lace them up tighter than I ever would, and sometimes he even used a mysterious tool called a shoe horn to get the stiff leather ones on my feet. All that personal attention just to try on a pair of shoes was marvelous!

Moms are suckers for buying shoes. My mom and I would always start out trying on the “sensible” shoes -- the ones I really needed. Then I would convince her to let me try on another pair that I really didn’t need, but really wanted. After some pleas, she’d always buy both. I guess it was the excitement in my voice and the realization that I probably could use another pair of shoes that got to her.

But the best part of this whole experience was the fact that after my mom nodded her consent, the salesman would ask me if I wanted to wear the shoes home. The answer was always “yes!” My old shoes would be placed in the box and I’d prance gleefully out the store in my new shoes while my mom paid for them.

Loose Dog

2005-06-27T20:12:00.000-07:00

Despite all our best efforts to keep him in our yard or house, our dog Cody, regularly gets loose. A gregarious male German Shorthair Pointer, Cody loves to run. And run he does anytime someone leaves a gate to our yard or garage door open. This routinely occurs at least once a month, and the culprit is usually my husband. I have trained my 11-year old son and his friends to always shut the gates when they are coming in and out of the yard. They are convinced I will confiscate their Game Boys and disconnect the T.V. if they don't. My husband, who thinks that Cody is so well-trained and mature now that he won’t run when instantly confronted with an open gate or garage door, has become lackadaisical.

What happens when Cody gets loose? Well, we usually don’t discover it for 15-20 minutes. By that time, he could be halfway to Wisconsin. At once, we deploy our finely honed seek and find techniques – my husband gets on a bike and heads off in the direction he thinks Cody went. My son and I generally get in the car and drive around calling Cody’s name out the window. It’s rare that these techniques actually work. People usually find Cody.

In the beginning, we only had a tag on Cody with his rabies and city registration number on it, so people who found him would call Animal Control. Animal Control would then call us, and if we weren’t home (which we usually weren’t because we were out looking for the stupid dog), then they’d go pick him up and take him to Doggy Jail. It costs $20 to bail Cody out of Doggy Jail. After going through this exercise several times, I finally convinced my husband that we should get a tag for Cody with our phone number on it. Duh. Now when he gets out, people call us. We're just lucky so far that Cody hasn't been hurt, killed, or dognapped.

Movie Magic

2005-04-26T18:33:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like seeing a movie on the big screen. Last weekend, I had the pleasure of attending "Roger Ebert's Overlooked Film Festival" at the Virginia Theater in Champaign, IL. One of the requirements of the films that are chosen for the festival is that they are available in 70 mm so that they offer the best viewing on a big screen. The theater, which seats 1,600, was built in the 1920s or so and has a stage, balcony, side box balcony, organ, orchestra pit, and curtained widescreen that is revealed only when the film begins. It is truly magical to view a film in this setting with a full house of people. I have, in the past few years, rented some of the films I've seen at the 'Fest, only to find out that it's just not the same experience viewing them on my TV screen, and today's Cineplexes just don't measure up to the Virginia.

Land O' Florida

2005-04-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a week-long meeting in Orlando, Florida. What a strange place. Nothing is real. My hotel had a swimming pool with fake caves and a beach on a man-made lake. Epcot, the only Disney theme park we visited is ALL fake. Having just been there in December with my family, I wasn't all that thrilled about doing the Disney thing again. Also, I think everybody in the whole world went there last week. There's a lesson in this: Never plan a business meeting in the Land 'O Florida around the Easter holiday.

Simple Pleasures: Dancing

2005-03-27T09:14:00.000-08:00

What more fun is there than dancing to great tunes? Though I’m not one to seek out this activity, if I’m in a situation where there is music and the opportunity to dance, I embrace it with gusto. We do this thing in my family called “Crazy Dancing,” which began once when my brother put on “A-Train” and we all danced around my parents’ living room. It has evolved into an annual ritual at New Year’s where I play disc jockey and we dance to a playlist of songs. Our kids, ages 2-16, love it. We get to share some of our old tunes with them and everybody really does go crazy when they are dancing.

Celebrity Sightings

2005-03-24T17:51:00.000-08:00

In honor of my cousin once removed, Scott C. (Go Illini), I offer this homage to celebrity sightings. My most recent was in Harry Carey's Restaurant in Chicago, where I, along with my family and my sister's family, saw basketball coach bad-boy Bobby Knight. We happen to know someone who used to work with The Bob, so my husband went up to him and mentioned this person's name. The Bob was very gracious and polite. Didn't throw a chair or anything.

My most memorable celebrity sighting was about 12 years ago, when I rode up on an elevator at the Ritz Carleton in San Francisco with actor Robin Williams and and another person who I think was a PR person taking him to an interview. I was 7 months pregnant, dressed in sweatpants, and wearing a baseball cap. I looked at him; he looked at me, and the only thing I could think of to say was, "Nanoo, nanoo." Fortunately for him, I did not open my mouth.

Tell me about your celebrity sightings...

An E-mail Haiku

2005-03-24T14:18:00.000-08:00

went to lunch
came
back
in-box clogged
reply
immediately
maybe tomorrow

More Grandpa Willie Sayings

2005-03-23T09:08:00.000-08:00

My taxes were higher than a cat's back, and him out of humor.
I learned that you can get married at 40 and have trouble enough.
She was trying to marry a rich old man with a bad cough.
If I'm not here when you get back, the old mule is yours.
It was great to have you visit -- glad to see you come, and glad to see you go.
I didn't have no more chance than a one-legged man in a rump kicking contest.
When I came up here, I was so poor, I had to get a tin bill and pick with the chickens.
If you can't help someone in life, what good are you?
I know there will always be a need for good, black dirt.

Phone Manners

2005-03-23T08:28:00.000-08:00

Why is it that no one has any phone manners anymore? Two things in particular bother me: call waiting and cell phones. How annoying is it when you're on the phone with a friend, and they say, "hold on, that's my other line?" What this says to me is that "I'm talking to you, but the other person may be more important." I often hang up when I'm put on hold for someone to take another call. Cell phones are similar. You're in the car or at a restaurant with someone having a nice conversation, their cell phone rings, and they answer it and proceed to talk to the other person. Again, what this says to me is that "I'm having a nice conversation with you, but this person who is calling me is more important." I wouldn't be quite as annoyed if the person told me that they might have to answer their cell phone or take another call BEFORE it happens.

And what about loud cell phone talkers? I really don't want to hear someone else's conversation when I'm in the grocery store, airport, or at the ball game. How startling is it to be in a public place and have someone all of the sudden start talking? You look over and they have one of those hands-free earphone devices. Do they know how silly they look and sound?