Thug Life

Recently, my husband forgot my car was parked behind his truck and a fender bender was the result. It wasn’t tragic or irreparable but to correct the damage meant my little SUV had to spend some time in the repairs department of the Honda dealership an hour away from our town. I wasn’t too concerned as our insurance policy promised to provide me with a rental car and according to Enterprise, it could be a Dodge Charger! A Charger! A souped-up, high octane, vroom-vroom, muscle car! I was so excited, I had all my afternoons already planned out! I could see myself letting the engine out and seeing how fast my rental could go on some deserted country road near the golf course. VRRRRROOOOOOMMMMM!!!!! So, there were no tears of resentment or sadness the morning my hubs drove my poor little wounded CRV to Lawley Honda Repair.

The call to my cell phone came around 10:00 while I was at school. Hubby was on his way home and was driving the rental. “Is it a Charger?” I asked breathlessly. “A Charger? No, it’s a minivan,” replied Bosco. I thought it was a joke. He is always trying to trick and tease me. “No, Jan, it’s a Dodge Caravan,” he said carefully. What came out of my mouth next was neither nice nor lady-like. A minivan? He told me it was so nice with leather interior and all the bells and whistles. It was a GRAND Caravan. No response from me except for, “A minivan?” He continued to try to convince me that this was a very nice car and no, I could not return it. He explained it was the LAST ONE ON THE LOT because Enterprise was short on vehicles. He made a terrible mistake by telling me about the customer ahead of him balked about driving a Ford Focus until he learned the only car left was the minivan. Of course, the man took the Focus. I would take the Focus over the minivan, too if I had been given a choice. Bosco drove it to school, exchanged it for his big ole diesel Ford 250 and I was left with the “uncool mobile.” My instructional assistant told me how she had been assigned a lovely Ford pick-up when her car was in the shop. She went on to say she wanted to buy one for herself and might do so this summer. She tried to be nice about the minivan (as I say it with a sneer) but agreed Enterprise was kinder to her than me. And as I heard over and over, it is just a car.

To be fair, I never really gave the car a chance. It was comfy and drove nicely, but I just could not get over driving something similar to what I drove when I hauled my kids and their gear to the moon and back all those years ago. I did the minivan mom thing until Meghan left for college and we bought an SUV. Heck, we even drove her and her plethora of shoes to New Mexico State University in a minivan. But now it was seventeen years later and I did not want to go backwards. This was no time for vehicular Back to the Future. And that car was a Delorean.

I wish I could say it grew on me, but it didn’t. There was just something wrong with it every time I drove it. It even began to look sinister. It was gun metal gray with black interior. It sat low, low, low to the pavement. I could picture it in “the hood” if Douglas was where street cred was born. And day by day, Lawley did not call to tell me my CRV was ready. It became inevitable that I would have to take the demon of my drive to Tucson for Christmas shopping with my bff, Judy.

On that fateful Saturday morning, Judy and I were chatting it up, cruising down Arizona Highway 80, just past Tombstone towards the Border Patrol check station. Things had gone well. We had a tank of gas and were ready to stimulate the economy and enjoy some holiday girl time. Like any other trip to Tucson, I pulled into the check station and answered the usual question. “Is there anyone else in the back of your car?” I was not ready for the Border Patrol agent to instruct me to pull over because the drug dog had “reacted” to our car. I pulled over and with my best sunshine smile and ready to help attitude looked at the agent like huh? Now there were three agents. One with a dog I knew to be a Malinois, the German Shepard like dog known for its vicious attack skills and jaws of steel, one who politely asked us to stand outside our car in the misting rain, and the other who looked like he had better things to do than stand there with us. We were asked where we lived and where were we going. I immediately told the agents that we lived in Douglas, were headed to Tucson for shopping and THIS WAS NOT MY CAR. I explained that my husband had backed into the front of my Honda CRV and this was a rental car from Enterprise. (Notice that I told everyone about Enterprise.) The canine corp walked around our car, went through our car, stuck its head in our bags and we were asked if we had any narcotics with us. I couldn’t see my expression but it had to be one of disbelief! No, we answered. He asked if we had any pain pills with us that might be “triggering” the dog. No, we both answered. I told the agent I had some Flonase and a melatonin in my bag. Judy confessed to a thyroid pill. Finally, the agent with the questions asked where we had rented the car and that I should let them know that the drug dog was “hitting” on the “stow and go” under the second row floor mat. Seeing we were confused and obviously not familiar with the car, the agent showed us the hidey hole some low-life had used to store their stash. The agent also said it was not uncommon for people to rent vehicles and to use meth, smoke marijuana, and transport illegal things then return them with residue to rental companies. You could have knocked me over with a feather or run me over with a minivan and I would not have been more shocked. They let us go and told me to notify Enterprise about the incident. And they very nicely showed me how to use the side doors on the key fob and showed me how to close the back door electronically. I guarantee you that I called Bosco before leaving the check station to tell him about our experience.

I wish I could say it got better with the thugmobile but it didn’t. Maybe it knew how I felt and Lord knows I didn’t try to hide my disgust with its past. Later that night at the Tucson Botanical Gardens Christmas Lights Festival, we returned to the minivan of shame and found a note on the windshield. I just knew someone had scratched it or it acted out on its own but the note said both sliding side doors were left open and security had closed it and locked it for us. Christmas presents were in it. Our suitcases were in it. My purse was in it. How this happened, I am not sure. It is possible that I accidentally squeezed the key fob in my jacket pocket which caused the doors to open as we were walking away but I just can’t help but wonder if it did this on its own. Luckily, all of stuff was there when we left and security made sure I knew this was a stupid thing to do.

The following week, Lawley finally called. I was so excited to return the demonic piece of steel to Enterprise that as I hurried out the door and opened the hatch to remove any personal items it dropped itself on top of my head. Metal to scalp. Shieking, I instantly went Joe Pesci and began unleashing a tirade of words and phrases that stopped my husband in his tracks. I believe I said it gave me one final Frank Underwood (F-U) before it left the family. When I finally calmed down, I drove the “no, I am not a Dodge Charger, I am a criminal vehicle” to Sierra Vista while Bosco followed in his steady, sturdy, Ford pick-up. And when we pulled into the parking lot of Enterprise, it was FULL of different available cars.

This is the type of story that inspires rappers.

Who Can Your Hair Trust?

I grew up going to the beauty shop with my mother. For my entire life plus years before my blessed birth, my mother has gone to the beauty shop every week. EVERY. WEEK. She has a standing appointment with a saint named Marta and their relationship has lasted over twenty-five years. Marta has even come to Mom's home to do her hair when she was recuperating from surgery. Before that her "stylist" was Janet until Janet left the state. Okay, she moved or relocated. I always joke that if my dad's funeral fell on a Friday at 1:00, she might not show-up for it because you do not interfere with her hair appointment. Now, I joke about that, but it is in the back of my mind that one does not mess with one's hair appointment. No pun intended!

My mother is a true southern/Texan woman of her age bracket. She is from a time when every week women washed, rolled, sat under a hair dryer, had a comb-out, teased, combed and sprayed their hair with chemicals that would preserve a wood finish or possibly a hunter's game. NO. LIE. Let's not forget her regular perm. How her hair has not disintegrated from the ammonia amazes me. I have seen some amazing things and my mother's hair is one of them. And if my mother's coiffure is not enough of a statement, then life at the beauty shop would definitely be so.

Some of my earliest and constant memories are of a beauty salon. The smells, the sound of hairdryers, the chatter of clients and stylists. There's always a waiting area and children are NOT allowed to wander, run, or play in the artists' studio. I always wanted to get my hands on those little plastic rollers in the hair roller tray but I would have had a better chance ice skating in hell before that was ever allowed. Photos of lovely models with perfect hair decorate the walls. Mom's appointments were usually on Saturday mornings and she didn't like leaving me home with my brother to avoid conflict. I used to sit in my assigned seat at the front of the salon and read. Now, my mother would tell me to take a book, but once she was out of sight, I would delve into the juicy movie star/celebrity gossip magazines that were the staple at salons. I would just like to point out that as an elementary school student, I was privy to ads from "Fredricks of Hollywood," the romance of Elvis and his teenage Priscilla, Tammy Wynette and George Jones's two marriages to each other, Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner's reconciliation, Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland's drug related deaths and many many more pieces of history not found on PBS or Captain Kangaroo. The stuff I read could have inspired a "Harper Valley PTA" sequel. Please don't be judgey, though. It was the times and I was an active child who could have run wild in the neighborhood during the hour Mom was away. Oh, one more thing, my name "Jana" came from a movie magazine. I swear!

As I grew up and my hair grew, the salon culture followed me. As an elementary aged child, my mother would take me to the Jessie Lee Beauty School in Lubbock for a cut and perm during the summers. Some of my pictures show my hair looking like an Aborigine's but by September, it was usually under control. My hair grows freakishly fast and I was allowed to grow it long (that's they way we said it in West Texas) for a couple of years. I finally returned to the salon before 7th grade to have my first "Dutch boy" haircut. IT. WAS. AMAZING. But after a time of having to maintain the style, down the hair grew like a renegade Rapunzel. Every few months, Mom would threaten or cajole me to go to the salon to trim it in an effort to contain it, but there was no stopping it. It was thick, hot, and heavy. It eventually gave me headaches, broke through the extra large ponytail holders, and in a windstorm could reduce me to looking like a brunette Cousin It from The Addams Family. Finally, it had to go.

My first visit back to the salons was in Little Rock at "Russell's Red Carpet." Russell was an icon among the teen Farrah Fawsett wanna-bes. When Russell took a look at my hair, he grabbed scissors and hacked off at least ten inches before attempting to shape and style it. He put several strands in my lap like a trophy and went to town. That was the beginning. Because of my crazy hair, to maintain any control I started going to the salon every 4 to 6 weeks. Even in college, when I might miss a class or assignments, I never missed my hair appointment. I never went back to the long, down my back, hair of my teens. The thought just makes me sweat.

Over the years, my hair style and its color has changed. It has been extremely short to the point I told people I could not make good decisions because my hair was too short! Don't ask me, look at my head! For a few years, I was blonde because my stylist at the time told me it would hide my white hair. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I not only grayed early but my natural hair color is white. White as an old lady's! Luckily, my current stylist sweetly told me on my first visit I needed color in my hair because I was not a blonde. Wasn't that sweet? That's like a stranger telling you your dress is caught in your pantyhose or you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe! She cared how I looked and I don't think it was just because I would give her salon a bad example of services!!

I have only had a handful of stylists because when I find one I like, we are in a relationship. One stylist moved out of state and left a note on the door and even when she returned years later, I just couldn't commit to her. She let my hair down. And breaking up with a stylist is so stressful!!! I have hidden in aisles of Walmart to avoid a stylist from days gone past. This is probably because I still re-lived the trauma of having her stare me down and ask me who was cutting my hair. I know I looked like I had a light shining in my eyes and was being asked to write my crimes down on a legal pad for the investigator. "Um, well, I just. I don't. Hey! Is Tide on sale? Gotta go!" I still avoid that woman!

For several years, I have gone to a young woman named Oyuki. She owns "Oyuki's Salon" in Douglas. Her salon is clean, busy, and is a safe place to let your hair down. Okay, yes, that was intentional. It is not a spa but the care I receive is top rate. She knows me and she knows my hair. If there is gossip, it is said quietly and respectfully. Oyuki does not carry tales. I don't even give her instructions on what I want done to my hair. I walk in, wait for her to quietly call me to her chair, and she just does it. No stress, no drama. Occasionally, I run into a woman who is the local bail bondsman and she might share a few adventures. I know she is packing heat in her purse next to Oyuki's tip and I look forward to seeing her. I have seen older women wander in, have their hair brushed and styled, wander out without leaving any money behind. When I asked Oyuki, she smiled and said they were her mother's friends and it all works itself out. It's a sweet place and she is a trusted person to me.

I watched the HBO documentary "Habla: Women" recently. A man from South America who immigrated to the US spoke about his relationship with women as their hair stylist. He talked about seeing women without make-up/styled hair/sick/unhappy/scared/experiencing a life crisis, and when they were at their lowest. He had seen so much. He spoke of how the salon should be a place of refuge and the stylist being someone a woman can trust. He was right. During my lifetime, my mother inadvertently taught this lesson to me. When our hair looks good, we feel good. Mom has Marta and her tiny salon. I have Oyuki. Valued women we can trust with more than just hair.
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Praying for Zip's Family

Sometimes I have a hard time expressing myself. SERIOUSLY! For a person who has a lot to say, when it comes from some place deep inside, I often get choked up and start to cry. And it is not pretty. I don't think it is supposed to be pretty because when it happens I am in a very sad state of mind and heart even when it is about an animal. So, I am writing about a concern.

I have blogged about losing two precious dogs. One we lost suddenly and horribly. The other we helped cross over "the rainbow bridge." If you don't know about the rainbow bridge, google it. (It is a grief website for people who have lost a pet. It is really very nice and I know it helps with the grief of a furry family member.) Lately, several people I know have made some very unexpected and terrible trips to the rainbow bridge and three beloved dogs are there because of murder.

Murder? I know you think I have lost my mind, but I don't know how else to describe it. So, I will do my best to explain.

In the beautiful and scenic community of Cloudcroft, New Mexico, one of my daughter-in-law's best friends lives with her husband and their precious curly haired daughter. They relocated to the hamlet from Montana with a few horses and three dogs. And due to being facebook friends, I have had the privilege to watch their family grow and change since the couple married. That is one of the great things about social media. It connects you to people you might only see once in a great while or never at all.

At the beginning, I was always amused and happy to see Heidi's photography of her Australian Shepard, Dixie, when Heidi was expecting their baby. Dixie riding next to Heidi. Dixie close when Heidi could still ride a horse during her pregnancy. It was almost always Dixie and Heidi. I remember thinking to myself, "I want a Dixie dog!" This dog was so lovely and so full of personality. And there was another dog, Bill. Bill seemed to be all business. He was a cattle dog and I just got the impression that Bill was too busy for cuddling, riding in the truck, and sweet things. Cowdogs have jobs and work is their life. Until Abby...

Being a great chronicler of their lives, Heidi kept her facebook fan club totally up-to-date with pictures of their red-headed baby girl. In practically every picture, sitting next or near Abby was Bill the cowdog. It was so funny! Just like an old man that falls in love with his granddaughter, Bill was totally devoted to the baby. It was right out of a picture book...devoted dog and tiny baby. It was totally sweet.

Then, there was another dog, Zip. He was a red heeler and Heidi began posting pictures of the little guy. I immediately liked his name because I could picture him zipping through the stock, nipping at heels, moving cattle along for Kenton. (Kenton is Heidi's husband. He's the cowboy.) Heidi even posted a picture of Zip and his lady friend and their off-spring with toddler Abby in the mix. He was a family man. Errr, dog.

As Abby grew, Heidi and Kenton moved their lives and their animals from Montana to Cloudcroft. I thought it was a wonderful place for them to continue their lives. Family live close, they are close to Arizona, and it is one of the most beautiful communities I have ever passed through. Mountains. Trees. Green. Green. More green. Once, I thought Bosco and I could retire there and live happily.

Dutifully, Heidi continued to post pictures as Abby grew. I continued to look forward to the facebook posts of the little family. I chuckled more than once to see a scenic picture with Dixie and Bill in the foreground. Little glimpses of their lives and always including their pets. If I didn't see a dog for a few weeks, I was pleased to see a head, ears, or a tail in the latest picture from Heidi. I even encouraged Heidi to write a book about Abby's adventures since there were wonderful and excellent photos to go with the stories. I could imagine a picture book with Abby, the dogs, and a few horses. I thought it would definitely be a great children's book.

Then, one day while cruising through facebook, I saw a picture of Bill and Abby and a prayer request from Heidi. Scrolling through the comments, I saw that the dogs had possibly been poisoned. Poisoned? People asked questions and sent words of love throughout the post. They thought it could be antifreeze but they had no leaks or substances left out on their property. Antifreeze is very deadly. Bill seemed to be in worse shape and the following day, Heidi posted they had lost both Bill and Dixie.

It was shocking! I couldn't imagine Abby without her two sidekicks and more especially her sweet Bill. I kept picturing Dixie sitting close to a pregnant and beautiful Heidi. Like so many, I posted my condolences and prayed for the family and their remaining dog. I even messaged Heidi encouraging her to seek legal help. It was discouraging to learn the law enforcement of beautiful Cloudcroft didn't seem to understand their loss and the need for justice.

A "neighbor" with the reputation of baiting animals with antifreeze was a suspect. I use the word "neighbor" loosely because a neighbor takes you a casserole when you move into your new home. A neighbor takes in your mail when you are on vacation. They may even water your plants. A neighbor stands by your side when you lose a loved one. Neighbor is not just proximity it is a word for a relationship. A neighbor does not poison your dogs.

Today, Heidi posted a picture of Abby and their little Zipper dog. His kidneys are breaking down and it is just a matter of time. They are keeping him comfortable.

I cannot tell you how sweet that little curly haired girl looks with her dog. It is so precious. Earlier in the week, there was a picture of the two of them under a baby blanket. This chlid has lost two members of her family and is about to lose a third. I just don't understand.

Please don't tell me life is hard. Trust me, after 58 years, I have learned this fact. And if life is hard, then why are there people disguised as "good citizens" killing their neighbor's pets? We protect the eradication of animals in the wild. The US has honored endangered species lists and "good citizens" have flown this flag high! It is common to hear Sarah MacLaughlin's voice singing about angels while an animal protection agency requests donations for abused and abandoned animals. People who hunt out of season are fined, chastised, and threated with jail time which I totally support. It is cheating and it is wrong. We see the picture of a penguin or a baby seal and our hearts melt. Lord knows how many adults think those penguins tap dance and those seals grow up to eat those tap dancing penguins! And Nemo... Didn't your heart just ache for him to find his way to his father? But what about the reality of a child and her parents who are about to bury the third pet in two weeks? What about Abby?

I have wanted to drive to Cloudcroft and risk jail time and the embarassment of my family and friends to petition law enforcement to do something about this crime. Yes, New Mexico does have a crime against intentional poisoning of animals. It is a class 4 felony. No proof? Lab results and other community members agreeing to come forward to state what they have experienced and the perp has admitted to doing. Even then, justice will not fix the problem. Justice will not undo the deed. The murder.

So, for those reading this, please pray for Abby and her sweet family. Pray for their grief and pray for their loss. And most of all, pray for a sweet passing for a little girl's dog.

Hope Begins With a Hairnet

Having been an educator for thirty-five years, I have learned that students will give their best and be their best if you actually let them learn. Sounds easy doesn't it?

EVERYONE knows that a teacher is supposed to provide a learning experience for their students, but this is not always the case. And I know this because I did not always allow the kids to learn. Oh, don't get me wrong, I had the best intentions. I planned beautiful lessons complete with all the parts required and learned in my college classes. I tried to be engaging, interesting, and I always had good classroom control. I used to joke that I could give the best darn "pony show" for an evaluation that would convince an administrator that I could perform miracles of knowledge. But I knew the truth. I spent a lot of time standing in front of classes, talking/lecturing, and praying they would gain something from it all. Then, after a whole lot of years and a whole lot of lessons, I really learned about teaching.

During ESL summer school, my administrator talked to me about my lesson plans. She very nicely talked to me about the levels I was attempting to teach my students. She showed me my "verbs" and talked to me about the expectations she had for her students. She was right. This discussion pushed me to examine how I taught and to amp it up. A few summers later, I attended a workshop where things really got down and dirty. This opened my eyes and my mind that kids learned only 20% at the most from lecture and even less from worksheets or book work. The higher levels of thinking involve using skills, analyzing the skills, creating, and evaluating. DUH!!!! I heard this in college but I started to live it.

FAST FORWARD TO THE FUTURE...

Teaching the Gifted and Talented Education Program for my district means allowing students to figure out a lot of things for themselves. Lessons are project-based and hands-on. Thematic units rule! This does not just happen in the classroom, but it applies to our field trips as well. I just cringe when I hear students tell me they are going on a field trip to play in the water at the park. I gag when I hear the first graders went to the Bisbee Mine and didn't know anything about mining, geology, or minerals. Yes, I realize I am probably the killer of all free-time, but that's for sissies. My idea of a field trip is to 1) Learn 2) Learn 3) Learn. Repeat as often as necessary.

I have a large group of 8th graders who have been a challenge since day one. Overall, they never let me down, but it can be a struggle. If the project and the lesson do not meet their interest levels, I can expect thirteen year old mutiny. I haven't been told to "walk the plank" but don't think it didn't cross their minds. They are extremely social and one actually told me he felt our class was best spent connecting and hanging out with his friends he doesn't see everyday. (Hello behavior plan!) When they were in the fifth grade, one student's parents told me I might be too old to teach the program as I was strict and had rules for the students to follow. Are you getting the picture? I actually returned three students to school from our field trip when they were in seventh grade due to their horrible behavior. When we studied philanthropy, a few actually questioned why they should care about helping others. Sigh... Needless to say, they didn't get to go visit the patients at the local skilled nursing facility. And yet, I haven't given up hope for them.

This year, when I was thinking of a field trip, I knew I couldn't take them to the Chiricahua Mountains to work with scientists at the research center. Self control was a concern. Someone could get hurt, lost, or even die. No one is dying on my watch, if I can avoid it. So, finding a "learning experience" that met their needs and interests was truly a challenge. Until my son told me about "Feed My Starving Children."

Feed My Starving Children sounds really dramatic, doesn't it? Jordan (aka Mr. Selchow of the Mesquite High School Ag Dept. in Gilbert, AZ) told me he takes kids to volunteer at their sites a couple of times a year. He described the experience to me, assured me his students enjoyed doing it and had to earn the privilege to participate. He encouraged me to check out the website. Okay, I was a little hesitant at the idea but Jordan is no bleeding heart. If he said it was worth his time, then it was worth mine to research.

I barely made it through the online video. FMSC is a Christian organization, but anyone is welcome to help. Their mission is to provide food for people in under-developed countries, especially children. I knew where we were going and I knew just how to teach it. It came easily.

GTE students are generally good researchers by the 8th grade. I allowed them to choose a partner, I told them to choose 10 under-developed countries, and they had to find statistics on hunger and death rates to compare. They would give a short presentation and they had to have charts representing their data. Poof! Off they scurried to their computers and boy did they meet my expectations. One student spoke to me privately about his concern that the majority of deaths in Mexican men was a result of alcohol. Learning? You betcha!

After the presentations, I handed the students their permission slips and we talked about what was to come. On Monday, May 9, at 10:30, we would travel four hours to Phoenix, in vans to work at FMSC. My husband (GOD BLESS HIM!), my instructional assistant (HEART OF GOLD), and I would chaperone. Since we don't have many funds, we would pack lunches and at the end of the day, we would eat at McDonalds. Our appointment was from 3:30 to 5:30 PM and we would be back in Douglas by 10:30 PM.

Yes, I knew it would be a very long day. Yes, I knew my self-control challenged mob could go crazy. Yes, I was worried about the "what ifs." Yes, I prayed for help. Yes, I stressed and lost sleep about the whole idea and thought about calling in sick on the 9th. But at no time did I ever hear or encounter the word, "NO." My program director was very encouraging and told me she believed in my idea. So, off we went.

Bosco drove one van and Ms. ChaCha (Yes, that is her awesome name) had seven in one van and I had seven in the other. I WAAAAAASSSSS tempted to give them the wild ones, but they all can hold that moniker with pride at any given moment. The ride went well. We even had time to drive five miles an hour for road construction and still made it without landing in the parking lot going MACH5 with our hair on fire.

Once in the building, the atmosphere is very "chill and hip." No frills, but it had a World Market feel to it. Sean, the dude in charge gave us a rundown of what we would be doing, showing slides for visual instructive support, and we all donned a hairnet. NO ONE looked good. NO ONE. It was the greatest equalizer in life. No jewelry and wear a glove if your wedding band won't come off. We would be a team, loading ingredients into small plastic bags, sealing them, packing them in boxes, and the result would go to Cambodia. Each day, food goes to different countries. There is no particular favorite.

Our hairnet covered group secured a station and prepared for the experience. Four boys volunteered to work with the warehouse crew moving filled boxes. (The strongest never works out and the rest could be described as scrawny.) ChaCha worked in labeling. My kids would mix rice, soy, vitamins, and flavoring into the bags, Bosco and I would work the sealers and pack the boxes. We were table 5 and we were FEARLESS!!!

And work we did. Listening and singing to loud upbeat pop tunes, we packed about fourteen bags of food. Thirty-six bags fills a box. We were a filling machine! Occasionally, I saw my warehouse boys zoom by with boxes, muscles or pre-muscles bulging. And the time flew! Before I could yell, "Pick-up on table five," it was over and we were cheering our success. We cleaned up the area and returned to the first room with the World Market atmosphere.

Sean talked about our efforts and what it would mean. Children, adults, and old people would live another year for each box we packed. One bag would feed a little child for more than one day. We packed 504 bags of food. We watched a video where we saw poor, starving children who were grossly underweight before being brought to the distribution centers in their countries. Then, they showed us their progress over a year. It was amazing, thrilling, and devastating. I was a mess at this point. I had to grip my poor sore knees to keep from crying. I looked at my kids and they looked so proud and they were so good!

We ate dinner at McD's and hauled it home to Douglas. My van was noisy, but it was good noise. Bosco said his van was a lot quieter, but one kid talked the whole time. The time went fast. My van-kids asked about class on Thursday and I told them there would be no more classes for the year. The field trip was the final. In two weeks they would finish their middle school GTE experience and be high school freshman. There were some surprised comments and it appeared they would maybe miss our classes. I asked them to tell me what they had learned from the experience. No student was at a loss for words. Several told me it was the best field trip ever. Mission accomplished. We arrived at the schools, hugged goodbye, and went home. I am still tired.

A teacher should always have high hopes and high expectations for their students. This I know to be true. A teacher's first responsibility is to teach lessons that will carry students through school and through life. I strongly feel this was accomplished. And their behavior? They didn't let me down but most of all, they didn't let themselves down. And they learned something very important.
Hope sometimes begins with a hairnet.

I have a call from ...

When my brother was in college, he would call my parents and I each week on Sunday. It was our schedule. We would get home from church, eat lunch, and Gary would call. He would call collect for himself and whomever answered the phone would refuse the call. Then, we would call him at his dorm or apartment and catch-up on our shared news. It was usually me who spoke first, then Dad, then Mom. Mom was usually last. When he married, the tradition continued until my parents moved back to Houston and they could call at anytime. They still talk each week.

In 1976, off I went to college (Ouachita Baptist University) and it was my turn to call collect each Sunday. I, however, called for our dog, Shorty. My dad would chuckle each time the operator said, "I have a collect call for Shorty." My dad would say with a little laugh, "I'm sorry, he can't talk right now." Because Shorty couldn't. And of course, the phone would ring in my dorm and I would tell them all about my week in Arkadelphia. When I graduated, married, and moved to Arizona, the calls continued. We talk each Sunday, unless I am out-of-town. Then, I am supposed to call on Monday. If by chance I don't call by Tuesday, you can expect Katherine, my mom, will be calling to ask if we are all okay. It's a given.

Raising my kids so far away from my parents has often brought questions from people wondering how close my kids are to Nana and Papa. After all, Houston is 16 hours away and that is a lifetime to people who live close to their grandchildren. I do my best to explain that they have heard their grandparents' voices on the phone regularly since they were babies. Each week, I would hold the phone to their little ears so they could listen to Nana and Papa tell them they loved them and other things. When they could hold the receiver without licking it, they listened intently as Nana and Papa shared little stories and news with them, ending in how much they were loved and missed. I kept their pictures in their rooms so they would recognize them and they wouldn't think the phone was Nana and Papa. As they grew older, their talks were often private and I would talk to Mom and Dad when the kids were finished. We saw my parents at least twice a year, sometimes more, but they spoke to their grandparents each week. Our phone bills were expensive, but it was money well spent. My kids spoke to them regularly when they were in college and they still do. Close? Very.

The news we share is usually not too important. Important news or concerns get a call during the week. This usually follows a trip to the doctor, the emergency room, a biopsy, a death, a birth, and things we know can't wait. If they call me on a weekday or at night, I am a little frightened when I see the caller id.

Dad often updates me on the sports he follows. The Dallas Cowboys take center stage, followed by the Houston Astros, and of course, the Rockets. I never hear much about the Texans and certainly not the Rangers. He watches a lot of CNN and the local news so we talk about the US, global issues, and politics. The man loves politics, as long as it is his point of view! I know all about the tomato plants and other things growing in his yard. I receive a pecan report each fall. It concerned me to learn someone called the police after he was seen shooting his BB gun at the squirrels in the front yard and five cruisers showed up like a SWAT emergency. Squirrels are the enemy and he must defend his pecan crop. Dad might have a joke he heard at church and I always hear about his friends at College Park Baptist. Advice is free, but not insisted.

Mom and I talk longer. She goes into the bedroom to speak privately and she has been known to complain a little about my dad. I keep her complaints to myself because I understand that a girl sometimes needs to vent. We laugh about things my students say and she always wants to know about my classes. She coaches me through cooking, quilting, sewing, and other things she has mastered. She knows I don't have her green thumb so gardening information is usually short. Every year, she inquires as to whether I am up-to-date on my mammograms and am I staying healthy. Concern becomes a worry if my voice is hoarse and she will make extra calls in the week if she learns I am ill. For a woman who struggles with memory loss, she never ever forgets a worry I have shared with her. I am her baby and she is still the mother.

Conversations with my parents have helped me make it through some very trying times. I have cried on the phone more than once when I have been worried, afraid, and frustrated with life's challenges. My dad always reassures me with, "God will take care of you." My mom is the pep club. She tells me she is proud of me, encourages me to do what is difficult, and helps me believe "All things pass or it's just a phase." I know they always have my best interests in their hearts and minds.

One day, I fear a different call will come and I know the day is getting closer and closer. I don't like to think about it, because I don't like to think about my life without them. So, I call each Sunday because every minute and every call counts.

Far From Home

If you have met me and listened to me talk about my family, then you know I have two kids. I call them "wanna be comedians" in the description of me on this blog because they think they are so funny. And sometimes they are. When I felt like I would pull my hair out in frustration, anger, embarrassment, or hurt, I could depend on the comedians to do or say something epic. And sometimes they did something truly kind. That's what family is supposed to do for you. Drive you crazy, make you laugh, and pick you up when you are low.

There hasn't been a full-time comedian in the house since Jordan left home in 2009. And most days the quiet isn't so bad. They blow in a couple of times a year and the noise level rises then once more they are gone and it's quiet at home. The coach and I go back to our routines and everything resumes.

I left home to go to college in the fall of 1976. My parents and I talked every Sunday afternoon when we weren't together. We still do. (They are 87 and 85) If I have to miss a week, then I can expect a worried call during the week checking on me. I always felt bad for my parents when I would leave them at the end of the summer, Spring Break, Thanksgiving, and Christmas breaks. My mom would tell me that my dog would look for me and their house would be too quiet. In 1981, I married and I saw them less as I moved far, far from them. I made my own home, made a family, and made a life away from them. When I go to Houston to visit, they are sad when I leave. Dad usually cries a little and Mom hugs me several times before I walk out the door. It's hard but leaving is supposed to be hard. I know they love me and that will never change.

Now, when we say goodbye to our kids and their spouses, it's sad. I am usually quiet, kinda cranky, and I have been known to cry a little. I hug them several times before we part and I try to make sure they hear me tell them over and over that I love them. We part ways and the quiet returns.

I was going through my ITunes collection yesterday and I found something I forgot I had. It's a song by the Doobie Brothers. "Far From Home" The words are perfect and the music is lovely. It reminds me of the comedians and it reminds me of me. They are far from home, like me.

"Far From Home"
by Simmons and Templeman

I wish you could have stayed a little longer cause it seems like only yesterday
You've gotten so much stronger now I know you're on your way
We've waited for this moment now it's hard to let you go
Cause baby when you're gone away I know I'm gonna miss you so

Spread your wings and fly away
When the rain begins to fall
Just remember that you'll never be that far from home

I looked in your room today I saw an old and worn out shoe
It's one from your favorite pair. I remember when they were new
You used to wear them everywhere when you used to hold my hand
Time slips through your fingers just like a tiny little grain of sand

Baby just spread your wings and fly away
When the rain begins to fall
Just remember that you'll never be that far from home

Just remember that you'll never be that far from home
Just remember that you'll never be that far from home
Just remember that you'll never be that far from home

Spread your wings and fly away
Spread your wings and fly away
Spread your wings and fly away

Flipper Speak

I have a sinus infection. My head is so wobbly I feel like a bobble head. My eyes want to spit out my contact lenses. My face hurts. My ears hurt. My teeth hurt. And when I cough, Lordy Jesus, mercy, I can't describe what comes out of me.

Have you ever watched the old rerun of "Flipper?" Remember how Bud and Sandy would ask Flipper questions and he would scream/squeak out an answer that only they understood? That would describe how I sound when I speak. I mean, I already feel like I sound like Minnie Mouse when I hear my phone recordings, but this is totally dolphin speak.

Imagine if you will... (Cue the music from Twilight Zone)

Bosco: "Hon, what do you want for dinner?"
Jan: "Squeak, squeak,whisper, squeak."
Bosco: "Did you say a tamale?"
Jan: "Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak!"
Bosco: "Tomato soup?"
Jan: "Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak."
Bosco: "I can't understand you."

Jan picks up a notepad and scribbles something quickly.
Bosco: "Oh, you would like something to drink? Okay, how about some juice?"
Jan/Flipper nods her head repeatedly.

The phone rings.
Bosco: "It's for you."
Jan: Eye roll. Heavy sigh...

Lions and Tigers and Bears, OH MY!

It is August, 2015 and summer is almost over. On Tuesday, I will start teaching my little program of gifted children for the Douglas Unified School District and I cannot believe my summer has passed so quickly. It was a quiet summer for the hubby and I. It started off with two trips, but week by week, it has gotten quieter and quieter. No overseas travel. No house renovation. No family reunions. Q U I E T. Except for the mountain lion and the bear.

During the middle of June, my friend Cynthia asked me to take a little daytrip with her to Sierra Vista. SV is an hour from Douglas and from time to time, we like to explore the treasures of Marshalls and Ross, eat a nice lunch, and maybe check out the sale rack in the Dillards shoe department. This time, she asked me to go with her to Huachuca Canyon to see the Elegant Trogons. [I had seen them earlier in the spring when my friend Judy took me on a lovely morning hike.] I remembered how to get there and I agreed to be her bird guide.

It was a beautiful morning to birdwatch. We drove through Ft. Huachuca, signed in at the base police station, and I directed her to the canyon. Everything looked the same and we were not the only people birdwatching that day. CB parked her car, we tied our cool snakes around our necks, grabbed our binoculars, and set-off in search of bird beauty. It didn't take long to find our feathered friends. We listened for their weird calls, spotted two males and a female, and considered our excursion successful. BRING ON THE SHOPPING! CB and I started down the canyon path, talking about our kids, when about 20 feet of us, in the forest, we heard the loudest and scariest screaming sound coming from the bushes next to the creek. It sounded very cat-like, except a thousand dicebels louder and more angry! The bushes were trashing and there was some type of struggle going on very close to us. CB and I stopped, of course, then started to walk very quickly and very quietly toward the car. I don't know what possessed CB to do what she did next, but she said in her West Texas accent, "Jana, keep walking and don't look back." Huh? I know the look I gave her was that, "Are you crazy?" look. She turned away from me and walked back about 10 steps, popped her binoculars up to her face, whipped around, speed walked back to me, and said, "Do you think you can run a little bit on your bad knee?" This time, I stopped, looked in the direction of the bushes and focused in. I saw some yellowish fur and whipped back around. Bad knee and all, we hoofed it out of the canyon until we could see the car. I asked Cynthia what she saw. She just shook her head. I asked her again and looked a little freaked-out. I told her, "Well, I saw something with yellowish fur!" Then, CB told me she was "pretty sure" she had seen a mountain lion's head. When we got into the car, we started to assess the situation. I told her I had seen deer the last time I had been there. A few minutes later, we saw four deer walking next to the creek. From the sound and the noise, I am sure the Bambis were short one of their friends. And we could have been dessert.

Later that night, I sat talking about the whole encounter with Bosco. Since he is a hunter, I asked him what we could have done if it had tried to attack. Calm as you please, he said:

1. You could run but you shouldn't turn your back on it.
2. You could try to fight it off.
3. You shouldn't play dead, you do that with a bear.

REALLY?!

1. Since I have two bad knees and I often limp on uneven surfaces, I would be attacked while Cynthia sprinted to safety.
2. Fight it off? What? Give it some kung fu moves that I use when I'm dancing to "Kung Fu Fighting?" I wasn't packing a machete or numchucks, what did he mean by fighting it off?
3. Don't play dead with a mountain lion? What if I faint?

Thankfully, we were both safe and when we reported it at the police station, the soldier on duty said, "We've seen a few in the area." Hmmm... Do ya think you could post a sign?

Cynthia left for Texas and spent a month away from southern Arizona. When she returned, she received some serious news that her mother needed her in Big Spring, Texas. She asked me to pick her up from the Tucson airport on Saturday, which worked well with my scheduled quilting class.

[See? Quiet activities.]

I picked up CB, we had a nice dinner at Zin Burger in Tucson and started for Douglas around 6:30. We talked all the way to Benson, St. David, and Tombstone. By the time we had driven by the Sierra Vista junction, it was dark.

[For those of you who do not live in southeastern Arizona and have never driven on Highway 80 towards Bisbee, the two lane road becomes a steep climb through hills and mountains. The desert is very dense with foilage, mainly mesquites, cacti, bushes, and trees. In the daylight, it is beautiful. At night, the two lane highway is dark and the driver needs to pay attention. Traveling west, you are next to walls of rock, but traveling east, there are some steep drop-offs past the shoulder of the road.]

I was driving my usual 5 mph past the speed limit when we approached the passing lanes. As I was trying to judge the distance between my car and the car in front of me I saw a large animal moving fast across the west-bound lane. I could see the outline of it from the light from a car heading west. I hit my brakes and swerved a little into the on-coming lane to see a BEAR run past the front of my Honda Accord. I screamed, Cynthia screamed, and we both were shouting, "BEAR! BEAR!" I think we screamed for awhile. When we finally calmed down, I called Bosco. On speaker-phone, he said, "A bear? A bear ran in front of you?" I know I had that "hysterical crazy" sound in my voice. And then he said it, "Wow! If you had hit it, it could have gone through your windshielf and landed in your lap." REALLY? So, for the remaining time in the car and then at home, lying in bed, I had visions of an injured black bear in the front seat with Cynthia and me.

Today at the golf course, Bosco told someone from the Bisbee area about what happened. The man said, "Oh, yeah! They're really active in the area this time of year."

First a lion, then a bear. Now, I'm a little nervous about tigers...

OH MY!

Dear Teacher

In honor of teacher appreciation week, I thought it was time to give a shout-out to a few of the teachers who made an impression and a difference in my life. As an educator of thirty-four years, I know that I did not get here by myself, that there were people (teachers) who would provide lessons that I would remember, draw on, and carry with me through my life. Some lessons were good, some bad, but all have had an effect on the Jana I am today. I am grateful to have had some truly wonderful teachers.

Dear Mrs. Fisher, (First Grade, Lawndale Elementary, Amarillo, Texas)
Thank you for surviving a complete year with me as a student. While you knew that I did not go to kindergarten and had difficulty sitting in my seat, I do not remember you ever striking me, yelling at me, or taking insults to heart. Thank you for making two visits to my home to let my parents know that even though I talked continuously and had difficulties understanding subtraction, I was a great reader and you could not recommend for me to be retained or "flunked" at the end of the year. Thank you also for letting my parents know that I had told you I wished a big black dog would run up and bite you when I was angry for losing my recess one day. Your patience was commendable and I am sure you have a whole crown of stars in heaven since you seemed very old to be teaching a bunch of six year old hooligans. Or at least one.

Dear Mrs. Blanton, (Third Grade, Webster Elementary, Lubbock, Texas)
Thank you for showing the class your slides of Mexico, Alaska, and South America during Geography. Seeing these interesting places instilled a desire to travel to exotic places. I was always impressed at how you could jump rope to one hundred wearing a pencil skirt, hose, and heels. I apologize for talking continuously during quiet time after lunch which provoked you to smacking the back of my legs with a ruler. Thank you for introducing me personally to the principal with whom I developed a friendly relationship over the next two years while at Webster. Did you know he bought me a coke to calm me from crying hysterically that afternoon? I also want to thank you for teaching me that to have a friend, I must first be a friend. That lesson has been a keeper!

Dear Mrs. McLeod, (Sunday School Teacher, Southcrest Baptist Church, Lubbock, Texas)
Thank you for volunteering to teach Sunday School to me for at least three years. It seemed like you were stalking me when year after year, when I found myself assigned to your class. My mother told me not to take it personally and to learn from your experience as you seemed much older than my grandparents. Thank you for writing me that very nice letter when I moved to Houston the summer before sixth grade. To learn that you joined another church the week after we moved gave me an eery feeling, but my mother told me that she was certain it was a coincidence. My aunt told me you retired from teaching Sunday School. I hope you enjoyed your retirement.

Dear Mrs. Ator, (Sixth Grade Reading Teacher, Anderson Elementary, Houston, Texas)
Thank you, thank you, thank you for being kind, loving, and having a wonderful sense of humor. Every morning, your class was a refuge for me as I was not a happy camper in my regular 6th grade class. I begged my parents to move me to your class, but they were traditionalists and felt that it would build character to stay in my originally assigned class. Your daily hugs were a life saver. I still miss you!

Mrs. Wallace, (Music Teacher, Anderson Elementary, Houston, Texas)
Thank you for being an amazing music teacher with whom I shared a love for show tunes! Going to your class every week was spectacular! I loved the way you made me feel valued and important to your program. Thank you for all the praise of being able to sing on tune, harmonize, and memorize song after song. I still have my music book that we made in your class. There are times when I break into song and you can bet it will lead into a rousing chorus of "Hey! Look Me Over!" P.S. I can still do the choreography to "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head."

Miss Black, (Summer School Math, Anderson Elementary, Houston, Texas)
Thank you so much for the first wonderful math experience in elementary school! You instilled in me confidence that I could convert fractions to decimals and back without erasing a hole in my worksheet. After a rocky sixth grade experience, you were a life saver!

Mr. Kurilko, (Foster Junior High, Tulsa, Oklahoma)
Thank you so much for making me laugh each day in Physical Science. I enjoyed making my own batteries, building a car out of blocks, and making it run! I am sorry that I caught my hand on fire with the leaky alcohol burner, but your knowledge of first aid really came to good use that day! You didn't even complain about the singed text books on my table that engulfed into flame when I dropped the burner. I still have a couple of little faint scars on my left hand. I think of you whenever I look at them.

Mrs. Teddly, (Horace Mann Junior High School, Little Rock, Arkansas)
Thank you for calling back later in the evening after I told you that you had the wrong number when you called my parents. Letting them know that I had not turned in required assignments and that I was struggling with math showed you cared that I did well in your class. Thank you for not taking this personally. I was in a dark place within puberty and I was having adjustment issues about moving to my third junior high in three years. I learned a tremendous amount during our semester together. I appreciate all your effort. PS. I have called many parents during my career. They always thank me for caring for their kids.

Mrs. Davies, (English, Parkview High School, Little Rock, Arkansas)
Thank you for being an amazing eleventh grade English teacher! I learned so much from you and became a much improved writer in the process. I loved the enthusiasm you put into your lessons. Who knew you could make The Scarlet Letter come to life by having us read and act out most of the chapters? Arthur Miller's Crucible became such a terrific reading experience after you explained the purpose behind it. Every American should learn about McCarthyism and how a "witch hunt" is an example of bad citizenship. I loved your class and I loved how you made me see what I could do with my talents. Everyone should have a teacher like YOU!

Mrs. Neville, (Chemistry, Parkview High School, Little Rock, Arkansas)
Thank you for understanding when my father brought me to school after he had learned that I cheated on a test in your class. It was noble of you to offer for me to retake it. My dad didn't agree and you saw the wisdom of his insisting I receive an F for that test. Thank you for not mentioning it to my friends and the other students. It was our secret. Also, thank you so much for all the offers of extra credit that semester. That was very kind.

Dr. Watson, (Education Professor, Ouachita Baptist University, Arkadelphia, Arkansas)
Thank you so much for teaching your students very valuable lessons for teachers. You stressed that:
1) Students do not want their teachers to be their friends. We can do more for them as teachers.
2) Students do not treat always their friends very nicely and why would we want that for ourselves?
3) Students will break your hearts if your cross the magic line into the "friendship zone". The best thing we can do for our students is to teach them.

Dr. "Pappaw" Mims, (Educational Economics Professor, Ouachita Baptist University, Arkadelphia, Arkansas)
Thank you, thank you, thank you for the wonderful class in Educational Economics! Who knew that future teachers around America were not all taking this valuable course! I knew quite a bit about school finance before I had a job in a school district! It has helped me immensely! Oh, and sorry about the references to being an old man. I am now probably close to the age you were when I was in college!

Mrs. Snookie Dixon, (Pre-School Teacher, First Baptist Church, Arkadelphia, Arkansas)
Thank you for allowing me to intern in your class for my Early Childhood Practicum while I was at OBU. Being in your class taught me that little children are weirdly wonderful. Thank you for passing a pair of girls and boys underwear around the circle of students to answer the mystery of what everyone was wearing under their clothes. This stopped the boys from lifting the girls' skirts on the playground. And thank you for encouraging me to crawl under the table and spend some time with your student who refused to come out each day. I used this in a fourth grade class that I observed as an instructional coach several years ago. It helps to understand the safety of being under a table.

Mrs. Chapel, (Library Science Professor, Ouachita Baptist University, Arkadelphia, Arkansas)
I loved every class you taught and it was in your classes I saw the path I was meant to take in education. My mind was a sponge whenever you spoke and I felt so prepared when I left college. Who knew it would be six years later before I would sit behind a librarian's desk, but you made certain I was ready for the challenge. I still have the letter you wrote me when that happened. Thank you for seeing so many qualities in me and sharing them with me before I graduated from college. I know that as you are now gone from this world, you left a space at Ouachita that could never be filled. You hold a place in my heart. PS. Thanks for letting Brenda and I sunbathe on the balcony of the educational building during that Spring when the weather was so good! You were always young at heart.

And for all the teachers that I missed, thank you for being part of a profession that teaches all other professions. You have made a difference.
Thank you!

Call Me Sissy

As I age aka "get older," I find myself a little more tolerant about somethings and very intolerant of others. Trust me, I have changed, but it has not been an easy road, especially when it comes to camping. Growing up, my family was not the camping type. We did not travel to the wilderness, throw down a tent and sleeping bag, and rough it. In fact, I am fairly certain my mother felt that roughing it was equivalent to staying in a motel that did not have a Denny's attached. On vacation, she actually would check out a reserved motel before we would stay in it. If it looked a little sketchy, she and dad would have a serious discussion, Dad would go into the motel office, and we would drive off in search of better digs. (You can only imagine how difficult it was to find a suitable restroom on a road trip!) So, camping was never an option of a fun, family get-away. However, once I saw a pair of flannel pajamas in the cedar chest and my mother said they were hers as she had worn them on a camping trip. The face she made when she confessed this information was like someone had invited a rat to the dinner table. I am sure Dad camped on occasion since he enjoyed fishing and hunting, but camping was something I did not know or understand.

When I was eleven, I was invited to a "camp-out" in my neighbor's backyard for her birthday. It was a great party! Sloppy Joes, cooking smores, games, spooky stories, our bedrolls (no, I didn't have a sleeping bag) laid out on the soft summer grass, until lights out. Little girls talking, giggling, and before I knew it, everyone was asleep under the West Texas stars except me. I listened to the sounds of the neighborhood that I had known for years and suddenly, they were creepy and weird. I tried covering my head to protect me from bugs and mosquitoes I felt on my face as I tossed and turned. I was a little freaked out when I rolled up my blankets and pillow and left through the gate to cross the street to my house and to my bed. The door was unlocked. As I padded down the hallway, I heard my mom call, "Jan?" I went into her room and told her I wanted to sleep in my own bed and she and Dad told me goodnight. The next morning, Mrs. Woodman was at the door asking if I had come home. There were no other camp-outs for birthdays or otherwise for several years.

In high school, our church's youth director planned a summer camping trip to a state park outside of Hot Springs, Arkansas. By then, I had several years of church camp under my belt and I didn't think twice about signing up for the week long adventure. We would sleep in tents, shower in the park restrooms, work and play during the day in the park, and perform our music and skits for the park's visitors at night. Doesn't it sound great? Twenty something teens and their chaperones, loving the outdoors, sharing quality time, and making memories. KUM BA YA! It was torture. First, the boys set-up their tents and I saw them sweep under the tents and dig a trench around them. Hmmm... Trenches? Then, the guys came over to our pile of canvas. As we were setting it up, it began to rain. No sweeping, no trenches, just let's get it up and throw your gear in it. The rain lasted all afternoon and most of the night. Our tent flooded and our bags and sleeping bags were wet before nine o'clock. With very little sleep and damp everything, the next morning we trudged up the hill to the restroom to try and freshen up. No warm water. Every day, there was no warm water. Even the creek and the lake was warmer than the water in the restroom. My mood never lifted and my spirits did not soar. My sleeping bag did dry out, but since it rained almost every other day, I mostly slept in moist conditions. Our group endured a tornado and spent several hours in the restroom near camp. Even with the Daddy Long Legs Spiders climbing over us most of the night, it was one dry night's worth of sleep. One evening, one of the older kids with a car offered to take some kids to A & W Root Beer for a snack. I practically clawed my way into that car! And when we were at A & W, I snuck away from the group and made a collect call to my dad. I remember crying on the phone and begging him to come get me. I described the horrific conditions and I even coughed a lot to try to convince him it wasn't a healthy situation for his baby, ME. The old man shocked me by saying I only had two days left and I should try to make the best of it. Lord, I was angry! It was a good thing that Mom met me at the church at the end of the trip because I didn't speak to him for a few days. And our youth director DID NOT ask me to share my life changing experiences with the church the following Sunday.

The summer before my senior year in high school, my closest friend, Machelle Yancey, asked me to go camping with her family. I was cautious and a little jaded as I asked her about camping. She assured me that we would be very close to facilities, we would sleep on air mattresses, her family would look after us, and if I wasn't happy, I could go home. Oh, and she told me we would water ski. This peaked my interest. Shell had told me all about skiing and she was sure I would love it. She loved going to Greer's Ferry and she convinced me that it would be the time of my life. She was right. Greer's Ferry Lake was amazing. It was beautiful, we were treated like lake-princesses, and I learned to water ski. I went every weekend with her family that summer and I went with them the summer before I left for college. It was some of the best times I had as a teen and a young adult. I will be forever grateful to the Yanceys.

In college, I didn't camp. Shell had married and my parents had moved to Texas. I still went skiing, but with different people. And I didn't camp. The summer after I was a newly married and living in Arizona, Bosco and I took a road trip with friends from college. Curtis, Monica, Karen Jean, Bosco, and I explored northern Arizona and we planned to camp at a little lake outside Flagstaff. Now, remember, I had been spoiled by the Yanceys and my husband did not read their guide on how to take care of Jana in the wilderness. As we were setting up camp, I made a little trip to the state park restroom. I opened the door and flies swarmed me trying to escape the stinkhole conditions of a non-flushing toilet. No sink. No electricity. Nothing remotely sanitary. Camp was set-up, dinner was eaten, and Monica, Karen Jean and I slept in my in-laws' van. The next morning, I jumped in the driver's seat, fired up the van, and drove us to a restroom with a shower about 20 miles from the campground. We left Bosco and Curtis standing there with a blank look on their faces and no explanations. I had not used the restroom since we had stopped for gas the day before and I shouldn't be held responsible for the state of my decision making or my renal system. Needless to say, we broke camp after breakfast, said goodbye to our friends from Arkansas, and I cried for four hours on the way home. I decided then, no more camping!

As the years passed, I did relent to a few overnight camp-outs, but I had to be baited with water skiing, someone's camper, a flushable toilet, or a 24 hour limit. I never acclimated to the experience. It just didn't appeal to me. Bosco took the kids camping during Spring Breaks and they always camped in the backyard several times a summer, so our kids never did without that joy. I always bowed out and plead that it was "Dad Time" and I didn't want to interfere with my idiosyncrasies. My kids have wonderful memories and I am glad for it. I was really happy with the situation, until one day, after Meg left for college, Jordan made his memorable plea. "Mom, would you please, please think about going camping with Dad and me? It might be fun and it's something the three of us can do together." Sigh... He sounded so sincere. So, I told him I would think about it. I did think about it until I would mentally black-out and go to my happy place of Inn Suites, continental breakfasts, and a swimming pool. Jordan didn't give up and he recruited Bosco in his mission. Finally, I conceded and gave into the battle. I would go camping.

My sister-in-law loaned us a pop-up camper that would reside at our house for a few years. We would take it places and I would camp. I may have given in, but it was not without terrorist's demands. I would have a make-shift shower, a porta-potty, and they would do my bidding as needed. This includes killing bugs, toting fresh water, and ignoring my whining and complaints as I was out of my comfort zone. I love my comfort zone, it's cozy and clean. :) Things went well, but after two days, they were tired of being my camping minnions. And by the third day, we were all ready to go home. This went on for a few years. The camper was nice, but it was cold and windy when we went to Quartsite. When it rained, it got a little leaky around the seams of the pop-out beds. And the porta-potty was a little exposed for three people to use for more than two days. When Bosco retired, he scouted Craigslist and found an affordable used camping trailer that we purchased. It had a bathroom with a shower, a flushable toilet, a kitchen with a microwave, a pop-out living area, and a queen-sized bed. Oh, it also has an air conditioner and a heater. Slick, huh? The pop-up went back to my sister-in-law, and the camper lives in our backyard.

It is nice. When there is no electricity within range, it hooks up to a generator. Gotta love it! I can shower, do my hair, listen to my tunes, and no one gets hurt. Well, unless the cold water line is plugged up and the shower scalds us. Yes, this has happened. Recently, we took it to Patagonia Lake and spent a couple of days with friends, roughing it. They have one, too, but they will not always use the conveniences as a need to commune with nature. I think. On the way out of the camp ground, I watched the villages of tents go by until I saw something moving out from under one of the tents. I looked closely as Bosco slowed the truck, preparing to stop at the dumping station. From under the tent popped a SKUNK!! IN. THE. MIDDLE. OF. THE. DAY! Ever heard of rabies? I screamed skunk and Bosco just laughed! I was beside my self! He said, "I thought it smelled a little skunky last night!" I nearly freaked! I won't even venture into what if land. It is a deep dark hole of unrest. At least my unrest!

CAMPING IS NOT FOR SISSIES!

Christmas 1964

Christmas is almost here and every year there are a couple of old memories that tug at my heart from when I was a child. It seems so long ago, but then it doesn't. Isn't life funny that there can be a song, a fragrance, an old saying and like a fairy sprinkling memory dust, we are thinking about things that happened fifty years ago. Don't ask me about what I ate for lunch last week, I won't remember, but there are some things that we take with us, hidden in a little pocket in our brains and our hearts. Take it out, cherish it and smile.

Christmas 1964, the Beatles Invasion was still going strong in the US which included Amarillo, Texas where our family lived at the time. My brother, Gary, was thirteen and very much into the Fab Four. In February, with the help of a snowstorm, he had convinced my dad to let us stay home from church and watch the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. We watched Bandstand all summer, every Saturday, and I was probably one of the only first graders in my class that knew words to "I wanna hold your hand." I had even convinced my mother to allow my hair to be cut in a pixie which I referred to as my "Beatle haircut." Gary always knew the newest songs and I was very influenced by most things he enjoyed.

Mom and Gary took me to Sears to see Santa Claus. He had arrived by helicopter earlier in the day and there were broken candy canes all over the parking lot. (I hate to think what would have happened to our car or to us if we had been parked there when his transport hovered over the crowd.) As I was not a perfect child, the moment of truth came when it was my turn to sit on Santa's knee. My mother had made a few "phone calls" to him in my presence during a couple of naughty episodes so I wasn't about to lie and really commit a mortal sin. There was a tightness in my chest as I moved closer and closer to the front of the line. Suddenly, there I was moving like a sleepwalker up to the man in red. I was very solemn and serious when I climbed on his knee. He asked me the dreaded question, "Have you been a good little girl?" In a panic, I looked at my mother! "He knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you're awake. He knows when you've been bad or good..." HE KNOWS! HE KNOWS! My mother, seeing the dread in my eyes nodded encouraging at me and I told Santa, "Well, most of the time." I don't know what he said, but I didn't get a lecture or a frown. I believe we parted on good terms. I left with a solid candy cane that did not come from the parking lot and hope.

We had a silver Christmas tree that came in a box. The first year, my mother decorated with blue glass ornaments. The following year, my brother and I convinced her to let us decorate it with our other ornaments so it had a little more personality. Because it was aluminum and a fire hazard, there were no Christmas lights on it. We didn't have the cool rotating color wheel, so it reflected the lights from the lamps in the living room. [It was a two year commitment in our home due to the mutiny led by my brother and me. I believe it found a way to my dad's office for company celebrations.]

On Christmas Eve, we spent the night at the farm. My mother's parents lived on a farm outside Tahoka, Texas. There was always a large Christmas tree that was real, not artificial and definitely not silver. It was decorated with an assortment of ornaments that were child friendly, tinsel, a star on the top, and it had those big bulb lights that someone deemed to be a fire hazard in the seventies. Before bed, we ate popcorn and drank hot cocoa made by our Pa. I was surprised that he could "pop the corn" (as he called it) in one of my grandmother's cooking pots but I was really impressed that he made the cocoa just like my mother did! When you are six, you don't always make the connections of where your mother learned how to do things. :) Bedtime meant snuggled in the roll-away bed in the back bedroom while my brother slept in the big bed in the same room.

It always amazes me how little sleep a person, especially a child gets on Christmas Eve. Santa was coming, wrapped presents were waiting, and I had a hard time sleeping. At least I think I did! At some point during the night, I remember my brother asking me if I was asleep. I remember following him through my grandparents' room to my parents room to ask if it was time to get up. I can still see my my mother's face never leave the pillow as she told us to go back to bed. Back across the house, through my grandparents' room, and back in bed. We did this several times that night. I remember my grandmother asking us on one of our trips if we were alright. We were pretty quiet because my mother made that horrible startled face and sound when each time we woke her to ask if it was time. Lying in that cozy roll-away, I suggested we sing some Beatles songs. I don't think Gary argued because I remember singing "Listen, do you want to know a secret" together until my grandfather, in his undershirt and boxers made an appearance and told us to be quiet and go to sleep. No arguments. No pleading. Just two heavy sighs and a whole lot of quiet.

Morning finally came before daylight and Gary and I were sprung from our back bedroom chamber of quiet. The tree was lit, the room warmed by a Deerborn butane heater, and Santa had been there. When had this happened? I didn't see anything during any of our pilgrimages through the living room. But there it all was, laid out for us to find. A soft bodied doll with blonde hair who cried when you tipped her over with a blanket and layette and treasures for my brother. I remember showing her proudly to my grandparents. They checked all our gifts out. My grandmother and my mother made breakfast and preparations began for aunts, uncles, and cousins to arrive for our traditional Henry Family Christmas celebration.

Most people think of Christmas songs like Silent Night, Silver Bells, or I'll Be Home for Christmas to recall special memories. Fifty years later and the Beatles remind me of my brother and Christmas.
"Listen, (Do Wah Do) Do you want to know a secret? (Do Wah Do) Do you promise not to tell? (Wo Oh Oh) I'm in love with you."

Pretty Paper

Every year at Christmas, I find myself being the official present wrapper for almost every present that is not for me. This is not limited to my immediate family, but my parents, too. It is not unusual for my dad to pull me aside the day before the gift giving and he will show me his stash for my mom and he always has a question for me. "Will you wrap your mother's presents?" I never just say, "Sure Dad." I usually make faces, act like I have been punished, to which he will wink and smile because he knows I will wrap his gifts. It's a little ritual we go through. He and I have some gift giving history.

When I was a child, we lived for a few years in Lubbock, Texas. My mother was a housewife. Before Christmas, my mother would take me shopping with her and we would at some point end up in Dunlaps Dept. Store. I remember Dunlaps having very nice clothes, shoes, jewelry, and perfume. Mom would take me to the department where there was something that had caught her eye for my dad to buy her for Christmas. I learned at a very early age the nuances of different Christian Dior perfumes. I could pick out Daniel Green "house shoes" from the shoe department. And by the age of eight, I knew what cameos were. It was shopping school and I was a willing little student! A week before Christmas, Dad, Gary, and I would go Christmas shopping for Mom. We would traipse into Dunlaps and I would lead the guys to her favorites. Dad usually followed my lead but he always liked to have a little surprise that she wasn't anticipating. Like a red pants suit. (Dad loves red.) A few purchases later, we would take her gifts to the gift wrap department, choose a lovely wrap with a bow or decoration, and then we would make a big production of trying to hide it behind all the other gifts under the tree. On Christmas morning, there would be her beautifully wrapped gifts and she would exclaim that they were so lovely, but why were we spending money on gift wrap. Every year, she would set aside the bows and decorations so they could be saved along with the gift boxes. (There were years some of our boxes had to be ten years old or older!) A week or so after Christmas, she would take the red pant suit back. She likes purple.

Years meant moves and this little tradition continued for Dad and me. In Houston, it was Foleys or Battlesteins. In Oklahoma City and Tulsa, it was Dillards Brown-Dunkin. In Little Rock, it was Dillards and Cohns. Back to Houston and Foleys in 1977. No matter where we were, we took an evening and shopped for Mom. Every year, there were lovely packages from Dad for Mom.

My first job was wrapping gifts at Dillards in Little Rock in the evenings and on weekends during the holiday season. I learned the ins and outs of wrapping quickly, storing gift receipts and tags in an envelope for the buyer, and how not to waste paper by measuring efficiently. I was paid minimum wage and on the evening of December 24, my job was over. I was allowed to wrap my own presents at the store and we were allowed to take home the "odd gift wrap" that wasn't very popular. There were a few years Hanukkah wrapping paper was found under our Christmas tree because it just wasn't a big seller. My dad was one of my customers. He liked the idea of a company discount.

I left home in January, 1981 and moved to Arizona when I married Bosco. For years at Christmas, I dutifully wrapped our family's gifts, but as the years passed, the holiday season seemed more like a chore than what the season is supposed to represent. I did most of the shopping, most of the financial stressing, the shipping to our Texas family, and those pretty packages gave way to printed boxes. No tissue. No bows. Items wrangled into the boxes from Walmart and taped shut. No one seemed to notice. Then, gift bags came along. I moved from the printed boxes to gift bags. No tissue. No bows. Most were stapled or taped shut. You get the drift. Until my dad came. Then, I would carefully wrap my mother's presents, laying a sweater or blouse in tissue, measuring the good wrap I had hidden away, and a lovely hand tied bow on the outside.

When I retired, I decided that I would stop complaining about Christmas. I promised to embrace my gift giving with the love intended and I would wrap everyone's gifts with thought and consideration. So, I do still complain a little and I have put gift cards in those funny little holders. Yet, overall almost all the gifts coming from our home have been wrapped in pretty paper with a hand-tied bow on the top. This year, I tried very hard to focus on the love behind the gifts and to wrap them with care. It's like giving a little part of ourselves or our family.

We will not be in Houston on Christmas day and they are not coming to Arizona this year, so I don't know who will wrap his gifts for her. I wonder if there will be a red outfit for her to return. She still loves purple.


Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write I love you
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue

Crowded streets, busy feet hustle by you
Downtown shoppers Christmas is nigh
There he sits all alone on the sidewalk
Hoping that you won't pass him by

Should you stop better not much too busy
Better hurry my, my how time does fly
And in the distance the ringing of laughter
And in the midst of the laughter he cries

Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write I love you
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Oh, oh, pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue

-Phillip Brooks

A Grace So Amazingly Wonderful

Today was not a bad day, but it was a day my husband and I had to do something really hard. For sometime now, our old Labrador, Grace, has been going downhill physically. She had lost most of her muscle tone, she struggled getting up from her bed, avoided sitting, and we could tell that she just didn't feel really great anymore. We both knew this was coming and had made the decision that it was time, but neither one of us wanted to rush it, either. But today, I just knew it was time to put Grace down.

"Jana Selchow's Gracie Lu Freebush" was not an impulse buy. For one and a half years my kids and my husband nagged me about getting a puppy. We already had an elderly yellow Lab named, Poppy, and the tribe felt that she needed a companion. Each week, they would search the dog section of the classified ads in the Tucson paper and every week there were either no affordable listings or I found some excuse to "sink their battleship". My excuses were logical. Money was tight/We were too busy/Poppy didn't seem to be lonely/It needs to be a black Lab/No Corgis!/No hounds!/More dog poop to clean-up/It's winter, who gets a puppy in winter?/Etc... I held them off four 16 months for my own selfish reasons. I did not want to replace the Lab who started it all, Gussie. Because in the end, it was she and me with our vet when she crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. I didn't want to do it again, but I didn't want to say it out loud. However, after 16 months of lame excuses, I caved.

The advertisement for black Labrador puppies in the Tucson paper was found by Bosco. He told the tribe that the phone number looked like it was from McNeal, which is close to our home. I called and asked if one of the puppies was a female, and there was one. They only wanted $200 which fit our budget. I asked for the address and we hit the road for the McNeal area. What we encountered was not what I expected. Our first Lab came from a small kennel in the backyard of a Tucson home. The next one came from a friend. When we drove up Frontier Road to a huge dog/horse training facility we were not prepared for what we saw. "Zauberberg," we learned was an uber special training home for dogs that are used for protection, law enforcement, and other jobs that require specialized canine behavior. We just wanted one to hang-out with Poppy and love the family! These dogs could wear their own uniforms and fight crime! However, we found three pups in a chain-link kennel that just wanted to be petted. A black male, a black female, and a German Shorthair that was being trained as a drug sniffing dog. Of course, the kids loved the female and I walked away with the owner to write the check for our bargain basement dog from the exclusive training facility. After I wrote the check, I filled out the AKC papers and registered her name as "Jana Selchow's Gracie Lu Freebush or Jana's Amazing Grace". (A nod to Sandra Bullock's character in 'Miss Congeniality' and God's love)

She was adored by all of us, no exceptions. Gracie was held, petted, pampered, and even Poppy didn't seem to mind her. Two weeks after she came to live with us, I came home from a PEO meeting to find the family staring at our precious puppy lying in the grass in the backyard. She couldn't stand and she whimpered when we moved her leg. A call to our mobile vet left us distraught when he said she had probably broken a hip and euthanasia would probably be the kindest thing to do. We called the veterinary hospital, but as it was after hours, we could not get through to a human voice. Meg and I carefully lifted her and put a towel under her belly to hold her up but not put weight on her back legs. That seemed to help. She used the restroom and actually wagged her tail. We carried her like that and took her into the house. She spent the night in the sewing room on big pillows and we all took turns taking her outside every few hours for breaks. She drank water and ate a little, so we had hope. The next morning, I called the doctor's wife from the veterinary hospital at her school where she was a counselor and she called her husband. We all said our goodbyes in case he had to euthanize Gracie. I had three phone calls at work that morning. Two from my kids whose hearts were breaking and finally one from the vet who said he thought he could help her. Gracie Lu had her broken leg repaired by the surgical insertion of a long metal pin with a mesh cage wrapped around the area to keep it from splintering. The vet, Dr. Michael Ames, charged us a minimal fee and gave us back our puppy. She recuperated under the supervision of the family, slept in a crate in Meg's room, and napped each day in the family room. Six weeks later, the pin came out and she needed water physical therapy. As we have no swimming pool or pond, we snuck her into a pond on the golf course in the evenings and the pool at my mother-in-law's condo. Gracie never walked with a limp, but we did everything we could to keep her from re injuring that leg.

Gracie, aka Grace, never rescued anyone from a burning house. She never had to protect us from a home invasion. She never rode a skateboard or surfed, but she would retrieve anything we threw for her. She tolerated a younger Lab named Miley until Miley died unexpectedly but she shamefully never seemed to miss her when she was gone. We like to think she could have been a hero-dog who worked for US Customs or the CIA, but we'll never know about that. She lived her life in the backyard of our home, greeted us happily every time we saw us, and made us feel like we were the most important things in her life. We all felt that we were her favorite person. She had that way about her. Everyone liked Grace.

Time really does seem to fly. Poppy lived for a few years training Gracie to be an old dog in a young body. Meg went to college, graduated, got a big girl job at really big company, moved to Kansas City, KS, moved to Quincy, IL., met Kevin, got married, and still works for the big company. Jordan went to high school, graduated, went to college, met Tiffany, graduated, got a teaching job in Phoenix, married Tiffany, and is teaching agriculture at that school in Phoenix. Every time they came home, they wanted to see "their dog". And every time they came home, she was waiting for them.

Bosco retired first and she spent her days with him. He would mow the yard and she would follow him and roll in the clippings. He would let her hang-out with him in the front yard and she never left the property. She was so good. Once, when I was leaving for school, I heard a "woof woof" from the direction of the front gate. There she stood with her head sticking out looking at me like, "Uh-oh, look what Dad left open!" She stayed where she knew her boundaries were. When I retired, she came to know me as the person who would feed her a little more or share a snack. Always a happy face. Always there.

She did have a flaw. She hated cats, especially our cat, Sophie.

This spring, when our vet came to give her her shots, he examined her closely and told me that she didn't need them anymore. He also told me that winter might be hard on Grace. Like a prediction coming true, she seemed to age more and more each day. We brought a new dog, Luke, into the family and that sparked her up for a while, but it didn't slow down the aging process. One minute she would look so weak and frail then zip! She would chase a ball across the yard! But lately, not even fetch could make her happy. We knew it was time and I made the call.

Logic and the heart are often at odds. Someone once told me that the most important two events in life were to see life begin and to see it end. Together, Bosco and I walked Grace to the alley where the man with the shots was waiting. She went very sweetly, full of trust, and we never left her side. Until this, she had never left our sides. Logically, I know this was the right thing to do. It is responsible and it is kind. Heartwise, as I spoke to her, petted and loved on her, I felt such a loss. There will be other dogs because I can't imagine life without one. But I don't think there will be another dog like Grace.

The Randomness of ADD or Unusual Thoughts at the End of My School Day

I am not sure, but I may or may not have ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder).

I can concentrate on certain things for long periods of time like politics or taxes, but then suddenly, like the dogs in the movie "UP" something "squirrel" catches my attention and my prior thoughts are lost. Somewhere. Deep. In. The. Horizon. Or are these just random thoughts?

Definition: Random - proceeding, made, or occurring without definite aim, reason, or pattern

This could describe much of my thinking process. One minute I am working on a lesson about chlorophyll, then I am searching for a chart and out of the corner of my mind I see an ad for a book about autism which prompts me to search "Autism Spectrum and Gifted Students." Suddenly, I hear a song playing in another room and I need to download "Muskrat Love" to my phone because it is an amazing love song from my freshman year of college.

ADD? Probably. Sigh...

Here are my random thoughts at the end of my teaching day, November 12, 2014.

I can’t get the song Ventura Highway by America off my mind.
One of my second graders was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket in class.
A leaf rubbing is beautiful but some of my gifted kids kept trying to color it in.
I miss my flip flops.
Why can middle schoolers and elementary students take really good selfies but I look nervous and/or cross-eyed?
You have to look closely to see autumn in the desert.

Muskrat Suzy, Muskrat Sam
Do the jitterbug in muskrat land
And they shimmy
Sam is so skinny.

LOL!

Fat Suckers

Last Saturday, I had the pleasure of having my hair and make-up prepared for my son's wedding with my new daughter-in-law's bridal attendants. I tried to be a fly on the wall in the room as I was definitely over the age limit for this event. While I was waiting for some well needed backcombing, the girls were getting out their shoes, dresses, and to my horror, "shapewear." You know, "Spanx" like products. Not a single girl wore more than a size 14 and quite a few still could wear clothes from the pre-teen department. Aghast, I asked one of the young ladies WHY were wearing shapewear? I mean, she probably weighed 90 pounds after a double cheeseburger deluxe from In and Out Burger. Sheepishly, she answered, "Because my thighs sometimes sweat when I am nervous." Okay, I get it. Sorta.

I like to call my shapewear, Fat Suckers, because that is what they are intended to do. I suck in my fat and wiggle into the camisole (doesn't that sound sweet) and for the rest of the day, said fat hides on my sides, under my boobs, or possibly on my back. This prevents my buttons from popping open when I take a breath because no one wants to lose an eye in an unfortunate accident. Fat suckers are fashion scientists invention for us to take the areas of our body that are not toned, thin, and tend to dance a little jiggle when we walk and keep it corralled, so it doesn't lose control. It is related to control top pantyhose. Control. As in control that fat and strap it into submission. I have considered duct tape from time to time, but it is hard to get the residue off my body.

Being Southern, all my life I heard my mother and other influential women remind me that "good foundation garments" are essential. I remember asking Mom what a "foundation garment" was. She explained that it meant a good supportive brassiere, decent panties, and a girdle. Thank God, science intervened when I was in elementary school and panty hose was invented so I never had to experience the torture of a girdle. So, I never doubted that certain parts of us were not meant to do the happy dance in public. Private, yes. Like when we are taking off the bra at the end of the day and you can feel relief and also take a deep, well needed breath! This is probably why I do some of my best thinking and problem solving after hours. I probably have been starving my brain from enough oxygen flow. So, when I realized I was truly losing the battle of the jiggle, I invested in some shapewear.

I bought it at Costco. I love that you can buy floor cleaner, produce, a case of toilet paper, a beach umbrella, and undergarments without walking more than a few aisles in a warehouse setting. So, after washing it, drying it, I was soooo excited to put on the miracle fabric which would forever change my life and camouflage those years of Hostess cupcakes! I held my breath, wiggled into the camisole, yanked it down, and was forced by inertia to lie down on my bed for a while while the room spun. That tends to happen when I feel like I am going to pass out. Finally, I worked my way to the edge of the bed, sat up, bent over to find my breath, and stood up. Holding on to the dresser for assistance, I looked in the full length mirror across the hall, and thought that my camisole wasn't too bad. I wore it that day, the next, and by the following week, I could actually hold a lengthy conversation without losing focus or blacking out. This was the start of my relationship with my fat suckers.

I wear them regularly, but on certain occasions, I have had to make some decisions regarding my health and my fat suckers. Like the time I was visiting Chicago for a sweet friend's wedding. Meg and I had attended an after wedding breakfast in downtown Chi-town. I had worn a pair of nice capris, a knit top, and not wanting to embarrass myself self by releasing the jiggle in a different environment, my black fat sucker. Did I mention that it was late summer, hot and humid, with little to no breeze coming off Lake Michigan? As we planned, Meg and I walked about 10 blocks to Navy Pier after a full, rich breakfast. As I said earlier, there was little to no breeze to cool me down and I suddenly felt like I was going to go down for the third time. Cold water did nothing to revive me and I was wondering if we were going to have to call 911. While Chicago is nice to visit, I didn't want to die there. Meg hustled me to the restroom where I stuck my head in the sink and she put a cold wet paper towel (Thank you Jesus, Navy Pier is not a "green" facility) on the back of my neck. Meg was kind not to ask if this was a hot flash, but wondered what was wrong with me as she was warm, but definitely not overheated. I told her that I thought I should take off my fat sucker since it was made of non-breathing nylon and lycra. The look she gave me was pathetic. Her eyes spoke the phrase before her lovely mouth said, "Really, Mom? You wore your fat sucker?" I staggered to an empty stall, tore off my shirt and released the jaws of death and put my shirt back on. I swear my temperature dropped 10 degrees! We shoved it in her purse and my fat sucker had to see the wonders of the Chicago architectural tour hidden in the bottom of a lovely Michael Kors bag.

There should be a warning label that they can be bad for your health. Two years ago, I read an article on MSN.com about how people were suffering health complications from shapewear. Some brands were actually interfering with digestion and organ function for wearers. Now, while I can attest that my fat suckers can be an appetite suppressant, I have never had any long term health concerns from wearing my Spanx. Personally, I think these people probably bought a smaller size than they actually needed. It's like shoes. If you squeeze your foot into a smaller size than you really need, you will be rendered cripple. If you squeeze your butt, stomach, or boobs into a size too small, you can experience liver failure. Duh!

Back to preparing for the wedding...

One of the bridesmaids struggled to pull up her shapewear boxers while a couple of others looked on confused and concerned. One lovely said, "Keep on pulling, you almost have it." Finally, I said, "Pull and jump at the same time. It's like the pantyhose dance." There was a lot of giggles and the young lady took the advice. It did make me feel a little better knowing that we all share the same struggles, no matter the age difference or the size. Even if they wear shapewear and I wear my fat suckers.