Another Man’s Treasure

Moving to an unknown land and starting out with very little can make a person do things they once thought were absurd or unheard of.  When Dave and I moved to Charlotte, all of our possessions could fit into 2 vehicles.  It was up to us to accumulate all the crap needed to outfit our dump sweet dump and make it ours.  Dave and I were quite thrifty and managed to find things at very low prices.  If we couldn’t find the right price, we would go without.


Dave’s first job in Charlotte was working for a land surveying company, which brought him to homes that resembled homes in the Hollywood Hills.  Our Friday date nights consisted of driving to the well-to-do neighborhoods (there were many) and looking at the elaborate homes that Dave and his crew had surveyed earlier that week.  Looking back, it’s a wonder we weren’t taken in for questioning under the suspicion of casing these places.


Every once in a while, Dave would come home with some piece of wooden furniture he found out in a field, or on the side of the road.  His vision was much more creative than mine.  I saw these items as garbage, covered with bugs and haunted memories of better times.  There wasn’t much room to be picky, so we would end up refurbishing (aka painting) the TV stand, or magazine rack, or foot stool.  Admittedly, the stuff turned out ok.


On a warm summer evening in June, Dave and I were returning home from an early dinner.  The sun had just set and the sky was still illuminated with the oranges and pinks of dusk.  We were about a block away from our duplex when Dave said, “Mery!  Stop the car!”  I braked, “What the hell, Dave?  You want me to crash??”   I thought I had hit something and not noticed.  As I was coming to a rolling stop, Dave had already opened the passenger side door and was out on the curb inspecting someone’s trash.  My instinct was to leave him there and drive away.  I was humiliated.  I rolled down the passenger window and said in a whisper yell, “DAVE!  What ARE you doing??”


Dave had found another “piece” for our collection.  On the curb, next to a garbage can, was a white 4-drawer high boy dresser with porcelain drawer pulls, each with a rose inlayed into the center of the knob.  It was cute, if I was a 12 year old girl!  The legs of the dresser were thin and one had broken off.  “I can fix that, no problem.”  I was still looking around as if we were on some kind of gotcha reality TV show, waiting for the police to pop out of the bushes and arrest us both for petty theft.


“Open the trunk.”  Was he serious?  There was no way that thing was going to fit in the trunk of our 1994 2-door Toyota Camry!  I started giggling.  For those of you who know me well, you know that under any type of stress or pressure, I laugh.  I laugh a lot.  It starts with a giggle and turns into a full blown debilitating cackle.  It is not the most productive defense mechanism, but it’s mine.

“We are not stealing this dresser, Dave.”  He was already removing the drawers and putting them in the back seat of the car.  “It’s not stealing when they put it out on the curb, Mery.  They want someone to take it so they don’t have to pay someone to remove it for them.”  If that was the case, why was he whispering?  And why wasn’t there a sign that said, “Free” or “Take me”?  Dave was now getting annoyed with me since he was doing all the looting and I was just standing there, doubled over, laughing at him.  “Mery, seriously, help me put the drawers in the back seat.”  I was paralyzed with laughter and he was getting more red and more sweaty and more annoyed with every minute.  “I just can’t do it!”  I cackled.

“Mery, you are going to have to help me lift this into the trunk.”  Fine I would help him, but then what?  Half of the dresser was still coming out of the back of the trunk.  We lifted the heavy piece of refuse into the trunk top first.  Fortunately, the 200 yards to our house was all downhill.  “You are going to have to coast down the street with the clutch in and I will walk behind holding the legs so it doesn’t fall out.”  It seemed like a full proof plan.  I hopped in the driver seat and put the car in neutral.  I started to coast down the road with Dave walking behind the car holding onto the dresser.

 We were doing great, or so I thought.  I just wanted to flee the scene as quickly as possible.  I looked in my rearview mirror only to find Dave with a death stare, in a full sprint trying to keep up with my “slow pace”.   “SLOW DOWN!”  I slammed on the brakes and he crashed into the back of the car.  Oops.  This triggered my laughing spell again while Dave was muttering more than one explicative at me under his breath.  I managed to make it the rest of the way home without destroying the dresser.  Oh, and without killing Dave.  We unloaded our new acquisition and brought it in the house.  We both sat in silence looking at it.  “Dave, the leg is broken.”  “I can fix it.” Pause. “Dave, it’s white.”  “We can paint it.”  Sigh.

 The next day we took a trip to the local hardware store to purchase supplies for the refurb.  We bought a couple nails and 2 spray cans of blue fleck paint.  Use fleck pain on anything and it looks amazing!  Who knew.   We were so proud of that high boy.  You would have thought it was our master craftsmanship that built the thing.  All we did was throw a couple of spray cans at it.  Friends even asked us if we were willing to sell it.


I think that was the last piece we actually “acquired” from someone’s curb.  Might as well end on a high note, right?

Then He Raked Me

*Warning: Contents of this entry may be disgusting to some readers. Discretion is advised.*

I always knew I wanted to be a mom. According to the life plan I created for myself in my tween years, I would be married by 27 and have my first baby by 30. Who knew my adolescent self would be so prophetic.

Three days before my 29^th birthday, I took a pregnancy test and learned I was pregnant. I am sure most of my feelings were hormone induced, but still valid. Feelings of joy, excitement, anxiety, anticipation and fear were washing over me all at the same time. Up to this point, I hadn’t even been able to keep a plant alive.

The first few months were rough. I slept with saltine crackers and ginger ale on my nightstand. Brushing my teeth without gagging was an accomplishment. Chicken was no longer a food option for me. I didn’t care what form it was in. Raw or cooked. Grilled or Fried. Nuggets or Strips. It was all nasty. The smell alone would throw me into a lurching spiral. Once the morning/afternoon/night sickness subsided, I had a near perfect pregnancy. Even though I was feeling better, I was still disgusted by chicken and didn’t eat it for almost a year after having the baby.

The ultrasound pictures were something I kept with my at all times to show off my creation. I suppose Dave helped with the creating part, but I wasn’t giving him much credit. My tiny being was morphing from a lima bean to a replica of the Planters Peanut Man. All it needed was the top hat and monocle. Then, at around 15 weeks, we got a profile shot of the baby. For the first time, it really looked human.

You may notice I am referring to my own child as “it”. We did not want to find out the sex of the baby before it was born because we wanted to be surprised. That, and I thought it was fun to drive everyone crazy. “What do you mean you aren’t going to find out??” Of course we were going to find out what we were having, just not until the little bugger popped out. People would ask Dave and me, “Do you want a girl or a boy?” Dave always answered with the same canned response, “I don’t care as long as it’s a healthy baby.” And I would add, “Right. As long as it’s a healthy baby girl.”

Months passed and I was really enjoying being pregnant. It didn’t prohibit me from living my life. My first trip to Las Vegas was when I was 5 months along. Granted, I could not drink or smoke, but watching everyone else was almost as entertaining. Almost. Dave and I spent time in Southern California with friends. I even played golf. At 6 months, my mom and I flew to Paris to meet my sister. She was flying from Ukraine where she was stationed for the Peace Corp. Again, nothing was stopping me from enjoying myself, except for my dietary restrictions. At every meal, my mom and sister would order wine. My sister ordered a cheese plate at least once a day. I was not allowed to drink the fabulous wines or eat the exotic cheeses. Ordering Crème Brule at every meal was my way of compensating. It did the trick.

As my due date was approaching my sleep habits were truly out of sorts. I could no longer sleep in the bed because I would end up using Dave as a support to keep from rolling over, and I was getting up every 15 minutes to pee. The couch was my new sanctuary, if you can even call it that. At least I was able to lie on my side and rest against the back in between the urgent trips to the toilet.

Three days after my due date I was having a lot of cramps. I had been having them for weeks but these seemed more frequent. Around 8am, I made Dave take a walk around the block with me to see if that would help. I was more annoyed than alarmed, and called my friend at work to complain. She asked me if I had been timing the cramps, and I told her no. They were just cramps, why should I time them? It took a conversation with my friend to come to the conclusion that I may actually be in labor. Upon making this revelation, I discovered that the “cramps” were occurring in 3-7 minute intervals. I called the doctor’s office and they told me to call back when they were 3-5 minutes apart. This made no sense to me if they were already 3 minutes in some instances, so I voiced my concern. I am sure they knew what they were talking about, as this was an every day, 100 times a day thing for them, but I still felt it would be best for me to go in and get checked out. The office assistant reluctantly told me to come in.

Since this was our first baby, we had everything ready to go. The packed bag with the birthing plan (what a joke…and a waste of time) was already in the trunk of the car. I decided since there was no real sense of urgency, it would be ok to load the dishwasher, take a shower and shave my legs. Dave and I then hopped in the car to start our 45 minute car ride to the doctor’s office. The entire time we were joking about how this was going to be a false alarm and we were go feel so stupid when they told us to go home.

We arrived around 11am and were escorted back into one of the exam rooms. My Ob/Gyn came in the room and Dave and I were laughing and apologizing for wasting her time. While she was conducting her invasive exam, Dave and I looked at each other in silence, rolling our eyes. The doc then said, “Well, you are 6 cm dilated and 100% effaced and if I keep poking around in there your water is going to break. You can head straight to the hospital and get your epidural. We will call ahead to let them know you are on your way.”

It was at that moment I realized I hadn’t eaten anything that day so I asked her, “Can we stop at the Wendy’s drive-thru on the way since it’s right across the street?” The woman looked at both me a Dave (Dave had lost all color in his face with the news) then said, “Um, no you cannot stop at Wendy’s drive-thru. Get to the hospital. I knew it was going to be a long day.

Five minutes later we were walking through the doors of Carolinas Medical Center - Pineville and making our way to the maternity ward desk. I walked up to the desk and said, “Hi, I’m Merydith Blank. I believe you’ve been “expecting me”, and let out a loud cackle. I am my best audience most times. The woman behind the desk said, “You’re the one who’s 6 cm already? You’re awfully cheerful for being on the verge of delivering a baby.” What was she talking about? I wasn’t even in pain. Yet.

I got settled into my spacious room with a view. We had our own little private patio directly outside of our room. Turns out I would not step foot onto the patio, nor did I have any desire to. The nurse came in and determined I was now at 8cm. Things were moving along quickly. I still felt very little pain. The nurse actually talked me out of an epidural. I was given a dose of Stadol instead, and was told it would take the edge off. It felt like I had drunk 5 margaritas in 5 minutes. I was wasted. Dave and I were still cracking jokes with each other then all of a sudden there was a harsh pain coming from the depths. I let out a groan and Dave said something stupid, I cannot remember what it was now. I just remember telling him to shut the hell up to which the nurse replied, “OK Dad, now is the time when Mom isn’t going to things are quite as funny.” No joke. All of a sudden, I was ready to rip his head off. Why did I let that woman talk me out of the epidural? What kind of sick and twisted sadist was I dealing with?

The doctor on call was not my regular OB/Gyn, but I had met him during my rotational visits in the last couple months of appointments. He seemed like a nice enough guy. When he walked in to check on my progress and saw I was 9cm dilated he asked me, “Why didn’t you get an epidural?” Well, Dr. Jerkface, young Nurse Naturalist thought I could handle the pain. I asked him if it was too late, and by the grace of God, he said it was not. He had the anesthesiologist paged to set it up. Meanwhile, my baby was already standing apart from the crowd and had flipped into posterior position, something that only happens in 4-10% of all births. Not Breech, but sunny side up. Even though it was still head first, it was facing up instead of down. In my drunken stupor, he had me get on all fours facing the wall and proceeded to try to flip the baby back into normal position. All I could do was laugh at the thought of the picture anyone was seeing if they happened to walk by the door. I turned to look at Dave and noticed a room full of concerned doctors and nurses scurrying around the room. “Wha’s goin’ on?” I slurred.

After all the drama, more drama ensued. I had the epidural, but despite Dr Big Hand’s efforts, the baby was still posterior, and stuck. With every contraction, its heartbeat went down. We all came to the conclusion that the best plan of attack was a C-section. They prepped the O.R., the prepped Dave, and they prepped me.

I was wheeled into the O.R. and laying flat on my back with my arms outstretched on either side of me. I felt like a drunken knocked up cheerleader making a “T” on the table. Dave and the Dr. were nowhere to be found. I later learned they were talking Wisconsin football in the hallway. Seriously?? They finally made their way into the room and the surgery was about to begin. All of a sudden, in my field of vision, I see a fly dancing around on the Dr’s side of the blue sheet. Of course I had to make a comment. “I don’t think that’s very sanitary.” The doctor retorted with, “It’s all a figment of your imagination, Merydith.” Yeah right. There was a fly.

After a grueling 30 minutes of “a little pressure”, which caused me to vomit into a kidney shaped bowl out of the side of my mouth (good thing I didn't stop at Wendy's), while still lying on my back, the baby was out. At 6:32 pm on July 11^th 2003, the doctor lifted up the baby with its genitals (the baby’s not the doctor’s) clearly in Dave’s face so there was no mistake made and said, “Call it, Dad.” Dave said, “Mery, we have a beautiful baby boy.” I’ll be honest, I was disappointed. I knew I was having a girl. I would have bet my life on it. What did I know about boys? This was all wrong. I wanted them to check again. How could this be happening? Maybe if he put him back in and tried again, a girl would pop out?

As the doctor was finishing up pushing my intestines back into my body cavity, Dave brought our baby boy over to my head, still woozy and aching from all the events of the day. I am referring to me, not the baby. Dave said, “Mery, look at him.” I turned my head and there we were, face-to-face. His little arm had broken free of the swaddled blanket and his tiny hand reached out and raked my right eye. It was over. I was in love. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. “I made that” is all I could get out as I sobbed. Dave laughed at me. I then corrected myself. “We made that.” 

 Zachary Lawrence Blank 

Born 7/11/03, 7lbs 15oz

 

North Carolina or Bust

Living in New York State for the first 23 years of my life was a good opportunity for me to recognize how much I hated cold weather.  Sure, the activities are fun.  Skating, skiing, and snowball fights are great, but they do not outweigh the gray days filled with icky slushy gray snow and bad driving conditions.  My friends and family all lived in NYS as well.  Leaving them would be one the most difficult choices I ever had to make in my life.  Of course I was going to miss my family.  But my girlfriends, both from growing up and from college, were and still are some of the brightest, strongest, most self assured, supportive, beautiful women a person could have as allies.  I didn’t think I would ever find anyone else like them…ever.

After graduating from college, I knew I could not remain in this nearly sub zero climate.  I needed to make a drastic change.  Dave and I had been dating for 2 years and we knew that we wanted to start a life together.  Figuring out where that life would be was still undetermined.  I knew I wanted to move south.  Dave had actually graduated a year before me and was living in Raleigh, NC with one of his fraternity brothers.  I went to visit them and scoped out the area.  I decided the Research Triangle was not for me.  It seemed so sanitary and in every direction there was a new strip mall.  It suited Dave’s needs at the time, because he was attending North Carolina State University for the final class he needed in order to receive his diploma.  He then moved to Wilmington, NC with the same brother, where during spring break 1997, Dave broke his leg in Myrtle Beach and ultimately went home to Buffalo to heal.  I only mention this because all of his belongings were still in Wilmington.  Well, and to mention what a goofball my husband is, since I take any opportunity available to throw jabs at him.  BAM!

I decided to live at home the summer after graduation so I could save money to move wherever Dave and I decided.  It’s funny how I have lived in NC for 15 years, and I still call Skaneateles “home”.  That summer was the last time living with my parents.  Both a sad and liberating feeling rolled into one.  One evening after I got home from work at the local office supply store, Dave and I were on the phone.  “If you don’t like Raleigh, is there somewhere else you had in mind?”  I really had no idea where to go; I just knew where I didn’t want to be.  Dave said, “What about Charlotte?”  I pulled up Charlotte on the newest and greatest thing since sliced bread, the internet.  The first image I saw was of the skyline, with the Nations Bank (now Bank of America) building towering above all the other skyscrapers.  “I’m in.  I am going to work in that really tall building.  I don’t know what they do there, but I am sure I can figure it out.”  I had never lived in a city before.  I went from my rural town of Skaneateles, NY (population of maybe 2500) to the larger town of Potsdam, NY (population 9000).  I never had any sort of diversity in my life.  A city would give me so much more flavor.  Moving to a metropolis like Charlotte (population at the time 500,000) was big time in my mind! 

Dave and I moved to Charlotte in August of 1997 with no jobs and no place to live.  My parents (mom) had agreed to let Dave and I live together, as long as we had a 2 bedroom apartment.  Not sure of her logic, other than putting her mind at ease, that I would remain pure as the driven New York State snow if we had 2 bedrooms.  Since I would be moving down with all of my belongings, my parents (amazing people that they have always been) drove down to Charlotte a couple days before Dave and I in order to research our options for apartment complexes.  They were narrowing down the large list for us so we didn’t need to traipse around the city with a rented SUV full of my most prized possessions.  Do you have any idea the going rate of a Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock CD on the black market?  

Dave and I drove under the cover of night.  As we reached our 11^th hour of driving south on I-77, I could see the lonely Nations Bank building towering above the trees in the distance.  We arrived in Charlotte at 5am and proceeded to the hotel room where my parents were sleeping.  Both Dave and I crashed.

Around 9:30am we woke and were out the door inspecting the 3 apartments we were to choose from.  Everything in Charlotte was so new.  The apartments were so much nicer than anything in Potsdam.  It was like moving up a socioeconomic class without any effort.  All the places had beautiful kitchens and large bathrooms and they even balconies!

After 4 hours or touring, Dave and I went with option #3.  It was a lovely 2 bedroom on the east side of the city in a complex called Wellington Farms.  We signed our lease and were on our way back to the hotel to take a nap.  Before taking my nap, I called the phone company to set up a new number, only to find someone else had already called for that same apartment!  We called the complex and found out that they inadvertently rented OUR apartment to someone else and neglected to cross it off the list.

I was way too tired to deal with this, so Dave and my mom headed back to check out the other available apartments.  I drifted off into dreamland and when they returned, I was given quite a shock.  Dave said, “We got a one bedroom on the 3^rd floor.”  I was confused and looked at my mom.  She said, “You’re not the only tired one.  It was much nicer than the 2 bedroom, it’s on the top floor so no one will be stomping above you, and it overlooks the pond.  You’re welcome.” She flopped back down on one of the beds and was out instantly.

The next morning was moving day.  Fortunately for me, I had to have minor surgery prior to our drive south, so I couldn’t help with any of the heavy lifting.  As Dave and my 62 year old dad moved all the big stuff up 3 flights of stairs in 90 degree heat.  My mom and I carried up things like baskets and towels.

My parents left the next day and before Dave and I could go job hunting, we needed to drive to the coast to pick up all of his belongings; including his car, a 1988 powder blue Plymouth Horizon.  We rented a U-haul to make sure we could fit all of his treasures, including his tree stump coffee table.  OOOOF! 

We packed up the U-haul then spent a little quality time with Billy, Dave’s fraternity brother.  Before long we were back on the road.  I drove the U-haul with air conditioning.  Dave drove the Horizon sans A/C.  At our first rest stop he tried to convince me it wasn’t so bad driving with the windows down and asked if I wanted to trade.  “Dave, you are the color of a tomato and are beyond sweating.  If you think I am going to drive the last 2 hours in that thing you are nuts.”  A side note, Dave had to use that car to go on interviews.  He would drive close to the interview in a t-shirt and shorts, and stop at a nearby McDonalds to change into his suit, so he didn’t show up to the interview looking like a greasy used car salesman who has been trapped in a sauna for too long.  POW!

We were finally starting to settle into our first home together.  Our new place was so pretty, overlooking the Canadian geese swimming in the pond.  Little did we know that in 6 months, we would hear a gunshot coming from across the pond and look out to see a dead goose floating with feathers flying everywhere as if 5 pillows exploded.   Another 5 ½ months later, as Dave and I were walking with the complex manager to the look at larger available units, we passed a Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Crime Scene van.  It was at that moment we decided we needed to branch out a little.  Maybe move to a different part of town to experience new flavors. 

Fifteen years later, I am still working at one of Bank of America’s largest competitors in Charlotte.  I am so fortunate to have found another amazing group of women who have been there for me and supported me through so much.  Buffys unite!  We have a home in the burbs with central air that we will retire in.  And at the moment, both of our cars still have air conditioning…until Dave decides to fix something and blows a fuse.  ZOWIE! 

It Seemed Like a Good Idea

When school let out for summer last year, we thought it would be a nice idea to travel up to NY to spend some quality time with Dave’s parents in Buffalo, and then head east to do the same with my parents in Skaneateles.  Dave decided to save money by driving to NY rather than paying for airline tickets.  How bad could it be, right?  Bad.  It was an excellent reminder not to take car trips longer than 4 hours with kids.

Finding a place to board Kody, our Great Pyrenees, was proving to be a ridiculous task.  Everywhere we looked cost the same rate it would cost a human to stay.  When did all kennels turn into Waldorf Astoria’s?  A good friend of ours recommended we contact a man about an hour north of our home to board Kody.  He was right in our price range at $15/day.  His kennel was “right off of the highway” we would be taking for 11 hours to get to Buffalo.  We would just put the address into the mean lady, Garmin (she can be so condescending).  Dave and I debated over whether to take Kody up the day before our departure, but decided to make a cozy place for him on the floor in the back of the Maxima instead.  He could lay down at the kids’ feet for the brief hour drive.  That went over as well as it would have gone had we put him in the trunk, I imagine.

The cozy place for Kody in the wheel well turned out to be the cozy place for Zach.  I don’t think we even made it out of the county before Kody was up and climbing on the backseat with/on the boys.  The boys started screaming and crying, “Ouch, Kody!” and “Mom, he scratched me with his nails!”  While driving 70mph on the highway I made an executive decision to break the law for 40 minutes.  I told Zach to unbuckle and crouch low on the floor of the car so no passersby would see him and call us in.  Kody was now taking up 3/4 of the back seat and resting his big noggin on Ethan's lap.  Zach was grinning from ear to ear, thrilled that he was free from the confines of his booster seat and seat belt.  Ethan was crying “No fair!  No fair!” because he got the shaft and had to keep his seat belt on and endure the wrath of Pyrenees breath.  Two outta three ain’t bad.

Evil Garmin told us it was time to exit the highway.  I hate that lady.  I can always feel her looking down her electronic GPS nose at me.  She had us driving on winding country roads into the middle of nowhere.  I could hear the dueling banjos.  “You have reached your destination.”  Really, mean lady?  We are in a field.  Dave does not handle stress well.  We still had another 10 hours of driving ahead of us and we hadn’t even dropped off the dog, or found where to drop off the dog.  If Dave had it his way, Kody would stay in this random field to fend for himself with the hillbillies and if he was not here when we returned in a week, so be it.  I called the kennel.

“Dagum, you ain’t nowhere near where ya’ll need to be at.  I’ll come find ya’ll and lead ya’ll back to the farm.”  Ten minutes later the mud coated dually pulled up next to us and a man said, “Hey Ya’ll, I’m Tracy.  How’d ya’ll end up all the way over here?”   Great question, Tracy.  

We followed Tracy to his farm where Kody would check in and we would be on our way.  As we pulled up, there was an elderly woman walking with a 40lb bag of dog food from the kennel to the little shack which acted as the office.  “That's my mamma, Ms. Beverly.”  Ms. Beverly was at the least, in her eighties, but she must have been eating her Wheaties for decades.  Tracy and Ms. Beverly were the owners of the kennel, as well as obedience and retriever trainers.  The whole set up was pretty cool.  Kody’s kennel overlooked a pond and field that went on forever.  He actually seemed to like his temporary housing. 

Kody was settled in his space, so it was time to settle the boys in theirs.  Zach wanted to make the whole trip in the wheel well and we told him that was not an option.  Ethan wanted a turn in the wheel well.  Also not an option.  Dave set up their DVD, gave them each their own set of headphones, and hit play.  I saved the coordinates of the farm in Ms. Meany Garmin.  I wanted to make sure we would be able to pick up my furry baby on our way back without fear of our own personal Deliverance experience.  If we ever take a road trip for that long again (which we NEVER will) Kody will already be settled into his doggy suite long before our departure.

Class Driver

When the Senior Superlatives were announced in high school, I was expecting to win something like "Class Clown" or "Most Obnoxious."  I, however, was given the award of "Class Driver."  The boy who shared this esteemed honor with me earned the title by smacking his car into the back of a stopped school bus while looking at the girl he had a crush on.  While my incident was just as brilliant, it was a bit more costly and involved a hit-and-run.

I had gotten my driver’s permit on my 16^th birthday, in late autumn my junior year of high school.  My mom and I headed to the DMV after school so I could take my written test.  After a long wait, it was my turn.  My mom and I took the test over to a high table for me to begin.  As I was about to answer my 3^rd question, my mother cleared her throat.  I looked at her and she was nodding her head “no”.  I moved my pencil to a different answer, and still a subtle head shake of “no”.  The third answer must have been correct, because when I pointed my pencil at it, the nodding stopped.  Looking back, perhaps they should have monitored the testing area a little more closely.  On my 4^th question (which I will paraphrase, because it was over 20 years ago!), “When oncoming traffic headlights are too bright, what should you do?” I was confident with my answer.  As I moved my pencil toward my answer, I heard the throat clearing again.  This time, I ignored her.  I answered “B - Look to the lower right side of the steering wheel” because, evidently, I wanted to go careening off the side of the road in the dark.  Despite my incorrect answer, I passed my permit test.  My mom handed me the keys to her car so I could drive home.

To be honest, I had been driving for quite some time before I got my permit, and my mom could tell based on her commentary during her instructional car trips with me.  “Mery, you are doing fantastic for this being your first time on the road.”  Rewind.  During the summer months of my 15^th year on earth, my parents were part of a couples’ league at the country club and would go golfing every Friday night.  This left me with a solid four hours to act responsibly as the older sister.  I would ship my brother and sister off to their friends’ houses.  This would give me a chance to hit the open road with my friends.  In the mink brown 1984 Dodge 600 convertible, we would head over to the next town to really cause a ruckus.  We would play miniature golf.

Fast forward to the summer before my senior year in high school.  For one reason or another I was grounded from the car and even had my license and keys revoked by my parents.  I am sure it was warranted, but this meant I was expected to walk?  My friend Hannah was spending the night and we needed provisions from the grocery store two blocks away.  It was a beautifully clear evening in our sleepy town, and I managed to convince Hannah that my parents really wouldn’t care if we took my father’s brand new Acura, as long as we didn’t go anywhere but the store.  My parents were at a movie and my brother and sister were off doing whatever it is they did when they weren’t home.  How would we get caught?

After checking my mirrors, I carefully backed the Acura out of the garage, up the driveway, and out into the street.  That car was so nice.  Riding in luxury gave me even more confidence behind the wheel.  We made it to the store in two minutes.  We grabbed our essentials, Cool Ranch Doritos and Camel Lights.  This trip was taking no time at all and I felt very assured that my parents would never have to know I broke their law. 

As we climbed back into the car, Hannah buckled up for safety, as it was the law.  I did not, as I was a moron.  I pulled out into the street to make our way back to the house.  I was at the first of only 2 stop signs between the store and home.  I stopped.  As I turned right, I spotted a high school chum out of the corner of my eye, walking on the sidewalk where I had just turned from.  I turned around in my seat and instead of pressing the brake pedal, I pressed the gas of the torque machine and while hearing Hannah scream, “MERY!” went straight into a utility pole on the side of the road.  It was not a telephone pole, but I will explain the difference later. 

After what felt like hours (maybe 3 seconds) I looked up to see the spider cracked windshield indented with the shape of my head with stands of my hair hanging from it.  I had ripped the leather on the steering wheel with my lower braces.  My first instinct was to look over at Hannah.  She was ok, but in shock.  I was in shock.  What had I done?  I put the car in reverse to see what damage I had done to the pole.  It was splintered and looked like it might snap in two pieces.  My next instinct was to flee, so I did. I put the car in drive and drove the remaining one block home and pulled the car right into the garage.  Hannah and I got out of the car to inspect the damage done to the front of the vehicle.  Did I mention the car was new?    This was about the time I realized I could wiggle all of my lower teeth in my mouth that were being held in place by my braces.  I assured myself this was not that big of a deal, if the front of the car was ok.  The front of the car was NOT ok.  The front bumper was a crumpled mess.  I looked at Hannah and she looked at me.  No words were exchanged.  Panic. 

I ran into the house and called the first adult I could think of.  I called Cathy, a woman who I worked with at the office supply store in town.  Within 10 minutes she and her husband were at my house and I was sobbing.  She called the movie theater where my parents were watching Die Hard 2.  The manager walked up and down the theater aisle calling out my parents’ names.  To be a fly on that wall in that place. 

Soon after, my parents were home.  The first words out of my Dad’s mouths were, “Are you ok?” but his tone was saying ”…because if you are I will kill you.”   My dad had sent Hannah home after he learned she was ok.  I started crying again as he was walking very swiftly towards me.  I broke into a mild trot as he followed me around the built in picnic table on our back deck.   As he sped up, I sped up.  “Why are you running away from me?  Have I ever hurt you?”  Still jogging I sobbed, “No, but I am afraid today will be the day you do!”  Cathy and her husband left.  I was alone with my parents.   

After a good workout and plenty of explicatives, things calmed down.  At some point during the commotion, my mom called the police in order to file the report for the accident.  I sat with them and my parents at our dining room table, where they asked me a series of questions.  I had lied earlier to my father, and told him I had been wearing my seatbelt and it must have been faulty.  The cops weren’t buying it and I had to come clean.  That earned me another stink eye from my dad. 

The police charged me with…nothing!  They thought I had learned my lesson and did not want to deter me from ever driving again.  Knock wood, that is the last car accident I had.  Lesson learned indeed.  Speeding tickets don't count, right?

Now onto the difference between a telephone pole and a utility pole.  $600.  Since my wreck happened on a weekend, the town had to pay the DPW workers overtime to replace the pole so cost was even more inflated.  Of course, my father had to foot the bill.  Had it been a telephone pole, the cost would have been $900.  Evidently, it was more costly to replace a utility pole so the Mery Pollock Utility Pole cost my father $1500.  That was only for the pole.  The car was an entirely different story.  I still don’t know what that cost him, not to mention the skyrocketing insurance premium.

I was grounded for the remainder of that summer.  No phone, no friends, but they did make me drive.  That was torture, but when you fall off the horsepower, best thing to do is get back on.  I am grateful to have my loving supportive parents.  Even when I am at my worst, they stand by me, or ride by me if necessary.


****Update****
My mom had additional commentary for this particular post.  Is she being funny or upsetting? You decide:

Almost correct. I remember the usher going up and down the aisles looking for someone. I remember thinking " I hope no one has died." I remember him coming over to us with Mr. & Mrs. somebody who had pointed us out, and telling us you had been in an accident, nothing else, and that we should go home immediately. I remember thinking all the way home that you & Hannah were severely injured or dead. I remember pulling in the driveway, seeing the 2 of you standing there and Cathy telling me that you were alright, but the car was damaged. I remember your father getting out of the car and screaming at the top of his lungs with me trying to calm HIM down so he wouldn't have a stroke. I remember Cathy and her husband begging him not to hit you (of course he would not, but they had no way of knowing that with him screaming at you like a banshee). I remember Daddy shouting at Hannah to go home and me telling him that she was supposed to spend the night. I remember him screaming "NO WAY!!!!! go find someplace else to stay for your own good." I remember Cathy & her husband leaving AFTER asking you to tell us the truth. I remember telling daddy that I was taking you to the emergency room for them to look at your glass sharred forehead and hairline and your wiggling teeth. I remember daddy screaming that you could live with it that way for the rest of your life.  I remember calling the police to file a report and you swearing that you were sure the gas pedal had stuck after you had very slowly turned the corner. I remember Daddy screamed at you again that you would drive again "over my dead body." Knowing he didn't mean that, I took you to the emergency room.  I remember the doctor on duty was very concerned about a possible concussion and that your teeth would have been all over the car if you hadn't been wearing braces. I remember calling your orthodontist AT HOME and him agreeing to see you Monday morning.  I remember the police taking pity on you because your father was a deep shade of purple and every swear word I had ever heard was bellowing out of Daddy's mouth. I remember that tthe police did not cite you for driving recklessly or for leaving the scene of an accident; they didn't even suspend your license. I remember Mr. White Shoes [nickname of a family friend] laughing hysterically when I called the village depot to report the pole before the police called them. I remember that it was a Sunday and he told Daddy that normally the cost would be doubled, but that he would wait until Monday to file the report. I remember that he continued to laugh because it was a power pole, and it would "cost more than Mery has in the bank." I remember how quickly we could have lost you. I remember talking Daddy down for days. Those are my recollections.

Love,

Mom

The Smoking Tub

I started smoking cigarettes regularly when I was 16.  I was good at hiding it, for the most part.  I would run errands for my parents, and while out, I would take long drives out in the boonies, which is basically where we lived anyways.  Just me and my Camel Lights, on the back country roads.

I finally mustered up the courage to come out to my parents my freshman year of college.  I was home for fall break, and left the pack of Marlboro Lights (the new college brand) on the kitchen table.  I figured, since I was no longer living under their roof, there wasn't much they could say.  I could not have been more wrong.  They both managed to fit the subject into every phone conversation.

I kept promising my parents and myself I would quit smoking.  When I graduate from college.  When I get a grown-up job.  When I get married.  I was lying to myself for so long that I believed what I was saying.  I decided that if I didn’t quit before I got married, when would I?  Nothing says “blushing bride” like a girl smoking a Parliament Light in her wedding dress.

Day one started early when the alarm went off at 6:30am.  Before I could open my eyes, I felt a smack on my upper arm.  That damn “patch”.  Dave wanted me to quit as much as anyone.  “You can do it, Mery.”  What did he know?  He is the type of person who can smoke a pack of cigarettes in one night, then not have another drag for 2 years.  I was already grumpy and my feet hadn’t hit the floor yet.

The first couple weeks were really rough.  I would survive the day smoke-free, all the while putting everything into my mouth that wasn’t nailed down.  Not the brightest technique when the wedding dress is already paid for and altered.  I had 4 months until Dave and I were bonded for life.  At this rate, I was going to have to buy a second dress in the same size and sew them together.  I also neglected to mention that Dave was on the Atkins diet so while I was blowing up, he was melting away.  The stress of it all was really getting to me.

One warm September evening I was upstairs in our bathroom when Dave came home from work.  I could hear him walking up the creaky wooden steps of our duplex apartment.  Suddenly there was a knock at the bathroom door and he said, “Mery?”  I answered, “Yes?”  Dave paused.  “What are you doing in there?” 

OK, this is the part that may offend some.  From my perspective, as well as Dave’s, when you have been with a person for so many years, there are very few secrets.  Even less shame.  There is never a closed door in our house, unless we have company. 

“What are you doing in there?  Why is the door closed?”  I giggled and answered, “What do you think I am doing?  I am going to the bathroom!”  He opened the door just a smidgen to discover I was not on the toilet.  “Where are you?”  I said nothing.  Dave walked into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain.  There I was, a can of Glade air freshener in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, standing by the open window, in our bathtub.

“What are you, 15?”  Dave asked as he was trying not to crack a smile.  “What is the matter with you?”  I didn’t know what was wrong with me.  I had hit a new low.  Humiliated and humbled, I stepped out of the tub.  My fiancé was now full out laughing at me. 

I confessed.  I had been smoking again for almost 2 weeks.  I had quit for 6 weeks or more, but cracked under the pressure.   Fortunately, I managed to fit into my wedding dress.  Unfortunately, I was smoking again.  I just needed to get through the wedding, then I would quit…about 6 more times.

This May Sting a Little

Being married to Dave means I have to put up with all of his flaws.  I would never admit it to him, but I think he has to put up with a lot more than I do.    I am not the easiest person to cohabitate and share a life with.  Most of the time I have good intentions, but they don’t always turn out well.

I decided to take a whole week off from work to redo both of our sons’ bedrooms.   I thought this would give me plenty of time to accomplish my goals, while being able to take a 2 hour nap every day.  It was time off, after all.  I did the taping and most of the painting, and Dave helped with the more mechanical issues, like light fixtures and electrical sockets.  One room’s outlets were fine, but Zach’s room needed new outlets to match the rest of his room.  We went from dingy wheat color to bright white.

I was sure to get the room in tip top shape before calling in Contractor Dave.  I knew he would be critical of my work and didn’t want to hear how I got paint on the carpet, or missed a spot in the closet.  I picked up the tarps covering the floor and vacuumed the room.  He came into the room and said, “Wow, this looks really good.  You even did great work on the trim.”  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to paint a few walls, but I graciously accepted his accolades. 

It was now his turn to contribute to the project.  I was his lovely assistant.  I got to unscrew all the face plates while he removed the new outlets from their packaging.  Meaning, I was moving about the room removing 23 year old face plates while he was stationary opening plastic bags.   

Zach’s window is on the back of the house right above the circuit breaker box.  Dave went downstairs to turn of the circuit in Zach’s room, and my job was to tell him when it was off.  Easy enough.  I left the vacuum plugged into one of the outlets and after a few switches, it powered down.  I yelled to Dave and he returned to the second floor.

I was sitting next to him on the carpet when he went in to detach the first outlet with his trusty flathead screwdriver.  As he went in for his surgical outlectomy, the screwdriver touched a wire and ZZZZZZAP!   Dave had just been charged like a battery.  “What the FUDGE, Mery??  Are you trying to kill me?”  For those of you who know Dave, you know he did NOT use the word “fudge.”   I was stunned…and laughing, “I’m sorry!  The vacuum is still off and plugged into the other wall!” 

So, what are the odds that there would be two circuits for one bedroom?  I turned my head to see the light in Zach’s closet was still on!  Oops.  I just kept laughing, because that’s what I do when I get nervous.  I pointed to the closet which was less than 2 feet from us both.  The next 20 minutes was a lecture on the danger of electricity and how you need to “always check and recheck” before messing around with wires.  I said I was sorry, what more did he want?

Raise Your Hand

First grade was difficult for Zachary.  The academics were basically a breeze for him; it was his teacher who proved to be the challenge.  In an effort to protect the innocent, we will call Zach’s teacher Mrs. Jenkins.  Mrs. Jenkins was a 23 year old newbie, in her second year of teaching elementary school, fresh out of college.  She was a newlywed, living hours from her family in another state.  I imagine when you are right out of college and teaching, you are prepared to give it your all, with fresh ideas and a love of children.  Zach managed to strip all of that away in one short academic year.

In our defense, we did warn her.  My husband and I even told her to talk to his Kindergarten teacher, a veteran, about ideas to keep him in check.  From a young age, we knew Zach had the makings of a cross between Bart Simpson and Dennis the Menace.  When he got in trouble at home, he would actually get to the naughty step before we even told him to go.  He would calculate risk vs. reward before doing something he was not supposed to, and if he felt it was worth it, he’d do it.

Zach was just downright naughty in Mrs. Jenkins’ class.  On a color grading scale, he would receive a “red dot” in his planner daily.  It was always for something little.  He was talking out of turn, not raising his hand, touching a wall in the hallway while standing in line to go to the cafeteria, or distracting other students when it was time to do some real work.  I don’t think a week went by when he did not have at least one red dot in a week.  No method of threatening or punishment worked for us or Mrs. Jenkins.  I would receive nasty-grams home on a consistent basis.

I was at work on a Tuesday, finishing up a report I had to get done in the next hour.  My phone rang, and it was from an area code only associated with the school system, at the time.  I could feel the lump in my throat and my face heating up even before I answered the phone.

“This is Merydith, how can I help you?” I said with trepidation in my voice to the unknown caller on the other end of the line.  “Hi Mrs. Blank, this is Ms. Q, the assistant principal at Zachary’s school.  How are you?”  Was she kidding?  How was I?  I was freaking out!  “I’m well thank you?”  Ms. Q proceeded, “I have Zachary here in my office, he’s fine, but there was an incident in his classroom today.”  You have got to be kidding me.

After lunch on Tuesday, the class went out for their regularly schedule recess, and then made their way back to the classroom.  They were getting ready to do something as a group on the carpet.  Mrs. Jenkins asked everyone to take their assigned place on the carpet and she went to her desk to get the materials she needed for the group lesson.  Evidently she took too long.  Zach saw this opportunity to get a chuckle from his classmates.

Zachary stood up while all of his peers were sitting quietly, criss-cross applesauce on the carpet.  With his rear end stuck out behind him, in a high pitched impressionistic voice, and right hand held high he said, “I’m Mrs. Jenkins.  Raise your hand if you like my butt!”   The crowd went wild.  Mrs. Jenkins had lost all control of the classroom.  She walked over to Zach, snatched him by the arm and walked him straight to Ms. Q’s office.

That was Mrs. Jenkins second and final year of teaching elementary school.  Last I heard she was a nanny for a wealthy family with 2 children and selling an energy drink on the side.  Did I mention she tried to sell us said drink stating it might calm Zach down?  Sure.  The remainder of the school year consisted of Zach fighting for Mrs. Jenkins’ attention and Mrs. Jenkins fighting to stay sane.

So, first grade was basically a wash for Zach.  He stayed up on his academics, and got a thicker school record at the same time.  I have checked several times and have been assured by administrative staff at the school, that elementary records are not permanent.  Let’s hope that’s true.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Latke

When you are the product of an interfaith marriage there are a few perks.  In December, you celebrate two separate holidays of lights.  There is Hanukkah, the true celebration of light, and Christmas, because there are lights on your tree.    The Pollocks called this holiday combination, Hannumas.  Each of the eight nights of Hanukkah, we would all put on our yarmulkes and light the menorah.  We would eat potato pancakes and play with the dreidel, while hoarding our chocolate coins.  For Christmas we never actually acknowledged the existence of the Christian Savior, but Santa was very cool.   Our tree had multicolored lights and all handmade ornaments.  The tree would not have made Martha Stewart proud by any means, but we thought it was a work of art, every year. 

Friends used to think because we celebrated two holidays so close together, we got double the gifts.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.   My always clever mom would spread out the gifts.  We may have gotten a cool toy the first night of Hanukkah, but the next 3 would be more practical, like underwear or pencils.  On Christmas morning, the presents would be piled high under the tree.  They were methodically placed so that we, the kids, could count them to make sure no one got more than the other.  It didn’t matter what the quality of the gift was, as long as the quantity matched.   With that said, we were never a family who did without.  We basically got everything our little hearts desired.  Santa was good to us, despite our/my abhorrent behavior throughout the year.

My parents also received gifts from Santa Claus.  Every year a box wrapped in brown paper would arrive via the US Postal Service with a return address of The North Pole.  The actual postmark was Peabody, MA but we didn’t know anyone who lived in a 100 mile radius of Peabody.  The package would come with a thoughtfully worded letter addressing my mom and dad, with no mention of us children.  The gifts were always exotic.  One year my dad received a full gorilla suit.  Another year he received big fuzzy bear claw slippers and my mother received rhino slippers. They always had their theories, but I do not think they ever confirmed the true identity of their Santa.
      

The presents I gave out were always from the heart.  I would take a walk down to the local drug store where my father had a credit account.  While this privilege was abused year round, the holiday season was particularly convenient for me to purchase items for family, friends, and myself, and put it all on my dad’s bill.  I probably put the owners’ kids through college with the amount I spent in that place.  Actually, I guess I should say my father was their benefactor.  I could pick up anything from holiday tchotchkes, to coffee mugs, to toothpaste.  I would wrap it up and gift it like I had earned the cold hard cash it took to purchase.

The gifts from my siblings were always an unexpected treat.  One year, my sister wrapped a piece of week old sliced American cheese and put it under the tree for me.  By the time I opened it, it could have been used as a weapon.  My brother was always the best at giving gifts.  I fondly remember the year he gave my father a tie.  As my dad opened the box, I could see the excitement in my brother’s eyes.  My father ooh’d and ah’d at the tie, and said, “You know, I really like this tie.  I think I have one very similar upstairs in my closet.”  Turns out, it was the tie from his closet.

Now that I have children of my own, who are also products of an interfaith marriage, we celebrate Hannumas in our home.  Others try to call it different mash-ups.  Chrismakuh, Chrismanukah, Hannukamas.  None of them hold the sentimental value that Hannumas does.  I admit, spreading out gifts over a nine day period (8 for Hanukkah/1 for X-mas) is a tricky task.  Even trickier, is showing our children the importance of being grateful for the things we already have, and understanding there are those who don’t even have the opportunity to celebrate one holiday, let alone two.  I am grateful for all I have been blessed with.  My family and friends are happy and healthy.  I have a solid and fulfilling career.  And if an ipad is in the cards for me, so be it.

Just Me and My Cello

I was in third grade when I started playing my first instrument.  With so many to choose from, how was a child supposed to pick just one?  Does an 8 year olds choice in instrument help foretell their personality?  When my brother was of age, he chose the trombone.  It fit him.  I cannot explain how, it just did.  My sister chose the trumpet.  She was the most talented of all of us, which is not saying a whole lot.  When she decided to quit band, my parents were not thrilled.  Both my brother and sister thought band geek was the way to go.  I chose the violin.  What does a stringed instrument say?

Our elementary school had quite the little orchestra.  We had both a winter and a spring concert where we, the talented pool of aficionados, would play our little hearts away.   The parents would sit in the audience beaming with pride.  I now attribute this to ear plugs.  I am not sure how else an auditorium of people could sit through a 2 hour performance of screeching strings in a flat “Silver Bells” or sharp “Here Comes Santa Claus”.  I suppose my parents thought I could develop into a prodigy, so they started enrolling me in private lessons over the summer.   The lessons did not help at all.

I grew, so did my instrument.  I decided the violin was not enough torture for me and my parents, so I graduated to a cello.   In fourth grade, my cello and I were the same size.  I would have to transport it to school 2 times a week.  Tuesdays were orchestra rehearsal, and Thursdays were my individual lesson days.  In between, I was supposed to be practicing at home.  If by practicing, they meant screaming and crying in my room, I practiced a lot.  Like any parents would, mine would sequester me in my room for at least 30 minutes per day to practice.   I hated practicing.  It was boring.  I just wanted to be the adolescent phenom with natural born talent, performing in front of an audience.

Everyone knows the old tale of the grandpa walking to school uphill in the snow, both ways, with no shoes.  Did Grandpa have to walk uphill in the snow, carrying a cello?  I did.  So there, Gramps.  Fortunately, the walk home was downhill.  Unfortunately, in the winter, the sidewalks were usually covered in ice.  I did what any cellist of my caliber would do.  I sat on the cello and used it as a sled.  I would point the neck of the rented instrument downhill.  I then would hop on and let fly.  My parents could not understand how my instrument got be so out of tune, especially when I had just had it tuned for my lesson.  I would blame it on my brother or sister, and they would get punished for messing with it.  “It’s not a toy.”  That’s right, it’s a sled.

By the time I reached the seventh grade, all I had to show for my years of cello were pumped up biceps.  I could have arm wrestled a gorilla had I wanted to, and stood a chance.   It was time to come to terms with my lack of talent in the stringed instrument arena.  The only piece I had mastered to date was the music from the attack scene in "Jaws."  I would chase my brother around the house playing it and make him cry.  When I told me parents I was done with the cello, I am pretty sure I remember them high -fiving.  Maybe not, but they were as glad to see that beast go as I was.  I never picked up another instrument, aside from the occasional bongo or triangle.  They were more my speed.  AND, I can kazoo and tambourine like no one you have ever seen!

The Millennium

New Years Eve in 1999 was a historical event for a bunch of reasons.  Many were concerned about the Y2K computer crash, causing rolling blackouts, financial ruin, and riots in the streets.  Working for a major financial institution, I saw people panicking and withdrawing funds to store in their mattresses.  I, on the other hand, had complete faith in the techies, knowing our fortune of $280 was safe at the turn of the century.  Just to be sure, I woke up bright and early to watch as Australia celebrated, making sure there was no catastrophic blackout or riot or mayhem in general.

I was laying in bed, watching the news as reporters from all over the globe joined the celebration in Australia.  Just as I had suspected, nothing happened.  Dave came into the bedroom already fully dressed and offered to make me breakfast in bed, since I didn’t have to be at work until 11am.  I was not going to turn down the opportunity and gave him my order.  Scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice.   Why today?  He had never offered to make me breakfast in bed before.  He was up to something.

A few moments later, Dave was back with my order.  The man was a short order cook, if I ever saw one.   My breakfast was nicely presented on a Styrofoam plate, with an unexpected side of bacon.   I thanked Chef Boyardave and dug into the eggs.  Dave sat there, on the edge of the bed, and watched me eat.  I asked him where his food was, and he said he wasn’t hungry.  Since when?   I took a bite of the toast, and it had a strange taste to it.  It almost tasted like blue cheese.   I asked Dave if he did anything weird to the toast and he just got offended.  I didn’t want to deter him from ever making me breakfast again, so I pushed through, and ate the blue cheese toast.  Later in the day I inspected the bread bag to discover mold.  I guess that was my dose of penicillin for the year.  Maybe he was not the culinary wizard I made him out to be after all. 

After I finished eating my breakfast while under a microscope, I handed the plate back to Dave and he cleared the fine china and brought it back downstairs.  Since I was still hours away from needing to get ready for work, I rolled over and started to doze off again while listening to the celebratory sounds of the land down under.

Moments later Dave was back.  He laid down next to me on the bed, my back facing him.  So that’s why he made me breakfast.  Figures.  “You know I love you, right?”  He was being so weird.  “Yes, I love you too.”  A couple minutes went by, then he said, “This thing in my pocket is really bothering me.”  Gulp.  After five years, here it was.  The moment I had been waiting for.   With my back still to Dave I said, “If it is bothering you, take it out of your pocket.” 

There was fidgeting, then Dave said, “Do you want to see it?”  I knew there was one of two things I would see when I turned over.   I was praying I wasn’t going to be disappointed.  I slowly turned over and there it was.  A navy blue velvet box.  I just stared at the closed box.  “Well, are you gonna take it?”  I took the box out of his hands, continuing to just gaze at it.  “Well, are you going to open it?”  I grinned and opened the box.  It was the most beautiful ring I ever saw.

“Will you marry me?”  Wait wait wait.  “No, you are doing it all wrong.  You have to get down on one knee and ask!”  Call me traditional, but when I envisioned this moment, with the violins playing in a garden in Paris, my suitor was on bended knee.  I would tell our children someday and I wanted to make sure this event was flawless.  Dave chuckled, hopped off the bed, and got down on one knee on the hardwood floor.  “Will you marry me?”   By this point I was shaking.  “Yes, of course I will marry you!!!”  Dave stood up and as we hugged tighter than ever before, Dave whispered, “Phew.”  

Birthday Banana

When we are younger, birthdays seem to have some sort of magical air about them.   Nothing beats the attention.  My parents would do everything they could to make our day special.  In our house, growing up, birthdays were always celebrated from the very moment the honored person woke up.    Each birthday started with the Birthday Banana.  

 

We would wake up and before we hopped in the shower, or even brushed our teeth, we knew the first thing to do was head to the breakfast table.  Once we made it to the table, there it was, the peeled banana, sitting on a plate with a birthday candle glowing.  My dad did a lot of overnight travel for his job, so he was not always home to celebrate with the family.  My creative mother made it possible for him to be a part of our special day by instituting the birthday banana.  My dad would call from all points NY or Ontario just to partake in the festivities.  Like clockwork, at 7:30am, the phone would ring and we would be gathered around the table when answering the phone.  With dad on the phone, the rest of the family would sing in unison “Happy Birthday.”   Even today, it is a competition in our family to be the first one to call whoever’s birthday it is to sing. 

 

I turned 18 while I was away at college.  There a lot of changes when you go away to school for the first time.   Some changes you don’t even realize until you are experiencing them.  My freshman year was difficult for me.  My mom wasn’t there to advise me.  My Dad wasn’t there to console me.  My brother and sister weren’t there for me to torment.  I was homesick a lot.  Fortunately, I had made a couple friends.  I met Meggan and Julie at orientation before my first semester and we were never seen without each other from then on.  We were The Three Amigas.  They put up with me, and loved me for who I was.  They were my new extended family.

 

November 6^th fell on a Wednesday in 1991.   At 7am, I had already decided to skip my first class at 8am.  It was my birthday, after all.   In Bowman West, 1^st floor, Room 1111, I was nestled all snug in my bed, when at 7:30am there was a knock at my dorm room door.   Neither my roommate nor I had any intention of getting up and stepping on the cold tile floor.  I shouted, “Who is it?!”  There was no answer, but another knock.  I grunted and got out of bed and opened the door.  Meggan and Julie were standing in the doorway. 

 

Meggan and Julie were roommates and lived in another part of the building that was only accessible by the outside.  It had snowed the night before, as it always snowed before my birthday.  Julie and Meggan were still in their pajamas, all bundled up in their winter gear standing in front of me half asleep, hunched over, holding a partially peeled banana with a candle sticking out of the top.   Julie flicked the lighter and lit the candle attached to the banana in Meggan’s hand.  In low raspy tones, together they sang, sort of, “Happy Birthday.”

 

I could not believe it.  I was laughing and crying at the same time.  How did they know?  I never told them about the Birthday Banana, since I had just met them 3 months prior.  I asked.  They told me, when my parents were visiting 2 weekends prior, my mom let them in on our family tradition and asked if they would please give me my birthday banana and sing to me.  She even brought a candle for them to use so they wouldn’t have to worry about finding one.  

 

A few minutes later, my parents and brother and sister called to sing to me.  The first thing my mom asked after the chorus, in a coy voice, was, “Did you have any visitors this morning?”   Even though my mom was almost 4 hours away from me, it was like she was with me.  She was still making it my special day, Birthday Banana and all.

 

Years have passed and the tradition of the birthday banana lives on with my family.  My children receive theirs every year.  It is never an orange, or a doughnut, or a cupcake.  Always a banana.  A birthday banana.

Totally Worth It

From a very young age my son, Ethan, has had a knack for creeping me out.  I cannot prove it, but I am pretty sure he has a heightened sixth sense.  In other words, he sees dead people.  At first I thought his imagination was cute and I would find it entertaining to ask questions to see what kind of imagination the boy had.  He would describe things like his "other family" who lived in a parallel dimension.  His mommy's name was Choo and he said she lived far away in North Carolina.  I didn't have the heart to tell him he lives in NC too.  His imaginary daddy's name would change on occasion, but it was usually Uncle.  Ew.  He had a big black dog (ours is white) and a baby sister (he has an older brother).  The details he provided would be enough to give me goose bumps. I know it's normal for children to have imaginary friends; I had a giraffe named Frisky.

On a night like most other in our house, our family had played a round of musical beds.  Zach and Ethan were fast asleep in my bed, Dave was in Zach's bed, and I was in Ethan's bed.  At 3:30am our dog Kody started his single bark every 20-30 seconds, letting us know he had to go outside.  The potty bark is different from all others.  If there were some kind of a threat, he would bark in his low repetitive, "Get the heck out of here or I'll rip your throat out" bark.  His middle of the night potty bark is his way of not waking up the kids, in my expert in canine behavior opinion.  If we didn't let him out in time there would be consequences.  BIG consequences.  After all, he is 150lbs.

I stumbled down the stairs with my eyes still closed and opened the back door for him to go out to do his deed.  I then plopped down on our over-sized chair in the TV room, put my feet up on the ottoman and covered myself up with a blue and white striped Mexican blanket.  As I started to doze off, I heard little feet coming down the stairs.  "Mommy, I want to lay with you."  Ethan climbed up onto the chair with me and cuddled under the blanket.

His eyelids were as heavy as mine.  A moment later, Ethan sat straight up, opened his eyes wide, and pointed to the dining room which is two rooms away on the other side of the kitchen.  "What are they doing here?"  Gulp.  I was almost paralyzed.  In a sing song voice I asked, "What are who doing here, Ethan?"  Ethan pointed again and said, "That guy."  He said it so matter-of-fact, like "There's a potato" or   "Look at that bird."  Not at all scared, just calling it like he saw it.   "W-what guy, Ethan?"  My whole body was tensing up. "Come with me, I show you."

At that moment, I scooped Ethan up into my arms and ran up the steps and then ran into Zach's room where Dave was snoring like an ogre.  In a whisper yell I said, "Dave!  Wake up! Someone is downstairs!"  I was laughing at myself and how ridiculous the whole scenario sounded.  Dave popped up and looked at me and Ethan with a confused stare.  "Huh?"  I told him how Ethan claimed he saw someone in the dining room and I freaked out, leaving Kody outside.  He was going to have to go let the dog in because I had no plans of returning to the first floor of the house until daylight.  Dave mumbled something then went downstairs to let the dog in.

I saw this as a good opportunity to grill Ethan for more information.  We were laying in Zach's bed and I asked him, "Ethan, do you know the man standing in the dining room downstairs?"  Again, very matter of factly, Ethan responded, "Mommy, he wasn't standing, he was hanging."  The paralysis was back.  "Honey, what do you mean he was hanging?"  Obviously a 2 year old does not know the term "hanging" like I do.  "You know, up close to the ceiling."  I chose not to ask anymore questions about the position of this mystery man and moved on to other questions.  I thought if I didn't get them all in now, he might forget by morning.

"Ethan, how old is the man?  Like Daddy or like Pop Pop?"  He was an older Daddy.  "Was he happy or sad?"  Evidently the man looked mad.  "What was he wearing?"  A white shirt.  "Any pants?"  Did we have a pervert in our dining room?  "No pants, his shirt was long."  Hmm.  "What was he wearing on his feet?"  I figured if he was hanging, maybe Ethan saw his shoes.  Ethan started to giggle and said, "Oh Mommy, he no have feet like me and you."  OK, I was done and completely wigged out at this point.  I decided to stop asking questions that I really did not want the answers to.  Within a few moments, Ethan was off in dreamland, and I was in my own personal horror movie.

The next morning I told Dave what had happened and he wrote me off as a crackpot, knowing what an imagination Ethan had.  I called Ethan into the living room which is connected to the dining room.  "Ethan, do you remember what you told me last night?"  Ethan pointed toward the dining room hutch and said, "Yes, the man hanging right there.  Well, he not there now, it's not dark out."  Phew.  I asked him to tell Dave the whole story; Dave rolled his eyes at me and walked out of the room.  I was laughing again.

Later that evening, we went over to our friends' house for a small gathering.  Of course, I was not going to keep this story to myself.  I told anyone who was willing to listen about Ethan's close encounter.  Some scoffed, others were completely creeped out.   I just laughed at how silly the entire thing was, now that I was removed and looking back.  It started getting late and someone needed to go home to let Kody out so we didn't get any unwanted presents.  Zach and Ethan asked to spend the night, and Dave wasn't ready to leave either.  Since we had taken two cars (this happens a lot), I went home to care for the pooch.  I knew Dave and the boys would be home first thing in the morning.

While driving the twenty minutes home, I started thinking about the angry floating pantless man with no feet who may or may not be in my dining room when I got home.  I almost turned around to go back to our friends' house but I mustered up the courage and went home.  When I got there, I let Kody out, and stood on the back deck while he did his business in the backyard.  I was not going to stay in the house alone.  Kody came back up onto the deck and we both went inside.  Him first, of course.  I locked up the house and ran upstairs.

Like clockwork, Kody started his single bark every 20-30 seconds indicating his need to go outside.  The time was exactly 3:30am again.  There was no way I was going down there.  From my bed I yelled, "It's ok Kody!  You can go poopy in the house!  Mommy won't be mad!"  He must have taken me up on the offer because the poop siren stopped.

The next morning, bright and early, Dave came into our bedroom and the first thing out of his mouth was not Good Morning.  "Kody sh*t all over the dining room carpet.  It smells really bad.  I'm not touching it."  I whipped off my covers and sat up in bed.  I put on my slippers, started walking toward the bedroom door and said, "Totally worth it."

The number of  "sightings" have lessened as Ethan gets older.  I cannot say I am disappointed.  Some people call it a paranormal sensitivity.  Others may call it the shining.  I call it panic attack inducing.

My Furry Boy

The summer of 2005 was a hot one.  My husband put up a split-rail fence around our entire back yard which must be about ½ acre.  He did it all on his own, despite the half-hearted commitments a couple neighbors had made.   Dave did everything from digging the post holes to concreting the posts to putting up the chicken wire.  He did a professional job, in my humble opinion.  The fact that he did not keel over from heat exhaustion or a heart attack was the added bonus.

Dave and I had discussions about getting a dog, now that Zach was a little older.  We were by no means going to get one anytime soon because we could not agree on an age, let alone a breed or where we would look to get one.  I knew that when the time was right, our canine would come into our lives, one way or another.  Now that the fence was done, we would be ready, right?

Back in the days of a larger financial cushion, Dave, Zach and I would go out to dinner at least once per week, and usually go to the same place each time.   We would go to Lupie’s in Huntersville.  Dave could get his Bongo Burger (super huge slab of ground beef with everything on it) along with a G-Whiz (Busch in a can) for $1 each.   I could get a piece of the quiche-of-the-day with a side salad and fruit.  Zach would get his usual as well, a hot dog.  Zach loved going there because he had a crush on the owner, and we loved going for the food.

After splitting the best banana pudding this side of the Appalachians and paying the check, we made our way out to the car.  Parked next to us was a Suburban with 2 Great Danes peeking out of the windows, while their owners were getting out of the car for their turn to eat at Lupie’s.  As the passenger shut his car door, I saw “The Great Dane Rescue” magnet sign on his door.  I had been meaning to look into volunteer opportunities there so I took advantage of the situation and introduced myself. 

The man was very friendly and told me his wife was actually the owner of the rescue.  They were always looking for volunteers.  He joked that I could even take one of the dogs home with me.  I laughed it off and he proceeded to say, “We have more than just Danes, you know.  We got Sheppards, Poodles, Boxers, a couple Labs.”  He then turned to his wife walking towards us and said, “Honey, what kind of dog came in yesterday?”  His wife replied, “A Great Pyrenees.”  My eyes got as wide as saucers, and I gasped. 

What were the odds?  Growing up, my parents owned and showed, and sometimes bred Great Pyrenees.  Our family pet, Paco, won Best of Breed at the Westminster Dog Show one year.  I always vowed I would someday have my own.  Unfortunately, pure bred Pyrenees sell for anywhere from $800 -$2000 a piece, and there was no way I would ever convince Dave to spend that kind of money.  The fact the Great Dane Rescue had a Pyr who just arrived and I just happened to run into the owners was my sign.  Dave knew it was my sign too.  “Looks like we’re getting a dog.”  I laughed.  “Dave, can’t we just go meet him?”  The Great Dane Rescue holds an open house every other Sunday afternoon for the public to come in and look at all their tenants available for adoption.   The next open house was in 4 days.

At home that evening after putting Zach to sleep, Dave said to me, “Mery, you know if we go meet him, you are going to want him.”  What did he know.  It was completely possible that I would meet this animal and not connect with it.  Just because he was a Pyrenees, a male, and already house broken?  Please.

Sunday came and we were at the gates of the Rescue promptly at 1pm when they opened.  I even had a friend meet us there to be an objective observer.  We parked and walked over to where all the dogs were playfully meeting perspective parents.  I looked all around, but no sign of a Pyrenees.  I caught the attention of the man we had met a few days prior.  He told me “Chuckie” was in a run and he would go get him and asked that we wait where we were.

I was so nervous.  To meet a dog.  What was the matter with me? I then saw the man as he was cresting the hill.  Then I saw the leash.  Then I saw him.  A gawky, underweight, limping, shaved white dog.  Were they sure he was a Pyrenees?   They came over to us and I got down to the dog’s level.  He jumped on me and we fell to the ground.  I laughed out loud and at that moment Dave said to our friend, “Take a look at our new dog.”  Why would someone let this fella get so undernourished and dirty and bald?  I asked a lot of questions.

“My wife got a call that there was a Great Dane up in Statesville, NC who got picked up by Animal Control so we went up to get him because they are a kill shelter for animals under the age of 2.  When we got there the guy asked if we wanted to take the Pyrenees too, since he was so sweet and his owner gave him up.   After he escaped so many times from his home the owner decided he wasn’t worth the hassle.  They guy at Animal Control didn’t have the heart to put him down.”

No question in my mind.  Chuckie was ours.  First order of business was going to be to change his name though.  Chuckie?  I think not.  We changed his name to Kody, and I think he liked his new name too.   He was our little bear and an instant member of our family.

Once we got Kody home, we set up an appointment with the veterinarian to make sure he was in tip top shape.   Turns out “Chuckie” must have spent a lot of time on his own.  Most of his teeth were broken from chewing on rocks.  He had a nasty cyst on the pad of one of his front paws, and three (yes three) types of worms.  Hookworms, ringworms, and roundworms.     He was a mess.  Thank goodness for doggie drugs.  He was in much better condition after a couple weeks.

Here’s where the fence comes back into the picture.   After Kody had been treated for his ailments, he felt much stronger.  He felt so strong, in fact, that he was able to climb our fancy new fence and escape.  So this is what he would do to his previous owner.  No worries, the Blanks are smarter than the average Pyrenees.  Dave went out and bought an electric fence wire to go around the top of the fence.   After Dave installed the wire, he felt the need to test it out.  “I am not going to subject the dog to anything that I wouldn’t be able to handle.”  He tested the wire by touching it.  Nothing.  He then grabbed the wire and…ZZZAAAAAP!  Dave was knocked to his knees.  “It works.”

It only took one good shock for Kody never to try to jump the fence again.  After a few months we turned it off all together.  As most Pyrs do, he continues to walk the entire perimeter of the fence as a way to protect, or maybe e is just looking for flaws so he can escape.  I like to think it is the former.  That isn’t to say that he doesn’t still escape.  Anytime a door is left ajar, Kody sees it as an opportunity to go explore.  I cannot tell you how many times Dave and I have screamed at the boys for leaving a door open. 

More than a handful of strangers have pulled into our driveway, opened their back door, and Kody came out grinning from ear to ear.  One Saturday afternoon, a white Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway.  I was watching Zach ride his bike so I happened to be in the driveway.  A woman stepped out of the SUV and said, “You missing your dog?”  Oh great, he got out and I didn’t even notice this time.  “I am so sorry!  Thank you so much for returning him.”   The woman was laughing and said, “Actually, I was out helping my friend look for her dog.  My back door was open and Kody hopped right in.  He is such a sweet boy!”  I couldn’t argue.  Kody does like to keep us on our toes.

We are so fortunate to have been blessed with such a beautiful, loving, amazing, and stubborn animal.   His family comes first.  Kody is a great protector.  I never have to worry if Dave needs to go out of town for work because Kody is on 24 hour guard of his “flock” sleeping in front of the front door.  He allows us to lay on him like a pillow.  He nudges like a cat until you pet him.  He is a lap dog in a horse sized body.  My mom is convinced he is another pet we had growing up, Rudy, reincarnated.    As angry as he can make me, my love for him will always be overpowering, just like my other two sons.