EVEN BABE RUTH STRUCK OUT SOMETIMES

   

     
          The waves are washing up on the shore not far from my little perch as I write.  I don't want you to quit reading just because I'm in paradise right now.  (Thanks Daniel Karr, my extraordinary nephew and photographer for this view!) The flavor of my experiences hasn't really changed much, it is just that the environment has become decidedly more exotic.The only drawback about being in paradise is that I brought my accident-prone, scatter-brained self with me.   Don't get me wrong, this is a vacation of a lifetime! My husband's first visit to Hawaii, and my first after a very long absence.  I have a love for this spot that goes back just about as far as my memory will take me.  My parents were missionaries in Japan, so we "had" to stop in Hawaii on the way to and from our destination for about a week at a time.  I honestly don't know how many times I've been here, but I can tell you that my earliest memories include a Waikiki beach with little more than two hotels on it (The Royal Hawaiian and the Moana).  So you get the drift...I'm older than dirt, and I love Hawaii.  This trip is made even more special by the fact that my parents (89 and 90 years old) are here too.  I don't get to see them nearly often enough, so I am doubly blessed!            
         After my first good night's sleep in paradise, and my reminder of all of the scantily-clad lithe young bodies parading around without a shred of self-consciousness, I decided to visit the work-out facility at the hotel.  Right by the door were two elliptical machines.  One of them was occupied by a man who appeared to be in his seventies, but remarkably fit.  The other one beckoned me, reminding me to go easy on my bum knee.  Okay, I thought as I looked at all of the fitness freaks on equipment that had been conceived in the lab of some evil genius whose day job was black ops.  "I will not be discouraged!  I will exercise until my sweat is dropping freely to the floor!"  I climbed onto the elliptical which reminded me a bit of mounting a horse.  I put my feet on each step, and pushed my right foot in an effort to get the rotation started. Nothing happened.  I transferred all of my impressive weight onto my right leg.  Nothing happened.  I glanced self-consciously at the elderly man moving at Mach IV on the machine beside me, and decided the machine must need to be turned on FIRST. 

 I switched my attention to the screen in front of me as my feet strained to move the gears inch by inch.  Whose idea was it to make the controls of an exercise device look like a cock pit?  I noticed that one of the buttons was marked in green and said "quick start".  Aha! Nothing happened.  My legs were burning with the effort to move the gears incrementally.  I punched the button three more times in case it was confused by my intent.  Still no life on the control panel.  The Olympic athlete on my right glanced over at me and said, "Oh, you have to get your feet moving before you start the machine, just move your legs and get it started then you can push the button." 
       It took all of my acting ability to remain calm. What did he think I had been doing for the last two minutes?  My legs were shaking from the effort, and sweat had popped out on my brow, and I had not even gotten the machine started yet!
Clearly I had selected the most difficult machine in the entire torture chamber!  Then Mr. Olympus said, "I just have three more minutes left, then I will help you get started."  I gritted my teeth. "Thanks".  Something about my desperation must have gotten my feet moving just enough that when I pushed the button this time, the cockpit lit up like a Christmas tree.  I looked for the button that said "easy", but my defective machine didn't have it.  My legs were straining in slow motion, and the timer (also obviously defectively slow) began to count on the display. I put my heart and soul into the arm and leg movements of the machine....pumping.....pumping for what was surely 20 minutes.  Mr. Killjoy on the machine next to me finally slowed to a stop and looked at me saying cheerfully, "There, my last three minutes.  Oh good, you got it going."  (Three minutes indeed! All of the timers in the facility were clearly not working) "You can change the intensity with this dial right here," he said as he rolled a dial up and down.  
         I smiled my first genuine smile of the morning!  And immediately moved the dial in a downward motion.  "Uh, it won't go down any more than that," he said awkwardly. I smiled my very best fake smile and thanked him dismissively.  A quick look at my timer showed that I had endured for 4 minutes.  Sweat was pouring off of me and I was huffing and puffing.  My goal was one more minute (or until the Olympian disguised as an old man left the room).  My first and last workout lasted 8 minutes.  But the good news? The machine assured me that I burned 35 calories!!   
          That evening my World War II Veteran father took us to Hickham Air Field to see the mortar damage and the monuments surrounding the Pearl Harbor attack.  There is no better guide than someone who knows the names on the plaques personally.

  Then we all feasted on Mongolian Bar-B-Q at the Officers Club.  After all, I needed to build back those 35 calories that I burned.  Real Mongolian Bar-B-Q is so much better than the chain store variety.  It is my hope that all of my readers can enjoy the experience for themselves sometime.  My parents, one sister and her husband, a niece and nephew, and of course my husband were all there enjoying the experience and the laughter.  When we finally selected our fortune cookies, I laughed at the funny and appropriate sayings that everyone opened.  My husband had jokingly said earlier that day, "Never do today what you can put off for tomorrow."  Now he was faced with a fortune that said just the opposite.  My niece, Ashley, had been to the doctors office just that morning with a fever and infection.  Her fortune said, "Don't just treat the symptoms, root out the cause."  I eagerly opened my cookie to find this encouraging little tidbit.

         Humph!  Just because I made a fool of myself in the fitness center, I didn't need to sit here and be mocked by a cookie!  I ignored it just as I did all fortunes.  I was above such nonsense!  We talked and laughed a bit more, enjoying the beauty of the "Missing man Formation" monument.

 Then several of our group decided to get another fortune cookie.  Ha, I laughed to myself, I'll show them.  I will get a better fortune this time!  I happily selected another cookie and eagerly broke into it.  This is what I saw!

         Well, one is easy to ignore.  Two of the same fortune is a little more difficult.  So, I resigned myself to finding a little relevance in the little saying. As the week wore on and my cell phone disappeared, I heard the little voice saying...."Even Babe Ruth struck out sometimes!"  All my pictures of Hawaii were gone!  Then I started thinking about all of those home runs Babe Ruth accomplished.  If he struck out sometimes, what was he doing all those other times?  I thought about my 10 days in paradise....definitely a home run.  I thought about the quality time with my husband and my parents....another home run.

 All the kind people we met on our travels were another home run!  We have so much to be thankful for!  I refuse to let the loss of a cell phone define my mood! Home Run!

DECEPTIVE PITFALLS

                  When you least expect it, the most ordinary objects in your life will turn on you and bite you right in the rear end!  Have you ever reached for something only to discover that through some cosmic mix-up you have grabbed something entirely different?

 Toothpaste became hemorrhoid  cream, shampoo became bath oil, and one of my personal favorites which only happens when putting make-up on in a dark car on the way to church....eye liner became lip liner.  Not that I've ever had any personal experience with any of these (if anyone says they saw me at church with black lips, they're lying).  

                As a good citizen, I feel I should warn you about some possible pitfalls just waiting to happen. Vitamins for instance can be wonderful, but you must beware!  On the good side of the vitamin controversy are grown-up Gummi supplements that make the struggle to remember to take a vitamin everyday a thing of the past.          As soon as I discovered the giant jar of colorful,  chewy  yummiliciousness labeled "Multi-Vitamins" I never again forgot another day of healthy supplements.   Not only that, but soon after I acquired the first bottle of vitamins, I happened upon a massive jar of chewy Vitamin C.  I know a good thing when I see it.  My overall health has improved dramatically. Soon I will acquire the chew-able calcium tablets and the B12 gummis.  Then I will be like She Ra, Princess of Power!

Of course the very thing I celebrate now caused a crisis in my little world when my children were young.  You see, not only did I constantly forget to take my own vitamins, but I usually neglected to give them to my children.  Then one day I saw the answer staring at me in the grocery store.

Flintstones vitamins! I would keep these on hand and my children would beg to have their daily dose!  I was a genius! I carefully selected a box of Flintstones vitamins plus iron because I was a good mother, and I was going to give my children every possible advantage! 

These were the Pediatricians number one choice!  It said so right on the box!  I congratulated myself all the way home, and placed the treasured bottle on the kitchen counter right next to my coffeemaker so I would never again 

forget to help my children in this manner!

         As I stumbled to the coffeemaker the next morning, thankful for the extra thirty minutes of sleep, I found my two industrious toddlers happily waiting for me on TOP of the kitchen counter.  They smiled displaying their stained teeth and chins, proudly showcasing the empty "candy" jar they had just demolished.  Oh dear!  How many vitamins were too many?  I contacted the Pediatricians office and learned that indeed you CAN get too much iron in your system.  They would need to see the boys right away.  Until that morning, they boys thought of the Doctor's office as a magical place where you got a sucker and stickers.  It was almost as good as Chuck E. Cheese.  That illusion was shattered in one brief visit. My sweet little walking garbage disposals obediently drank down the Ipecac syrup, happily staring at me with trusting eyes.  Then it hit.  The vomiting began.  Up came the brightly-colored vitamins they were so excited about.  The fountain continued. Next came the chicken nuggets from dinner the night before. The boys stared with horrified looks of utter betrayal as their stomachs turned inside-out, letting go of goodies that entered their systems in utero.

          That was the day that going to the doctor transformed from a cake-walk into navigating a minefield.  Never again would it be routine.  If you have ever wondered what kind of memory a two and three year old have, let me assure you it is legendary.  

           Sometimes we just outsmart ourselves.  We fall into potentially dangerous areas because of a simple mix-up.  Unfortunately, the only lesson I seemed to learn from this incident was that I would never again give my children vitamins.  

            Fast forward about 6 years.  Curiously, both of my boys had been diagnosed with ADD.  Each morning before school, I would dispense their tiny little tablet of Ritalin.  One morning after they swallowed their medication and gathered their books and supplies for school, I reached over on the counter for my own Thyroid medicine, also a tiny tablet.  I stared at it.  Something was wrong. My tablets were a pale blue, this tablet was a pale pink.  I grabbed the bottle and took a closer look. Oops.  I had the wrong one.  I had just given both of my boys Thyroid medicine. I reluctantly called the school nurse.  At least this time there was no need for ipecac.  Their teachers and the nurse observed them uneasily all day, then gladly gave them back to me at the end of the day. Whew!  Crisis averted.

               This tendency to disguise things as something else never seems to stop.  My husband and I recently attended a beautiful wedding in Charlotte, North Carolina.  After the ceremony we drove to a stunning country club where we sat at tables on the immaculately manicured lawns.  We were served delicious ice-cold glasses of sweet tea as we awaited the wedding party.  It was a bit warm and humid and that sweet tea really hit the spot.  I'm not really a drinker of adult beverages, and usually I can detect even the faintest hint of  alcohol in something.  I simply don't like it.  But imagine my surprise when I discovered (after 3 glasses) that this tea was made with "Fire Fly" vodka.  WHAT?  I don't remember a whole lot about that wedding reception except that it was really, really fun!

               Things can often deceive us.  It is a wonder that we ever survive into adulthood and beyond. 

HYSTERIA

         
 How many ridiculous horror films did I watch in my youth that triggered reams of heart-felt belly laughs? The melodramatic reactions of the silly girls in these stories left me torn between indignation that they should represent women in such a poor light, and hilarity at the over-acting and never-ending screams. I knew in my heart of hearts, at the very core of my being, that frightened or not, I would never react like these feather-brained nincompoops in the movies!
          But as fate would have it, I was to be put to the test during my Freshman year at Baylor University.  My best friend Susan was my roommate (see the July 14th post on pranking for more adventures with Susan).  We lived on the first floor of Collins Hall and had already made some wonderful friends.  For the first time in my life I was living in an environment filled with potential friends, and very few authority figures.  It was a time for self-discovery and realization.  I saw a few friends around me embark on paths of self-destruction, and I began to realize that the truths and morals on which I had been raised were valid and valuable.  I quickly saw that I had one of the greatest roommates anywhere. 

          However  I also learned that I (who adored sleeping late) was the only one in our room who could be awakened by an alarm clock.  It was my job to stagger out of my bed when Susan's alarm went off and pull her nice warm covers off of her bed so she would eventually wake up.  Sometimes even that did not work.  I had never known anyone who could sleep more soundly.  I remember a couple of times I actually dragged Susan off of her bed onto the cold hard floor where she DID wake up (a little grumpy perhaps) 
           One night after a few weeks in school, we repeated what was becoming a routine in our room.  We followed our various beauty regimens which on that night included my newest hair discovery.  I learned that if I put my longish straight hair in a ponytail on top of my head, and rolled the ends up on orange juice cans, it gave my stick- straight hair the appearance of body, bounce and thickness the next day.  Of course, I looked a little strange, but sometimes you just have to work toward delayed gratification. Our Wing Ding, Pam checked on us once the dorm was locked down for the night (11:00 pm if I remember correctly) and chastised us as she did every night for not locking our door. We promised we would as we did every night (but did not always follow through).  We finished our class prep, talked and laughed, set our alarms, and finally went to sleep.

          It was the sound that woke me at 3:45 in the morning.  It wasn't loud, but I had never heard anything like it before.  It was between a quivery moaning sound and a scream, but it was not loud at all.  The sound was coming from the direction of Susan's bed, but for some strange reason, it was pitch black and I could see nothing.  My sleep befuddled brain could not grasp the fact that most of the time the lights in the dorm courtyard shone brightly enough to filter through our window treatments.  We had also had to adjust to the constant light coming through the bottom crack of the door because the hallways were kept fully lighted all night long.  I did not stop to consider any of this when I woke up to utter darkness, I just felt that something was terribly wrong.  
         "Susan, What's wrong?" I called urgently.  After a few more of the spine chilling sounds coming from the direction of her bed, she finally articulated a few words.  With fear in every syllable, she screamed, "THERE'S A MAN IN HERE!"  Terror shot through me like a bolt of lightening!  What my eyes could not see, my mind supplied in horrifying detail. I could envision the man standing over Susan preparing to plunge a knife into her. Fear did not inhibit my vocal chords as it had Susan's. With sound so loud it woke students six floors above us, I released a scream of epic proportions!  As I heard myself shrieking the hysteria began to take control of me.  My scream was followed by Susan's repeated mantra, "THERE'S A MAN IN HERE!'  As soon as she finished her cry, another scream ripped from my lungs still loud enough to wake the dead. Again Susan's shouted warning!  Again my shriek!  Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind I began to realize that he must surely be gone by now, but the screams would not quit erupting from me and I was completely helpless to stop them.  This was actual bonafide hysteria.  This would be humiliating if my mind ever returned to my control.  
          Finally, after what felt like an eternity, light began to shine under the door, and through our window. Followed very quickly by our door being thrown open and our sweet dorm mother rushing in and coming immediately to my bed to gather me in her arms.  "What happened?" she asked quickly, looking in my eyes.  The crowd of girls huddled outside our door looking frightened and concerned all looked to me for answers.
          "Uhhhhh...mneehhhh....uhhhhh" I stated articulately as I looked to Susan for answers.  I pointed at her since my ability to speak logically had not yet been restored.  The focus changed.  Our dorm mother quickly switched bedsides to help Susan.  My mind was beginning to reboot.  Susan explained what happened.  I knew almost immediately that we had supernatural intervention from God when she began her explanation with the statement, "I woke up because I felt my covers move."  Only Susan and I knew how impossible that was without God's help.  She could see the vague outline of the man standing over her and she began to scream.  At least she was trying to scream.  Fear made her voice do strange things.  The noise was enough to cause the intruder to flee, and to wake me up.  
          As I sat in my bed soaking in the lights that were now shining brightly, awareness gradually returned.  With it came the question of the unusual darkness.  Our dorm mother explained that the reason it took a few minutes to respond to us is that the breakers had been turned off for the entire dorm.  She had to turn them back on before she could find her way to our room.  (I remembered the vision I had of the man holding a knife over Susan and thought she should have come to us first, but I was still experiencing some shock) Two policeman arrived and began their investigation.  They discovered that the intruder had prepared a window at the end of the hall earlier in the day.  In the middle of my interview I remembered the orange juice cans on top of my head.  It is a strange feeling when you want to be taken seriously, but you realize that you look like an imbecile.  
          Events of this magnitude have surprising ripple effects. The biggest shock to me was how quickly the word spread all over campus.  But another surprise to me was the physical reaction I had to deal with for a while. Susan and I got an early start to the day since there was NO way we could go back to sleep in that room.  In fact, Susan packed her bag and went home to Abilene for a few days.  I spent the next night or two in my big sister's place.  Lynda was a Junior at Baylor.

  I made my way across the quiet, foggy campus that Fall morning to see Lynda, after the police had finally left.  The walk was beautiful with early morning light fighting to burn through the fog and sparkling on the moss-draped trees. A loud snap echoed to my left and I literally dove to the ground with an involuntary cry and my arms covered my head for protection.  It was a squirrel scampering from tree to tree.  It would be years before I heard of PTSD, but I suppose these were symptoms.  
          Months later the police captured a serial rapist who they believe was the intruder in our room.  We were glad to know that he was behind bars, but by then I had lost my wonderful roommate.  She transferred mid-year to another University.  We remain friends today although we live half a continent apart.  But I have to live with the realization that I am not above reacting like those feather-brained nincompoops from the low budget horror movies.  It is a little embarrassing.

HOW SHALL WE THEN PRANK?

         

 Wise people have often admonished, "write about what you know."  You may have noticed that I most frequently write about embarrassing screw-ups.  There is another topic I feel fully qualified to cover: the fine art of "pranking."

            Anyone can decorate a yard with toilet paper, or "fork" the front lawn of an intended target, and I have gleefully done both. 

         But the best pranks are 1. creative  2. funny to both the givers and receivers and 3. not destructive in any way.   I have to give mad props to my elder siblings for much of my education in the art of pranking.  One of my favorite recollections took place in Japan when my oldest sister who was already in High School and my slightly older brother who was in Middle School pulled a prank on Mr. Lady. Yes, that was his name.  He seemed to us to be the absolute stereotype of a British scholar, right down to the cardigan that he wore everyday.  I'm not sure about this, but it may have even sported patches on the elbows.  Shirley was the only one of us to actually have a class with him, and although she admitted later that he was a good teacher, at the time she considered that English class sheer agony. 

            Unfortunately for Mr. Lady, David (my brother) made a couple of interesting discoveries that Fall.  When he stepped out onto the roof that extended below his second story window, David realized that he could see through the windows of the high school classrooms several blocks away with a pair of binoculars.  This was great fun, because several teachers at The American School in Japan taught English as a second language on certain evenings in that building.  We could recline on the gentle slope of that roof and "spy" on the teachers!    

          There came a day when spying just wasn't enough.  But we had an amazing and harmless weapon at our disposal.  We had our father's disturbingly powerful strobe light often used for the filming of home movies.  I'm sure that no one under the age of 45 could possibly have any clue as to the horrific intensity of these contraptions.  I have no doubt that the energy required to operate these lights could have powered three small countries.  Most of the benchmark events of our family's life were accompanied by film of all of us squinting painfully into a camera that was accompanied by this tortuous device.  

          My genius siblings realized that the strobe light was powerful enough to shine into the window of the classrooms of the school like a giant spotlight.  Armed with the binoculars, and perched on the roof with extension cords hanging out of the window, they plotted their prank with the precision of an armed attack.  The moment Mr. Lady turned his back to the window to write on the chalk board, the beam of light would flood through his window.  In response to the light, he would turn around, but the “strobe fighters” would extinguish it before he could find its source! Their reward was great.  They could see the unflappable Mr. Lady becoming flustered before their eyes.  That was quite a prank.  I knew then as I sat on that roof top that I was watching greatness in action. 

                              They also modeled other minor pranks for my young impressionable brain.  I loved the time Shirley brought a needle and thread to school and surreptitiously stitched the sleeves of Mr. Lady’s cardigan closed as it hung enticingly on a coat rack.  To this day, I have to smile when I imagine him trying to put his arms through the cuffs.

          Usually a good prankster has to have a partner in crime.  When we moved to Abilene, Texas, my partner was Susan Parker.

  Our targets were usually the staff members of our church because we loved them.  In our twisted minds pranks = affection.  Examples of these little acts of love included the gathering of a couple of dozen tiny little frogs that we captured out at Susan’s farm.  We smuggled them into church on one of the many school days that we were supposed to be out selling advertisements for the school newspaper.  When the coast was clear we lovingly placed them into the top drawer of the desk of our Minister of Music, Tom. (If you ever read this, Tom, I’m just kidding, it was someone else).

        There were some great pranks at Baylor where my partner in crime absolutely was NOT Nancy Thomas who later became a judge in the great state of Texas.  Those were NOT our pledge uniform skirts hanging from the flagpole either!

         As a young single news reporter at KRBC back in Abilene, I found myself teaching a sweet class of young 8^th grade girls in Sunday School.  This is when I realized that it was time to pass the tradition of creative pranking to a new generation.  I asked my girls to begin collecting old newspapers.  When we had a huge stockpile, I tricked the Minister of Music (always a fun target) out of his house keys and we filled his bedroom from floor to ceiling with wadded-up newspapers.   I also bonded with my girls during our little escapade.  I learned that harmless pranking can be very beneficial to building relationships.

             You probably think that once I became a grown-up, I put away childish things.  You would be wrong!  One of my favorite bonding moments with a group of young women in my church in Columbia, South Carolina occurred when we took a pair of enormous novelty nylon granny panties (I’m talking about panties so large that my son was using them as a window covering), and hung them on a clothes line that we strung between two columns on the front of our pastor’s house.  

These are wonderful, constructive memories of church volunteerism.   As for other pranks….I cannot divulge them or our partners in crime (see Eli and Diane?  I can keep a secret!)

HONEY BUCKET BLUES

          One of the most pivotal events engraved upon my memory of the early years in Japan, did not actually happen to me.  The ripple effects of this incident reached out to a vast number of  us ignorant foreigners living in Japan at the time. It forever changed my perception of some of the most influential people in my life.  It is a story that you may not wish to read because I seriously doubt that you will be able to forget it, and if you are squeamish...let's just say it may bring to your mind images that you would rather not harbor. 
          Let me set the scene for you.  Japan in the mid-sixties was a place with a frantic pace of modern development at every turn.  A high speed rail system, sky-scrapers, Nikon, Sony and a multitude of other companies were growing at a dizzying speed.  But in odd corners here and there were still pockets of the old world.  One of these old world oddities was  "Honeybucket".  How do I explain this to you? A few

random farmers clung to the old methods of fertilizing their fields by contracting with collectors of human waste. This prized commodity was transported in covered wooden buckets.  It was not difficult to tell when the "Honeybucket" man was near because the odor wafted out in front of him like an announcement for what was coming. Occasionally there were just two buckets dangling from both sides of a wooden yoke. As he approached, the honey bucket man called out some sort of exclamation.  I never knew if he was trying to find a buyer for his unusual wares or if he was warning people of the stench.  Even rarer was the glimpse of a Honey bucket cart, where the hard-working transport man pulled an entire wagon full of these distinctive containers.

          This "Honeybucket" had to end up somewhere.  We discovered exactly where when we moved to Chofu, which was (at least back then) on the outskirts of Tokyo. Tucked among the fields of produce on the neighboring farms, were earthen reservoirs filled with "Honey Bucket" sort of like swimming pools where the farmers mixed their own concoction of waste, soil and mysterious liquids right in the ground.  The evil brew would crust over, deceiving the unsuspecting soul into thinking it was solid ground.

          As an adolescent, I knew that there was no one to be admired more than my big sisters and their cool friends. Shirley was the dark-haired beauty and Lynda, the gorgeous blonde.  They were never unkind to me (well....except for those times they told me I was adopted), but I was the pesky younger sister, so I rarely got to enjoy their adventurous escapades.  It seemed they were always doing something wondrous and exciting with friends who were laughing and having fun.
         One day Shirley and her friends Melinda and Barbara set out on one of their adventures. They were armed with one Walkie Talkie and Johnny and Billy had the other. The guys, being clueless about the interest of girls were merely concerned with testing the range of the devices, while the girls were more interested in spying on the boys. Johnny and Billy sat inside a "soba" shop (noodle shop) amazed that the wakie talkies were so clear when the girls were supposed to be at Melinda's house. Little did they know that the girls lurked right outside of the soba shop.  The girls were very proud of themselves until they realized that the guys were about to hop on their bikes and go to Melinda's house. They took off running to try and beat them there. They had to find a way to improve their odds, so they decided to cut through a farm field.  The girls saw a big concrete platform about the size of a king-sized bed and Shirley, who was in the lead, stepped up on the edge and ran around the outside perimeter.  This is where their stories differ a bit.  Shirley insists that she called out, "Watch out for the Honeybucket!", but strangely neither Melinda nor Barbara heard it. (Now is a good time for those of you with weak stomachs to quit reading) 
          Melinda, being a very practical girl stepped up on the block and started straight across.  She made it more than half way before she started sinking. That is when she realized that this was not a concrete platform at all, it was the crusty top of a pool of Honeybucket!  She sank to her armpits, and held the walkie talkie high above her head.  Now, where was Barbara? She was no where in sight! Barbara was shorter so she had climbed up onto the "platform" but her arms plunged straight through the crust and she fell in head first!  All the way in.
          Shirley was still balancing on the edge of the narrow rim around the cess pool when she saw the others splashing around in the Honeybucket.  Meanwhile, Melinda's life was flashing before her eyes, so she began yelling into the walkie talkie for help.  The boys heard the panicked cries, hopped on their bikes to rescue the girls that they feared were being attacked.  Barbara popped up through the surface and backed her way out of the crap and rolled to the ground, which unfortunately was actually a country highway.  Imagine the surprise of the truck driver who came to a stop when he saw what looked like a tree trunk that was slowly walking with its arms stretched out to its sides.  Add to that image, the intense smell that permeated from it!
            About the time Melinda was pulling herself out of the Honeybucket, Billy and Johnny arrived on their bikes.  Where were the attackers?  Why were the girls covered in brown gunk?  The Japanese couple who lived on the farm came outside to see what was causing the commotion.  The woman could not quit exclaiming, "Ara, Ara!" (loosely translated, "What the heck?" but she said it like, "What are you doing in my Honeybucket!?") Billy tried to reassure her by saying, "Machigaishimashita!" (They made a mistake!)  The woman kept her distance and no doubt drew some firm conclusions about the crazy foreigners.
           There are so many more interesting details left untold in this story, but let me close by explaining that this was the day that my Goddess of a sister became human to me.  I still admired both of my sisters, but somehow I realized that they were in fact fallible, and therefore even approachable.  I may have felt that Shirley was more approachable, but apparently that was not the reaction of others as the word spread at school.  The girls were the brunt of a silent and humorous campaign.  When they were seen in the halls, the kids would scoot to the other side, as though driven by the smell.  
          Now every year or so my sisters and I try to get together for a sister trip.  We still like adventures! 

GLORY

               I have a great appreciation for athleticism.  I can trace the roots of this reverence to 1969.  That is the year we moved to Abilene, Texas.  I was the “new girl in town” at Madison Junior High.  Actually I was still the “new girl in country” since it hadn’t been very long since we moved back to the U.S. from Japan.  I may have been a proud American who looked like an American and spoke like an American, but everything about my school was totally foreign.  Like most 14 year old girls, I wanted to belong.  I looked around my new little world to see who seemed to personify greatness, and realized it was…Jazen Wood.  She was tall, blonde, athletic and beautiful. 
She played volleyball competitively and was a cheerleader, and most importantly, she “belonged”.  This was surely what I should aspire to!  The evidence of her greatness was worn proudly on an athletic sweater with a giant “M” emblazoned above its pocket.  I decided then and there that I too would have a garment that displayed my greatness.

          My first shock came when I learned that you only received a “Letter” if you played a sport.  This was a predicament.  The only sports for girls were volleyball and cheer-leading.  The cheerleaders had been selected the previous year, and the volleyball I was witnessing at Madison was so much more competitive than anything I had ever seen before.  These girls were tall and ruthless and had been playing for years already.  I was not likely to grow any taller, nor reach the level of skill that these girls had attained in just a few short weeks. I shelved my goal for the moment, but did not forget it.          The next year was Cooper High School.  I was no longer the “new girl”, but the sports options were still limited.  I attempted to learn to play Tennis, but my potential was no better than with Volleyball.  I made many wonderful friends, served in Student Government, was active in drama and many other activities.  But I wanted to wear my greatness emblazoned on a jacket.  It seemed I had no options left…until my senior year.  That is when the state of Texas began to give girls more opportunities in sports.  I heard the announcement over the loud speaker that Cooper was to have a girl’s track team.  I was giddy with excitement.  It was still early spring and I could anticipate the feel of that warm jacket. 

          I joined about 20 other girls out on the track after school that day, and the workouts began.  Sprinting, jogging, sprinting some more, practicing passing batons: the endurance game began.  No matter how hard it was, or how many other girls dropped out, I never would.  In my mind, I could see that jacket, enticing me to continue. 

          One tragic afternoon after running until my legs cramped up (again) I learned a very disturbing fact. Bill, who

worked out with the track guys at the same time we were trying to organize our girls team, explained one horrifying detail to me. Being on the track team was not sufficient to earn a letter.  Apparently, you actually had to excel.  Winning and placing in your event would earn points which would be tallied at the end of the season.   Those who earned enough points would receive their letter.  The beautiful image of the enticing jacket began to morph into a taunting loudmouth. The jacket was moving farther and farther out of my reach!

           With some helpful coaching by Bill (who obviously felt sorry for me after destroying my hope), I began to be competitive. And when the season ended, I was one of the first four girls to letter in track at Cooper High School.  I had done it!  I would have a letter jacket!  Of course, it was now well past spring, and down-right hot in West Texas, but I would have my treasured jacket forever.  I would take it with me to Baylor University and impress everyone with my “Jacket of Excellence”. I would show it to my children and they would weep with emotion over the pinnacle of achievement that it represented!

          Did you know that High School letter jackets are an unspoken “NoNo” on a University campus? Did you know that when one doesn’t wear a jacket, one can easily loose it? Somewhere between Waco and Abilene, Texas, is a High School letter jacket that was earned with blood back in 1973.  I sometimes think about the time and effort that I spent on something so fleeting, and I am convicted about the lack of time and effort I spend on things of real and lasting value.  To me, the missing letter jacket is a symbol of misplaced values.  What I achieved when running track my senior year was truly valuable, but it had nothing to do with a jacket.  I was forced to exercise determination, focus, and hard work which turned out to be the reward itself.

CONFESSIONS OF A NEAR THESPIAN

       
          It is interesting to look back at the twists and turns that have shaped our lives.  What seems to be a spur of the moment decision can actually be a pivotal point in the direction of our lives.   When I graduated from High School in Abilene, Texas, I was destined to be an actress.  After all, I had received "Best Actress" recognition and I knew in my heart that greatness was in my future.  So, I packed my worldly possessions into my ancient hand-me-down car, "Abner", and moved to....Waco.  Yes, I was going to Baylor University, and I was pretty sure that I would be the darling of their drama program in no time!  

          I remember the excitement and chaos of class registration.  The two most exciting classes on my schedule were Introduction to Theater and Stage Movement.  All of my other classes were to be endured so I could get to the important business of acting!  In the Introduction class, I quickly learned that if you expected to be any part of the Drama Department at all, your every waking moment belonged to the Theater.  Everyone worked on costumes and sets and sound and agreed to play bit parts in a variety of One Act plays produced by the near-graduates. (I once played a ninety year old black vegetable peddler in Member of the Wedding) Then there was "Stage Movement" on Fridays only. Our little class of about fifteen Theater students were made to sit cross-legged in a circle on the stage while our Professor, let's call her Trelawney, (of Harry Potter fame) sat with us looking proudly at her new batch of mold-able little hopefuls.  I kept looking at the other students in wonder at their ability to keep a straight face.  After all, I had been in classes at Baylor for almost a week, and no matter how "progressive" some of my professors may have considered themselves, they all dressed professionally and sat in actual chairs, at actual desks.  Our Trelawney-esque professor was wearing leotards, jingley jewelry, hair that she may or may not have combed, and an expression that seemed to indicate that she was not altogether present. 

           We learned that we would not just act like trees or rivers or forest animals....we would BECOME them.  We would develop our "Kinesthetic Sense" (that would be some wierd combination of kinetics and aesthetics .  I learned that I too would have to wear leotards and leap like an animal across the stage.  I learned that I could forestall our fearless leader with certain questions and comments (which actually did develop my acting skills).  When asked what emotions certain movements evoked in me, I learned to look earnestly into her eyes and say, "Well...Professor Trelawney, it is just so hard to pin point exactly."  Then she would launch into her favorite speech about how we have so many complex emotions that we have not even given names to most of them.  This speech was good for at least 10 minutes.   After one of my successful stall tactics, I received a fair number of subtle "high fives" from my grateful associates.  
          As the end of the semester began to draw near, I had to pray about my major.  I had to ask myself if I loved drama enough to endure the whole package of classes, activities, and time commitment that the Theater demanded.  The answer was "Heck, No".  So...I packed away my Theater accouterments and ambitions and looked around to determine what lucky department would receive my devotion in the future.   Out of curiosity, I took a journalism class and broadcasting class in the next semester.  I was hooked immediately.  I loved everything about it.    Isn't it strange the way everything in one's life can take an about-face because of one decision.  I had to face the truth...I was not a Thespian.

GENETIC MISFIRE

   

        There are people, we've all met them, who keep their homes and offices so clean that it almost looks like they have them staged for a photo shoot.  Don't misunderstand me.  I am not criticizing; I am in absolute awe! My mother always kept our house looking beautiful.  Of course, my father was right there sucking up wayward crumbs with a dustbuster before they even had a chance to hit the floor. Somehow they managed to do this without loosing their joy and humor ...this just can't be normal.  My big brother, Billy, was a neat freak who left a trail of cleanliness everywhere he went.  My sister Shirley, can have her house perfectly clean and decorated, feed a crowd of 20, have the dishes done and a scrapbook created before everyone even goes home!  My sister Lynda, likewise entertains so many friends and family at her ranch house, that she really ought to install a revolving door!  She also keeps her house and guest rooms ready at all times.  
          Then there is me (and possibly my brother, David).  I KNOW that this gene of cleanliness and organization skipped right over me!!  David may have it, but he pours it into computer applications rather than his environment.  So I have to wonder. Has it been irrevocably removed from my branch of the family tree? My fear for my children stems from experiences way back in their earliest endeavors. Let me give you an example that occurred when my sons were one and two years old. 
          Back when we naively believed that one could keep a clean house with young children and a dog, my husband had a brilliant idea.  We acknowledged that we were very hard on carpets, but as a condominium developer he was on the cutting edge of all of the latest amenities for the home.  He realized that we might be good candidates for commercial grade carpet, and he had seen a beautiful Berber that he acquired for our home. The day it was installed, I gleefully rubbed my hands together and said to myself, "Let me see you destroy this one...hee...hee...hee." I THINK I said it to myself, but clearly my little babies were listening and must have thought I was challenging them.
          The carpet looked amazing.  I began to entertain thoughts of having friends over again. Perhaps I was NOT such a bad housekeeper.  In fact, my house looked amazing. I picked up all the carpet scraps which were laying around and made a mental note to vacuum up the extra fuzzies in a little while.  The boys wasted no time in bringing their favorite toys into the den.  They were enjoying the new soft and bumpy fibers beneath their toes.  Steve was in his office just a few steps away and called to me to bring him some insurance papers.  I gathered them up and walked up the short staircase into the office to help my husband find the information he needed.
          Ten short minutes later I walked down the steps into the den and looked in stunned silence.  My brain could not process what I was seeing!  There was a large red liquid stain all around the coffee table deeply absorbed into the new carpet!  That would be the new carpet that I hadn't even vacuumed yet!  What was that crimson flood, and why were my two little diaper clad angels sporting bright red hands and mouths?  AAAAHHHH!!!  The noise ripped from my diaphragm and Steve came running to find out what had attacked me.  
          We followed the red drippy stain into the kitchen where we found the abandoned one gallon Tupperware pitcher on the floor.  I had mixed-up an entire gallon of red Koolaid just that morning.  The pitcher was empty. Looking into those innocent little red-stained faces I had to face the fact that Preston, the one year old with the muscles of Bam Bam (That is a Flintstones reference for you young folks), had managed to open the refrigerator door and pull out the heavy one gallon pitcher.  Stephen was an idea man, the mastermind, no doubt.  The stain told the story of their trek from one room to another.  The den was perfect because the coffee table was nice and short.  Just their size.  No cups to drink out of?  Not a problem.  Just pour it on top of the table, place your face and hands in the pretty red juice and slurp!  When there is no more juice on the table, just pour some more!  So easy!
          I quickly read the directions on my carpet cleaner and got busy.  Considering the permanent nature of red Koolaid, it worked pretty well.  Of course there was a slight pink cast to the carpet in that location for the rest of its life, but more importantly I learned that I was doomed not to have a clean house.  I am bad enough on my own, but I also gave birth to some anti-clean influences and that tipped the scale.
          You may think that this is an isolated incident and I should not jump to conclusions so quickly.  Let me assure you that I have many other illustrations where that one came from!  To be fair, I should say that my girls color-coded their closets and have showed many wonderful symptoms of the clean and organized gene.  Even my boys have shown a few signs of effort in their adulthood.  I am so proud.  Now that they have grown up and moved out I should start exerting a greater effort to keep my own house clean.  I know I should, but I'd rather write in my blog!

BLOOPFEST

          

          Yesterday I was reminded of a couple of moments in my life so embarrassing that I felt myself blushing even after all these years. (Okay, all these decades if you are going to be technical) You see, before I found my life's calling as a wife and mother, I worked in radio, primarily as a news reporter, but always with other responsibilities added into the mix. Everyone had to pitch in back then because the FCC placed requirements on radio stations that were incredibly bizarre.  For example, they required stations to broadcast information on topics that absolutely NO ONE wanted to hear. Whether you were a Top 40 station whose audience only wanted to hear the latest hits, or you were a Christian station attempting to encourage your listeners, the Federal Government was insistent that you broadcast a certain percentage of air time on topics such as health, nutrition and education.  Never was the creativity of radio stations more apparent than in the grudging compliance of these ridiculous standards.

           One of my responsibilities at a Dallas radio station was a noon time interview program called Today in Dallas. I'm sure our precious listeners believed that we crafted the program for the sole purpose of entertainment, but that was just a hopeful by-product.  The REAL purpose for the show was to appease the FCC.         

       One day when thumbing through our stack of press releases and promotion packets I noticed that the spokesperson for the Wisconsin cheese industry was going to be in Dallas. Her title was "Alice in Dairy Land".  Not only was her enclosed fact sheet interesting and professional, but she would be a perfect interview to cover the topic of nutrition! I made the arrangements for her interview even before my morning coffee break.

        The morning of my interview, I went through my preliminaries in the production room: Reel to reel player set to record (told you this was a long time ago), possible questions prepared, etc.  When she arrived she proved to be a charming representative and I knew this would be a fun, interesting interview. The tape was cued and I began, "Welcome to Today in Dallas, this is Juanita Jackson, and my guest today is...." 

          Oops! With all my preparation I failed to get her name.  "Ha Ha, I forgot to ask your name.  Don't worry, I will edit this part out.  We can just start again."  So, armed with the correct information, we rerecorded the beginning segment and had a wonderful interview.

          By 11:00 am my interview was completed.  I took the tape into the control room while chatting with co-workers about where to grab lunch that day.  It was not until I was on the way home from lunch that my error became obvious.  I was in a car full of employees with our radio station blasting.  My friends were not about to miss an opportunity to 

embarrass me when they knew I was about to be on the air.  The intro music began, then..."welcome to Today in Dallas, this is Juanita Jackson, and my guest today is...(long painful pause affectionately know as "dead air" in the industry) Ha, Ha, I forgot to ask your name!" Suddenly I had trouble gasping for air in the crowded car, my heart was beating thunderously fast, my face was turning beet red, my friends were staring at me in confusion. "Don't worry, I will edit this part out. We can just start again," proclaimed my traitorous voice. (More dead air, much longer this time followed by loud clearing of the throat noises and my friends faces looking in stunned disbelief) Then, in my most perky voice, "Welcome to Today in Dallas...."    Miraculously, I was not fired even though every superior at the station (which was just about everyone) either gave me a stern talking to or at the very least, a knowing smirk.   To this day, I cannot hear the name of the state of Wisconsin without experiencing a flush of embarrassment.  Ironically, I cannot remember Alice in Dairy Land's real name, nor one single fact that she so generously shared with me that day. Just take my word for it, it was very interesting.

          It would be so nice to say that I never made another radio blooper, but I once had a doozy when I worked as a news reporter at a station in Abilene, Texas.  One of the first and most important lessons taught to broadcasters is to read your news copy BEFORE you go on the air.   After several years in radio, and multiple newscasts each day, I rarely stumbled over words.  I had the ability to read so quickly in my head that by the time the words came out of my mouth, they simply did not take me by surprise.  I became a little bit cocky.  Two minutes before going on the air, I would scan the news stories, accurately judge the length of time each would require, and place them in the order of importance.  I was good!   

        I might have gotten away with this habit much longer were it not for the crisis in Iran.  Imagine a world BEFORE terrorism, when the name "Iran" conjured up vague images of a wealthy Shah, and beautiful hand-woven rugs.  Sure, the Shah had been deposed, but the country would come to their senses soon.  Meanwhile there were a few scattered news stories about an upstart Ayatollah Khomeini, whose name, I was very proud to acknowledge, I could pronounce without the aid of the pronunciation guide that was included in some news stories.  I was good!   

      Imagine my surprise when I launched into my lead news story one day with my most authoritative voice, and found, buried in the third sentence, the word "Shiite" Muslim.  Picture, if you will, the familiar scene of Wylie Coyote chasing the Roadrunner, but having to come to a screeching halt before falling over the abyss.  That is a pretty accurate picture of my flawless newscast until I reached the abyss.  I mumbled the word which sounded like "shhheeet Muslim", then continued as if I meant to say it that way.  You can fool some people with confidence.  Maybe I was not as good as I thought.                                                           

        As I reminisced about these bloopers just yesterday, I could feel my face turning red all over again.  I found an old photo of my radio days, and also a photo of my youngest daughter during her summer internship at South Carolina's Public Broadcasting. She may have inherited my voice, but she seems to have avoided the "Deep Doo Doo" gene.  Well, you can't have everything.