Tag: memories

Family Sleuthing Skills

Escape rooms. I did one as a team building activity one year with our campus leadership team. We had a great time, but it’s the only one I’ve done.

I purchased one for the hubster’s birthday. Rather than giving material gifts, we’ve started gifting outings. This would be a first for everyone else. I made the reservation and consulted my 22 year old about which one to choose. The level of difficulty ranged from 7-10 with different themes.

“Choose a 7, we want to be able to get out and make Dad think he got us out of there.”

Based on availability, I went with Lost Cities, an iteration of Raiders of the Lost Ark. We’re mostly intelligent and should be able to bust out, but together, we’re kinda dumb. Way too much bickering. No one ever listens to me anyway, so in this setting, I kept my mouth shut. None of us tried working together. I kept reminding everyone the point of this thing is working together and helping one another.

E kept hitting the button for hints. S was trying to figure things out, which was great, but inside the temple with a face staring at us, non-glowing eyes inactive because we couldn’t figure out the code, the kids transformed into 7 year old S and 13 year old E. They butted heads with sibling rivalry right in the middle, cramming them together. Bam! Bam! Bam!

I thought they’d outgrown it, but it still manages to sneak in.

I wanted to take everything in and work the clues to unlock the codes. The time crunch adds urgency. Divide and conquer doesn’t work well in this setting. We weren’t cleaning the kitchen after dinner, we needed to solve some puzzles.

With seconds to spare, we entered the last code and the door opened.

“We escaped!” exclaimed hubster.

“Dad, they practically gave us all the answers,” E reminded him.

“Yeah, I muttered, no thanks to you asking for clues every two minutes. Didn’t even give us a chance to think.”

It was a good time despite the bickering. We didn’t break the code of conduct and our language stayed clean. S and E went back to their teen and young adult selves, and sibling rivalry stayed behind to wait for the next contestants. We took our photo and parting goods–a printed wristband printed with We Escaped Lost Cities!–and continued with our weekend.

We’re not ready for a level 10.

March 26, 2025

Learning To Read

I don’t remember learning how to read. I also don’t remember anyone reading to me at home. My first book. Finishing a book. I know someone read to me though, probably my mom. I had books around me from early on.

I do remember tracing my finger over lower case and upper case glitter letters, one letter per workbook. Aa Apple. The letters on the cover were dusted with red glitter. Each day before we opened it, we traced. Inside the pages we practiced writing each letter, matched letters to pictures and whatever else is blurred in my mind. When we finished the book, we took it home and started the next one. Bb Ball.

I do remember meeting with our teacher in groups. Reading about running and dogs and a kid named Jack. Easy words like tip and tap and hat and bat. Certificates with scented stickers awarded milestones, whatever they may have been.

I do remember listening to Mrs. Jones read Charlotte’s Web in second grade. She cried at the end. What did I read? I don’t recall anything, except for the book I received the last day of school for perfect attendance. The Ghost of Windy Hill. My own book to keep forever and read over summer break. I went home, finished it, and figured out the mystery before the story ended.

I do remember reading Little House on the Prairie (all of them), Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books, Encyclopedia Brown, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, nonfiction books about Amelia Earhart and Annie Oakley. Since then, I’ve been known to be the one who is always reading.

I can’t imaging not knowing how to read. Since I can remember (or not), I’ve read whatever came my way. Cereal boxes, junk mail, JC Penney catalogs, magazines, books, dictionaries, the phone book…

March 6, 2025

Memory Holding Spaces

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.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

“Again, Mammy Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

Raspberries

tart and sweet
flavor and stain
a round mound 
of crushed ice
packed into
a paper cone
on a 
hot 
summer 
day

macerated,
fill and sweeten
a layer between
white wedding cakes,
the top tier saved for
that first year 
anniversary
shared 
two weeks later
after the honeymoon
because it was 
so 
darn 
good
why save it?

two fresh ones
kerplunk!
into a sink full
of dirty 
dishwater
escaping the 
dysfunctional 
sieve of a 
hand
while another plops
their neighbors
into 
a 
waiting 
mouth
Tuesday, April 5, 2022

Merry Peeksmas!

I’m a first born. Responsible. But sneaky. My brain likes things that are precise, exact, perfect. Or close to it.

Being in charge of younger siblings while my parents worked, we had a lot of free time on our hands without someone constantly watching us. By the time I was in high school, I met the qualifications-whatever those were-to make sure everyone was looked after for a few hours after school and chunks of time on weekends while one parent made their way home and the other left for work.

One December, I decided to rearrange gifts so they looked like what my sister and I liked to call “commercial” worthy-what you’d see on TV. Our packages didn’t have large puffy fabric bows, but foil bows you got in a bag of twenty for a dollar. Our imaginations filled the void. It was important for us count them. How dare anyone have more than me. Size mattered too. If one of us had a larger gift, what could it be?

At my age though, I figured out the size of the gift didn’t equate the amount of money spent on it. I also had not quite learned that gifts weren’t the real reason for the season. Gifts were THE reason for the season and I wanted to know what I had coming. Periodically, we’d all choose a gift, give it a shake, and take turns guessing what was tucked inside.

This year, I had gifts that didn’t make much sound. Too old for boxes with a heaviness that slid from one end to the other-some sort of toy. I knew who had Barbies, skinny boxes with skinny perfectly-figured blonds on tiptoes inside. I outgrew those, but still helped French braiding their hair when no one was looking. And narrating their dates with Ken because the younger ones just didn’t understand how it really worked. I started watching Days of Our Lives and The Young and the Restless during school breaks, so I knew a thing or two. Those soundless packages only meant what every teen girl wanted: clothes.

But which clothes? Jordache jeans? A Guess? shirt or sweater? What had I drooled over at the mall recently? It could be anything. But I need to know which one in particular. While the younger ones played, I nonchalantly took a package after having made a picture-perfect TV commercial worthy set-up. No adults were home. I was the next “adult” in line. Fourteen wasn’t too far from eighteen. The younger ones played or watched TV. With three other siblings in a small house, the bathroom was the only place for privacy.

I took a beautifully wrapped package, from my grandma, and headed off to do my business. I turned the fan on so everyone would know it would be while before I was done. I took the package and turned it over and over wondering where it was from. The wrapping was fancy, not the K-Mart paper that wrapped the other gifts. My uncle was behind this one. They asked for wrapping from the store that sold it or he spent a little too much on wrapping paper without my grandma knowing it. Either way, this was the one that intrigued me most.

I turned the box over and found the tape at the bottom. I started picking at it with my fingernail, carefully, like picking at a Band-Aid that’s stuck on too tight. Surprisingly, the tape easily peeled away from the paper without leaving a mark. I sucked in my breath. No on had banged on the door yet. Breathe…I flipped it to the other end to try the other side. The tape easily peeled off again.

Stuck, I had to decide what to do next. If I kept unwrapping the box, would I be able to put it back without anyone suspecting it had been opened? What if I couldn’t get it back the way I found it? You know how you open a box and the contents just don’t fit the way they were packaged? What would happen then? Do I stop here and wait a few days like I’m supposed to?

Supposed to. I was tired of that. I usually do what I’m supposed to do. I’m in theater, I can act like I’m surprised even if I know what’s in the box. No one will ever know.

I kept going.

I completely unwrapped the box, being careful to leave the tape attached. I found a plain white shirt box. We usually used old boxes from around the house to wrap gifts. This one came from not Wal-Mart or K-Mart. As I lifted the top, I discovered more tape. I needed to hurry because someone would need to use the bathroom soon. My heart pounded when I accidentally ripped part of the box. Dang! The tape stuck to the box more than it did to the paper. I’m the only one who would see the box during the unwrapping chaos of Christmas morning, so I continued.

After removing the lid, I discovered neat, white tissue paper gently enclosing the gift, adhered with a round gold seal. Whoa! Super fancy. I knew that would tear, so I lifted everything out and slipped out the gift from one end. I drew in a breath. A pink collarless, button down shirt with mid-length sleeves and a pocket on the left side seemed to smile at me. It even smelled fancy. I could wear it with…everything! I loved it! I silently shouted, jumped for joy, and imagined myself squishing my grandma in thanksgiving. No one was around to relish my joy, but a party of one was enough for me.

With the fan still going, I didn’t have much time. I now faced the task of reversing my actions: folding the shirt where it creased, slipping it back into the tissue, placing it in the box, re-taping the lid, and re-wrapping the gift. It went much more quickly this time, I didn’t have a choice. I calmed myself down, flushed the toilet and washed my hands, all the while grinning as I glanced at the box. I got a sneak peek at my gift. With a little more time, I could open them all, but not today.

I walked back to the living room with the gift behind my back. I side-stepped toward the tree and dropped it back into the pile. No one noticed. I went back to rearranging them again. I picked up one of the skinny boxes, my youngest sister’s name on it. I called her over. “Want to know what you got for Christmas?”

Severe Weather Drill

Tuesday, April 27, 2021

Fourth graders to start the day. The teacher reminds me we have a severe weather drill at 9:00, ten minutes before I’m scheduled to leave. I shoo the teacher out of the room so she can get her full planning meeting. I’ll review procedures, I reassure her.

“Do you want to hear a story?”

Of course they do. So I start…

“When I was a kid, we had tornado drills. I grew up in what’s called tornado alley. We also had these things called textbooks. Now, they’re mostly online.” I pick up a heft dictionary to demonstrate. “During tornado drills, we all grabbed the biggest textbook, the only time we used it–I don’t even know what subject was, but when we got into the hallway, we crouched down against the wall, single file with someone in front of us. We opened the book in half and put it over our heads and necks. Inevitably, J.C. was somewhere in that line. I prayed with my heart and soul that he wasn’t in front of me. This kid, no matter how far away you were, always sliced the air with a bodily stink bomb. If J.C. wound up right in front of you, forget it. You could smell it from the other end of the hall. Don’t be a J.C. during the drill.”

Priorities.

Senior Skip Day

April 20, 2021

My sister’s impromptu and welcome visit this weekend prompted a backyard hangout around the fire pit. Defaulting to high school memories, we discussed skipping school. Rule follower here, mostly. Classic first-born people pleaser characteristics. I wore my responsibility with honor, like a Hogwarts prefect. Except that I grew up in a small town where everyone can easily find out your business.

The first time I ever skipped school was the spring semester of my senior year. I think it was the first time I was absent since my bout with chicken pox when I was in kindergarten. Starting with first grade, I was in the running for the Lifetime (Sort of) Achievement Award for perfect attendance, the most embarrassing award I received at the end of every year. After that first absence, I went to school sick. No one sent me home because I learned to deal with discomfort. Boxes of Luden’s cherry cough drops were staples in my backpack. Halls eventually took over and Chloraspetic throat spray tamed my raw sore throats during winter months.

When most cool kids planned to skip school, they took off out of town. There wasn’t anything to do, so unless there was a plan to hide out in someone’s home and run the risk of being seen driving around during the school day, most kids drove an hour to the nearest big “city.” We heard about mall adventures, proved with matching Guess t-shirts or sunglasses or earrings. First, it must have been nice to have a car to leave town. Followed by knowing how to get to the mall without an adult. And having money to shop for matching Guess shirts.

One day, when my mom asked if I wanted to go shopping, I wasn’t sure what she meant. We usually ran errands on weekends. It’s mid-week. She said we’d go shopping. I didn’t think much of it until she added the part about missing school. Being a responsible mini-adult, I asked about missing class, making up class work, and returning to school. She assured me she’d write a note to excuse the absence.

We took off on our excursion with Uncle Danny tagging along. Uncle Danny was the best shopping partner. He still is. I wasn’t with friends, but we wound up at the mall. We hit the mega-clearance aisles and I wound up with two prom dresses. A bit guilty about getting two, my mom mentioned the other one could be saved for my sister the following year. They were such a good deal, she didn’t want to miss the opportunity to save major cash on another prom dress.

We ate out at a real restaurant. Took our time. Ran a few errands and headed back home by late afternoon.

The following morning, Mom wrote a note. I opened it and re-read it several times before I made my way to the office. There it was, her note, explaining that I was absent from school because I had a cold. I was nervous turning it in because I clearly had no signs of a cold. I mean, when I did have a cold, I reeked of cherry cough drops. I gave it to the secretary. My stomach churned. They took my note and I lingered as if waiting to be reprimanded. Surely they could see my lie. Or rather, my mom’s little made up story of a cold-less cold.

“Okay, get to class.”

That was it? I went back to class. It was so, easy. And I only had a few months left to do it again. Only I didn’t do it again.

I don’t remember having my classwork pile up on me. I don’t remember anyone making a big deal out my absence. I picked up where I left off. I couldn’t even skip school, the right way, but I did it. And it was one of my favorite days. My induction into adulthood.