Where have all the flowers gone...

When I was 5, I attended public kindergarten. This was a very big deal, for several reasons: 1) I am the youngest of four children and the others never attended kindergarten at all; 2) when they did go to first grade, they were 7; 3) the first grade they attended was at a small, conservative parochial school; and 4) I was permitted to ride the bus.

It was on the school bus, in fact, that I met my closest childhood friend: Rhonda, "with an h". She was blonde and tall and glamorously dressed in sparkles and sandles, things I had never worn. She strode confidently to the busline, knowing exactly which bus to board, and when and how to get off at the right stop. I was starstruck. Then she spoke to me, offered to help me conquer my fear of bus-riding, and it was sealed. I had found my first public school friend.

We were inseparable that year in Miss Radell's class, finger-painting at side-by-side easels, teaming up for hand-clapping games, guarding each other from Tommy Peterson's cooties. And though my parents moved me to the church school in first grade, our friendship survived. Her home was a mere half-mile away, a simple bike ride down country roads, so our after-school hours were filled with catching up on the day's events.

Rhonda also was the youngest of four, but there the similarities ended. Their rental house had only 2 bedrooms, so the siblings were together in one with two sets of bunkbeds. Rhonda's dad, Walt worked at Gates Rubber Factory downtown, and her mom, Barbara was a secretary somewhere. Janine, her oldest sister was the high school slut; Troy, her only brother was reckless and ADHD; her youngest (and just 13 months older) sister, Kellie, was the middle child. Kellie tried to make it a three-way bond, but she never quite broke through the force-field of our friendship.

Walt was deeply into alcoholism by the time I met them and was hardly ever aware of much besides his work schedule and whether or not there was beer out in the shop. I remember Barb as beautiful, smiling and kind, and worried, and tired. She died of sepsis -- caused by an abscessed tooth never seen by a dentist -- when Rhonda and I were 9 years old. I recall sitting on the hard bench next to Rhonda in the front of the church during her service, gripping hands with her so tightly I thought my fingers might fall off; but there was nothing else I could do, so I did it. We never talked much about Barb after that.

Following Barb's death, my parents made sure there was a "scholarship" available to Rhonda each and every summer to attend the same summer camp I attended, high in the Rocky Mountains. Rhonda's crafts were always so artistic. Her ideas for cabin time were always received with enthusiasm. And Rhonda met all the cute boys before any other girl in camp. I was the perfect side-kick, the quintessential Skipper to her ultimate Barbie.

We remained closer than sisters until the fall when Walt married again and the newly-configured family moved away. Soon there was a baby, but Walt was the one hitting the bottle. At the age of 14, Rhonda's childhood ended and she became the only responsible adult in the house, raising her new little brother when his mother "couldn't handle it anymore." We had no cell phones, no email or internet, no way of bridging the ever-widening gap between us. I went off to boarding school while Rhonda dropped out of high school; I attended college and graduate school while Rhonda dropped off the face of the earth.

I was able to track her down only once after that, and then, never again. It's almost as if she never was. Almost.

Except that I remember..., I remember: the bus, the bunkbeds, the beer in the shop, the bench at the church, the boys at camp; and, I remember the baby brother that needed her. Rhonda did what she did because it had to be done, and she was the only one of them who could do it. She didn't even appear to resist or resent them, so I resented them for her at first. Not anymore.

Now I merely wonder... where have all the flowers gone?

Addendum

It has come to my attention that the previous post is materially deficient:

Boobies.

Thank you for your patience.

First tipsy post

I know, I know...how can someone reach my stage in life and never have posted drunk before?? Well, I'm losing THAT naivete RIGHT NOW! After the bike ride and the nap, we loaded kids (and one semi-ailing dog) into cars and went fishing. Yep. The two-year old from the track post? Yeah, well, today he caught his first rainbow trout on a 2-weight rod with only a little...OK, a lot... of parental assistance. Still, if you were to ask him, HE caught a fish today and it was a good 8, maybe 9 inches. Of course, he'd just as well learn early that size doesn't matter, does it? From fishing, we returned home to clean up and then go to a different restaurant, because the one we like best is still recovering from the apres track incident and I'm pretty sure they haven't lifted the ban yet. At today's establishment, we... OK I... had margaritas. Note the plurality there. Yep. All 118 pounds of me awash in lime and tequila -- but not the splashed on variety, for those of my readers who might make that visual mistake. No, no, this tequila is ALL ingested and trying really hard to impair my typing. But no, Mrs. Dart was a better typing teacher than that -- it will take more than a mere 3 or 4 (but who's counting?) margaritas to undermine THESE fingers. Perhaps there's more in the kitchen. I'll conduct a purely scientific experiment on that and get back to you.

Destination Cycling

Happy Memorial Day Weekend!!

As soon as I figure out how to download them from Mr. Eclectic's phone, I will post photos of today's bike ride...the chief motivation for which was the promise of espresso and ENORMOUS pastries, still warm from the oven, at a cozy local bakery located conveniently 24 miles away from home, after consuming which you have to ride the 24 miles back. The return trip feels much heavier for some reason.

This follows yesterday's ride in a different direction with other friends to another local bakery, a mere 13 miles away for less enormous, but still sugar-laden pastries. I thought cycling was a great way to burn calories....I failed to consider "destination cycling." *sigh*

Still, you can't really beat it. Today's ride followed the mighty Columbia River for all but 5 of the 24 miles, and at 5:30a.m. there was hardly any traffic. And then there was that split second when the sun spills over the bluff and first hits the water. That's worth the price of admission, right there. But now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to roll myself onto the couch for a little nap. I love holiday weekends!

Track Tales

Yesterday was the All-District Elementary School Track Meet, at which my daughter represented her school in the girls' 50m dash. Out of 16 runners, she placed 4th and we were predictably very proud and happy for her. To celebrate, we let her choose a restaurant. With me so far?

At this point, I need to back-track in order for you to fully appreciate the scenario. For our track star to be there on time, I had to awaken the 2-year-old from a nap.*

Once there, I had to fight with the other 7,000 parents for a parking place in an area designed for perhaps 25 vehicles. Naturally, all but 2 of them were driving enormous SUVs which requires them to park askance, thus taking up at least 2 spaces per Suburban. After parking a mere 4 miles away, I embraced some quality time with my darling offspring while walking to the meet.**

Upon arrival, we were informed that her event would be in only 2 hours and approximately 40 minutes. No need for asterisk here, the horror is self-explanatory.

Now, back to the restaurant...because my beloved spouse had stolen time to attend the track meet, he had to return to work when it was over. *** We were seated, drinks were brought (although not one contained any alcohol -- more's the pity), and food was ordered. So far so good. Food was brought to the table exactly as ordered. Everything was perfect...and then the baby coughed.

He coughed, and coughed, and coughed. He coughed, and gagged, and threw up. It was bench seating. He went through the sequence once again. It was still bench seating, only by now the bench was obscured by the contents of his stomach. It gets better: I had no extra clothes for him, for me, or for the restaurant. Standing up would make it worse; the big kids are both sympathy pukers; and then Chucky**** began screeching from the discomfort of being covered in..., well, vomit. I'd screech too -- in fact, I seriously considered it. All in all it didn't seem likely to advance my situation any, so I gave up the idea.

After using EVERY napkin in the place and "dressing" the child in his brother's jacket (which had been discovered wadded up under the seat in the car, thank GOD), I paid the bill -- along with an exorbitant tip -- and, wrapping myself in the shreds of my dignity, skulked home.

Is there no end to the glamour in my life?





*Do not try this at home. Abbreviated naps generally result in crankiness, irritability, excessive clinging and can be accompanied by whining, fit-throwing, and tantrums. In extreme cases, premature wakefulness can result in a dramatic increase in parental blood pressure.

**Note to self: When the only options are this or torture in a medieval prison, definitely go for the easy out next time.

***Read: (evil laugh) Ha-ha! I get points for "being there" but now, you're on your own!! I wish you luck.

****Not his real name...

Links....at last.

Thanks to goodwill from Susie and coaching (and goodwill) from Aaron, I present to you: links you can see! Am I the only one excited here?? *sigh* Well, alright...I'm excited enough for all of us!

Which brings me to my first story attempt.

2004
The phone call came just like you see in movies. She had just toweled off and was heading for that oh-so-satisfying 1st cup of coffee when the shrill ring ripped through the early morning silence. "Good morning," she chirped into the receiver. And in that one moment, her world shifted 45 degrees forever. It was her mother. No. It was the shuddering, sobbing, liquid shell of her mother, stammering out the sudden news that her father was dead.

1980
Dear Boozle,
What can I say to you that will be wise enough to stand the coming years, large enough to carry my love for you, and mesmerizing enough to captivate your attention? I have watched you from the moment you were born, cheered your victories and soothed your defeats, and I see you now on the brink of becoming a woman. How is it possible? There may come a time, God forbid, that you will face this world without me. I know you are strong enough, smart enough and brave enough to succeed. But I wonder if you know you are. And I wonder, as your dad, how I can help you to learn it, and embrace it as truth. For of all the gifts I could give you, none will be as useful to you as confidence. Confidence in all that you are and all you can be and do; confidence in the love that surrounds you; confidence that mankind is worth the trouble they will cause you; and confidence that a larger purpose exists to justify your efforts. You'll need confidence that day follows night, that truth ultimately wins, that kindness is always preferable to judgment, that losing a battle is not always defeat. This is the confidence, the security I would give you if it were something I could wrap. But all I can do is keep watching you as you grow, guiding you when possible, and loving you beyond all ability to communicate. So I shall..., and I believe it is enough. Just as you are.
With all my heart and soul,
Dad

2005
The phone jarred her out of a reverie. "Hey Sis," said her brother, jovial tone determinedly in place. "Hey yourself. What's up?" she asked. He had called to firm up plans for the one year anniversary. One whole year into a life she never wanted to discover: a life where her dad didn't play an active role. But one year into it, wouldn't you know? Day followed night, littler people provided a larger purpose, and love continued to surround her.

Technology really will kill me.

Cannot. Crop. Profile. Photo. But, on a happy note, at least my ass isn't hanging out anymore! Yes, in the new itty-bitty corner of a photo, that is me surrounded by Mr. Eclectic and our three precious children. ("Precious" is italicized so that when I'm periodically ready to sell them as a matched set to a roving band of Gypsies, I might reconsider.)

Still can't get the links I've inserted on my template to display, but they are there all the same. If you click on the little arrow bullets, the URLs show on the browser status bar, but nothing shows in the text of the template. *GROWL*

The dog thing continues to be difficult. Especially when telling the aforementioned children. Grief is hard enough when it's your own; when it's your kid's, it just plain sucks.

And with that, I'm off to rehearsal. Miss me.

Minivans AREN'T embarassing afterall!

Yesterday a group of 17 of us rode in the American Diabetes Association's "TOUR DE CURE." Our group raised about $4,000.00. As cool as that is, it's not primarily what I want to tell you.

Now I don't think of myself as the minivan, soccer mom kinda girl, but the arrival of the surprise baby drove us to our friendly, neighborhood Honda dealer for an Odyssey. I was humiliated.

Cut to yesterday. Come to find out, I was the envy of all I surveyed. My friends who were struggling with roof racks and hitch racks and putting front wheels back on their bikes, were star-struck at the way I just opened up the back hatch and viola, three fully-assembled adult road bikes just rolled right out. Then, with a mere push of a button on my keyless-entry remote, the side panel door rolled back to release a 2-year old and all of his gear. So it's not merely a mother ship, it's a mobile bike garage with a quick-release function for toddlers! How cool am I??

How To: Make me cry like a baby

Shit. Just got back from the vet who tells me that my 12-year-old Golden Retriever, aka my eldest child, is dying. Cancer of the spleen, she's got a month, maybe 2 at the outside. Here's a prescription for something to help make her comfortable until then.

Just shit. I'm sitting here sobbing even though she's here just like she was yesterday when she wasn't dying. She's not dead. She can't figure out why I'm upset so she's pacing and nosing me, trying to make me feel better. I just cry more.

My keyboard is not designed to withstand tears, so I'll come back later.

Proof

I am currently in the throes of rehearsal for our local theater company's production of Proof -- a stunning, Pulitzer Prize-winning drama written by David Auburn. There are only 4 characters, thus 4 cast members, so it's a very tightly woven ensemble piece.

As I study my lines and familiarize myself with the blocking for each scene, I find myself simultaneously understanding and disagreeing with my character, Claire. This has created a fascinating dynamic for me as I struggle to portray with credibility some of the personality and emotions Claire experiences while my every native instinct cries foul. She is not an antagonist, definitely NOT a villain, and yet she's not entirely likable either, despite the ease with which one can understand why she is the way she is. This is a richer, more complex character than I've taken on before, and I guess I am a little fixated at the moment. Which would explain why I've made no more progress on this blog template. Whatever spare time I have has been eaten alive by Proof.

Not at all a bad thing. Balance, friends, balance.....!

Moving right along...

Thank you to this guy and zuhn for help. As you can see, I now can insert links into the text of my posts. Props to you both!

I've contacted the support crew at Picasa who promise to get to the bottom of the phantom blog mystery. And I think I've discovered the answer to the Link display mystery as well, but I don't have time to confirm my suspicions right now. I believe all is well in eclectic-land, or soon will be. This whole blogging thing is taking over my life -- must. stop. tinkering. with. blog. I've got to pull myself together here and get to work.

Today's no better.

OK, so I've spent over an hour now trying to get Picasa and Hello and BloggerBot to work together as promised and edit the photo in my profile to something slightly less telling. Alas BloggerBot keeps trying to send to one of the first two blog URLs that I DELETED yesterday in my failed attempts to set things up the way I want them. Now, usually I'm a fairly reasonable individual, discounting my irrational side, but I'm starting to get somewhat steamed up about this. I'm of above-average intelligence and education. WTF??? I'm accepting tips and hints, if any of you feel so inclined.

Ahhh, success -- at least, partially.

Still no progress on the link thing, but now there's a photo in my profile! Nevermind that it's not the photo I wanted, at least it's a recent photo of me. See, I TOLD you I was interested in fitness, didn't I? Now if I can just get that link thing to work, maybe I won't have to learn Russian afterall.

Apparently I'm illiterate.

After deleting my first two attempts, I grabbed another cup of coffee and regrouped. Squaring my shoulders, I determined to accomplish things that the good folks at Blogger insist are basic functions, like links, and posting a photo to my profile, etc.

The Blogger folks are tragically unaware of people like me.

Thus, I'm contemplating switching to the Russian language since I obviously can't read or apply English.

It's about time...

So after lurking for waaayyyy too long, it's finally time to start my own blog and stop dominating the 'comments' section of other blogs. *cue sigh of relief from bloggers everywhere* I don't know if anyone will ever visit, and I don't know how I'll feel if anyone does... but in the meantime, here's a written record of life through my eyes. Welcome.