Amateur Radio Field Day happens annually on the last full weekend of June. Individuals and radio clubs all over the nation plan for it for months. It is actually a demonstration of emergency preparedness turned into a contest. A group throws up antennas in a location and makes as many contacts as possible during a 24-hour period. Of course, there are rules that are determined by the source of power, number of radios, and sometimes the number of people operating. The neat thing about FD is that the person behind the microphone doesn't have to be a licensed amateur because there are control operators standing by to make sure all of the FCC rules are followed. I've written about FD before...
I belong to the Hendricks County (Indiana) Amateur Radio Society (HCARS). I've been one of the only female members of the club for probably 15 years. Every FD is an experience. My first official HCARS FD, I was operating in a tent with K9PZ when heavy rain hit. The tent leaked in some places and acted as a water-collection point in others. We were frantically trying to keep the water off the radio and not get electrocuted. Another year, I was operating with N9PDC's wife in a travel trailer during the wee hours of the night and was so cold that all I wanted to do was curl up in my sleeping bag to keep warm. (Eventually, I did.) Yet another year, I was contesting and heard a familiar voice come back to me. It was AB9D. my radio mentor, who was in Washington DC, listening for us on the air. What a kick! (The odds of contacting someone you know on FD are slim to none.)
Over the years, my club's FD site has changed. During my tenure as president of the club, we lost our favorite site, due to county politics, etc. The site we lost had been quite family-friendly. We had a gazebo as a gathering/eating spot, and a playground just yards away...and restrooms just as close. Members brought their wives and families for the Saturday evening meal. It was just fun! After we gave up that site, things were never the same. We moved to the Hendricks County 4-H Fairgrounds. No shade. No playground. Restrooms too far away. Families largely don't show up anymore. It's sad. And it became clear to me that most of my interest in FD was the family nature of what we had. My interest lagged...
But here is the real deal: since about 1999 or 2000, I took over supplying the meals for the club--Saturday lunch, Saturday supper, and Sunday breakfast. The club provided me with $250 with which to shop and cook to provide. And people donated things, as well. I almost always delivered $50 back to the group because I had everything down to a fine science after that long. One or two of those years, the club didn't have any income, but I managed to supply food, anyway. I took pride in it.
Early on, we had a member that did deep fried turkeys and another member who did smoked pork loins. Another member who worked for Wonder Bread donated bread and buns. One member's wife would provide a seriously special cake with "Field Day" decorated on it. Another wife was great about providing brownies to die for. One member managed to convince a local pizza company to provide pizzas at midnight on contesting night...and we had watermelon that was donated...and some drinks from McDonald's...and Aqua Water from a local company. The guy who did the smoked pork loin's wife provided yummy baked beans...and mostly, the club paid for it. A big plus was that we had a Salvation Army canteen present to provide drinks and ice and refrigeration. But...as some members moved away, got infirm, died, or lost interest, we lost resources. I also lost heart. FD is a shell of what it used to be.
After my contesting partner Kathy Gwaltney died of lung cancer, it wasn't fun anymore. I decided that my purpose in all of it was to continue to feed "my guys". Last year, the club lost its source of income, even though we had more money in the treasury than I ever remembered...so the decision was made not to provide the funds to feed the masses. Now that I am on a small and fixed income, I can no longer supply all that I used to be able to do. And I have missed club meetings. I guess the word went out to the membership that everyone was "on their own" for FD meals. I did send word that I would be supplying sloppy joes for the noon meal on Saturday, for those who hadn't managed to get food while putting up antennas.
Silly me! I took a crock pot full of six pounds of my sloppy joe recipe--along with two packages of buns (16)--and a bag of 20 Frito-Lay chip products, some paper towels and paper plates--at noon. When I arrived, I noticed that there were all kinds of chips and packages of cookies, and lots of water/drinks. But no real food. I plugged in the crock pot. At about 1:30, after the opening ceremonies, I decided to go home...but noticed that some people were hitting the sloppy joes hard. (One fellow who had a big plate full isn't even a member of the club and was complaining that there were no forks!) As I was almost home to Plainfield, the word came to me on the radio that they were already out of buns!
I went back to the FD site at 8:00 PM to retrieve my crock pot. While I was waiting to depart, the man largely responsible for deciding that the club couldn't pay for FD food showed up, went right to the crock pot, and seemed annoyed that there was nothing left! Hello! Everyone was supposed to take care of themselves, food-wise. What I sent was just supposed to take up the slack for the guys who were working to put up antennas for the occasion! I took the stuff at noon. It was now late and should not have been taken for granted. Ugh!
I am not in this for thanks, but I do believe that the club needs to reassess what they want for future FDs. We can do this as a team, but the team has to be willing to provide. We'll see!
I never did do any contesting this year. I could have. I just wasn't inspired. Stuff happens!
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Baba's Temper
I wish I knew why these things come to me at odd times, but today I've been thinking about my grandmother. I often do when I'm trying to reason why I am the way I am--the way both my sister and I are. We call it the Covill-Armstrong Woman Syndrome. There is a strength there, a sort of denial, that when bad things happened, our mother and grandmother both moved on to do what had to be done without looking back. My mother got it from her mother, and my sister and I got it from both of them!
My grandmother wasn't "Grandma". She was "Baba" (pronounced "bab'-uh"), named by my sister who was the first grandchild...and it stuck. Baba was a wonderful woman, made strong by some bad breaks early in her life. Through everything, she always did the very best she could, but she was tough.
Just to illustrate her inner stubbornness/strength, I'll tell this story:
When she was in her mid-50s (1945??), with my mother and two sisters living with her and my grandfather while my father was off to war, their 12-room, 3-story homestead burned to the ground. Mom was in town getting supplies for my grandfather's birthday which was that day, so Baba was busy making sure the very young granddaughters were out of harm's way while trying to save things from the house. Neighbors came along to help, but there was no saving the house. It had to have been an emotionally exhausting day. When Mom came home down Mud Lane, she noticed that things didn't look right; then, as she turned onto the house lane, she saw that there was nothing left of the house but a smouldering pile of ashes. Baba met her at the car. As my mother blubbered, "Our house! Our beautiful house!", Baba snapped at her: "Don't you start! I haven't cried, and you won't either!" (I suppose that Baba probably knew her crying daughter would make HER weep, and she just didn't have the luxury to fall apart.)
As nighttime fell that day, there were five dispaced persons to find lodging. My grandparents went to spend the night with my grandfather's brother and wife (Uncle Ray and Aunt Lola) in their farmhouse just 1/2 mile down the road. Aunt Lola was a wiry, tough old bird who was not a particularly empathetic person. As Baba hesitated, totally drained, at the bottom of the steps up to their kitchen, wondering how she would have the strength to go up them, Aunt Lola said, "Well! What's the matter with you?!" That was all it took! Baba rankled, squared her shoulders, and said, "Nothing!" And she marched up those steps like the soldier that she was!
Although I never saw it, there are family stories that indicate that my sainted grandmother had a temper. One tale ends with Baba throwing clods of dirt at my father in the garden, for some reason lost to us now. Another reports that she broke a plate over her one of her children’s heads. That story goes that when the children (my mother, uncle, and aunt) were young, she was out of patience with them and had plopped all three down on a radiator in the kitchen with orders to stay put. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of you!” Of course, that was an invitation for Uncle Bud to say “peep” as she walked away. Plate already in hand, she turned and broke it over his noggin! (She told me a generation later that the plate was already cracked, as if that made a difference!)
I think I remember someone saying that she also threw a skillet at my grandfather once…
In retrospect, it appears that my grandmother tolerated things to the snapping point. My mother mentioned once that Baba shot a BB-gun at some chickens in the yard, trying to get them to move, and felt bad when she hit one and killed it. Another time, Baba went on a rampage with a shotgun to eliminate some of the 25 or so cats that were on the property and in the way. (Mom was upset because one of the eliminated cats was her favorite, Boots.) Baba probably didn’t want the cats to begin with but put up with them around the house for the sake of the children until there were too many to feed and were always underfoot. Those were different days, but I understand the mentality!
My favorite Baba temper story has to do with the plumbing in the homestead house. The old lead pipes under the kitchen sink leaked. Popo (my grandfather) kept promising to fix them, but somehow the job wasn’t getting done. Every time Baba did the dishes, she also had to clean up the dishwater on the floor under the sink. One day, after mopping up the water on her freshly waxed floor, she’d had enough. She marched out to the garage, got a hatchet, came back into the kitchen and hacked the pipes to pieces. “I guess he’ll fix them NOW,” she said. And he did!
Only once did I personally witness a tantrum on Baba’s part. I was in high school, staying with them for a week in the summer to help out. Baba was in a wheelchair by then, or she would have done the job herself, but Popo was directed to paint the door from the dining room to the outside. He managed to drip some paint on the parquet floor. I wasn’t in the room when she saw it, but Baba’s shrill cries—half weeping, half anger--were quite audible. It was like she KNEW it would happen and, sure enough, it did. Popo scrambled to clean it up. A year or two later, the floor was covered in carpet.
If anyone ever questions why I am not more emotional about bad things when they happen, I just say it is because I suffer from the Covill-Armstrong Woman Syndrome. I accept that falling apart does not change the need to face the problems when the smoke clears. What needs to be done next? That, and the fact that my best friend once told me when I was going through a difficult divorce, "Peg, don't fold up. You'll just have to unfold again." So wise. So true. So much like my Baba!
My grandmother wasn't "Grandma". She was "Baba" (pronounced "bab'-uh"), named by my sister who was the first grandchild...and it stuck. Baba was a wonderful woman, made strong by some bad breaks early in her life. Through everything, she always did the very best she could, but she was tough.
Just to illustrate her inner stubbornness/strength, I'll tell this story:
When she was in her mid-50s (1945??), with my mother and two sisters living with her and my grandfather while my father was off to war, their 12-room, 3-story homestead burned to the ground. Mom was in town getting supplies for my grandfather's birthday which was that day, so Baba was busy making sure the very young granddaughters were out of harm's way while trying to save things from the house. Neighbors came along to help, but there was no saving the house. It had to have been an emotionally exhausting day. When Mom came home down Mud Lane, she noticed that things didn't look right; then, as she turned onto the house lane, she saw that there was nothing left of the house but a smouldering pile of ashes. Baba met her at the car. As my mother blubbered, "Our house! Our beautiful house!", Baba snapped at her: "Don't you start! I haven't cried, and you won't either!" (I suppose that Baba probably knew her crying daughter would make HER weep, and she just didn't have the luxury to fall apart.)
As nighttime fell that day, there were five dispaced persons to find lodging. My grandparents went to spend the night with my grandfather's brother and wife (Uncle Ray and Aunt Lola) in their farmhouse just 1/2 mile down the road. Aunt Lola was a wiry, tough old bird who was not a particularly empathetic person. As Baba hesitated, totally drained, at the bottom of the steps up to their kitchen, wondering how she would have the strength to go up them, Aunt Lola said, "Well! What's the matter with you?!" That was all it took! Baba rankled, squared her shoulders, and said, "Nothing!" And she marched up those steps like the soldier that she was!
Although I never saw it, there are family stories that indicate that my sainted grandmother had a temper. One tale ends with Baba throwing clods of dirt at my father in the garden, for some reason lost to us now. Another reports that she broke a plate over her one of her children’s heads. That story goes that when the children (my mother, uncle, and aunt) were young, she was out of patience with them and had plopped all three down on a radiator in the kitchen with orders to stay put. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of you!” Of course, that was an invitation for Uncle Bud to say “peep” as she walked away. Plate already in hand, she turned and broke it over his noggin! (She told me a generation later that the plate was already cracked, as if that made a difference!)
I think I remember someone saying that she also threw a skillet at my grandfather once…
In retrospect, it appears that my grandmother tolerated things to the snapping point. My mother mentioned once that Baba shot a BB-gun at some chickens in the yard, trying to get them to move, and felt bad when she hit one and killed it. Another time, Baba went on a rampage with a shotgun to eliminate some of the 25 or so cats that were on the property and in the way. (Mom was upset because one of the eliminated cats was her favorite, Boots.) Baba probably didn’t want the cats to begin with but put up with them around the house for the sake of the children until there were too many to feed and were always underfoot. Those were different days, but I understand the mentality!
My favorite Baba temper story has to do with the plumbing in the homestead house. The old lead pipes under the kitchen sink leaked. Popo (my grandfather) kept promising to fix them, but somehow the job wasn’t getting done. Every time Baba did the dishes, she also had to clean up the dishwater on the floor under the sink. One day, after mopping up the water on her freshly waxed floor, she’d had enough. She marched out to the garage, got a hatchet, came back into the kitchen and hacked the pipes to pieces. “I guess he’ll fix them NOW,” she said. And he did!
Only once did I personally witness a tantrum on Baba’s part. I was in high school, staying with them for a week in the summer to help out. Baba was in a wheelchair by then, or she would have done the job herself, but Popo was directed to paint the door from the dining room to the outside. He managed to drip some paint on the parquet floor. I wasn’t in the room when she saw it, but Baba’s shrill cries—half weeping, half anger--were quite audible. It was like she KNEW it would happen and, sure enough, it did. Popo scrambled to clean it up. A year or two later, the floor was covered in carpet.
If anyone ever questions why I am not more emotional about bad things when they happen, I just say it is because I suffer from the Covill-Armstrong Woman Syndrome. I accept that falling apart does not change the need to face the problems when the smoke clears. What needs to be done next? That, and the fact that my best friend once told me when I was going through a difficult divorce, "Peg, don't fold up. You'll just have to unfold again." So wise. So true. So much like my Baba!
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
"Alcohol Was Involved"
I wasn't raised in a bigoted family. Except for living in the Orient for almost a year, we kids were just never exposed to cultural diversity. There simply weren't any people of color around where we were. There was, however, some bias that bled through from my mother about whom I should choose as my friends. (I find that amusing now since we moved around so much, I never had many friends at all!) For example, Danville, IL, where we lived for almost four years, had a low-income housing project called Fair Oaks. Mom suggested that the kids who lived in Fair Oaks were probably not up to our family standard as playmates.
What WAS our family standard?? I wish I knew! We were raised to be good students, hard workers, and well-behaved. My father wanted his daughters to "act like ladies" and his son to be respectful of women and authority. Profanity was not allowed. Actually, not only profanity, but coarse words like "butt" and "puke" and "fart" were also on the no-no list. Family was everything. My father was an officer in the Navy. People saluted him. He wanted all of us to live up to that level of respect, and my mother came from a Christian farm family that required dignity and propriety to be part of our raising. You get the picture. As I grew up, I came to see my family as "special". I believed we were head-and-shoulders above other families, just because we were tight-knit and knew our boundaries. We weren't snobs because we weren't rich, but we weren't part of the redneck population, either.
As a military family, alcohol was part of the "celebration equation" in Casa Covill. There was always beer around, and Jim Beam Bourbon. On special occasions, there would be martinis. It was part of the adult experience. Most of the time, we didn't have to deal with roaring drunks around our house, but there were times... Mom and Dad didn't party much, but there were occasional Hail and Farewell parties for Navy folks coming in to a new duty station, or leaving. An occasional Happy Hour at the Officer's Club, where my folks rubbed elbows with the "brass", etc. Most of the time, they came home happy! Sometimes, they came home drunk. And as we three kids came of age, we also imbibed in drinks of choice. It was a rite of passage. And after the parents retired to the farm, drinking became all too common...not in celebration, but rather to stave off boredom!
There are several events that occurred in my family where alcohol was involved that stick in my mind:
*Once, when I was very young and we were living in California, my parents came home from someplace, and Mom was throwing-up-drunk. Dad was taking care of her and not very happy about it. Shari (my sister) was upset. I didn't think much of it. It was all happening outside of my realm of existence.
*Another time, we were living in a god-forsaken home in Danville. My brother was only about a year old, and I think my mother was about up to her neck with kids and didn't have any friends in town. I remember that she hung diapers to dry on a clothesline strung throughout the living room--not her idea of the Ritz. On Christmas Day, Dad was supposed to take us to the Navy Club for Christmas dinner...but he had left the house in the morning and was late getting home. When he did come back, he was quite inebriated and needed to sleep it off. Mom was disgusted. She piled us three kids into the car and went to the Navy Club without him, but I don't remember it as a particularly happy situation. I think Dad probably got the cold shoulder for awhile after that!
*Later, when we were mostly all adults, we gathered at the farm for Thanksgiving. Mom had fixed a shaker of martinis. My grandparents were not drinkers, but they would imbibe on special occasions. We were to have the traditional turkey dinner, which we jokingly called "toikey boid" as if we were from New Jersey. Well! My grandfather had TWO martinis before dinner. He sat at the table and ate a big meal, with his little cheeks just as pink as could be, then retired to the living room where he promptly fell asleep. When he woke up, he wanted to know when we were going to eat the "boid". Poor Popo had missed the meal, even though he had eaten it!
*After my folks retired to the farm and my brother was back from his 7-year stint in the Navy, we had a family cookout. (I'm guessing this was in the early 80s.) Present were my mom and dad, my sister and brother-in-law, and my husband, daughter, and I. The beer and wine flowed freely throughout the afternoon, and then it came time to light the grill to cook the meat. (I should probably mention here that my brother and brother-in-law were both volatile personalities. They both knew everything there was to know and were always right. They had, in the past, had a spat that kept them not speaking to each other for a year or two. You get the picture.)
The grill was a propane unit on a portable stand. It was on the patio, under the canopy of eaves. When it was lit, a small leak showed up at the regulator...a little flame that shouldn't have been there. We all immediately thought the worst: the propane tank would explode and set the house on fire. What to do became a topic of panicked discussion. My brother had one idea...and since HE had been through fire school in the Navy, HE knew best. My brother-in-law had another idea, and HE knew best...and the match was on! Doug (my brother) argued with Roger (my bro-in-law) and got obnoxious. Roger was just as obnoxious. My sister--always the peacemaker--took her husband's side. In a moment of temporary insanity, she slapped Doug...and Doug slapped her back. Then the fight escalated! My husband--who was no stranger to violent behavior--grabbed our young daughter and took her down to the bridge at the entrance to the farm, just to get away from everything, although I'm quite sure the shouting could be heard even there. My father was furious that his son had slapped his sister, even though she had slapped him first. My mother decided she was going to leave but was in no shape to drive, so I grabbed her car keys and wouldn't let her. It was absolute mayhem! To be honest, I don't remember how it all ended. I know that the propane tank was rolled away from the house and the fire put out. I'm pretty certain that we didn't sit down to eat together. I imagine that we all departed for our various places of residence, a little the worse for wear.
*There was one other event that happened just a few days after my father's funeral. My sister, brother-in-law, my daughter, and I were at the farm, trying to tie up some loose ends. We had written thank-you notes to everyone who had expressed sympathy...and did some drinking as we did. We were all emotionally exhausted. My daughter, a bored-out-of-her-mind freshman in high school--who was also just a bit resentful that she was having to spend her spring break in a funeral situation--was acting like a brat. She managed, in a hissy-fit, to spill a glass of water that was on a TV table. Uncle Roger snarled at her. I snarled at him. Megan said, "Maybe I should just kill myself!" My sister jumped in and said, "Maybe you should!" That cut me to the quick. I don't think anyone knew or appreciated that I had been working for years to try to bring my daughter out of a depression. I started to cry. We packed up and left. I was in no condition to drive, so we went the 25 miles to the next familiar town, with me crying all the way, and stayed in a motel there before leaving for Indiana the next day. I think I went three months without speaking to my sister.
I got a letter from Shari saying, "I don't know what's wrong, but I miss my sister!" I called her and told her what my problem was. She had no memory of it. Didn't remember saying what she had, but apologized...and I realized, in that moment, that alcohol was the real culprit in all of it. Shari and I have not had a cross moment since. That year, 1994, was the year we both realized that we were orphans. Both of our parents were gone. We--and our brother (which is another story)--were all that was left of our "special" family.
Aside from the obvious lesson about booze and emotions, I learned that my family wasn't any better than any other family on the planet! It shook me, actually. It took me a LONG time to understand that people who are close and love each other intensely can be the source of hurt. I came to accept my family members with their quirks. (Of course, I don't have any quirks, so no one has to work hard to accept me!) Age helps. Things that seemed important in my 40s just don't in my 60s.
Why is it that we get wise when it doesn't matter so much...and when we really need to "get it", we don't? I wish I knew!
What WAS our family standard?? I wish I knew! We were raised to be good students, hard workers, and well-behaved. My father wanted his daughters to "act like ladies" and his son to be respectful of women and authority. Profanity was not allowed. Actually, not only profanity, but coarse words like "butt" and "puke" and "fart" were also on the no-no list. Family was everything. My father was an officer in the Navy. People saluted him. He wanted all of us to live up to that level of respect, and my mother came from a Christian farm family that required dignity and propriety to be part of our raising. You get the picture. As I grew up, I came to see my family as "special". I believed we were head-and-shoulders above other families, just because we were tight-knit and knew our boundaries. We weren't snobs because we weren't rich, but we weren't part of the redneck population, either.
As a military family, alcohol was part of the "celebration equation" in Casa Covill. There was always beer around, and Jim Beam Bourbon. On special occasions, there would be martinis. It was part of the adult experience. Most of the time, we didn't have to deal with roaring drunks around our house, but there were times... Mom and Dad didn't party much, but there were occasional Hail and Farewell parties for Navy folks coming in to a new duty station, or leaving. An occasional Happy Hour at the Officer's Club, where my folks rubbed elbows with the "brass", etc. Most of the time, they came home happy! Sometimes, they came home drunk. And as we three kids came of age, we also imbibed in drinks of choice. It was a rite of passage. And after the parents retired to the farm, drinking became all too common...not in celebration, but rather to stave off boredom!
There are several events that occurred in my family where alcohol was involved that stick in my mind:
*Once, when I was very young and we were living in California, my parents came home from someplace, and Mom was throwing-up-drunk. Dad was taking care of her and not very happy about it. Shari (my sister) was upset. I didn't think much of it. It was all happening outside of my realm of existence.
*Another time, we were living in a god-forsaken home in Danville. My brother was only about a year old, and I think my mother was about up to her neck with kids and didn't have any friends in town. I remember that she hung diapers to dry on a clothesline strung throughout the living room--not her idea of the Ritz. On Christmas Day, Dad was supposed to take us to the Navy Club for Christmas dinner...but he had left the house in the morning and was late getting home. When he did come back, he was quite inebriated and needed to sleep it off. Mom was disgusted. She piled us three kids into the car and went to the Navy Club without him, but I don't remember it as a particularly happy situation. I think Dad probably got the cold shoulder for awhile after that!
*Later, when we were mostly all adults, we gathered at the farm for Thanksgiving. Mom had fixed a shaker of martinis. My grandparents were not drinkers, but they would imbibe on special occasions. We were to have the traditional turkey dinner, which we jokingly called "toikey boid" as if we were from New Jersey. Well! My grandfather had TWO martinis before dinner. He sat at the table and ate a big meal, with his little cheeks just as pink as could be, then retired to the living room where he promptly fell asleep. When he woke up, he wanted to know when we were going to eat the "boid". Poor Popo had missed the meal, even though he had eaten it!
*After my folks retired to the farm and my brother was back from his 7-year stint in the Navy, we had a family cookout. (I'm guessing this was in the early 80s.) Present were my mom and dad, my sister and brother-in-law, and my husband, daughter, and I. The beer and wine flowed freely throughout the afternoon, and then it came time to light the grill to cook the meat. (I should probably mention here that my brother and brother-in-law were both volatile personalities. They both knew everything there was to know and were always right. They had, in the past, had a spat that kept them not speaking to each other for a year or two. You get the picture.)
The grill was a propane unit on a portable stand. It was on the patio, under the canopy of eaves. When it was lit, a small leak showed up at the regulator...a little flame that shouldn't have been there. We all immediately thought the worst: the propane tank would explode and set the house on fire. What to do became a topic of panicked discussion. My brother had one idea...and since HE had been through fire school in the Navy, HE knew best. My brother-in-law had another idea, and HE knew best...and the match was on! Doug (my brother) argued with Roger (my bro-in-law) and got obnoxious. Roger was just as obnoxious. My sister--always the peacemaker--took her husband's side. In a moment of temporary insanity, she slapped Doug...and Doug slapped her back. Then the fight escalated! My husband--who was no stranger to violent behavior--grabbed our young daughter and took her down to the bridge at the entrance to the farm, just to get away from everything, although I'm quite sure the shouting could be heard even there. My father was furious that his son had slapped his sister, even though she had slapped him first. My mother decided she was going to leave but was in no shape to drive, so I grabbed her car keys and wouldn't let her. It was absolute mayhem! To be honest, I don't remember how it all ended. I know that the propane tank was rolled away from the house and the fire put out. I'm pretty certain that we didn't sit down to eat together. I imagine that we all departed for our various places of residence, a little the worse for wear.
*There was one other event that happened just a few days after my father's funeral. My sister, brother-in-law, my daughter, and I were at the farm, trying to tie up some loose ends. We had written thank-you notes to everyone who had expressed sympathy...and did some drinking as we did. We were all emotionally exhausted. My daughter, a bored-out-of-her-mind freshman in high school--who was also just a bit resentful that she was having to spend her spring break in a funeral situation--was acting like a brat. She managed, in a hissy-fit, to spill a glass of water that was on a TV table. Uncle Roger snarled at her. I snarled at him. Megan said, "Maybe I should just kill myself!" My sister jumped in and said, "Maybe you should!" That cut me to the quick. I don't think anyone knew or appreciated that I had been working for years to try to bring my daughter out of a depression. I started to cry. We packed up and left. I was in no condition to drive, so we went the 25 miles to the next familiar town, with me crying all the way, and stayed in a motel there before leaving for Indiana the next day. I think I went three months without speaking to my sister.
I got a letter from Shari saying, "I don't know what's wrong, but I miss my sister!" I called her and told her what my problem was. She had no memory of it. Didn't remember saying what she had, but apologized...and I realized, in that moment, that alcohol was the real culprit in all of it. Shari and I have not had a cross moment since. That year, 1994, was the year we both realized that we were orphans. Both of our parents were gone. We--and our brother (which is another story)--were all that was left of our "special" family.
Aside from the obvious lesson about booze and emotions, I learned that my family wasn't any better than any other family on the planet! It shook me, actually. It took me a LONG time to understand that people who are close and love each other intensely can be the source of hurt. I came to accept my family members with their quirks. (Of course, I don't have any quirks, so no one has to work hard to accept me!) Age helps. Things that seemed important in my 40s just don't in my 60s.
Why is it that we get wise when it doesn't matter so much...and when we really need to "get it", we don't? I wish I knew!
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Park2Park Relay
Last year, the movers and shakers in my county concocted an event as a fundraiser for the Park District. It was called the Park2Park Relay race and consisted of a 60-mile race course to-and-from various parks in the county. As a relay, teams of 4-6 were set up. There were 17 exchange locations set up along the way. The race started in Plainfield and ended at McCloud Park in western Hendricks County. Apparently there were some six marathon runners (called "ultra runners") who entered in order to take the whole course alone. (Sixty miles???) This year was Year Two for the event.
Since this is a big deal, the Sheriff's Department, Emergency Management, the Hendricks County Hospital, etc., are all involved. In order to expedite communications, amateur radio operators were used all along the route--as roving vehicles, tail escorts, checkpoint communicators--and all of this is coordinated by a net control operator. I was asked to serve as a net control in the last shift of the day. By the way--it was hot.
I didn't work this event last year because I was in California, so I felt somewhat ill-prepared to operate, but the guys in charge--W9RXR and N9FEB--had everything down to a fine science. I enjoyed working with those fellows. (Always do.) If the opportunity arises next year, I will be happy to serve.
In spite of the heat, there was only one call for paramedics during the whole race. Several runners chose to quit before they fell flat. At one point, one of the Ultra Runners was the last one on the course, and based on the APRS "pings" coming from the tail vehicle that was following him, he was walking. Shortly thereafter, we got a report that he had been picked up, meaning that he had given up. No doubt!
While all of this was going on, I was sitting in an air-conditioned communications vehicle. It wasn't the Ritz, but it was all I could have done. Life goes on!
Since this is a big deal, the Sheriff's Department, Emergency Management, the Hendricks County Hospital, etc., are all involved. In order to expedite communications, amateur radio operators were used all along the route--as roving vehicles, tail escorts, checkpoint communicators--and all of this is coordinated by a net control operator. I was asked to serve as a net control in the last shift of the day. By the way--it was hot.
I didn't work this event last year because I was in California, so I felt somewhat ill-prepared to operate, but the guys in charge--W9RXR and N9FEB--had everything down to a fine science. I enjoyed working with those fellows. (Always do.) If the opportunity arises next year, I will be happy to serve.
In spite of the heat, there was only one call for paramedics during the whole race. Several runners chose to quit before they fell flat. At one point, one of the Ultra Runners was the last one on the course, and based on the APRS "pings" coming from the tail vehicle that was following him, he was walking. Shortly thereafter, we got a report that he had been picked up, meaning that he had given up. No doubt!
While all of this was going on, I was sitting in an air-conditioned communications vehicle. It wasn't the Ritz, but it was all I could have done. Life goes on!
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Signature Dishes
I'm not known for my cooking. In fact, I think I have posted on here that I am not very creative as a cook. My daughter is, having the talent of putting together things in recipes of her own making. My sister is, having many occasions to entertain folks in her home through the years. Me? I'm just a down-home country cook who was married to a meat-and-potatoes man who thought of casseroles as a side dish. "That's a nice casserole, but where's the food?"
What I learned about cooking came from my mother who spent her youth as a farm girl, and her married life feeding a husband that was raised during the Depression in a very poor family and never got enough to eat as a kid. She didn't really teach me anything. I just watched. Of course, most of what I learned from her came from when I was a young wife and suddenly ran into cooking issues I didn't have answers for: What is the secret to making gravy? How do you cut up a chicken? Is there a difference between self-rising flour and the regular stuff? Sometimes my questions to her came AFTER I had already made a mistake. Oops!
The very first meal I ever cooked was when I was a teenager--a senior, I think. My mother was to be away on a health mercy mission at Mayo Clinic for her mother for a number of days. She was to return on a Sunday. She had instructed me to fix a pot roast before she got back. Brown the meat, then put it in the oven for so long...then, an hour before it is done, add potatoes and carrots and onions. Blah, blah. I did. When she walked in the house that day, exhausted from worry about my grandmother, she was overjoyed to smell the smells of an oven dinner almost done--and she didn't have to fix it! I will never forget her feelings of relief at being home and fed. I done good! Unfortunately, I don't think I fixed another family meal until I became a married lady four years later.
Okay...so...that said, I will admit that I have SOME things that I am famous for. My family likes my deviled eggs. I also have a corn meal/corn recipe that goes over well in the fall. My radio club seems to like my sloppy joes. Personally, my all-time favorite is my own homemade potato salad. You can buy potato salad everywhere, but I have yet to find any store-bought stuff that was even worth the price! (The closest to homemade that I have ever found is served by The Coachman restaurant here in Plainfield. Close...but no cigar.)
I only make potato salad once or twice a year. It is labor intensive, and I love it so much that, if I make it, I can't stay away from it! Boil the potatoes just enough that they are still firm. Cool them and peel them. Boil the eggs. Cook them and peel them. Chop the onion--lots of it--and some celery. Make the dressing. Mix it all together and let it sit. (Potato salad is one of those dishes that is better the second day. I always make it a day in advance.) My sister and I argue about the dressing. She just uses mayo. I add mustard. She swears that Mother didn't use mustard, and I insist that she did. (Otherwise, how would I have know about it???) In any case, it all tastes good to me, and no one I serve it to complains!
Fourth of July was almost always celebrated at my grandparents' farm in rural Illinois. It pleased my mother that virtually everything on the table, except the meat, was home grown. Good stuff! One dish that my mother made (that I couldn't convince my family to eat) was new potatoes and peas--a creamed dish that was excellent! I might find a way to fix that this Fourth, just for me! Of course, I was spoiled by home grown tomatoes and other delights that simply cannot be replicated at the grocery store. When I lost my marriage, I lost my garden. Still, memories of that good stuff works well to keep me fat. I gain weight just thinking about it!
What I learned about cooking came from my mother who spent her youth as a farm girl, and her married life feeding a husband that was raised during the Depression in a very poor family and never got enough to eat as a kid. She didn't really teach me anything. I just watched. Of course, most of what I learned from her came from when I was a young wife and suddenly ran into cooking issues I didn't have answers for: What is the secret to making gravy? How do you cut up a chicken? Is there a difference between self-rising flour and the regular stuff? Sometimes my questions to her came AFTER I had already made a mistake. Oops!
The very first meal I ever cooked was when I was a teenager--a senior, I think. My mother was to be away on a health mercy mission at Mayo Clinic for her mother for a number of days. She was to return on a Sunday. She had instructed me to fix a pot roast before she got back. Brown the meat, then put it in the oven for so long...then, an hour before it is done, add potatoes and carrots and onions. Blah, blah. I did. When she walked in the house that day, exhausted from worry about my grandmother, she was overjoyed to smell the smells of an oven dinner almost done--and she didn't have to fix it! I will never forget her feelings of relief at being home and fed. I done good! Unfortunately, I don't think I fixed another family meal until I became a married lady four years later.
Okay...so...that said, I will admit that I have SOME things that I am famous for. My family likes my deviled eggs. I also have a corn meal/corn recipe that goes over well in the fall. My radio club seems to like my sloppy joes. Personally, my all-time favorite is my own homemade potato salad. You can buy potato salad everywhere, but I have yet to find any store-bought stuff that was even worth the price! (The closest to homemade that I have ever found is served by The Coachman restaurant here in Plainfield. Close...but no cigar.)
I only make potato salad once or twice a year. It is labor intensive, and I love it so much that, if I make it, I can't stay away from it! Boil the potatoes just enough that they are still firm. Cool them and peel them. Boil the eggs. Cook them and peel them. Chop the onion--lots of it--and some celery. Make the dressing. Mix it all together and let it sit. (Potato salad is one of those dishes that is better the second day. I always make it a day in advance.) My sister and I argue about the dressing. She just uses mayo. I add mustard. She swears that Mother didn't use mustard, and I insist that she did. (Otherwise, how would I have know about it???) In any case, it all tastes good to me, and no one I serve it to complains!
Fourth of July was almost always celebrated at my grandparents' farm in rural Illinois. It pleased my mother that virtually everything on the table, except the meat, was home grown. Good stuff! One dish that my mother made (that I couldn't convince my family to eat) was new potatoes and peas--a creamed dish that was excellent! I might find a way to fix that this Fourth, just for me! Of course, I was spoiled by home grown tomatoes and other delights that simply cannot be replicated at the grocery store. When I lost my marriage, I lost my garden. Still, memories of that good stuff works well to keep me fat. I gain weight just thinking about it!
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Dear Son-in-Law
All around my house are remnants and reminders of a life that my daughter had before you came into her life. It worries me some that you might be bothered by their presence. I want to explain all of that to you, in hopes that you can understand without feeling jealousy about what is past. I was a second spouse once. I get it.
Megan did have a life before you. She was young, as was her husband. When the birth of the children happened, everything seemed "magical" but was actually quite stressful. When the marriage fell apart, it was due to a circus of circumstances. No one person could be blamed. Still, what happened at divorce time didn't negate what happened before.
When Megan and Nathan split up, I met with his parents. We agreed that taking sides was not in the best interests of our grandchildren. Though our children were no longer married, and we weren't particularly happy about the way things were handled, our grandchildren were still our grandchildren. They didn't ask nor deserve what they got. Thus, we took the high road. We didn't take sides. We didn't try to erase what had gone before. What was past was past, but the future was hopeful.
Denis, dear...I want to emphasize that we didn't erase what had gone before. You can't change history! It might not always feel good to be faced with an intimate relationship that your spouse once had, but it was BEFORE YOU. There are no regrets. If you hadn't come along, Megan and Nathan would be no less divorced. And if she hadn't had those experiences, she wouldn't be the person she is now.
If you come to my house and see pictures or hear stories about my grandchildren's father, please understand that they will always be there because it is part of their lives, and ours. It does not take anything away from you. You and Megan are now making other memories and new experiences that build on the old. (I am still chuckling over the Christmas deal. "Who the hell is Lily??") I just want you to understand that we are all here for you because you are loved as the newest chapter in the lives of my grandchildren.
If I EVER say or do anything that makes you feel disjointed from the family, I beg you to say something so I never say or do it again. It probably would help you never had to see Nathan or be with his family again....but then we would be denying the truth. Nathan will always be the children's father, and his parents will always be their grandparents. I thank God every day that this has never been an issue with you..or with them. You are a peach!
If I didn't care about you, I would not worry about this. Was just looking through baby scrapbooks of Robin and Ryan and wondering how you would feel if you saw them. I hope you understand that "that was then; this is now".
I love you, Deniska. Keep on doing what you are doing. As a former stepmom, I really do understand!
Megan did have a life before you. She was young, as was her husband. When the birth of the children happened, everything seemed "magical" but was actually quite stressful. When the marriage fell apart, it was due to a circus of circumstances. No one person could be blamed. Still, what happened at divorce time didn't negate what happened before.
When Megan and Nathan split up, I met with his parents. We agreed that taking sides was not in the best interests of our grandchildren. Though our children were no longer married, and we weren't particularly happy about the way things were handled, our grandchildren were still our grandchildren. They didn't ask nor deserve what they got. Thus, we took the high road. We didn't take sides. We didn't try to erase what had gone before. What was past was past, but the future was hopeful.
Denis, dear...I want to emphasize that we didn't erase what had gone before. You can't change history! It might not always feel good to be faced with an intimate relationship that your spouse once had, but it was BEFORE YOU. There are no regrets. If you hadn't come along, Megan and Nathan would be no less divorced. And if she hadn't had those experiences, she wouldn't be the person she is now.
If you come to my house and see pictures or hear stories about my grandchildren's father, please understand that they will always be there because it is part of their lives, and ours. It does not take anything away from you. You and Megan are now making other memories and new experiences that build on the old. (I am still chuckling over the Christmas deal. "Who the hell is Lily??") I just want you to understand that we are all here for you because you are loved as the newest chapter in the lives of my grandchildren.
If I EVER say or do anything that makes you feel disjointed from the family, I beg you to say something so I never say or do it again. It probably would help you never had to see Nathan or be with his family again....but then we would be denying the truth. Nathan will always be the children's father, and his parents will always be their grandparents. I thank God every day that this has never been an issue with you..or with them. You are a peach!
If I didn't care about you, I would not worry about this. Was just looking through baby scrapbooks of Robin and Ryan and wondering how you would feel if you saw them. I hope you understand that "that was then; this is now".
I love you, Deniska. Keep on doing what you are doing. As a former stepmom, I really do understand!
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Are We Losing Our Minds??
A couple of days ago, a volunteer Little League coach in a town just south of here was ticketed (ten times--$300 worth) for loading his ten-kid team into the back of his pickup truck and driving them for a victory treat at a local ice cream shop. People in the town were enraged, and the online discussions about the incident have been 50/50 in blame-placing. Half of the commenters are unhappy that things have come to this--that a local policeman couldn't have overlooked the law violation in support of the team; the other half defended the policeman saying he was just doing his job because the coach broke the law. (The kids were not restrained by seatbelts.) The jury of public opinion is still out on this one.
I don't know what to think. Every kid in the US who has any ties at all to rural America has ridden, unrestrained, in the back of Grandpa's or Uncle Joe's pickup. Including me. We were instructed to sit down in the truck bed and hang on...and not to stand up until the truck was stopped. It was a rite of passage. Great fun! I remember those times as some of the most carefree summer days of my young life. Of course, things were different back then.
I was also, as an adult teacher responsible for the safety of my students, put on the other side of the fence when one of my disgruntled students said he should just blow up the school. (This was soon after the Columbine situation.) I knew he was just angry, and I was pretty sure he wasn't capable of doing anything like that, but because he said it in front of other students, I was stuck. If he HAD come back and blown up the school, someone of the witness students could have said, "Ms. McNary heard him say he would do it, and she didn't do anything." Thus, to cover my rear, I reported his threat to the principal. The student--who actually did not live within the boundaries of our attendance area--was suspended for good. I felt bad about that, but it was him or me. In this litigious society, I preferred that it be he.
A number of years ago, I became outraged when I read a news story about a 14-year-old youngster who died when the bucket-lift he took a joy-ride in lifted to the ceiling of a gymnasium and crushed him against it. It was at a school that was under construction and long after hours. There was a construction fence surrounding the gym. The gym was locked. The kid, however, scaled the fence, broke into the gym, found a key in the ignition of the bucket lift, and decided to take a ride. Guess who took the blame for that one? Not the parents who didn't know where their kid was. Not the kid who had thwarted two obstacles to keep him safe. The poor hapless construction worker who left the key in the bucket lift, thinking it was okay to do so!
It is like last summer's State Fair disaster in Indianapolis when a stage rigging fell over in a storm and killed seven people. Bad weather was predicted, but a rogue wind blew 30 minutes before the storm hit. It was sudden and unexpected. Still, blame-placing abounded. (Still does.) The State Fair was cited for bad construction of the stage. The company responsible for constructing the stage was cited. The band that was to perform was cited for not canceling their concert, keeping fans waiting for the concert to start. Blah, blah, blah. At no point does anyone say, "Hey...it looked bad out there so I decided to take cover until it passed."
The difference between when I was a kid and now is that no one believes in accidents anymore. In my definition, an accident is something that happens without knowledgable anticipation. An act of God, so to speak. Oh, sure...the coach transporting the kids in his truck might not have anticipated a bump in the road that could have thrown a kid out, or someone rear-ending him on his 15 mph trek with his precious load. I get it. Really.
My own family had an avoidable tragedy when my toddler sister got entangled in blind cords and strangled to death in her crib back in the 40s before I was born. If everyone had the knowledge to look out for that back then, there could have been blame. As it was, the family felt awful enough. Barbara would have been no less dead if the family could have had a villain.
Sometimes, I think we are losing our minds as a society. Instead of trying to find someone or something to blame for our tragedies, we need to get back to basics. What has happened to common sense? I wish I knew!
I don't know what to think. Every kid in the US who has any ties at all to rural America has ridden, unrestrained, in the back of Grandpa's or Uncle Joe's pickup. Including me. We were instructed to sit down in the truck bed and hang on...and not to stand up until the truck was stopped. It was a rite of passage. Great fun! I remember those times as some of the most carefree summer days of my young life. Of course, things were different back then.
I was also, as an adult teacher responsible for the safety of my students, put on the other side of the fence when one of my disgruntled students said he should just blow up the school. (This was soon after the Columbine situation.) I knew he was just angry, and I was pretty sure he wasn't capable of doing anything like that, but because he said it in front of other students, I was stuck. If he HAD come back and blown up the school, someone of the witness students could have said, "Ms. McNary heard him say he would do it, and she didn't do anything." Thus, to cover my rear, I reported his threat to the principal. The student--who actually did not live within the boundaries of our attendance area--was suspended for good. I felt bad about that, but it was him or me. In this litigious society, I preferred that it be he.
A number of years ago, I became outraged when I read a news story about a 14-year-old youngster who died when the bucket-lift he took a joy-ride in lifted to the ceiling of a gymnasium and crushed him against it. It was at a school that was under construction and long after hours. There was a construction fence surrounding the gym. The gym was locked. The kid, however, scaled the fence, broke into the gym, found a key in the ignition of the bucket lift, and decided to take a ride. Guess who took the blame for that one? Not the parents who didn't know where their kid was. Not the kid who had thwarted two obstacles to keep him safe. The poor hapless construction worker who left the key in the bucket lift, thinking it was okay to do so!
It is like last summer's State Fair disaster in Indianapolis when a stage rigging fell over in a storm and killed seven people. Bad weather was predicted, but a rogue wind blew 30 minutes before the storm hit. It was sudden and unexpected. Still, blame-placing abounded. (Still does.) The State Fair was cited for bad construction of the stage. The company responsible for constructing the stage was cited. The band that was to perform was cited for not canceling their concert, keeping fans waiting for the concert to start. Blah, blah, blah. At no point does anyone say, "Hey...it looked bad out there so I decided to take cover until it passed."
The difference between when I was a kid and now is that no one believes in accidents anymore. In my definition, an accident is something that happens without knowledgable anticipation. An act of God, so to speak. Oh, sure...the coach transporting the kids in his truck might not have anticipated a bump in the road that could have thrown a kid out, or someone rear-ending him on his 15 mph trek with his precious load. I get it. Really.
My own family had an avoidable tragedy when my toddler sister got entangled in blind cords and strangled to death in her crib back in the 40s before I was born. If everyone had the knowledge to look out for that back then, there could have been blame. As it was, the family felt awful enough. Barbara would have been no less dead if the family could have had a villain.
Sometimes, I think we are losing our minds as a society. Instead of trying to find someone or something to blame for our tragedies, we need to get back to basics. What has happened to common sense? I wish I knew!
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Bridezillas
After church today, I was flipping through TV channels and happened upon a network that was showing marathon presentations of a program called Bridezillas. It's a reality-based show about outspoken women planning their weddings...and how crazy things can get. Unless things are exaggerated just for the purpose of the show, I am appalled! It put my memory back to my own wedding planning days. I think my parents got lucky to have ME for the bride!
My first wedding--the only "big" one--was to occur in early August after my fiance' and I graduated from college in June. (This was 1969, a whole world apart from the way things are now!) Tom's family was all in the northwest suburbs of Chicago: Des Plaines, Paletine, and Rolling Meadows. Most of my family was in the western suburbs. His grandparents were first-generation Belgian on both sides and they were all very Catholic. Although I was not Catholic, I took catechism just to see if I could be (I couldn't) and acquiesced to have our wedding in a mass at St. Stephen Protomartyr Church in Des Plaines, IL. We had to go through counseling with the priest and have the "banns" posted for six weeks in that parish. We did everything according to Hoyle.
Meanwhile, I remember my mother warning me that so many brides and mothers-of-the-bride got into fights about wedding plans, due to tension, etc. I think she was anticipating it would happen to us, but no! Why didn't it? I was pretty naive. I knew NOTHING about wedding planning. I wanted it to be a special day, but I was more focused on getting my first teaching job, figuring out where we would live, etc., than to be focused on just that one day. (And no, my groom and I didn't live together prior to the wedding!)
I don't remember a lot about the whole wedding planning deal. My parents had just put me through four years of college at their expense. I wasn't looking for a blow-out. At my parents' suggestion, it was decided that the reception would be held at the Officer's Club at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center in North Chicago, IL. (My dad was an officer.) There was to be booze, of course, and finger foods...and wedding cake. (I don't remember picking out a cake. Maybe the Officer's Club took care of that?) There was to be no band...just food and fellowship on the lakefront. A very nice venue! We did nothing about decorations. That was all left up to the OC folks, I guess.
When it came time to pick out a wedding dress, Mom and I went to a bridal/formal shop somewhat close to home. (If you've ever watched the show Say Yes to the Dress, you know that this is a big deal for many brides who spend thousands of dollars on a wear-once bridal gown.) I had no idea what I wanted! The very first gown that the clerk showed us was a dress that had been canceled by another bride...a real steal. I tried it on, liked the way it looked, and took it! It was the first and only gown I tried on. I doubt that we were even in that shop more than an hour. That gown cost my parents all of $100 or $150...I forget which...but I have this mental picture of my mother breathing a huge sigh of relief. Even by 1969 standards, it was cheap! While we were there, we looked into bridesmaid dresses. I don't have a clue where it came from, but I had the notion that I wanted my bridesmaids in yellow dotted-swiss dresses, and it just so happened that the shop had some! (I dare anyone to look for ANY dresses made of dotted swiss fabric these days!) Anyway, they were affordable, so those arrangements were made. Done!
Back then, brides "registered" for fine china and crystal stemware and silver flatware. (Nothing else.) I did that. Thank God no one really bit on that for us. We were to live in a 10 x 45-foot trailer in Normal, IL, and had no need for those fancies!
I remember very little else about the whole experience. I do remember that my parents looked great on my wedding day and were in their element at the reception. Everyone I loved was there, except for my grandparents who could not attend due to my grandmother's health concerns. According to my mother, Tom and I left the reception too soon because the party was just getting going when we departed. Damn!
I ran across a receipt for the wedding reception a couple of years ago. It cost my parents $1,500. There were no "planning fights". I think the only person really put out that day was my brother-in-law who somehow inherited the job of returning my father's sister (Aunt Lucy) and her entourage to another suburb. (Aunt Lu was a character. It was best for everyone that she left early!)
The marriage didn't last. Tom had an emotional breakdown caused by things I knew nothing about when I married him. For that reason alone, had I been Catholic, I could have had the marriage annulled. As it was, I just shook his hand and let him go five years later. Still, I don't think my parents regretted spending the money on a great party! (That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)
I was NOT a "Bridezilla". Life goes on after the wedding. Shame on the selfish gals of today who spend so much money on somethat that might not last!
My first wedding--the only "big" one--was to occur in early August after my fiance' and I graduated from college in June. (This was 1969, a whole world apart from the way things are now!) Tom's family was all in the northwest suburbs of Chicago: Des Plaines, Paletine, and Rolling Meadows. Most of my family was in the western suburbs. His grandparents were first-generation Belgian on both sides and they were all very Catholic. Although I was not Catholic, I took catechism just to see if I could be (I couldn't) and acquiesced to have our wedding in a mass at St. Stephen Protomartyr Church in Des Plaines, IL. We had to go through counseling with the priest and have the "banns" posted for six weeks in that parish. We did everything according to Hoyle.
Meanwhile, I remember my mother warning me that so many brides and mothers-of-the-bride got into fights about wedding plans, due to tension, etc. I think she was anticipating it would happen to us, but no! Why didn't it? I was pretty naive. I knew NOTHING about wedding planning. I wanted it to be a special day, but I was more focused on getting my first teaching job, figuring out where we would live, etc., than to be focused on just that one day. (And no, my groom and I didn't live together prior to the wedding!)
I don't remember a lot about the whole wedding planning deal. My parents had just put me through four years of college at their expense. I wasn't looking for a blow-out. At my parents' suggestion, it was decided that the reception would be held at the Officer's Club at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center in North Chicago, IL. (My dad was an officer.) There was to be booze, of course, and finger foods...and wedding cake. (I don't remember picking out a cake. Maybe the Officer's Club took care of that?) There was to be no band...just food and fellowship on the lakefront. A very nice venue! We did nothing about decorations. That was all left up to the OC folks, I guess.
When it came time to pick out a wedding dress, Mom and I went to a bridal/formal shop somewhat close to home. (If you've ever watched the show Say Yes to the Dress, you know that this is a big deal for many brides who spend thousands of dollars on a wear-once bridal gown.) I had no idea what I wanted! The very first gown that the clerk showed us was a dress that had been canceled by another bride...a real steal. I tried it on, liked the way it looked, and took it! It was the first and only gown I tried on. I doubt that we were even in that shop more than an hour. That gown cost my parents all of $100 or $150...I forget which...but I have this mental picture of my mother breathing a huge sigh of relief. Even by 1969 standards, it was cheap! While we were there, we looked into bridesmaid dresses. I don't have a clue where it came from, but I had the notion that I wanted my bridesmaids in yellow dotted-swiss dresses, and it just so happened that the shop had some! (I dare anyone to look for ANY dresses made of dotted swiss fabric these days!) Anyway, they were affordable, so those arrangements were made. Done!
Back then, brides "registered" for fine china and crystal stemware and silver flatware. (Nothing else.) I did that. Thank God no one really bit on that for us. We were to live in a 10 x 45-foot trailer in Normal, IL, and had no need for those fancies!
I remember very little else about the whole experience. I do remember that my parents looked great on my wedding day and were in their element at the reception. Everyone I loved was there, except for my grandparents who could not attend due to my grandmother's health concerns. According to my mother, Tom and I left the reception too soon because the party was just getting going when we departed. Damn!
I ran across a receipt for the wedding reception a couple of years ago. It cost my parents $1,500. There were no "planning fights". I think the only person really put out that day was my brother-in-law who somehow inherited the job of returning my father's sister (Aunt Lucy) and her entourage to another suburb. (Aunt Lu was a character. It was best for everyone that she left early!)
The marriage didn't last. Tom had an emotional breakdown caused by things I knew nothing about when I married him. For that reason alone, had I been Catholic, I could have had the marriage annulled. As it was, I just shook his hand and let him go five years later. Still, I don't think my parents regretted spending the money on a great party! (That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)
I was NOT a "Bridezilla". Life goes on after the wedding. Shame on the selfish gals of today who spend so much money on somethat that might not last!
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