In two weeks, we’ll be in total darkness. For a little over three minutes, nine seconds, where we live. Partial begins at 12:18 p.m. Full eclipse starts at 1:36:21 and will end at 1:39:27. At 2:58, it ends.
Hubby couldn’t be more happy. He has been anticipating this event for years. He wasn’t able to snag a camping site at Enchanted Rock, to his dismay. Eclipse glasses have been acquired. Plans changed. He’s biking to a nearby park. E. already ordered neon colored plastic framed viewing glasses oozing with 80s vibes. They’re hanging out together that day.
Geekdom at its finest because nerds beget nerds.
Some school districts in the path have canceled school. Ours did not. I’ll be at work, participating from there. Most likely helping wrangle kids so they don’t wander off campus. Or actually look at it. Without their eclipse glasses. I’m sure many of our staff will call in sick, leaving the rest of us to deal with covering classes.
The Texas Department of Transportation estimates high traffic, suggesting against people parking on the sides of roads. Avoid scheduling appointments. Don’t use binoculars or telescopes even if you have eclipse watching glasses. Have a full tank of gas. Refrain from wearing eclipse glasses while driving. The weather, so far, should be clear.
Campus principals are responsible for making a plan. We got that plan today. I wonder how often it will change?
Until then, my husband and oldest will be hanging out, enjoying the show. I’ll be at work, S. will be at school, and we’ll be outside participating for about three minutes.
This song repeats in my head every time my husband mentions it. I’ll work on a playlist to gift him to mark the occasion.
Besides Rocket Man, Weird Science, and She Blinded Me With Science, share your favorite eclipse watching songs.
Prom season is my favorite. Not my favorite as a high schooler, but it’s my favorite now. When people I know post pictures of their kids in their prom dresses or tuxedos, I imagine I’m a Hollywood entertainment personality commenting (silently) on each outfit.
I even give imaginary awards. Best Overall. Classiest. Best Two-Piece. Best Tux. Most Unique. Favorite Dress/Tux Combo. Best Friend Group. Best Formal/Chuck Taylors combo. Dumb little awards I make up, but have such fun deciding on awards.
My niece, a high school senior, went prom dress shopping. Of her four choices, she chose one of my two favorites. One, a white form fitting, low-backed floor length dress with a sequined overlay was on of the lucky dresses chosen for the occasion. It’s gorgeous on her. The second was a royal blue floor length dress with criss-crossing back straps and glittery overlay. I’m partial to sparkles. Lucky kid, she gets to attend two proms this year. I’m sure she’ll have the time of her life.
I wonder if S. will go to prom? Will she want to attend? Will she go to one of those popular un-proms? What color dress will she choose? Will she go with a friend group or solo? Will she decide to go with her bff from kindergarten, who is like a brother, but better because they aren’t really siblings so it doesn’t count?
It’s coming too soon. A memory from Facebook popped up last week. She must have been in second or third grade, but there she was, pictured next to one of her favorite dresses in a department store. The same one where my niece found her dresses. That’s when she liked all things fluffy, princess-y, and of course, sparkly.
I’ll gladly wait for prom dress shopping day. Unless she dumps me like she did for homecoming dress shopping. I didn’t even get to take her shoe shopping for that either. I’ll lower my expectations and hopefully be pleasantly surprised. It sure would be fun going prom dress shopping again.
Until then, I’ll pour myself a bottle of bubbly rosé, kick back, and re-watch my favorite John Hughes film in honor of prom seasons past and present, Pretty in Pink.
I spent a lot of time with my grandparents when I was young. One year, a couple of months after my fourth birthday, they went to a church conference in Kansas. My parents allowed me to tag along. Two of my uncles, the ones who doted on me most, assured my parents I was in good hands.
We arrived and I don’t remember much about events other than attending church services and eating meals with people in attendance.
One day, we stopped at a grocery store to pick up a loaf of bread and cold cuts for sandwiches in the motel room. We passed a bakery case full of birthday cakes. Growing up in a small town, our grocery store didn’t have a bakery. I stopped in front of the case and wistfully looked at birthday cakes displayed for other people’s happiness.
I noticed a chocolate cake. Double layers, decorated with a bear riding a unicycle while juggling red, blue and yellow balls. “Happy Birthday!” declared the talented circus bear. My mind created a birthday party with all my friends singing the birthday song. Candles lit on a cake presented to me, the birthday girl. Gifts wrapped full of surprises surrounding me.
Uncle Oscar stood nearby, and I pulled away from the case, getting ready to leave. He began speaking with the baker. He asked me which one I liked. I wasn’t sure why he asked, but I pointed to the chocolate unicycle riding bear cake.
“It’s her birthday, and that’s the one she wants…”
It’snot my birthday, it already passed… I tried to explain. How could he not remember?
“It’s her birthday,” he insisted, “we’ll take the chocolate cake.”
The baker boxed it up, my uncle paid, and we left the grocery store.
At the motel, after a lunch of sandwiches, Uncle Oscar unboxed the cake. My grandparents, Uncle Oscar and Uncle Danny sang me the birthday song, Nana and Papá belting out “Happy birthday to ju…” I blew out candles and we sliced into the cake.
It was my first bakery cake, chocolatey and delicious. I did have a birthday, but it was in July.
Mom had two jewelry boxes. One held jewelry she wore frequently. The other was a larger cedar box with a hook closure. I liked organizing what she had in the first box, but everything was usually off limits. On special occasions, she’d let me wear a gold chain or her favorite pair of hoop earrings.
The cedar jewelry box held the exotic stuff. In a white cardboard box in one corner, there lived three thin glass bangles, two bright orange and one purple, both with a white stripe in the center. I can see why she never wore them. Carefully, I tried them on, making sure they didn’t hit one another too hard. “A friend from India gave me those.” From India? With a limited worldview and vacations consisting of family road trips to south Texas, I wistfully imagined having a friend from India.
Replacing the bangles before I had a chance to break them, I went on to a necklace. She had several silver with turquoise and coral pieces. One necklace held a Buffalo nickel. My dad, an avid coin collector, bought it for her long before we were born. She wore it occasionally, but it usually remained well protected in the cedar box. There were several rings with large stones. “They’re not worth much,” she’d say. To me, they were treasures.
One of my favorite pieces was a sterling silver charm bracelet. Popular in the sixties, she saved money to buy one. The story it held was that of my parents when they started dating. My dad was stationed at Ft. Hood in Killeen, Tx, just north of Austin. Against my grandma’s wishes, as typical love-struck teen girls do, she hopped on a bus to visit him. My dad took her sightseeing and they stopped at the capitol. He bought her a silver mini-capitol charm. I was fascinated with it. The other charms were silver disks, one with a Capricorn etched onto it. “It’s my birthday sign,” she’d remind me. One had her birthdate engraved on it. Another was a little boy’s head silhouette, maybe for my little brother? I’d try that one on too, little shiny disks dangling, with the capitol in the center.
When I graduated from college, I was at home chatting with Mom. I took out her jewelry boxes again, organizing everything in the first jewelry box, scoping out new additions. Saving the cedar box for last, I went through the same pieces. Not wanting to break the glass bangles, I didn’t try to slip them over my hand. I mentioned that charm bracelets were making a come-back as I shook my wrist, her silver charm bracelet tinkling in response. “You can have it if you want it. I never wear it. Take the charms off if you don’t like them.”
“What? Mom, I can’t…”
“Just take it. I haven’t worn it. I’d rather you get some use out of it.”
“Well, okay, but I can pay you…”
“No, it’s yours. You’ve always liked it.”
I took the charm bracelet, jumping a little inside. I liked the capitol charm even more since I attended The University of Texas. The capitol was a familiar view from the main mall on campus as I went to class every day, just down the hill. At night, I’d see it from the fifth floor window of the Perry Castañeda library, white against the dark sky. I’m really here!
I removed the charms except for the capitol. The first one to accompany it was an interlocking UT logo. Then it was a longhorn. I collected charms along the way, purchasing some, but many were gifts.
I was rarely without my bracelet. By now, it had become a conversation piece. Each charm told stories about me, but it always started with my parents’ story. My fourth grade students often checked it for new charms. Their favorites were the mini crayon and globe charms, symbols of the beginning of my teaching career. Because it’s bulky, I’d often take it off while I entered grades on my computer. I’d put it back on before leaving for the day.
One morning, I couldn’t find it. Before panicking, my husband asked where I had been the day before. School, pretty much. Where else do I go? I remembered entering grades before I left. Surely it’s still next to my computer. I got to school and immediately checked my desk.
It wasn’t there.
My heart pounded. Kids began entering the classroom. I’d check with the custodians. If they saw it on the floor, they would have saved it for me. Fortunately I worked at a small campus. However, they didn’t find it. I racked my brain retracing my steps.
Sonic! I had gone to an indoor Sonic after school yesterday, but before a meeting at church across the street. I would’ve known if it fell off though, it’s heavy. If I dropped it in the parking lot, it would either get run over or picked up. I might not see it again. My heart raced as I called the restaurant when it opened.
“Can you describe the bracelet?”
“It’s silver, there’s a capitol in the middle, a crayon, globe, angel, interlocking UT charm…”
“We have it. You’re lucky. Someone found it in the seat yesterday and turned it in. We’ll hold it until you get here.”
I drove there during my planning period with someone as back up to pick up my students from specials in case I didn’t make it back in time.
Sure enough, it was my bracelet. I put it on right away. When I returned to my classroom, I took it off to inspect it. The safety chain was broken. I never thought I’d see it again, but I’m ever grateful to the person who picked it up and knew it was more than a bunch of cute silver charms.
Si Nana estuviera con nosotros, hubiera escrito sus historias. Le hubiera preguntado de su educación. Le encantaba leer, pero casi siempre leía la Biblia. Su biblia la acompañó por tantos años. Yo sabía que no fue a la escuela muchos años. Era raro, con su experiencia, que sus padres tuvieron maneras de mandarla a la escuela. En ese tiempo, ella tenía la responsabilidad de ayudar con el trabajo de mantener el hogar.
¿Quien le enseñó escribir? También le encantaba escribir. Cuando fui a la universidad, me mandaba cartas por correo. Algunas veces, también me mandaba dinero. Sabía que para ella, era mucho, pero lo guardaba para algo necesario.
Nana era cuentista. Le encantaba el chisme y le encantaba contarnos de cosas que le habían pasado, siempre cuentos chistosos. Algunas veces, con lagrimas, nos contaba de su tristeza. Había mucha tristeza y tiempos difíciles.
Dos nińas, mis tías que nunca conocí, murieron demasiado temprano. Una se llamaba Olivia y la otra era Lydia. Eran las únicas hermanas menores de mi mamá. Olivia murió a los nueve meses de tos ferina. Lydia murió algunos meses pasado su primer cumpleaños de polio. No las llevaron al médico porque no había como pagarles.
Solo las conozco por sus fotos, en blanco y negro. En una foto, Nana estaba en seguida de mi mamá cargando su hermanita como si fuera muñequita. Otra foto era de Lydia frente de su pastel de cumpleaños.
Siempre pensaba en vida con mis tías. Imagino que, como mis siete tíos, ellas también me amarán muchísimo, y yo a ellas.
Si Nana estuviera con nosotros, imagino que cada sábado por la mañana, nos juntaríamos virtualmente. Frente de la computadora o teléfono, mi mamá y Nana en la pantalla, enseñamos nuestras tazas de cafecito. Nana con sus carcajadas, mi mamá y yo temblando de risa. Con tiempo, imagino que la plática incluirá la historia de mis tías que nunca conocí. Ahora que tengo hijos, entiendo su dolor profunda. Le diría que yo también las extraño. Escribiría sus historias.
If Nana was still with us, I would’ve written her stories. I would have asked about her education. She enjoyed reading, but she usually read her Bible. It accompanied her for many hears. I knew she attended school for a few years. With her experience, her parents didn’t have the means to provide a formal education. She had the responsibility of helping maintain the household.
She also loved writing. Who taught her how to write? When I left home for college, she’d write me letters. Sometimes, she’d send money. I knew that for her, it was a stretch, but I saved it for something important. She wouldn’t let me refuse it.
Nana was a story teller. She loved gossip and enjoyed telling us stories about funny events that happened to her. Sometimes, through tears, she’d tell us of her sadness. In her life, there were many hardships.
The stories she spoke most of, were those of her two daughters, aunts I never knew. They were my mother’s only sisters, Mom being older than them. They were named Olivia and Lydia. At nine months old, Olivia died of whooping cough. A few months after her first birthday, Lydia died of polio. There was no money to take them to the hospital.
I only know them from their black and white photos. In one, Nana stands next to Mom who is holding her little sister. She looks like a doll. In another photo, Lydia stands on a chair in front of a birthday cake.
I’ve always thought of life would be like with my aunts. I imagine, like my seven uncles, they’d also love me as much as they do. I’d love them just as much.
If Nana was still with us, I imagine we’d meet virtually on Saturday mornings. In front of a phone or computer, Mom and Nana would appear on screen. We’d show each other our cups of cafecito. Nana’s cackling laugh would have us shaking. In time, our chat would include the stories of the aunts I never knew. With children of my own, I understand her profound grief. I’d tell her I also miss them. And I’d write her stories.
She knows better than to holler for me. I won’t budge.
“There’s a BUG in my bathroom and I can’t get ready! They’re all over the place. Help me now, please!”
“It’s just a mayfly, they’re harmless…”
“But they’re ugly, I want it out. Ahhhh, there’s another one, where are they coming from?”
On it goes, back and forth. He gets to her bathroom and they’ve magically disappeared.
“I can deal with insects, outside, where they belong, but inside? They’re awful,” she exclaims.
I’ve been sweeping dead ones that bounce in when we open the front or back doors. They flit and bounce around, looking like they want to come inside. I try to move them aside, but some sneak in regardless. Occasionally, I’ll catch one and put it back out, but two more sneak in.
I mis-identified these insects. They’re called crane flies. We’re in the sweet spot of crane fly season. Resembling Texas-sized mosquitoes, they’re harmless and tickle your arm if they get close. They seem to hover, rather than fly, unsure of knowing whether they want to befriend or scare us. I don’t care much if they come inside, but if I can keep them out in favor of calmer mornings, I shoo them away, letting them live their happy little fluttery crane fly lives outdoors.
Sunday morning communing with pen and notebook three pages, one is done
she bounds downstairs only in the way a teenage girl can bound bending down loving on the puppy resting at my feet
like a puppy switches her brain switches in an instant "Okay, hear me out, just hear me out"
I don't know what's coming a feral cat hiss with a puff of fire breathing dragon flames?
she continues her philosophical and theological conversation asking questions confirming views questioning others
"I feel closer to God... (or is it GOD or god?) now that I've distanced myself I mean, how can someone commit to something so important and life changing when they're so young? this is a big thing, more important than college or marriage and we have to make this kind of decision when we're young?
She steps back, surprised I didn't jump in
"I'm cooking! I'M COOKING!"
Yes, yes you are keep at it, feisty one keep at it
I’m sitting under twinkle lights in the backyard. Night’s warmth removed its cloak and a slightly chilly breeze reminds me we’re in the sweet spot of transition. That time where winter dodges spring and spring is more than ready for its turn to play.
I love the cozy mood of twinkle lights. We put some up several years ago. One strand draped from one tree and around the patio’s perimeter. A few weeks later, I found the cord dangling in more than one place. One strand, several cords dangling. On closer inspection, they were gnawed. Could the puppy jump high enough to get them?
No, it wasn’t the puppy. Too small.
Squirrels.
We replaced them with a longer strand with a thicker cord. Chew proof. We liked them so much, we measured from patio to tree, to second tree, to third tree, and pack to the patio. They hung low enough to cast a cozy glow over the entire backyard any time of year, even in the hot, sticky, throes of summer, cicadas dizzying us with their clatter as we sip drinks that don’t stay cold long, sweaty glasses holding sweet sips we sometimes press up to our foreheads for relief.
I’m sitting under the twinkle lights, around an empty fire pit that keeps us warm those fall evenings when we go out to roast marshmallows after we’ve holed ourselves up inside, protecting us from summer nights—still, in October—with sweaty glasses holding watered down drinks. We’ve grown tired of it and mosquito bites, and thick, suffocating air, and those cicadas. Their songs are on repeat, can they please stop?
I sit under the twinkle lights where 21 years ago we hung Ethan’s first birthday piñata, where parents helped their littles pull a string and candy sprinkled the yard. Kids bent over to pick some up and life was ripe with good expectations of the unknown parenting trek we all joined.
I sit under the twinkle lights where Sophia’s trampoline once stood. We sat on it. Jumped on it. Squealed. Laughed. It squeaked rhythmically, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again. We held hands and jumped in circles.
Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie! I chanted, making up a new word.
“Again, Mammy-Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”
On I went, jumping so hard my thighs burned and inevitably my calf muscles started cramping.
Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!
Miss Bonnie next door waves from her patio. Water drips from hanging baskets holding her geraniums. “You’re going to get lots of jumping out of that trampoline. You be sure to jump with her as much as you can. I can tell you’re having fun.”
I sit under the twinkle lights where my husband set up the new adirondak chairs for my 50th birthday party. The trampoline came down. My own piñata hung over the same tree Ethan’s did years ago. This time, mini bottles of rum and tequila with candy for the teens sprinkled the yard.
The bottles are for the adults!
The next morning, Sophia asks about the trampoline. The last time she used it was on her eleventh birthday two years earlier, sprinkler underneath, gangly pre-teens jumping and vying for space. “That’s my trampoline and I want it back,” she huffs.
Here I sit, under the twinkle lights. Four empty chairs join me in a circle. Paint chips off them in bits since we didn’t do anything to protect them from the elements. The trampoline’s circle is still here, but it’s been replaced with mulch, the fire pit, and five chairs, our new outdoor gathering space.
I hear a piñata crack. Candy falls and little hands reach for treats. Gone now, Miss Bonnie’s water spray drenches her plants. We hold hands and jump in a circle. Springs squeak, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again.
“And HE MADE ME A SIGN! But you won’t get it, so I’m not showing it to you.”
Wait. Brain uploads. I’m not sure whether I should ask questions, comment, shrug, or jump with excitement and scream. Regardless, the wrath of Queen Teen will be upon me. Off with my head!
I say “Congratulations! Were you expecting it?”
“No! And he made me a sign!” She makes that little yippy barky growl again, rounding it out with a squeal this time. “He put all of these cool things only I understand. You wanna see the picture?”
“Sure.”
I barely have time to process the image, on top of the fact that I can hardly see anything with my wonky middle-aged vision. I have to ask again. “Hold still this time and at least let me take a look.”
There they are, her little friend guy holding a sign asking her to homecoming. She said yes, and so begins the process…
Buying the tickets. “I don’t want to go to the game though, just the dance. But we need to buy the tickets now so they don’t sell out.” Poof, request granted.
“I need to shop for a dress, but I don’t want to go with you. I’m going with Ash and her mom.” Poof, request granted.
“We are going to the game so now I need a ticket for that.” Poof, request granted.
“I can’t walk in the sparkly shoes you have in your closet. I want Dad to take me shoe shopping.” Poof, request granted.
I ordered a boutonniere, picked it up, and took her for pictures with him before the big event. His mom drove them to dinner and the dance and I picked them up afterward.
After several messages and driving around the school several times I found them, along with other teen couples awaiting their parents’ pumpkin carriage rides home. I see them and she’s wearing his shoes. Her shoes dangle from his finger. They climb in the back seat and I don’t say a word.
On our way home, her little yippy barky growl with a squeal unleashes the evening’s events. “Did you see, Mom, did you see? My feet hurt, so he took off his shoes so I could wear them! He walked around in his socks all night just so I could be comfortable. He’s so sweet!“
Halloween B.C., before children, we figured out going on a date scored us a short wait time and a good table. In previous years, we bought candy, but no one showed up.
Twenty one years ago, I had a thirty day old baby boy. We lived in a new neighborhood and with that came expectations of handing out candy to cute little kids dressed in fun costumes. Except this Halloween, my boy cried all day. I had a defrosted bun-less veggie burger for lunch at 5:00 in the afternoon. I didn’t shower and I couldn’t calm this baby down. Then the knocking started. And more crying. Then a phone call from my husband announcing his car wouldn’t start. We ate out again and returned home to a bowl full of candy.
Later, we left candy on the porch with a sign for kids to take two pieces. E has been dressed as a frog, a bowl of spaghetti, a train engineer, a chef, Indiana Jones, Thunder Pickle (his own invented character). S. joined us as a Chiquita banana. Then they both asked for candy as Phineas from Phineas & Ferb with a rockstar, Harry Potter and a police officer, Jek-14 and a low-key ballerina, Minecraft Steve with a black kitty cat, a meme with a unicorn.
A quick dinner of chicken nuggets or pigs-in-a-blanket preceded early evening candy hunting. We couldn’t eat early enough before the doorbell alerted us to kids asking for candy as we tried heading out ourselves. The transition from giving to getting was always tricky, but always worked itself out.
As E grew up, his trick-or-treating morphed into a belated birthday party in the garage with friends, complete with pizza and bottled root beer. It also cost taking S. around the neighborhood while I handed out candy and made sure the pizza was ordered, paid, and delivered. The candy bowl now had a companion. E later took over it while I gathered S. and her friends, meeting them at the end of each street, an exasperated “Mom! Why can’t I just go with my friends? Without you?”
E’s garage parties have come to an end. S. has new friends. A few days ago, she also requested a garage party. Then she decided to take over candy duty because, as she explained, “I’m a little too old for trick-or-treating. It’s a little kid thing. I shouldn’t take candy from them.”
By Sunday, she needed a costume.
“What happened to letting little kids have their candy?”
“My theater friends want me to go with them. We’re all going together.”
This afternoon, my husband and I went to happy hour. S. went home with a friend with plans for trick-or-treating later. I sat on the front porch and attempted to git rid of all of the candy. Older kids loved my costume. S. didn’t comment when she saw me later that night.
Halloween happy hour might be our next tradition. Perhaps next year, we’ll also be the full sized candy bar house.
Nerds Beget Nerds 