Our friend, Roy Pitt, who volunteers with Jim at the Ft. Worth Veterans Memorial Air Park, sent this note after reading my "Toys for Tots" story. Thank you, Roy, for giving us a glimpse of what it's like to deliver to the kiddos.

Our local Marine Reserve station here [Texarkana] doesn't do drive-by’s [toy and fund collections]. They do a tent at our two Walmarts (one on the Texas side and one on the Arkansas side); we volunteers help out there. Our biggest job and best time is the hand outs. We old Corps guys man the hand-out station and do deliveries. Seeing the kids scream, cry, and generally run around like wild Indians is absolutely the best.

Roy Pitt, USMC Vietnam Vet

The Christmas Gift

At last I’m sitting down and sitting still long enough to write. For the past three weeks, whenever I thought about writing, my inner nag would remind me of something I needed to do to get ready for Christmas.

My Christmas was wonderful and I hope yours was also. Robert came home on Monday before Christmas and stayed until the following Sunday. Jim has been home since the 22nd, even after getting stuck in London an extra day with scheduling and routing problems with his airline. In the old days, when he was a junior pilot with little seniority, he would have been lucky to hold a schedule that got him home the day after Christmas. With age does come some perks.

While I’m most grateful to my family and my friends for their generosity and hospitality this holiday season, I’d like to tell you about a wonderful gift I gave myself.

On Saturday, December 12, Jim and I, along with our friends Gerry Fix, Judy Haag, and Sandy Wroe, volunteered to help collect for the United States Marine Corps “Toys for Tots” program. On behalf of the Ft. Worth Veterans Memorial Air Park, we manned a very busy intersection near the Hulen Mall in Ft. Worth. For four hours, we waved our collection buckets and dashed out into traffic when someone offered a donation. That may not sound very long, but be assured that age 60-plus feet, knees, and backs are getting a real workout in those four hours. Avoiding getting run over, and hopping over curbs and fire ant mounds, made for an exhausting, but truly rewarding adventure.

Sandy and I worked with a handsome young man who said his name was Ambrose. I asked him if that was his first name or his last name and what would he like us to call him. He said we could call him Lance Corporal. I respectfully obliged, but as I recall, Sandy called him “Sweetie” the whole time. He didn’t seem to mind. Sandy and I were all bundled up for the drizzle and cold weather we had that weekend, while Lance Corporal Ambrose was in his dress blues only. Surely the U.S.M.C. has heard about silk long johns from L.L.Bean. The kid was freezing. After a couple of hours of running out into traffic, Lance Corporal Ambrose announced to me, “I feel really happy and kind of wired.”

“I think it’s the carbon monoxide,” I told him. “You need a break.” He had less than an hour to go, so he stuck with it—with a smile, a “thank you,” and a “Merry Christmas” to everyone who donated.

The Debrief

When our stretch ended, Jim took us girls to lunch at Chili’s. The five of us talked and laughed and rehashed the experience and the people we encountered. We all agreed that the Marines were amazing young men and women. And we all agreed that we had observed these three things:

• The more expensive the vehicle, the less likely the driver was to make a donation. Perhaps the drivers of the Jaguars and Hummers that roared past us with the windows up had already given all they could. I say that with equal parts sincerity, wonder and sarcasm. We all found that fascinating.

• Conversely, the more beat up and run down the vehicle, the more likely the driver was to give something. And often the drivers of those old clunkers would let their tiny children drop a few coins into our buckets. Many folks emptied their coin-filled ashtray for us, apologizing that it was all they had. We also found that fascinating.

• And finally, we discovered that begging on a street corner is a humbling experience. We caught on quickly that a window rolled down as a vehicle approached meant we would receive a donation. But it was also nice when a driver would smile and wave as they drove on, windows up, without making a donation. We learned that a smile and a wave are gifts of kindness and humanity, too.

All five of us had aches and pains in one area or another afterward, but we all agreed it was an uplifting, truly rewarding experience, and we’ll gladly do it again next year!

Happy New Year to all,
Donna

The Tale of the Turkey

How was your Thanksgiving? Robert was home, so ours was perfect—except for the fire and all.

We had a little trouble with our ancient turkey fryer equipment. The first signs of a problem were the hissing sound and smell of gas in the air on the porch. There was a broken O-ring on the hose that connected the propane tank to the burner. Jim quickly replaced the O-ring, fired up the burner, and came inside to give the oil in the fryer a little time to heat up while he watched some football.

After a few minutes he went outside to check the temperature of the oil and discovered the propane hose had now separated from the burner and was on fire. As anyone who ever prepared a Thanksgiving dinner knows, an hour and a half before dinner is not a great time to discover that you can’t cook the turkey. Never mind the fact that the flaming hose was still attached to a full can of propane gas.

I had timed everything to perfection. While Jim and Robert worked on the outdoor Christmas lights, I pulled the turkey out of the fridge at 1400 and set it in the kitchen sink. After rinsing and drying, I injected that baby with a mixture of Shiner Holiday Cheer beer and a little Tabasco sauce. It sounded dangerous to me, but Jim’s hairdresser swore by it. Jim was to start heating the oil at 1430; it would reach 350 degrees sometime between 1515 and 1530, at which time the 13.8 pound turkey would go into the oil. Forty-eight minutes and twenty seconds later, the turkey would be done. After resting for 30 minutes, Jim could carve the beast and we would sit down to eat at 1700 (5:00 pm for non-airline/military types). Unfortunately, faulty outdoor Christmas lights and football on TV was too great a diversion for Chef Jim.

After taking care of the potential propane bomb, we fired up the BBQ grill, set the huge pot of peanut oil on the grate, and prayed that the grill would not collapse under the weight of three gallons of oil and a 13.8 pound turkey—and that the oil would heat up. It did. A half-hour later the turkey went sizzling into the hot oil and forty-eight minutes and twenty seconds later Jim brought a beautifully done turkey into the kitchen to rest.

Eventually, everything was under control and dinner was served—only an hour and a half late. That really wasn’t too bad considering the “little snags.” Also, it seems my son had told his friends “Don’t be late because my mom goes a little crazy over Thanksgiving dinner.” What crazy?! I had announced that dinner would be served at 5:00 pm. I had everything under control. Both of my son’s friends had arrived by 4:00 pm to ensure that I did not go crazy. And I did my very best to appear totally calm and in control, (the wine helped). Does anybody know if Golden Corral is open on Christmas?

Happy Holidays!
Donna

The Shiny Spoon

No one in my family knew when the shiny spoon arrived or where it came from. It was just there one day in the dishpan full of sudsy water in our kitchen sink. It was my job as the older sister to wash the dishes, and my brother John’s job to dry them. At the time, we were around ten and eight years old, respectively. Every night after supper, we stood side-by-side at the sink, washing, rinsing, drying, arguing, and fighting.

The moment I spotted it, I claimed the mysterious, shiny spoon as my very own. Since it was our natures to argue and fight about almost anything, John claimed the spoon as his own also. “I saw it before you did!” he insisted. I know I saw it first in that sink full of dishes. Now that I think about it, though, the possibility does exist that he saw it before I did, even ate with it, but didn’t recognize its value until I claimed it for my own. We humans are like that about many things—even about other humans.

"We [brothers and sisters] have been banded together under pack codes and tribal laws." Rose Macaulay

John and I did everything we could think of to sabotage each other's claims to the spoon. We would race to grab it first, and then blow on it, or lick it, to mark it with our germs so the other wouldn’t want to use it. Sometimes we actually came to blows and wound up slugging it out with our fists or wrestling on the kitchen floor. Of course, we did grow out of the shiny spoon wars, and even laughed and joked about it as we got older.

On a visit with Mom and Dad several years ago, I was helping out in the kitchen and I spotted the shiny spoon in the silverware drawer. In a rush of childhood images, I said to my parents, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I took the spoon and told John I’m holding it hostage? He and I can send it back and forth to each other on our birthdays or at Christmas—make a game of it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mom answered. “You’re not starting that B.S. again. I know how you are when you get something over your brother.”

At the time, I was approaching fifty years old and I was mortally wounded by her words. “Mom, we’re not kids anymore. That spoon is special to John and me. It'll be fun.”

She was immovable. “Forget it!”

Since no good ever came from arguing with my mom, I gave up without another word. The next time I went home to visit, I had a moment alone in the kitchen and I snatched the spoon and packed it in my bag. “Dad,” I confessed. “I’ve got the shiny spoon in my suitcase and I’m taking it back to Texas with me. Promise you won’t tell Mom.”

Immediately upon my return to Texas, I sent John a photo and humorous ransom note, joking that I now possessed our childhood treasure; John didn’t take the bait. Then last week he sent me this note:

Oh by the way Sis,

In regards to your card and joke you guys sent me January 17, 2007, concerning MY shiny spoon, don't think for one hot minute that I have forgotten MY shiny spoon.

Love, John

So, he’s finally ready to play!

Before getting into real game mode I decided to do a little research on the spoon. With the aid of a magnifying glass, I found the manufacturer on the back of the old spoon. I went online and began with Replacements, Ltd., a phenomenal source for china, silver, and other collectibles, old and new. After approximately six hours of fruitless searching, I stumbled upon a photo of a matching fork. I learned my shiny spoon doesn’t even have a pattern name; it’s called INS68—hardly a name for a spoon for which wars were waged and noses were bloodied.

When I told my husband and son that I was planning to write a piece about the spoon for my blog, I mentioned that I might send the spoon to John for Christmas. It immediately occurred to me, “Then I won’t have the spoon. What if he never sends it back? What if after he dies his wife doesn’t send it to me?” Suddenly, I was like Frodo, standing on the precipice, unable to throw the evil ring into the fire below. Maybe Mom was right about me.

I know, I know; the shiny spoon is probably a symbol of sibling rivalry and lost youth. As my three brothers and I get older and older, it’s not the spoon I don’t want to give up—it’s them. The shiny spoon keeps my childhood memories alive and I don’t want to lose them. As Thanksgiving approaches, I’m reminded of the many blessings of family and home, and I’m grateful to have my three brothers and their families. And this year I'm especially pleased that I’ve got the shiny spoon!

Donna

To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time. Clara Ortega

The Little Black Dress

As the year end holidays zoom toward us, seemingly picking up speed each day, I’m noticing a rapid increase in the number of features on fashion in the print media. One of my favorite magazines ran a piece titled: The Little Black Dress, and the article promised that a Little Black Dress “can take me anywhere.” (That would be after a quick detour to the fat farm.)

OK, I’m ready to go.

Take me back to 1974 when I was a much thinner version of myself. That was the year I married my handsome, dashing Marine Corps officer, Jim. That was also the year my little white wedding dress had to be downsized twice during the month before my wedding. I’d lost that much weight from nerves and smoking too many cigarettes while getting ready for the big day. I haven’t smoked in 20 years, and there’s no way I’d start that again. Nor would I consider a divorce in order to duplicate the nervous hysteria of another wedding—just to drop some tonnage. It would be nice if there really were a faster, easier, safe way to be slim again other than eating less and exercising more.

What I’m proposing is a new fashion essential, or staple, if you prefer—the Big Black Dress. Why not? If it feels better, call it the basic black dress, or just BBD for short. My idea of the BBD is guaranteed to camouflage any and all flaws.

So what would the BBD look like?

I don’t actually have a specific design in mind just yet, but taking it from the top, it would have to hide a wattle, batwings, a midriff bulge, flabby thighs, and knobby knees. I swear it’s only 20 pounds that need to be disguised, but unfortunately many of them have become permanently displaced. Surely there must be something in basic black out there for us leading edge baby boomers that doesn’t look like a choir robe with a turtleneck collar. Santa? Are you reading this?

Meanwhile, I’ll keep trying to eat a little less and exercise a little more for another six weeks. Yeah, right. Like that’s going to work in November and December.

Donna

My Oven Lives Again!

Yesterday was Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, and my oven, which I now refer to as Lazarus, was resurrected. Thanks to my friend Melissa, I learned about an appliance parts store in Haltom City that carries old appliance parts, and we were able to do a heating element transplant. Melissa’s oven was built into her home in 1974 and she has the same problem I do with obsolete [appliance] dimensions—it’s either keep looking for replacement parts or remodel the kitchen. Thank you, Melissa!

There were several emails and a couple comments on the blog about replacement parts: wouldn’t it be nice if we could just plug in a replacement body part? Of course, we do have organ transplants and some body parts transplants, but it’s not yet quite as simple as dashing over to the next town with a model number and a credit card and getting things working right again in a few minutes.

This has been a good lesson for me, though. My oven, Lazarus, is like an old friend that I was about to throw out because it was starting to look a little dated. As a society, we’re so quick to throw out the old and replace it with shiny, streamlined, new things and people. It’s up to us to take care of ourselves and each other—and to recognize our value to society on the whole, and each other in particular. And as Melissa did, share those “been there, done that’s.” We’ve got to look out for one another!

Donna

My Oven Has Passed

My oven has passed; may it rust in peace. Last week I was looking at the poor old thing and thinking, “That oven is really looking dated.” Then, last Friday we turned it on to heat a loaf of sourdough bread and the heating element looked like a Fourth of July sparkler just before it completely fizzles out and dies. Thank goodness for the BBQ grill and the twenty-five year old microwave oven.

For the past two Thanksgiving’s, Jim has fried our turkey out on the deck—partly because we love fried turkey—but also because I really expected the oven to go at any time. I preferred the chore of unpacking and cleaning the fry pot and utensils, (not to mention the mess of cleaning up afterward), to dealing with a defunct oven half-way through the preparation of Thanksgiving dinner.

After checking Home Depot, Lowe’s, and Best Buy for new wall ovens, I’ve determined my oven dimensions are obsolete. Wall ovens the size of mine aren’t even made anymore. That wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that the oven was built into a cabinet that’s attached to my computer desk and book shelf on one side and a pantry on the other. If I’m to have a new oven, I’ll need help from the professionals.

Fortunately, we have two kitchen showrooms in town and I checked out the Factory Builder Stores showroom first. When I explained to the product rep my oven had died, she asked: “how old was it?” I told her it was around twenty years old, and her response was: “Lady, it didn’t die. You killed it! They’re not made to work that long!”

Funny, but a fellow flight attendant said the same thing about us. This week I have to get busy and find a new oven. Maybe I can squeeze that in between car repairs, roof repairs, and the dentist. It seems some of my dental work wasn’t made to work this long either. Why is it everything seems to wear out at once?

Donna

"Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor each morning the devil says: 'Oh Crap! She's up!'"

My friend, Stevie, sent me the above quote a couple of days ago. It’s come around before, and this time I decided to Google it and try to find its origin. Google gave me well over 25,000 results for the full quote. (There were three quarters of a million sites listed for those who just like to write “Oh crap!”) I wasn’t able to discover when it first appeared, or to whom it is credited, but I did find it on one blog dating back to November of 2006.

And who likes this quote? Women! Women bloggers love this quote. I found blogs by young career women and retirees, environmentalists, wives and moms, health care professionals—women from all walks of life and fields of interest. Of course, there were enumerable religious and faith-based sites that used the quote, no doubt because of the reference to the devil.

I want to be that woman!

While the more spiritually-oriented blogs refer to Satan when they use this quote, I think of the devil, in this instance, as a metaphor for life’s struggles and setbacks, ills and woes, troubles and sorrows. It represents our enemies and foes. Well, I want to be that woman who rattles the devil. I want to look trouble in the eye and kick it in the teeth. I want to be Xena: Warrior Princess when it comes to Life’s problems. That’s the kind of woman the devil worries about. And apparently a lot of other women feel the same way.

Next morning: I stalled here last night while I thought about where this post was going. Why do I find this quote so appealing? Is it because I feel powerless to slow down the aging process? Is it tied in with empty nest syndrome, as in “my work here is done.” Or it just may be the realization that there’s probably not time to change the world now. But, like the old hymn suggests, I can try to brighten my corner.

Do not wait until some deed of greatness you may do,
Do not wait to shed your light afar,
To the many duties ever near you now be true,
Brighten the corner where you are. Ina D. Ogdon

To read about two incredible women, check out the sidebar.

Donna

For those who don't know the old Gospel hymns, and for those who do and want to take a stroll down Memory Lane, here's the entire "Brighten the Corner Where You Are."

Pam Ann Does Me?

If you haven't already seen or heard about Pam Ann, the comedienne who loves to spoof flight attendants, check out this video. You'll find many other Pam Ann videos on YouTube, but for obvious reasons this one is near and dear to my heart.

Donna

A Few Thoughts on Diapers

Yesterday at Sam’s Club, I noticed a young mother intensely studying packages of disposable diapers, her tiny infant tucked into one of those big, expedition-style strollers beside her. Since her baby was old enough to take shopping, one can assume she had already made the cloth vs. disposables decision and was shopping for the best value for her money.

Talk about disposable income.

Diapers are such an expensive necessity, aren’t they? Either you buy cloth diapers and launder them yourself, (economical, but time consuming); hire a diaper service, (convenient, but costly); or you opt for the convenience of disposables and throw your money away—literally. Don’t even get me started on the environmental impact of disposables. We lived in Southern California when Robert was born. We were thinking “green” while the rest of the nation was still calling us “the land of fruits and nuts.” You may call me a hypocrite, but at the time thinking “green” took a back seat to dealing with the “brown” of baby diapers. Yes, I’ve seen those photos of soiled Pampers blowing through the Black Hills of South Dakota.

While watching the young mom at Sam’s, my mind drifted back twenty-some years when I was shopping for diapers and later, big-boy pull-ups. The hospital where my son was born presented its new moms with a free month of commercial diaper service, but I didn’t like the idea of strangers handling my precious baby’s bottom wear. As a forty-year old with a new infant, I soon realized that washing, drying, and folding cloth diapers myself wasn’t going to work either. So, like the new mom at Sam’s, I wandered the diaper aisles, searching for the right fit at the right price, wondering when the day would come that I could stop flushing my money away.

“Diaper backward spells repaid. Think about it.” Marshall McLuhan

It was a satisfying few moments, watching New Mom and feeling grateful that I don’t have to spend my money on diapers any longer. Then a cold, hard smack of reality brought me out of my comfy little reverie. Next to the Huggies and Pampers section were the Attends and Depends. It occurred to me I might be shopping for comfort and value in the disposables’ aisles again before too long. Now I think I should have had my son when I was much younger. Then there would have been more time between diapers.

How did it get so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?
~Dr. Seuss

Donna

Why I’m Still a Vince Young Fan

Football really gets started tonight for us Texas fans. Down in Austin the University of Texas is playing monster rival, Texas Tech, in a grudge match. Tech stole a victory from UT in the final seconds of the game last year, and we UT fans want revenge. So where will my husband and I be at game time? We’ll be celebrating the 60th birthday of our friend Kyle, a man whose daughter went to Texas Tech.

I’ve got my DVR set up to record the game in case our dinner hosts are cruel enough to want to direct everyone’s attention to the birthday boy and not the TV. Kyle’s a lovely man and all, but this IS Texas and this IS college football.

OK. OK. I might be a little obsessive.

This sports obsession can be traced only as far back as the football season, (also referred to as “fall”), of 2005 when my son Robert was a brand new freshman at the University of Texas in Austin. Robert spent four years in his high school marching band and I was a band mom. I chaperoned the band on the bus to football games, competitions, and on spring trips around the nation. Like many band parents, I believed a football team was there to entertain the fans before and after the halftime show.

Besides, football was confusing to me. Growing up, my brothers had all tried at times to help me understand it. I laugh out loud whenever I recall my brother John’s frustration trying to explain the concept of “downs” to me. At my son’s high school games, my husband Jim and my fellow band parent friends would explain the plays and the calls for me, but it just wouldn’t sink in.

Are you ready for some football?

If you’re wondering what this has to do with Vince Young, I’m getting to that. The first time I saw Vince play was in the 2005 Rose Bowl against the Michigan Wolverines. Robert had been accepted at the University of Texas to begin in the fall of 2005. My brothers each phoned before the game, demanding that Jim and I declare our loyalty. Jim is from Illinois and I’m from Michigan. What was there to declare? We were Big Ten fans to the core.

That night there was magic on that football field and it was all about Vince Young. Even I, a football ignoramus, recognized it. Broadcasters called it the "Texas Two-Step;" call it whatever you like, it was magical. While my brothers grieved that Michigan lost to Texas, I had a secret—I was intrigued by this Vince Young character.

In August, 2005, we moved Robert to Austin and I experienced the onset of ENS: Empty Nest Syndrome. My friends and co-workers fretted over me. “How are you?” they would cautiously inquire. Thankfully, football season started almost immediately. And there was that amazing Vince Young, dazzling me and nearly everyone else who watched him. I got into football. My husband, (who had always been into football), and I watched every game together. I grieved when Vince didn’t get the Heisman Trophy. I was acting weird, even to me.

Anyone who’s been following college football for awhile already knows how the 2005 football season ended. The University of Texas Longhorns were the national champions and beat USC in the final moments of the 2006 Rose Bowl. Once again Vince Young had cast his gridiron magic on everyone and everything. After that season, my brothers began to call me on the weekends in the fall and we would talk football. Now Jim and I long for football season the way you long for the holidays or summer vacation. And it’s possible I owe it all to Vince Young.

Jim and I both agree that getting caught up in UT football took some of the emptiness out of our syndrome that year. We felt closer to Robert watching his team play each week and then talking about the games with him on the phone. We’re calling my obsession with college football my post-midlife crisis now.

Like all University of Texas fans, I was disappointed when Vince left school early to play for the Tennessee Titans pro team. While his pro career has certainly had its challenges, I remain a fan—he’s the guy with the magic to make me love football.

Now it’s Colt McCoy and Hook ‘Em Horns! Have a great football weekend y’all!

Donna

Life Begins Again on Labor Day

By the end of August I start to feel like I live in the Land Down Under. While the northern two thirds of the nation is wishing for a few more days of glorious summer and thinking about all the things they didn’t do while the weather was good, I’m celebrating that I can finally walk outside after 9:00 AM. While people in cooler parts of the nation are thinking there’ll be no more cookouts for awhile, I’m thinking, “Crikey! I can finally stand it outside long enough to burn a couple of hotdogs on the barbie.

I was up in Michigan in early August when the temperatures soared up into the low nineties. At my hotel the clerk was boasting about their 102 degrees—with the heat index. Heat index? Down here in Texas, we don’t need no stinking heat index! It’s 102 degrees without it. We need wind chill factors! Our temperatures here in the DFW Metroplex have dipped down into the low nineties this past week. We’ll call it “plummeting” when they drop down to eighty.

“. . .to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky. . .” John Lubbock. “. . .is to be eaten alive by fire ants.” Me

If you drive through my neighborhood on an average summer day in July, August or September, you don’t hear the laughing voices of children playing in their yards; you hear the hum of air conditioners. Up north where summers are wonderful, they’re way too short, and down here where summers are brutal, they’re interminable. Since my son is all finished with school, it doesn’t matter to me anymore, but kids here are robbed. It is so unfair that during the summer, when the kids are home from school, it’s too damned hot to go outside and play. When we do get a fine summer day sometime in late October or early November, kids down here are stuck in a classroom all day.

While some of you are getting out the stadium blankets and thermoses for your football games, we’re still packing sunscreen and towels to absorb the sweat at ours. If you don’t believe me just watch one of the Big 12 or SEC college football games on TV. Those aren’t tears you see rolling down the fans’ cheeks. That’s pure sweat!

“Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December.” Anderson; Weill

As the days get shorter and minutely cooler, and the angle of the sun gives the sky a golden glow, I start to feel a surge of energy. It’s possible that the energy is actually the high I get from my allergy medicine in the fall, but I don’t care. I love the end of summer and the beginning of winter. The electric and water bills start to free fall and I finally get a reprieve from the weeds in my yard. The lawn service guys stop mowing sometime in November so I have money to spend for Christmas shopping!

With autumn just around the bend, I begin to really miss the pungent smell of just-raked leaves burning by the side of the road on a gray, November morning. Yes, it’s bad for the environment, but it’s not illegal to remember it. I also miss the taste of ice cold, just-pressed apple cider and fresh cake donuts at the cider mill in my hometown. Hmmm. And no, of course I don’t miss thawing out my car for thirty minutes before I can drive it to work early in the morning. I’m nostalgic—not insane.

Donna

Common Sense: The Eulogy

On My Soapbox

The headline in the Saturday, August 22, 2009 Ft. Worth Star-Telegram read: “New Texas law seeks common sense instead of ‘zero tolerance’ in punishment of students.”

Here’s the definition of common sense according to my ancient Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary: Common Sense n : 1 : sound and prudent but often unsophisticated judgment 2 : the unreflective opinions of ordinary men. Wow! No wonder so few of us display it. Webster makes common sense almost sounds like a bad thing.

Also, according to Webster, if your opinions are reflective, they’re “thoughtful and deliberate.” Does this mean that if you practice common sense, you’re deliberately not thoughtful? I think I need a new dictionary!

“Common sense is not so common.” Voltaire

There are good reasons for Zero Tolerance: consuming alcohol under the legal age, illegal drugs, driving under the influence of alcohol, violence and weapons at school. Then what happens to peoples’ brains that make them suspend a student for a baseball bat in his car when baseball is a school sponsored activity? Was it because that student was not on the school’s baseball team? Actually he was on the school’s junior varsity team.

This really happened to Cory Henson, a 16-year old sophomore at a Texas high school, in 2004. The so-called bat was no more than eight inches long and it had broken off a trophy. What's even sillier is that there was a full-sized aluminum bat, along with other baseball equipment, in the trunk of Henson’s car. “Sgt. Daniel Garcia of the Fort Worth Police Department School Initiative Unit said he was not aware of the full-sized bat in the car. ‘If the student plays baseball at the school, then common sense would prevail in the situation,’ he said.” There’s that phrase again.

“You can’t legislate intelligence and common sense into people.” Will Rogers

Since Zero Tolerance was enacted, there are countless stories like Cory Henson’s all over the nation; and, dear unreflective reader, many are even more ridiculous. Students have been expelled for having a legal, non-prescription Advil on their person. Elementary students have been expelled for pointing pencils and saying "pow," and for drawing pictures of soldiers. In Texas an eight-year old student was expelled for bringing a butter knife to school to help with the preparation of his lunch. Wouldn’t it have been less traumatic for the child and better for all concerned if the teacher had taken the knife, helped him spread the peanut butter and jelly, then called the parent and said, “please come get your knife; we don’t allow them in school?” As for drawing pictures of soldiers? Come on!!

“It is common sense to take a method and try it. If it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try something.” Franklin D. Roosevelt

This is not an attempt to diminish the value of strong disciplinary policies in our schools. There are real problems in schools. I gotta think school administrators are just so overwhelmed nowadays that handing children over to the police for shooting a rubber band at someone makes some kind of weird sense to them. To their credit, many Texas school districts have changed their conduct policies since state lawmakers gave school administrators the option of “considering mitigating factors when deciding punishment.” Isn’t that what our judicial system supposedly guarantees our citizens? And shouldn’t the punishment fit the crime? School children have been denied this right since Zero Tolerance came to be, and school has become a circus of paranoia.

Frankly, I’m afraid that even mandating common sense wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of working. If there was really more common sense, would people leave babies and pets in cars in the summer—or anytime for that matter? We have to have laws about these things so people will use their heads.

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." (Edmund Burke)

Does it make sense to suspend a third grader for drawing a picture of his big brother, who was serving in the Army in Afghanistan, because the figure in the drawing had a gun? Does tossing a paper clip on a teacher’s desk constitute assault? Think about how being taken out of class by the police might affect a third grader and his classmates. Surely common sense tells us this kind of discipline is overboard.

So let’s revive poor old “common sense.” Mr. Webster may say it’s unsophisticated and ordinary, but surely it’s worth the effort. And good for Texas lawmakers! Let’s keep them aware of our feelings on these and other issues. Most of my readers no longer have children in primary and secondary schools, but we do have grandchildren, nieces and nephews in them. We are an enormous voting bloc with knowledge and experience and yes—common sense. Let’s share it!

Donna

Fear Mongers

I am so thrilled to share this wonderful story with you. A friend of mine wrote this and gave me permission to share it. Her name is Karen, and she was one of the good guys in one of my camping tales. Karen is a professional artist and a substitute teacher, working with special needs kids. This story made me smile right out loud.

Donna

Friday, May 08, 2009
Fear Mongers

I went into a class yesterday morning to pull out a couple of special needs kids; the class is Hispanic, but all the kids speak English very well. These are some of the kids that I adore. I subbed for that teacher for a week and brought home all kinds of handmade and hand-picked flowers, rocks, and paper dolls, given as gifts to me. That'll rock your world. These are some of the kids that mob-hug me. I was subbing in PE and 12 of them rushed me. Thank God they were all around me or they'd have taken me down! About 600 pounds of kid smacking into me yelling, "Ms. D!!!" I love it, of course.

Anyway, as I was in the class about 4 of them ran up to hug me, and the teacher pulled me aside and told me that the folks that run a not-to-be named organization from the local hotel behemoth come into the classrooms to conduct little seminars for the kids. She said they asked the teacher if, before they came, she could tell the kids not to hug them. You know...Hispanic kids, swine flu, etc. The teacher said, "How was I supposed to tell these kids not to hug? What should I say?" I asked, "What DID you do?" She laughed and said she gathered the kids around and told them, "Class, the nice ladies that come to school today are from a hotel. Sometimes, since there are all kinds of people from all over in hotels, they could be carrying certain viruses or 'bugs.' I don't want you to get sick, so when they come, it's probably better not to hug them!" She said the kids all got wide-eyed and said, "OK!"

HA HA!! When the ladies came, the kids sat at their seats and waved sweetly. When they left, they waved sweetly good-bye. And the "ladies" never knew that THEY were the verboten ones!

Karen


Note: You're smiling, too, aren't you? I know we have to be careful when it comes to swine flu, but it feels good to know the "Innocents" were not damaged by our fears.

Donna

Egad! “The Boss” is 60

My first reaction to the cover of my September/October AARP magazine was “what’s he doing on it?” Then I read the title: “The Boss Turns 60.” Bruce Springsteen is almost as old as I am. Holy Cow! Born in Long Branch, New Jersey, on September 23, 1949, he’ll turn 60 next month. I certainly never thought of him as a fellow baby boomer.

I didn't sign on for this. . .

In 1985, soon after his marriage to his first wife, Julianne, he and his new bride were passengers on one of my flights. What a circus it was. They were escorted onboard directly from the tarmac. There was no dashing through the terminal for them; they would have been mobbed by hysterical fans. When they were brought onboard, as First Flight Attendant, I was met by their aide and given my instructions: protect Mr. Springsteen from his fans during the flight. He was tired and needed some rest and I was not to let anyone bother him.

This happened during the “Born in the USA” tour at the height of Springsteen’s popularity. I told the rest of the flight attendants we were to try to keep other passengers from bothering the Springsteen’s; and we really did try. His beautiful young bride was the sweetest little bodyguard that night. She was very patient with the fans that were able to slip past the cabin crew and approach the dozing megastar. It was a constant but losing battle trying to keep people away from him. Springsteen was tired, a little grumpy, but never impolite to anyone, even when they pestered him.

Jim and I enjoyed the music of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band when the Born in the USA album was released. I did aerobics to “I’m on Fire,” “Glory Days,” and “Dancing in the Dark,” in our family room. His music videos on MTV were always fun—yes I really did watch MTV at one time. The track “Born in the USA” on the album was my least favorite. I didn’t like Springsteen’s angry, shouted lyrics, nor did I enjoy the ugly, depressed scenes of America in the music video.

After reading the article in AARP, I decided to do a little digging and learn more about “The Boss.” As it turns out, I wasn’t supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about the “Born in the USA” track. Duh. It was meant to make me think and feel bad. It was about the Vietnam War and the treatment of the returning Vets. But I wasn’t the only one who didn’t get his message. Ronald Reagan thought it was an upbeat, patriotic little ditty and wanted to use it in his campaign. Springsteen said “no.” He also turned down millions of dollars from Chrysler Corporation for the use of the song in a car commercial.

Helping Others

I have a newfound respect for Bruce Springsteen. Not only does he have convictions, he is a very pro-active supporter of our nation’s food banks. At his concerts everywhere, he asks his fans to “remember your neighbors,” and then food-bank reps pass through the crowd looking for donations. According to AARP, if you would like to help one of his favorite charities, go to feedingamerica.org, a network of more than 200 food banks. AARP magazine also says “...America needs Bruce Springsteen now more than ever.” I believe I like him now more than ever.

Donna

Peace, Love, and Rock and Roll

Forty years ago this past weekend, the greatest rock music festival in the history of the world took place. It was in every sense, “a happening.” Of course I’m referring to the 1969 Woodstock Music and Arts Fair, the ultimate musical tribute to peace, love, and rock and roll. Memorabilia and retrospectives are out and still coming out in every media, including some very expensive books and CD’s. Ironically, it was only eighteen dollars if you bought a three-day ticket in advance to see and hear some of the biggest names in pop, rock and folk music.

“We were half a million strong.” Joni Mitchell

In case you weren’t around at the time, it happened on Max Yasgur’s 600-acre farm in a muddy pasture in Bethel, N.Y., about 43 miles northeast of Woodstock, New York. When there were no more tickets, people just kept showing up, until more than four hundred thousand people had gathered there from all over the United States. Woodstock was an under-staffed, under-stocked, under-financed phenomenon that took on a life of its own. It was an orgy of epic proportions; the pinnacle of sex, drugs, and rock and roll—with no violent crimes. And it was also a mess of rain, mud, and bad acid trips.

Coffee, Tea or Me?

What was I doing between August 15th and August 17th in 1969? I was probably on an airplane, prancing around in white plastic go-go boots and a red, white, or blue mini dress. I would no more have showed up for a Hippie love-in than I would have attended a witch burning. I knew absolutely nothing about Woodstock until it was history. And of course, it was history in the literal and figurative sense.

This excerpt by Elliott Tiber, from a 1994 Times Herald-Record piece, sums up the event: “The last bedraggled fan sloshed out of Max Yasgur's muddy pasture more than 25 years ago. That's when the debate began about Woodstock's historical significance. True believers still call Woodstock the capstone of an era devoted to human advancement. Cynics say it was a fitting, ridiculous end to an era of naiveté. Then there are those who say it was just a hell of a party.”

“Talkin’ bout my generation.” The Who

If it was indeed the end to an era of naiveté, then I guess I was still very naïve. I wasn’t burning draft cards, bras, or illegal drugs. I was bringing bodies home in caskets in the bellies of airplanes for families to meet on the tarmac; and still the tragedy of the Vietnam war had not yet sunk into my small town, middle-America, middle-class psyche. Peace and Love was not my mantra—Eat and Pay the Rent was. I had no connection whatsoever with those young people. The me I was back then would have been shocked and horrified to witness the Woodstock spectacle.

My friend Trish was there. I didn’t know her then and I never would have understood her interest in going to Woodstock. She seems to have come through it all none the worse for it. She’s a successful professional, drives a Lexus, and her grown children are college graduates, (not that these things alone make a person a success). Trish was also there when the demonstrators were beaten by the police at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Talking to her about her youth is like rereading Michener’s The Drifters.

“Every life is a march from innocence . . .” Lyman Abbott

Even though I would not have enjoyed Woodstock, I recognize its momentous effect on our society. Like the old man who gratefully escaped war because of health issues or the sheer luck of timing, but looks back with regret for not being there, I now feel a sense of pride about Woodstock. Did it have an effect on human advancement as Elliott Tiber wrote? Did it herald the end of our naiveté? I’m sure it did both of these, plus it musta been a helluva party. There have been attempts to recreate Woodstock, to do it again, but I’m afraid the innocence that made it possible may be over the hill.

Donna

An Extraordinary Woman

Since beginning this blog in January, I spend more time remembering and thinking about things past than I probably have since graduating from high school in 1966. I joined Facebook in an attempt to connect with old friends and classmates and have been blessed with the recovery of some “lost treasures.” Barb is one of them.

There are two memories of my friend Barb that always come to mind when I think of her. First, I picture her in her maroon and white cheerleader uniform, leading cheers at the pep rallies in the high school gym. The other memory is of a moment in World Geography class. Some of the girls were participating in a “character assassination” of another cheerleader who happened to be absent that day. Barb turned away and refused to take part, leaving me with a most powerful memory for more than forty years.

We caught up with each other on Facebook in May, and she has graciously given me permission to share some of her writing. I have deleted some names and comments for her privacy.

Barb wrote: May 2, 2009

“I teach yoga classes a couple of nights a week and fitness classes at the Senior Center which is just a blast and very rewarding. My toughest challenge is that for the past five years I've been treated for ovarian cancer. There's good and not so good that comes with knowing and being treated for a chronic disease. I continue to live a full life, remaining fairly active and totally enjoying being grandma to my three year old granddaughter.”

I wrote that I have the most terrific kid on the planet.

Barb wrote: May 2, 2009

“Married 34 years this fall and I beg to differ. I have the most terrific kid on this planet. Christopher has given me the greatest gift of love and support in that he has never considered my slowing down with this insidious disease. We've skied up ski hills, cycled, hiked, rock climbed and watched hours of House and NCIS on TV together. Sounds like you have a similar bond with your son, extraordinary love and support.

My husband and I loved our visit to Austin a few years ago. The hill country is amazing. We made it out to the Enchanted Rock. What fun! I agree that Michigan is the most beautiful place on earth.”

I wrote that I hadn’t heard from her in a while.

Barb wrote: July 26, 2009

“I'm on a fairly rugged chemo schedule this summer. It goes like this. Fourteen days of chemo followed by fourteen days break to "recover." Actually I'm holding up well under the assault and have had some positive results.

If all goes as planned, next Saturday I will be participating in a triathlon teaming with my son Chris. He will do the swim and run. I will do the twenty-mile bike ride. It's a bit of a crazy plan but I would have it no other way. Me and my boy! I'm sure you get it.”

I wrote that I’m amazed she would compete in a triathlon with the chemo.

Barb wrote: July 27, 2009

“I no longer remember what it feels like to live without a bone deep exhaustion. For the past few weeks my bones have been sending out shooting pains a result of having to rebuild the red/white cells and platelets. Often this occurs in the larger hip and thigh bones, so it's fairly startling. Five years later, I confess, I continue to do battle with paralyzing despair. I'm just not ready to leave this special life of mine. I feel so blessed. This disease has slowly opened my heart, my self, my compassion to such extraordinary heights. I've acquired a treasure trove of wonderful rich memories. Would I have known enough to cherish these moments without the disease, certainly not on the scale that I do now. Exercise is my friend, from a peaceful yoga session or walk to testing myself on the bike or ski's or at the gym. I'm alive and kicking and I plan to remain that way until ‘the fat lady sings.’

Your friends confronted with a similar battle, I hold in my heart. We're all in this together.”

Barb sent me her “Bucket List” on July 29, ending with this thought:

“Now I have my hopes pinned on the 20 mile ride August first. It’s challenging to say the least when I’m working my way through another 14 days straight of chemo. It would be far easier to quit. Yet so boring! When my Lance Armstrong Live Strong Jersey arrives I plan to wear it every day if I have to, to keep my spirits up.”

Note:

I’m waiting to hear back from Barb about the triathlon. When I do, I’ll let you know how it went.

Donna

Too Bad to Be True? It Probably Isn't

Fake political emails have been especially plentiful for the past few months. I’ve received a video email a few times recently supposedly showing President Obama being snubbed by the Russians. False. I’ve received an email stating that Canada thinks President Obama is a failure, and another describing Mrs. Obama is an over-indulged princess. Also false. The Canada Free Press, an ultra-conservative Canadian newsletter, was being passed off as the legitimate news agency of Canada, like our Associated Press. And besides, both stories were written by Americans.

Several months ago there was a fabricated email story circulating—with a copy of the so-called bill—that Mrs. Obama had a very expensive brunch at a posh hotel in New York when she wasn’t there. The publisher printed a retraction, but didn’t forward it to me. I had to track it down on my own.

There was yet another email story zooming around cyberspace stating that a doctor of philosophy wrote a dissertation on Mr. Obama’s narcissism. While that author did comment about Obama possibly being a narcissist, the poor author was erroneously credited with a hate-filled article published on a secularist website and written by an ex-Muslim using a pseudonym. That author was so hateful I left his website as soon as I could for fear of being infected.

Why do we forward and circulate so much misinformation and even hatred? Partly, of course, because we can. In years past, who would have driven to the local copy center to make multiple copies of a hand-written or typed letter stating their reasons for hating someone? And then filled and addressed dozens of envelopes, affixed dozens of postage stamps, and slipped them into a U.S. postal mailbox for distribution? And if they did, what would we think about them? Hello? Does the name Unabomber ring a bell? As I said, we forward this “stuff” because we can, because it’s free and so easy to do. And yes, of course I’ve done it also.

“People say believe half of what you see, son, and none of what you hear." I Heard it Through the Grapevine, Marvin Gaye

With today’s amazing, readily available computer software, it’s no longer safe to believe “a picture is worth a thousand words.” Still photos, videos and voice recordings can and are routinely altered to sell something or make a point. There are probably tens of thousands of good people out there who believe that photo of a gun-totin,’ bikini-clad Sarah Palin was real. It wasn't. The photo was digitally altered. You knew that too, right?

And why is it necessary to paint Mrs. Palin as a sexy, gun-happy, beauty queen? Why is it necessary to paint Hillary Clinton as a shrewish, man-eating, ball-busting harpy? Right now some of us are saying, “Because they are,” aren’t we?

“Check it out.” John Mellencamp

How do we stop the proliferation of these WMD’s (weapons of mass deception)? Here’s my plan. Add our government representatives’ email addresses to our email contacts. If, after checking truthorfiction.com, urbanlegends.about.com, and snopes.com, we find an email story is indeed true and we object to its message, we can forward it to our Senators and Representatives and tell them this news really pisses us off. We can even insist they do something about it. Then when those angry, and yes, sometimes funny emails show up, it will be as easy to make our voices heard by our government as it is to hit the “forward” command and entertain our friends.

Donna

Next Week: Are we still supposed to shave our legs if we only have twelve hairs left on them? Laugh—it’s good for us!

Camping With Women, Chapter 4

“What have you been up to for the past decade?” my old friend Francine wanted to know. We hadn’t talked in years when she telephoned out of the blue one day. I described a life of PTA meetings, youth baseball games, band boosters, Scout meetings and campouts. She’d had a much different life with two more divorces to add to her previous two, plus she’d been struck by lightning. Her life definitely held more drama than mine.

“Do you like camping?” she wanted to know.

“I love camping! I teach it to new Boy Scouts and their parents.”

“I go to Yosemite every summer and I always take friends,” she continued. “You wanna go with me next July?” She offered to make the reservations and outfit the entire trip; we could split the costs. I’d never been to Yosemite and it sounded like a wonderful opportunity to me.

The Control Freak: Francine

“Do you like to ride horses?” Francine asked.

“I did before my knee problems,” I replied. I had dislocated my knee twenty-five years earlier, and it had been temperamental the past several years. “The last time I rode a horse my knee gave out on me and it took two grown men to peel me off the creature. I still get embarrassed when I think about it.”

“Oh well, you can ride a little bit,” she insisted.

“I really don’t think so. Don’t plan on it.” I thought I’d convinced her. “I’d like to do some hiking while we’re there, though.”

We talked on the phone regularly, going over plans and details for the trip. When the day came, I flew to Sacramento and Francine picked me up in a well-maintained, older model white pickup truck with an over-sized, two horse trailer in tow. There were two very exuberant black labs in the crew cab’s front seat with her. “Say hi to Donna, kids,” she said to the two dogs. “This is Angie and this is Bruno,” she announced, caressing and kissing each one on the nose as she said their names.

“You decided to bring the dogs and the horses. Great!" I tried to sound enthusiastic. The dogs retreated behind the front seat and I climbed into the truck. As the two animals sniffed and checked me over, I told myself to be a good sport about the saliva on my head, neck and back.

“Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.” Don Williams, Jr.

We left Sacramento Airport and set out on our one hundred seventy-five mile (or so) drive to Yosemite. As we climbed through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, the truck labored to keep up with traffic. The old pickup was dragging about three thousand pounds of trailer, a couple thousand pounds of Arabian horses, and probably another 1000 pounds or more of food, gear, and passengers. By the time we were in the real mountains the truck was slowing to the point of becoming a road hazard.

We had cars and trucks backed up behind us as far as we could see—and hear. The angry drivers blasted us with their horns. Francine would have pulled off the highway more often if she could have. The twisting mountain road had very few “turn-outs,” and they were seldom designed so that she could prepare to stop far enough in advance that she didn’t jackknife the trailer. When she was able to pull over to the side of the road, dozens of driver’s would tear past us, sometimes with their arms raised in one-finger salutes; sometimes shouting that we were “stupid bitches” and worse.

“They’d call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves.” Cher

That July Yosemite was so booked that the horses had to be moved from stable to stable, and we had to pick up stakes every night and move from campsite to campsite like gypsies. Francine was annoyed that I wouldn't go horseback riding. Morning and night we took care of the horses and the dogs, and the dogs were always with us. If we stopped somewhere to eat or sightsee, our time was limited by how long Angie and Bruno could remain alone in the truck.

Francine treated me like a novice camper. When I cooked, she told me how I could have done it better. When I set up my tent, she repositioned my tent stakes. Whatever the issue, whatever the discussion, she always had the last word. She retied my hitches when we were tending to the horses. “I teach knots and hitches to Boy Scouts,” I told her.

“My hitch is better!” she said. Each day I found it harder and harder to be a happy camper.

“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.” Confucius

For three days she wore the same baby doll cotton blouse. It was dotted liberally with big black boogers from her sneezing horses. I didn’t say anything about the blouse until day three when we were planning to have dinner at the beautiful old Wawona Hotel restaurant. “Francine, we are going to dress up a little for dinner, right?” So far, shorts and tee shirts had been my daily uniform.

“We’re fine dressed the way we are,” she said.

“Well, you are going to change that blouse, aren’t you? It’s covered with horse snot.”

“There’s nothing more beautiful than horse boogies,” she argued. Finally, at my insistence, she changed the blouse in the parking lot of the hotel just before we went in for dinner.

On the last morning when we were leaving Yosemite to head back to Sacramento, I was up long before dawn, breaking down my tent and packing up the gear. When she woke up I was sitting on my camp chair, completely packed and ready to load up the truck. “You’re the most competent person I’ve ever brought up here,” she said, looking over the packs. All I wanted to do was get on an airplane heading back to Texas.

“He who would travel happily must travel light.” Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Francine called a few days later and asked if I wanted to camp with her again the following summer. “I don’t think so,” I told her. “Look, I really appreciate all you did to set up this trip, but the horses and the dogs—it was all too Lewis and Clark for me. I’m more a Johnny Appleseed kinda camper. Let’s just be friends without camping together.” I haven’t heard from her since.

Donna

Camping With Women, Chapter 3

There was so much hazing and bullying in Robert’s first Boy Scout troop that he began to think if he was going to live to make Eagle Scout, he’d better find another troop. He chose a troop in Southlake, Texas—Forbes magazine’s 2008 richest community in the nation. The boys in the Southlake troop could have paid bullies to do their hazing for them. I always half expected sherpas to show up when we went camping so the boys wouldn’t have to carry their own backpacks. There was no such thing as hazing in the Southlake troop. If a boy misbehaved on a campout, his parents were expected to jump in their Hummer and collect their son and take him home.

Nights in Green Canvas: Joan

The new troop was a good one with good kids; Robert could now focus more on advancement and less on avoiding injury. I signed up for the troop committee once again, and after more leadership training, the troop appointed me assistant scoutmaster. Then it was off to Wood Badge, an advanced Boy Scout adult leadership training program.

There were about fifty of us in my Wood Badge class, and our first meeting was held in a classroom at Scout headquarters. I was chatting with the person on my right when a very short, very round woman wearing over-sized glasses slid into the seat on my left. Her head appeared to be attached directly to her torso, giving her the appearance of a chickadee with long, straight blond hair. Her name was Joan, and when I turned to say hello, she snapped at me for taking too long to greet her. “It’s a big class,” I thought to myself. “I probably won’t have too much contact with her.”

Mi casa es su casa.

Upon arrival at Sid Richardson Scout Ranch, where the rest of our course took place, we were divided into teams of six, called “patrols.” (Cub Scouts have dens; Boy Scouts have patrols.) Joan and I were, of course, assigned to the same patrol. The four men on our team seemed like great guys, and I vowed to make the best of it and have fun in the training program.

Our patrol was assigned a campsite in the woods, with tent positions marked by wooden platforms resembling shipping palettes. These served as the floors of our green canvas homes-away-from-home. Each tent and its poles and ropes were in a pile near a palette, and the six of us worked as a team to erect our three tents. Seeking to break the ice with Joan, I tried to engage her in small talk while we worked. It worried me that my snoring might make things even less hospitable between us, so I asked her if she by chance snored also; she said “yes.” In a sudden impulse, I gave her a big hug, causing her to stiffen like a clothing store mannequin. “OK,” I thought. “Not a hugger.”

“It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark.” Michael Jackson

After dinner, classes, and a patrol meeting, it was finally bedtime, or rather “cot-time,” and I drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep. Around 3:00 AM, I was startled awake. There was an animal, apparently right outside the tent, and it sounded big, loud, and very angry. I lay paralyzed on my cot, my heart pounding. I didn’t think it could be a bear in that part of Texas, but I knew it might be a cougar or a coyote. I listened for a few moments to the snarling beast until I realized it was Joan. I don’t know if she was snoring or dreaming, but she roared, growled, and snarled in her sleep.

I never did get back to sleep that night. Just before dawn I got up to put the coffee on the camp stove and use the latrine. I returned to the tent where Joan was up and getting dressed in the dark. I waited outside the tent to allow her time to finish dressing and reentered the tent when she left for the latrine.

The tent reeked. “Whew!” I thought to myself. “Some poor creature must be dead under the tent floor. It must have gone bad rather quickly or we would have smelled it when we set up the tent.” I directed my flashlight around the tent floor to see if I could discover where the poor rotting creature had died. The smell was emanating from a very used women’s hygiene pad lying on Joan’s cot. I didn’t sleep the next four nights either.

“Not gonna do it.” George H.W. Bush

On the last night of our last weekend of training, the course required that each patrol backpack into and sleep out in the woods as a final team test. At our patrol’s planning meeting Joan announced she didn’t want the additional weight of a tent in her backpack, and asked me to share my barely-big-enough-for-me solo tent with her. I know the Scout Law states a Scout should be friendly, courteous, kind, and helpful, but the idea of snuggling into a little three-by-six-foot nylon cocoon with her still gives me nightmares. I took Nancy Reagan’s advice and just said “no.”

Donna

Next: The Control Freak

Camping With Women, Chapter 2

Linda, one of two moms I wrote about in an earlier post about Scouts, was a marvel, (If No One Else Volunteers, April 29, 2009). She had two boys, one older and one younger than my son, and she was immersed in Scouting, volunteering on every level. If you could catch up with her to ask for help with almost anything, her answer was always: “sure.”

Miss Congeniality: Linda

Her older son moved from Cub Scouts up to Boy Scouts a year before my son Robert did, and Linda was already a leader when Robert joined the same troop. As chairman of the troop committee, she led the adult group responsible for the troop’s operations and finances and conducted the monthly committee meetings. She was also a merit badge counselor, a trained adult lifeguard, and a fundraising organizer.

Linda suggested I join the troop committee and get involved. Like many parents, I thought Boy Scouts was for boys and their dads. I’d often heard moms say, “I’ll get him through Cub Scouts, then it’s his dad’s turn!” Back in Cub Scouts, I’d heard dads say, “I’ll get involved when he joins Boy Scouts.” Consequently, Boy Scouts was thought to be “no-woman’s land” by many parents, me included. In reality, more and more moms are getting involved in Scouting annually.

Boys will be boys.

Boy Scouts of America has banned any form of hazing; however at Robert’s first troop meeting, the older scouts hung the new scouts upside down over the second floor balcony of the church where they met. “Boys will be boys!” The “good-old-dads” in the troop responded. As Committee Chair, Linda led the fight against those outdated, outlawed attitudes and made several male enemies in the process.

After the hazing incident, my husband Jim and I decided one of us should volunteer to chaperone Robert’s first campout with his new troop. Jim had to work, so I signed up to drive a car full of new Boy Scouts to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to camp at the Vicksburg National Military Park. The scoutmaster informed us that it was rare for anyone to be allowed to camp there and it was a real privilege for our troop to gain permission.

Field of extremes.

After arriving at the national park, a dusty, single-lane gravel road took us through deep woods and past unmown fields to our remote, “primitive” campsite—a clearing about the size of half a football field with two-foot tall weeds, ticks, and no latrines. The boys set up their tents on one side of the field and the adults set up on the other side, rather like the blue and the grey armies had done one hundred thirty-five years earlier.

There were two other moms on the trip—Linda and a tall, younger woman named Karen. At the first opportunity I asked Linda what we were to do about “going to the bathroom.” The boys had no inhibitions about stepping out behind their tents with a spade and a wad of toilet paper when nature called, but we moms weren’t so free spirited. Linda, Karen and I came up with a plan to ensure privacy and discretion; but the three of us needed to always go together for it to work.

Over hill, over dale.

The tree-lined road that led into our campsite ran up and down several small hills and valleys. Our plan was to head down the road a short distance, past a hill or two. One of us could squat alongside the road in a hollow while the other two were posted atop a hill on either side to act as lookouts. Since there was no other traffic on the road that wound through our campsite, it worked well for two days and nights.

One afternoon Linda had one of those moments when it’s time to go now and set out alone. Karen and I saw Linda leave but didn’t worry because no one else was camping in the area. Besides, our boys were busy in camp making their lunches. There was however, unknown to us, park maintenance in progress. While squatting alone in the grass beside the road, with her scout shorts around her ankles and her bare behind cooling in the breeze, Linda watched a huge transport truck full of shirtless, very amused road crews roar past.

Karen and I were horrified when we saw the truck full of laughing men drive through our camp and disappear around a bend. Linda came strolling back after a few minutes and Karen and I ran to meet her.

“Please tell us they did NOT see you squatting when they drove by,” I said.

“Yup,” replied Linda, nodding. “They did.”

“What did you do,” we wanted to know.

“Well, the Scout Law says ‘A Scout is Friendly.’ What else could I do? I smiled and waved,” she said, demonstrating with a big grin and a wave of her arm.

Donna

In memory of Linda Abel, who passed away in June of 2006 at age 59, from brain cancer.