Most likely you followed the link from my first, second or fourth page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
Today is November 11. If you write the date with all numbers, it's 11-11. It's the 315th day of the year, only 50 days left to 1998. Here in North Carolina, it's grey and raining. The leaves are still on the trees, even after all the rain. It seems strange to see all the bright fall colors so late in the season. When i was in Minnesota last week, all the leaves were down, the trees were bare. But here, fall is in it's peak. Brilliant oranges and reds among the green and yellow.
In the States, today is Veteran's Day. The only really way this holiday is observed, is banks are closed and mail isn't delivered. It used to be called Armistice Day. To celebrate the end of World War I. I guess there are parades somewhere. Maybe people stop and think about what the day means. Or is it just another excuse for a sale at department stores? My grandfather was a soldier at that time, but he didn't fight in Europe. He wasn't a war hero, just a man who loved his country and was proud to fight for her. He hadn't been a citizen all that long, having been born in Lithuania, but he was a baby when he moved here, so i'm sure he felt he was an American. As my grandfather grew older, he talked more about his days as a soldier, as though they were more real to him than what was happening that day.
My father was also a veteran. He fought in World War II.. He was stationed in Italy, and sitting on my desk above me, is one of the few pictures i have of him. It was taken somewhere overseas. He's sitting on a stone wall, in his uniform, with hills behind him. He has his sleeves rolled up, his shirt open at the neck. He wasn't a combat soldier, he worked in an office. He met my mother after he came home. I found some picture postcards of the Isle of Capri that he brought home. He probably hoped to go back there one day, but that of course, never happened. He died at 34, in his sleep. Because of his service in the armed forces, my brother and i received financial support from the government when we were growing up. It was partly because of this money, i was able to go away to school. And when my mother needed to go into a nursing home, she qualified for financial benefits because of his service, too. I don't know if he made any difference to the war effort, but his time in the army made a big difference in our lives.
My ex is not a veteran. He had a very high draft number, somewhere in the 300's. We are at Berkeley then, in the early 70's, and we both hippies. He was more radical than i was, got in more trouble than i did. I didn't really know him when the rioting and protesting was at it's peak. We had talked about the possibility of moving to Canada, had he not gotten such a high number. Hard to believe he is now a conservative republican, but times do change.
November 11. Only 43 more shopping days to Christmas. One month till Lowell's birthday. Yesterday was my half birthday. In the French calendar, it is Saint Martin day. It's a Wednesday. Just another day. Most of the World War I veterans are gone, as are many of the World War II veterans. There are quite a few Korean, and Vietnam veterans around. To all of you, thank you. And please, let there be no more wars, so there will be no more veterans. I know Greg will never have to serve, but Lowell would. And i don't want that, don't want it for any other mother, for anyone.
© 11 November, 1998Today is November 13. Just about the middle of autumn. You can tell winter is coming, because even without the end of daylight savings time, the days are shorter. The leaves are off the trees, and the sky looks barer. But tonight, the local weatherman announced the word that puts fear into the hearts of former Southern Californians, snow. By tomorrow night, we should have from 3 to 5 inches of snow.
I actually like the first snowfall. It's pretty, and depending how wet the snow is, it might turn the entire landscape white, covering the now bared trees in a white coat. It might be a dry snow, and just blow around with the wind, leaving big drifts in it's wake. Catching snowflakes on your tongue is always fun, during the first snow fall. Packing a snowball to throw at someone or something. Hot cocoa always tastes better after coming in from the first snow. And even shoveling doesn't seem like such a chore, unless the first one of the year is a 36 inch snowfall, like the one we had in Minneapolis a few years back.
I grew up in snow country. Chicago had it's share of snow, and I walked to and from school twice a day in the snow. But then I moved to California, and forgot about snow and thought about the beach and surf. So when we moved back to Chicago, there was some novelty again about snow. That wore off quite quickly. There was the infamous snowstorm of '78 which dropped 12 inches of snow on the city, shut it down for days, and caused the mayor at that time, to lose his job. People in the area of Chicago I lived in at that time, were very protective of their parking spaces. We lived on a block of all multi-unit apartments, which did not have garages for every tenant. Once you cleared out your space, you guarded it with lawn chairs. It was an unwritten code, that one did not park in someone else's space. After all, we were all neighbors and knew where the offender might live. We only had one car then, and relied on the El to get us to school and workplace. It took quite a while for the car to be dug out of the snow, because when the plows finally came, they buried it in deeper.
Then in Memphis, when there was a forecast of snow, everyone would panic. There would be a mob converging on the grocery stores, trying to stock up on milk, bread, diapers and liquor. The first snow we experienced there was a whole quarter inch. Schools closed for the day. My children were very little, and I thought about taking them to the mall, just for something to do. I decided against it, knowing I knew how to drive in this massive amount of snow, but they didn't. By late afternoon, it had melted, and another major crisis was averted. There was the year we got 15 inches of snow. I had just dropped off Lowell at the baby sitter's house, and looked at the sky, and decided, no, I had better forget my plans for that day and pick up Evelyn and Greg from school. I turned back to Mrs. Steele's, got Lowell and we headed up Perkins to Summer Avenue, and to Grahamwood School. By then, it was snowing very heavily, and there were maybe 3 inches on the ground. Evelyn and Greg were excited to get out of school, almost more so than the snow. I made it home safely, and by that time, there were 5 inches on the ground. Schools were closed for almost 2 weeks. Memphis had no snow removal equipment, so side streets never got plowed. The main streets did, in a few days. Of course, no amount of snow stopped my husband from going to work, so he also was responsible for bringing us food. And almost by magic, the snow melted, and life went on as normal. But Memphians still panic at the word snow, and head out to Seesel's for their staples.
Once again, when we lived in Minneapolis, we just accepted the snow and cold weather. The streets were plowed, and kids almost never lost a day of school to snow or cold. It was just a fact of life there, that there would be snow and lots of it and it would start in October and hopefully end by May. People got used to driving in the stuff, shoveling it, dealing with it. At the beginning of the season, you bought at least 2 pairs of gloves, made sure you had good boots, a warm coat and winterized your car. Not only at the garage. You made sure you had blankets, a shovel, a brush, something to eat, things for survival.
Tonight, the weatherman here in Portland boldly announced that we are due for 3 to 5 inches of snow tomorrow. Normally, I would take these predictions with a grain of salt. He's the same one that said a few weeks ago we would have rain, and it was sunny. I know they use maps and charts to forecast the weather, but if they got paid by the number of times they were right, they would need a second job. The fear started sneaking in to my mind. Should I go to the store tonight, as I have been putting it off for two days now? Or should I wait and go early in the morning? This will be my first winter here. I don't have a big heavy 4 wheel drive truck now. It's hillier here than the flat prairie of Minnesota. Will the ocean and bay work like the Great Lakes and give us more snow? There is something so beautiful about the first snow, I can't deny that. But winter will last a lot longer than this snowfall and right now, spring seems a long way aways. I have a feeling this will be my last winter in the north. While I like Maine, I long for a more temperate winter season than I feel I will find here. I believe I hear the south calling me away from the snow, and that next winter, I will not have to worry when the word snow is heard.
© 13 November, 1997Dorothy Kliner Hundt died yesterday, at the age of 72. She was my mother in law, and I knew her for over 25 years. Her death, while a surprise, was not totally unexpected, as she had been in fairly poor health the last few years. She was a heavy smoker and drinker, and she died with a manhattan on the table next to her chair. She's already been cremated, and they are not sure what kind of service they will have or when it will be. I doubt I will be invited. The last time I spoke to her, she said she understood about the divorce, and that she would always think of me as part of the family. I always liked her, as she was intelligent and funny, but I never quite understood her.
I met her shortly after Fred and I started going together. We all lived in Oakland so we went there for dinner quite often. I don't drink because I don't like the taste of most drinks. So while she, Joe (her husband), Fred, and Jon( Fred's brother) drank manhattans, I had a can of pop. She never understood why one can was enough for me. They usually had 2 pitchers of manhattans, sometimes a third. Meanwhile, the meat overcooked, the vegetables got soggy, but I guess they didn't really notice. Every meal at their house consisted of meat and potatoes. Joe insisted on it. I think she was disappointed in me, because I didn't join in for cocktail hour.
We got married at their house, with about 10 people present, just family and close friends. We had decided just to get married, and not have a big affair, so we organized the whole thing in less than two weeks. I remember thinking about how I wanted my father to be there, and trying not to cry. My grandfather helped Fred tie his tie on his tuxedo. After the ceremony, they took everyone out to dinner at a restaurant in Jack London Square. We all came back to the house and more friends came over for the cake and a party. They loved having people over to their house.
Dorothy was not very domestic, even though she didn't work outside the house. The house was clean, but I don't think she ever baked or sewed. She didn't seem terribly interested in her two sons, and probably was glad I took Fred off her hands. I won't ever forget her living room carpet. She got small carpet samples for free, and used them. So the carpet was a patchwork of colors and very ummm....unusual. I don't think she ever bought any new furniture in the time I knew her. I know she didn't have a microwave oven, but she did have a computer.
She was a college graduate, something my mother was slightly envious of. But my mother was 4 months younger so she never let Dorothy forget that. They got along quite well. When Evelyn was born, being the first grandchild on either side, Dorothy paid for my mom to fly out at the same time, so neither would get to see her before the other one. That was very generous of her, and it still surprises me to think of her doing that. It was shortly after Joe had died, so maybe she thought taking my mom made up for his not being there. Even then, she wasn't very maternal to Evelyn.
She never showed much interest in her grandchildren after that. The last time they were there, last Christmas, she hit Lowell for something he did. And she threated to shoot Evelyn and Greg if they went into the basement. She wouldn't let any of them use her computer, which really pissed Greg off, since he's quite good with them. She saw them maybe a half dozen times in the past 18 years. She would come to where we lived, and stay in a hotel (near a bar) and then spend as little time with them as possible. She only visited us once in Minneapolis in 9 years, because there weren't any good bars near the motel she picked to stay at. Not like where she stayed in Memphis. She liked that bar alot. A lot more than her grandchildren. I thought maybe as my kids got older, she would like them better, but it didn't happen. I'll never understand that.
Every year we would dread opening the box of Christmas gifts from Grandma Dorothy. She definitely believe in quantity, not quality. Where she found the bizarre gifts we would get was beyond me. The gorilla head pencil sharpener was a classic. As was the glitter pen, my *big* gift for that year. Wind up toys that didn't wind up. T shirts that went straight into the Goodwill bag. I think her heart was in the right place, but when you don't know a person, it is hard to buy something for them.
I am sitting here remembering the woman who was my mother in law and there aren't many good memories. There aren't bad ones either. She wasn't affectionate or caring, or a big part of our lives. We never got very close over all those years, as that wasn't her personality. It wasn't just the distance geographically that kept things that way. I'm thinking how my children now have no grandparents, never had grandfathers. And how sad that is.
©15 November, 1997I am clinically depressed. Luckily, a combination of medications have been prescribed for me, and I manage most daily things with little or no trouble at all. You would not be able to tell I was depressed because I seem pretty normal. Depression is hereditary, and while my mother wasn't diagnosed with depression, I know she was. My daughter is also on medication to control her depression. I'm not crazy or anything. It's just a chemical imbalance in my brain. I read an essay in a local give away newspaper today, that prompted me to write this. The title was Depression Is A Bitch, and I have to agree with her. In some ways, I am fortunate because when my depression overtakes me, I can stay at home in my pajamas and eat junk food and feel sorry for myself and cry all day and no one is affected.
As long as I take my medications as I am supposed to, I do okay. In her article, the author writes, "Depression means when I'm suicidal, I don't care about how killing myself will affect anyone. I just want out" This is exactly how I felt, when I first got to Portland. I stopped taking my medications for several days, so that I would get depressed enough to kill myself. I couldn't see any reason to go on living. I was already missing my children. I didn't think I would ever find anyone to share my life with, and I didn't want to end up alone like my mother. I started driving back to Minnesota to make sure Evelyn got some things I wanted her to have. The diamond ring my grandmother gave me, and my fishing rods. Just ask all the people I phoned along the way, how depressed I was. I even phoned someone very important to me to hear their voice one time before I ended my life. I was crying and upsetting them, but I didn't care. Not until a toll booth worker told me to buckle up as I stopped to get my ticket. The fact that he noticed me and took the time to care, made me think. Maybe there was something to live for, even though at the moment, I couldn't imagine what. At the next tollway oasis, I called my landlord. I figured she would tell me good bye and good riddance, and how lucky she was I was gone. But instead she encouraged me to come back, and face my problems. So I slept outside of Utica and headed east instead of west in the morning. I later found out she has serious bouts of depression.
One of the things my medications do, is cause me to have very incredibly realistic dreams. One time, when I was on prozac, I dreamt I was angry with my son Greg. But I was in bed with my husband, so when I struck out at Greg and started hitting him, I really was hitting my husband. I think I was really angry with him, and that I meant to lash out at him. Other times, I had dreamt that I am in places I have never been in, yet everything is so real. People I know talk to me, and I wake up wondering what it all meant. Was the dream a premonition, or just a product of my medications? Sometimes my dreams are totally bizarre, but still realistic. I will wake up, and try to remember as much as I can, to see if it makes any sense to me, but usually, those dreams don't.
The essay also says, "Depression means….getting almost there and having your feet knocked out from under you and starting over." How true this is. I know it is true for everyone, but when you are depressed, any little snag seems like a major setback, so think what a major setback feels like. It's a major victory for me to take care of things by myself. Like balancing the checkbook. Getting your car registered in a new state. Having the courage to walk into a room full of strangers at the divorce support group. But so far I have been managing the big things too. The car accident. Finding an apartment in a new city, without having a job, income or references. I have had setbacks, too. Not finding a job. Dealing with being alone and not knowing what to do. I have to tell myself every day that I'm a good person and I deserve to be happy. Over and over again. It helps me find the strength within me to keep trying. And the courage to face the fact that I may be alone for the rest of my life. It's not what I would choose, but it may be what I have to accept.
She closes by writing, "Depression means that essay may never make it to the editor. But don't worry. If I'm writing, it's a good sign". I would like to thank her for writing this essay, because it says a lot of how I feel most of the time. I have been writing quite a bit the last few weeks. I'm not sure I have anything to say, but it helps me to put my feelings and thoughts out there. And I'm not sure it's because I have more free time on my hands, here in Portland. I just know that as long as I can put my thoughts together in a meaningful way, I'm doing okay. And that I will be here for another day to face my demons.
© 17 November, 1997What is a sense of humor? Why does one thing make someone laugh, and yet not another? I, for one, have a very bizarre sense of humor. Things that no one else finds funny, I do. And things that everyone finds funny, sometimes I don't. When new mom's study their babies, they look for that first smile. Are we born with a sense of humor? I don't think so. I think we develop one over time, over life experiences and over heartbreak. It's a coping mechanism, to help us get through the hard times. While it comes in handy all the time, we need it most when everything seems dark. That's probably why my sense of humor is so warped. I had to rely on it more than most, in times so dark I thought I might never see the light.
It is said it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. But look around you. Are more people smiling? Not likely. It is more of an effort to smile. If you saw someone walking around with a smile on their face all the time, you would think there goes the village idiot. So maybe smiles are more of a reward. Something to treasure. Smiles are not lightly given away. You have to earn it. The only time I can think of when people go around smiling all the time, is when they are in love. And being in love is something to treasure, a rare gift, so that makes sense to me.
I had a friend back in California, one of my close friends throughout junior and senior high school. While we were friends, she was not in my group. Vivian was sort of my *bad girl* friend. She did all those things I was too afraid to do, especially with boys. She used to say things were either funny ha-ha or funny peculiar. Funny ha-ha things were jokes that everyone laughed at. Everyone thought were funny. Funny peculiar were those more bizarre things, that only certain people, with bizarre senses of humor would find amusing. I think on the whole, my sense of humor is more of the funny peculiar type. Yes, I laugh at most jokes. But I love the absurd. The off the wall, shake your head and wonder kind of humor. Take for example my favorite joke. No one else would find it funny. And in reality, it isn't. But told under the right circumstances, it's the funniest thing in the world. Since this isn't the best way to tell it, I am not going to, because I would hate to ruin the surprise. Or puzzlement. Sometime, when we're together, remind me, and I'll tell you the joke. But don't be disappointed if you don't think it's funny, even if the circumstances are right. It's only funny to a few people.
The other day, a joke was sent in to one of my newsgroups. It was sort of off the wall, and moderately funny. Being the perverse person I am, I posted that I didn't understand it. I could have put in the little smiley emoticon to let everyone know I was kidding, but I didn't. I used to do this to my brother. He would read me the jokes from Playboy, and I would put on this innocent face, and tell him I didn't understand. He would patiently explain them to me, even though it made him uncomfortable. And with a straight face, I would say, I still don't understand, and he would keep trying to explain. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore, and would burst out laughing. I would wait a month or two, and then do the same thing, and he would fall for it every time. Maybe that was his perverse sense of humor, humoring me. So why was I surprised when several people emailed me to *explain* the joke? Actually, I wasn't. I knew someone would take pity on me, and try to fill me in on the obvious humor of this joke. And each email I got, I laughed harder. I won't do that again, though, because unlike my brother, these people won't fall for it twice. Guess I know the limits of my sense of humor. And when not to push past the limits of everyone else's tolerance. Because that usually isn't very funny.
© 4 November, 1997Who has seen the wind,
Neither I nor you,
but when the leaves hang trembling
the wind is passing through.
I was reminded of that little poem yesterday, and especially last night as I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. The winds were gusting as high as 40 miles per hour. The building I live in, a house that is at least 100 years old, let the wind in like a sieve. It shook and rattled, and if there are any ghosts up in the attic, I'm sure they were affected by the wind.
I have spent the last hour surfing the web, trying to find this poem. I am pretty sure it was written by Christina Rosetti, but I can't find it. Thinking I was mistaken, I did a search of Robert Louis Stevenson, but as best I can tell, he didn't write it. I did find out that there was a movie called "Who Has Seen the Wind". And there are a lot of poems about wind. But I can't find this one, so I'm not sure if I have the lyrics correct. I know one of you reading it, will be able to set me straight.
During the day, you could see debris float over the street. And people struggling to walk against the wind up the hill. But what did you see, really? Wind is invisible. You can't touch it, or smell it. You can smell things that are carried on the wind, like the smell of the ocean, or the bread smell from the bakery.
I like the wind. Maybe because I was born in the Windy City. It's always cooler by the lake. I love listening to it whistle through things. And how it cools you off on a summer day. There is nothing prettier than watching sail boats glide across a lake. Or a kite flying high in a park on a spring day. The wind can carry an autum leaf down from a tree in a dance more graceful than anything.
But sometimes, the wind can be dangerous. Like it was yesterday. I'm sure many tree limbs fell off, and who knows where they landed. Sometimes the winds can knock out power, which would have really bad last night. I have never been in a hurricane or tornado, nor do I want to, but you can't help but be in awe of the raw power of the wind.
Well, I was right. It was written by Rosetti. I *finally* found it. I didn't give up looking and kept on refining my search. On the same page with the poem, were lots of facts about the wind. Things to do in the wind, what the wind can do. Here is the Wind FYI, so you can check it out.
I am not sure where I was headed when I started this, but I doubt it was ending up on a page about the wind for kids. But, I am just a kid at heart. I guess I ended up in the right place, after all. So, in closing, here are the last four lines.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But, when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
I decided to do some more packing today. It's too early to start packing clothes and other personal things, and I have already packed my books, things I won't need for a while. I decided to empty the contents of a side cabinet I am taking with me. This piece belonged to my paternal grandparents. It is a semi-circle cabinet with inlayed wood. It isn't valuable, but it has sentimental value, as do most of the things I am taking with me.
When I opened it, I saw the box of photographs my mom left me. Knowing there were lots of old photos of people no one remembered, it seemed like a good idea to go through them.
On the top, was a Mother's Day card my mother made for her mother. It has survived over 60 years. My mother had no artistic talent, but I know my grandmother thought it was beautiful. I do, too.
I picked up one pile of pictures. They ranged from a copy of a photo of my great grandfather to baby pictures of my children. There was a group picture of my maternal grandparents from 1923. I recognized them, but no one else. A few pictures of my father. Some as a soldier, some as a young man. Pictures of my mother as a young woman. Then a few of their wedding. It made me wonder what had happened to her wedding album. Then some of me and my brother. I put the ones of him aside, so I can send them to him. Even though we haven't spoken in years, I will mail them to him. Then ones of me as a teenager, me married, my children. Most of them I remembered, treasure and am keeping.
But the ones that didn't get put back in the box, the ones I am going to throw away, those are the ones that intrigue me. I think the smallish ones my dad took in Europe when he was stationed there during the war. I know some were taken on car trips my mom, brother and I took, out the window as we drove. There were dozens of family party pictures. People I can't identify. For some reason, there were a lot of pictures of people's rear ends. I wonder if my mother thought that was funny. I'll never know. There is no one left to ask about these pictures. So when they get taken by the trash collector they will be gone for good. Just like the people in them, and the memories.
© 28 April, 1997Growing up, my mother implored me to clean my plate. There were children starving in Europe. I knew how lucky I was to have three meals a day, and I usually was a clean plate club member.
I have been very active in my community since we moved here. I've had volunteer jobs behind the scenes, thankless hours spent to raise a few dollars. I've served on, chaired and taken minutes for many more committees and organizations. I am not complaining. Volunteering is very important to me, and I am proud and happy to be able to do it.
Last night, Evelyn and I went to Kid's Cafe. It will most likely be the last time I go, because it closes till school starts again, and I plan to be moved by Septemeber. Sooner if at all possible. It is amazing to me how important going there has become to me.
Basically, Kid's Cafe is a free meal. Four nights a week, the kids at the Cornelius Club are served a nutritious dinner. Many of them would not have anything to eat otherwise. These are inner city kids, all members of the Boys and Girls Club. Most are black, but there are some Asian, some white and some mixed race. They range in age from 5 to 17. To me, they are all just kids, and I enjoy talking to all of them. The younger ones are easier to get to know. The teens wonder why we are there.
We started going two years ago. I had been active on the Woman's Association Board for several years, but was getting very tired of the women. So when Evelyn needed to start logging volunteer hours for the CAS (creative, activity and service) part of the International Baccalaureate diploma, we decided we would give Kid's Cafe a try. The Club isn't in the worst part of town, but it's not the best either.
We got there about 45 minutes before dinner was served. There are usually 10 to 12 tables set up, with 10 places set at each table. One of the cooks then was Teresa, and she and I didn't hit it off. One of the reasons the staff wanted community volunteers to eat with the kids was to teach them proper table manners. We would carry on a conversation while we ate, and through example, show them how to hold a fork, where your napkin goes and to say please when requesting a dish be passed. I would go around, showing the kids that were helping to set the tables, which side the napkin went on. Where the cup should go. Teresa didn't have time for that, but she didn't like my interfering with what she considered her job. Several times I would calmly explain why I was switching everything, muttering to myself about how annoying this woman was. I won the battle, and the kids learned which side of the plate to put a napkin. However, we started getting there closer to dinner time if we knew Teresa would be there.
We also helped portion out the food. The food is served family style, so large bowls of whatever was on the menu had to be dished up and covered and put on each table. No matter how little of the vegetable you put in the bowl, it was never finished unless it was corn. Green beans always ended up in the trash. Applesauce rarely made it around the table. Kids would take heaping spoonfuls, if there was no adult at the table. That quickly changed at my table, too.
The next cook was Marilyn. She was funny, and we got along just fine. And we again started arriving earlier to help. The kids know to sit quietly till grace is said, which is non denominational. One table is chosen to do the dishes. A staff member would number all the tables and someone would pick a number out of a can. There was a 5 week span when my table was picked every week. When everyone at the table is done, the dishes are put in bins, the silverware next to them, so it is easier to wash them. On a good night, the dishes and the room can be cleaned up in about 15 minutes.
I grew to love some of the kids. There was Deja, who used to hang around me, and hug me while we ate. One day she stopped showing up, but no one knew why. There was Ashley and Rosemary, who I probably ate with three times a month. They were bright, good kids that you couldn't help loving. I helped Ashley with her reading and Evelyn helped her with her math. Rosie would stay and help us clean up, even when our table wasn't picked. There was the little boy who told me his mother beat him, and I had to go with a staff member while he was examined, physically and orally. There was Kelly, who looked upon Evelyn as her big sister. They would giggle over boys and talk about make up and clothes. There was Elliot, who everytime he saw me, wanted to know if I remembered his name. Of course, after a while I did, but I always pretended I didn't.
Larry was the cook for the last several months. Nothing ever upset him. Not having the oven work, or the vegetables still frozen or screaming kids. Larry always had a smile for me and a hug, which I needed. He could take ordinary ingredients and fix something that was nutritious and tasty.
Every so often, there would be a special guest or special sponsor. Two chefs from one of the fanciest restaurants in town came and fixed dinner for the kids one night. Often, Pillsbury would send over special meals. They own Haagen Dazs, so they usually brought ice cream for dessert. One night, the new conductor of the Minnesota Orchestra was the guest. He played piano, then sat down with the kids. There were athletes like Kevin Garnett, Pinky Nelson the astronaut, and other special guests, like the Doughboy. There was El Paso Mexican night. Land o' Lakes night. The best dinnners were the Thanksgiving feasts. We have no family here, so it was a treat to be included in this event. All the parents were invited, so instead of serving about 100 people, the crowd grew to well over 200. Plates would be washed when people finished so the newcomers could eat. Everyone pitched in and helped and it truly was a meal that was in the proper holiday tradition.
Yesterday, I hugged Larry goodbye. He knows I am moving. I said bye to the kids, who do not know I won't be back. Yes, it was a good place to get a free meal. And oh so much more.
©12 June, 1997There are more stories I have written to read. Please remember these are my original stories and thoughts, and to copy or otherwise use them without my permission is a copyright violation. I would love to hear your random thoughts on any of these stories.