Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Thirty Year Reunion

7 July, 2013

Thirty years came and went. Where did they go? It was all about the cutest boy, the hottest girl, what was playing on the radio and the latest beer bust at the lake. Now it’s about children, grandchildren, careers, jobs and bills. One minute we were lost in teenage heartbreak, drama, parties and parking on country roads, the next we’re arriving at the door of a restaurant, nervous, giddy and excited.

Pictures taped to the walls remind us of who we once were. Four pictures on a poster remind us of how many and who we lost. Sadness fills us, gladness over-takes us and we revel in the joy of seeing each other again.

Marty met me at the door with a hug and a “You look great!” Thanks, Marty. You’re good for a woman’s ego. The next one I saw was Julie. She was easy to recognize, with twinkling eyes and a flip of her hair. Theresa laughed and welcomed me aboard. Brenda introduced herself to me. Brenda? My gosh. You haven’t changed.

I saw Susan and knew her in an instant. She’s still gorgeous. I always hated her for that—but in a friendly way. Teresa, your hair is short. I hardly recognized you, but you look great. Deanna, still so pretty and fun, you were always one of my favorites to watch. I forgot to ask how your family is.

Paul hadn’t changed. He served dinner in his restaurant, The Courtyard CafĂ©, with the help of his family; his son looks so much like him. The food was fabulous, just like you expect it to be down home.

I knew Pat and Shelley would be there. It was a race down the highway, first me, then them and on again—a dangerous, fun game of bumper tag at high rates of speed. That is, until I saw the cop on the side of the road and hit the brakes. They flew past me, uncaring about the man with the badge, waving and laughing. It reminded me of those days thirty years ago.

Conversation moved quickly: How is your sister? Where do you live? What are you doing now? How many kids? Do you remember . . .?

Do you remember? My time with these lovely people was a total of six years. It started in church camp and seventh grade. I had the pleasure of watching them go from pig tails and bubble gum to plans for education, marriage, career.

Then there was nothing. It’s my own fault. I walked away in 1986 and returned to be sociable only once in thirty years. Our twenty year reunion was fun, but I walked away after that, too. It was good to see everyone, but I was done when the night was over.

Something strange happened this time, though. It wasn’t just good to see my former classmates. It was a connection to home that I was missing. It actually felt good to be home, not that it wasn’t good before. It’s just that before I wasn’t ready to rejoin that part of my life. I was busy with a new baby, a very demanding career, a home in need of work and all that writing I’ve done over the past many years. I suppose it’s safe to say that now I’m at a more settled place in life and it was good to be home with everyone.

It’s funny the things you remember. Marty was a funny guy who liked to torment me. Susan sat next to me in Simonson’s history class (or was it English?) and always whispered funny quips. Teresa was a long-legged cheerleader with a sharp eye. Preston is still smiling. Pat was the athlete and Shelley cheered him at every game. Donita and Ed attended the same college as I, always together, always holding hands.

Duane and Denise, brother and sister, close and friendly. I remember the day Duane’s car slid off the road in the wet snowfall, right in front of our bus. Their mother, our driver, shook her head, stopped the bus and let them in. Not a word was said, but Duane told me his mother let him have it when they got home.

Theresa had a laugh that can still be recognized today. It’s infectious and raucous, and full of the joy of life. Julie was always very quiet. At the reunion, there were stories she told with the others that led me to believe there was a great deal more to her—especially after meeting her husband. They make a fun couple. Tiffany, what is there to say? She hasn’t lost her wit and had me in stitches.

I would have known Linda anywhere. She’s still that young girl sitting on the Miss Pittsfield float, swatting bugs and waving to the crowd. Becky changed, but only the color of her hair, and she and Theresa and Linda put on a great get-together.

There are more names, more people to name, but I’m thirty years older and that much more forgetful. (Oh, thanks for the hug, George.) So many didn’t show. Those who lived in and around town must have been too busy on their farms or with family on the holiday weekend. I was sorry they didn’t come and Bev said she would be there. Too bad she never arrived.

It took thirty years, but I finally got a class award. “The Most Interesting Hobby.” I shall treasure that little piece of paper and post it on my website when next I publish again. It will serve as a reminder of how far I’ve come since those days of our youth.

Pittsfield High School Class of 1983, thanks for a great time. I can’t wait for the next one. 

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Easter, Redneck-Style.

04/04/13

Here in Illinois, there are many Easter traditions. Most Christians go to church, spend time with family, hunt Easter eggs, fill baskets with goodies and remember the reason for the celebration: He is arisen. It’s a time of celebration and rejoicing, a time of reverence and gratitude. There’s ham and deviled eggs and readings of the Passion of Christ.

In Jewish households, it’s the time of liberation, the Pesach, or Passover. It’s about the Ten Plagues, a stubborn Pharaoh and Moses. It’s a celebration of the Exodus and freedom from slavery, a celebration to be savored with unleavened matzah and wine, song and ceremony.

Then you have Rednecks.

Nothing says Easter to my family like shootin’ stuff. Every year, on the Saturday before Easter, we get together with our arsenals; fill glasses with wine, pop caps off beer and yell, “Pull!” A clay target is thrown by some guy or gal with his/her hand on the lever of a strange contraption. It’s followed by a cacophony of gunshots, which we all hope will eventually splinter the target into black powder against a blue sky.

I like to shoot. There was a time—with youthful good vision—when I never missed. When I stepped up to the line, most of the men would step back because they knew they would never get a chance with me shooting against them. One of the proudest moments of my life was when my grandfather, a seasoned duck hunter, put his gun down and vowed to shoot no more because his granddaughter out-shot him. I still grin when I think about it.

This year, a new target was introduced—the exploding target. It was stationary, set in the field to await its fate. It’s essentially a plastic jar wherein two chemical components are introduced to each other and mixed thoroughly. All one must do is shoot the thing and duck and cover. The trouble is you must hit the target.

I didn’t get a chance to shoot at it.

Many others did, though. Shot after shot rang out as they tried to hit the tiny jar in the distance with hand-guns and rifles. I got tired of watching and walked back up toward the house. I should never have turned my back. A moment later, I was covering my head and looking for a hole to dive into. An explosion rang out over the hills. It was a boom of deafening proportions. When I chanced a glance back, billows of yellow smoked filled the air above a crater in my father’s unplanted cornfield. For a minute there, I thought we were under attack.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: guns, alcohol and explosives? My God, what about the children?

Fear not, dear readers. Those children were right there where they should be—in the thick of it all. They shot guns, kept score, tried to out-shoot, out-talk, and out-do each other all day. Hey, they’re not your kids. They’re redneck kids. My nephew brought in his first turkey when he was only seven or eight, and he did it with a bow. He has a good eye and was proud to bring home dinner. My daughter shot her target pistol like a pro and earned the envy of every boy there.

But . . . with all those guns and all those kids running around, you’d think it was a recipe for disaster. No, not in this family. Anyone who grows up with guns in families such as ours has a healthy respect for them. We all learn proper safety, proper handling and proper care. A gun is not a toy, it’s a tool. Like any tool, it’s to be cared-for and respected. That’s the way of it.

So, no, no one was hurt—unless you count all the sore shoulders from shooting all those long guns. Mine still aches. But guns are not the downfall of such gatherings. It’s when the guns are put away for the day because Ma Nature decides to rain on our parade that you need to worry.

That’s when the ATV’s come out. That’s when the kids really run wild. When you have the entire big farm to run wild on, you don’t worry about freaks and weirdoes or drunk neighbors driving home from the local bar. Hell, you just don’t worry. You let the kids have their freedom. Freedom is in short supply for city kids. Farm kids have it made.

So, a myriad of four-wheelers and go-carts were at their disposal. Fun things, these vehicles in the hills and forests of the farm. With a tank of gas, you can go all night in the spring mud.

But it’s all fun and games until someone flips a go-cart.

There we were, the adults of the party, ducking into sheds and outbuildings to get out of the soft drizzle that added to the mud. I’d just watched my kid ride off with her cousin at the wheel. My mom alarm was going off. I had a strange feeling I shouldn’t let her go, but she begged, “Just one ride before we leave? Please?”

“A short one,” I told her. Then to her cousin, “Be careful and go slow.”

It was a short ride. With my niece at the wheel and my grinning child in the passenger seat of the go-cart, I watched them speed up the hill and disappear into the trees. They were followed by my other niece’s boyfriend on a four-wheeler. I stepped into the shed to wait with my mother, my sister and a few others. I didn’t wait long.

It turned out to be a very short ride indeed. The four-wheeler came flying down the hill and over the creek and to a skidding halt in front of the shed. My daughter was on the back with terror in her eyes. The boyfriend said, “They flipped the go-cart.”

It’s funny how those words can galvanize so many adults into action. I was on her in an instant, thinking my little girl needed to be picked up. I’d seen that look on her face before when she was six and had broken her arm. I knew something terrible was wrong, but she wasn’t six anymore. She’s twelve. She no longer weighs forty pounds.

Still, a mom in such a situation can do miraculous things. I lifted her from the vehicle and stood her on the ground. Grandma was suddenly there, shoving me aside, demanding to know what was wrong.

Hello, I’m the mom here.

Then Grandpa showed up and tried to shove Grandma aside. Auntie was there, too, trying to get into it. Before I knew it, my parents had taken over and I couldn’t get next to my kid.

Ah, well . . . They’d raised the three of us—and we were a real handful. There were broken bones, open wounds, cracked heads. I suppose I could defer to the more experienced ones, and my dad had some first-aid training.

Dad declared it to be a sprain. Mom decided she’d take her to the hospital. I raised a brow. Um, I guess I’ll get the insurance card and meet you at the car.

Mom drove. We took my child to the ER at our little hometown hospital. It’s a very nice hospital with a good trauma ward. Yep, her arm was indeed broken, in the shaft of the radius. Crap.

The good doctor spent a good amount of time lecturing about safety equipment such as helmets and pads. Yeah, okay, I get it. Next time, listen to the mom alarm. Visions of my child’s head or spine crushed under the roll bar of the go-cart flooded my mind. I wanted to smack him.

If he shot me the hairy eyeball once, he did it a dozen times. He wanted me to be ashamed, to feel the guilt of a mother who failed to protect her young. Next time, I won’t put the guns away. Next time . . .

We got back to the farm with the kid’s arm wrapped from fingers to shoulder. The molded splint was bigger than her head. She was in pain, had missed her dinner and wanted to go home. We had prescriptions to fill, it was late and her father kept calling. Of course, I didn’t answer until we were on the road for home. We were supposed to be leaving just after he had, but that was hours ago. I’d called him from the hospital after saying a silent prayer of thanks he’d already left when the accident occurred. Nothing says “emergency” like a father on a rampage.

We got home shortly before midnight and spent a quiet Easter Sunday at home with no ham and no deviled eggs. I just wanted to forget the holiday—or all holidays. Given our track record of late, boycotting the holidays wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

So, the moral of the story is, don’t stop shootin’ stuff. If you do, someone’s bound to get hurt.