While I sometimes forget to thank my parents for all they do for me, I do understand what a blessing they are to me and my girls. Be it from something large or small, my mom and dad would go to great lengths to protect my girls and me.
Lauren and I were in a car accident last Friday. Our car had to be towed and we were transported by ambulance to a local hospital. As independent as I generally am, when I was told I would not be able to drive my car, I suddenly felt dependent upon my mom and dad. I called them and they drove straight to the hospital.
Lauren was completely traumatized by the accident and the ride on the ambulance was the icing on the trauma cake. My mom and dad sat with us while we answered question after question, waited on x-rays to be read and whatever else done in the ER that appears to take at least 4 hours regardless of the reason for the visit. The nurses brought Lauren popsicles and that helped, but she insisted that I tell her a funny story to help make time pass more quickly (AND to forget she was missing the PREMIER of Camp Rock 2, which she had been eagerly anticipating for several days).
With my mom sitting there, I immediately thought of the perfect funny story to tell:
Prior to my dad’s appointment of the position of State Sergeant Major, he had served in the Tennessee Army National Guard for as long as I could remember. He went to “guard drill” one weekend a month and spent 2 weeks of every summer at camp somewhere outside the state of Tennessee. This meant that my mother, who worked crazy hours (beginning at 3 a.m. or earlier for many, many years) for the post office, had to figure out a way to make sure my brother and I got to every church activity, summer basketball practice, baseball game, social activity, etc., with little assistance. My poppa helped as much as he could, but summer meant endless hours in the hay field or other farming duties for him.
It was summer and my dad had gone to camp. My mom and I were the only 2 home one afternoon, and my mom had just awakened from sleeping after finishing another early morning shift. She had asked me to go downstairs and switch a load of clothes from the washer to the dryer, so I opened the door to the basement to do as I was told. When I opened the door, there was a bird in the stairwell flapping its wings like crazy and headed straight for the door. I screamed bloody murder and quickly slammed the door and threw my body against it as if the bird were going to try and knock it down. I had no plans of trying to fight the bird to get to that load of clothes. I told my mom we needed to call my poppa so he could come and get the bird out of the basement. Of course, my poppa was out in the field somewhere on a tractor, and even if we had all used cell phones then, my mom wouldn’t have called him to come home and get rid of a bird. So, my mother, being the protector that she has always been, grabbed a broom and decided she would take care of the bird herself.
I opened the basement door just wide enough for my skinny mom to get as skinny as she could to squeeze through the door with her broom and immediately closed it behind her. With every step she descended I could hear the broom going back and forth from the walls on each side of the stairwell in a very steady rhythm. I had no doubt that my mom had taken care of that bird by the time she had reached the landing, because of the death dirge the broom had already played. Then, I heard the rhythm change to that of retaliation from the bird from the landing to the last few steps onto the basement floor. The new beat sounded something like “bump, bumpbumpbump, bump…bump.” It didn’t sound very good at all.
Being the big chicken that I am, I ran to my room and picked up the phone not to call for help, but to call downstairs to talk to my mom. When she answered the phone, she sounded defeated and said, “Leigh, I have fallen and have injured my ankle/foot badly.” I interrupted her to ask what I thought was the most important thing, “Did you kill the bird? Call me back when you get rid of it and I will come down there.”
My mom’s ankle and foot were black and blue for days after her battle with the basement birdie.
From a little basement birdie to calmly sitting in the ER waiting for my little girl and me to be released and everything in between, my mom would go to great lengths to protect and care for us. While Lauren, my mom and I laughed hysterically at that silly story about the basement birdie (yes, my mom even laughs about it now), I was reminded of what a blessing my parents have always been to me and how thankful I am for them.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
French Fries
Long and skinny, short and fat, waffle, crinkly, curly, mooshy, mostly crunchy, brown, hot, zesty, seasoned or plain with a pool of Heinz Ketchup – that’s how I like my fries! McDonalds, Wendy’s, Arby’s (YUMMY CURLY), Burger King, Back Yard Burger, Ore Ida, or just about any brand…even Applebee’s!
I was in college and played the piano at my small, home church, which was in a country community where everyone ran into everyone else in aisles at the community Piggly Wiggly. A member of the congregation always made a point to hug me and tell me every Sunday how much he and his wife loved me! I had known them for most of my life. They had a son who was a few years older than me who had played many seasons of baseball with my brother. A year or so before, their son, who I’ll call Bill, had divorced and was living at home again. I’m sure you can tell where I’m headed with this, but for the sake of making this complete, I’ll tell you!
All these hugs, and “my wife and I just love you” were laced with, “We want you to go out with our son, marry him and live happily ever after.” I never saw it coming, but one day, it hit. The phone started ringing, Bill asked me out, and when I saw his parents at Piggly Wiggly, you would have thought I was the grocery item they had come to buy. Nevertheless, I agreed. One cold night, I found myself fixing my hair and putting on lipstick because Bill was on his way to get me. We were going to dinner and a movie. When we got in the hand, spray-painted, white, black-tinted windowed, mile-long station wagon, he asked, “So, Leigh, where would you like to eat.” Well, at this point, I’m thinking I’ve been abducted by a crazy man and no one will see me tied up and thrown in the back, because the windows are so dark! I didn’t care if we ate anything or even left the driveway so long as I could see my family again.
Bill was a nice guy, though, so I somewhat got over my anxiety as we drove to the mall. Every time we turned a curve, I would slide around because there was so much Armor All on the seats they were like ice. In an effort to escape the wagon, I quickly suggested we go to Applebee’s. Big mistake.I ordered a salad, because that’s just what we girls do on first dates, right? Well, Bill decided that of all the yummy things on the menu, he would order a grilled cheese and French fries. I was a little shocked, because I thought that on a date you would order something you wouldn’t eat at home. I don’t have many more memories from that date, other than what happened next.
I love French fries…so much that I could eat them alone for a meal. However, I’m not sure I love them as much as he did. Before I had taken two bites of my salad, he had swallowed his whole grilled cheese and all of the fries faster than the whale did Jonah! Then, as my face turned several different shades of red, he sighed and said to the server, “I just love these fries. Please bring me some more.” Oh, my, instead of being abducted by a criminal, I had been taken to Applebee’s by a McDonald’s Fry Guy…I’m pretty sure he had on those crazy sneakers, too! I was SOOOO ready to go home! Forget the movie…I was afraid the “Hamburglar” was not far behind! I have no idea how I was able to talk my way out of a movie or anything more…maybe I had a headache? I don’t know!
However, I do know that I never went on another date with the kidnapping fry guy! I am still haunted by long white station wagons with black tinted windows! If my memory serves me correctly, those fry guys on McDonald’s commercials might show up anywhere – and what do you know, it still holds true!
I just needed a few groceries. I was on my way home and I decided to stop in Piggly Wiggly to grab a couple of things. Of course, even 15+ years later, the same people in the same community still shop at the same store! Lo and behold I ran into guess who? Bill’s parents! Immediately I had a horrible flashback of French fries. This time, I wasn’t a single, college student, but a divorced mother. . Amazingly enough, Bill’s mother noticed right off that I didn’t have on rings. (I should have kept my rings to shove on during these cases of emergency!)
Bill no longer lived with his parents…he had bought a house a few years back – just two streets over from my home. After a short, courtesy conversation, I quickly got out of there…casing the parking lot to make sure there were no signs of a the hand, spray-painted white , black-tinted windowed, mile-long station wagon…whew, the coast was clear! Several weeks later, the girls and I were outside enjoying a beautiful, spring afternoon. I kept seeing the same person riding his bike past my house in the neighborhood, and on this particular day, he stopped to say hello. I didn’t have much to go on for recognition purposes, so I just waited until he got closer…
Oh, no! Since a bike has no tinted windows, I had trouble at first. For a moment, I felt as if I were sitting in Applebee’s again. The conversation was okay. He didn’t ask me out, so that was good. He just said hello and asked about my family. Whew, I was relieved.The girls and I spent a lot of time outside that Spring, probably too much. The next visit was about a week later. This time, he was wearing his sneakers ! I was a little too relaxed since the precious visit had seemed to be so innocent. Here’s how the conversation went:
Bill: Hey, Leigh. Sure is a beautiful day.
Leigh: Yeah, the girls and I are enjoying it.
Bill: Wow, I noticed you aren’t wearing your wedding rings. (In other words, “My mom told me she saw you and that you are divorced.)
Leigh: Nope, no rings.
Bill: Well, I know being divorced is not easy, especially when you are a parent…(Then, all my worst thoughts came true.)
Bill: Well, if you ever want to go out and talk about it, I would love to just give you an ear so you can vent, etc.
Leigh: (Thinking about French Fries and how I wanted to run in the house and shut the garage door on him) Oh, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.The girls and I continued to enjoy the beautiful, Spring afternoons, but invited every neighbor over we could think of for the rest of the season. We would see him run by or ride by, but we kept one finger on the garage remote at all times.
Thank goodness the Piggly Wiggly went out of business!
I was in college and played the piano at my small, home church, which was in a country community where everyone ran into everyone else in aisles at the community Piggly Wiggly. A member of the congregation always made a point to hug me and tell me every Sunday how much he and his wife loved me! I had known them for most of my life. They had a son who was a few years older than me who had played many seasons of baseball with my brother. A year or so before, their son, who I’ll call Bill, had divorced and was living at home again. I’m sure you can tell where I’m headed with this, but for the sake of making this complete, I’ll tell you!
All these hugs, and “my wife and I just love you” were laced with, “We want you to go out with our son, marry him and live happily ever after.” I never saw it coming, but one day, it hit. The phone started ringing, Bill asked me out, and when I saw his parents at Piggly Wiggly, you would have thought I was the grocery item they had come to buy. Nevertheless, I agreed. One cold night, I found myself fixing my hair and putting on lipstick because Bill was on his way to get me. We were going to dinner and a movie. When we got in the hand, spray-painted, white, black-tinted windowed, mile-long station wagon, he asked, “So, Leigh, where would you like to eat.” Well, at this point, I’m thinking I’ve been abducted by a crazy man and no one will see me tied up and thrown in the back, because the windows are so dark! I didn’t care if we ate anything or even left the driveway so long as I could see my family again.
Bill was a nice guy, though, so I somewhat got over my anxiety as we drove to the mall. Every time we turned a curve, I would slide around because there was so much Armor All on the seats they were like ice. In an effort to escape the wagon, I quickly suggested we go to Applebee’s. Big mistake.I ordered a salad, because that’s just what we girls do on first dates, right? Well, Bill decided that of all the yummy things on the menu, he would order a grilled cheese and French fries. I was a little shocked, because I thought that on a date you would order something you wouldn’t eat at home. I don’t have many more memories from that date, other than what happened next.
I love French fries…so much that I could eat them alone for a meal. However, I’m not sure I love them as much as he did. Before I had taken two bites of my salad, he had swallowed his whole grilled cheese and all of the fries faster than the whale did Jonah! Then, as my face turned several different shades of red, he sighed and said to the server, “I just love these fries. Please bring me some more.” Oh, my, instead of being abducted by a criminal, I had been taken to Applebee’s by a McDonald’s Fry Guy…I’m pretty sure he had on those crazy sneakers, too! I was SOOOO ready to go home! Forget the movie…I was afraid the “Hamburglar” was not far behind! I have no idea how I was able to talk my way out of a movie or anything more…maybe I had a headache? I don’t know!
However, I do know that I never went on another date with the kidnapping fry guy! I am still haunted by long white station wagons with black tinted windows! If my memory serves me correctly, those fry guys on McDonald’s commercials might show up anywhere – and what do you know, it still holds true!
I just needed a few groceries. I was on my way home and I decided to stop in Piggly Wiggly to grab a couple of things. Of course, even 15+ years later, the same people in the same community still shop at the same store! Lo and behold I ran into guess who? Bill’s parents! Immediately I had a horrible flashback of French fries. This time, I wasn’t a single, college student, but a divorced mother. . Amazingly enough, Bill’s mother noticed right off that I didn’t have on rings. (I should have kept my rings to shove on during these cases of emergency!)
Bill no longer lived with his parents…he had bought a house a few years back – just two streets over from my home. After a short, courtesy conversation, I quickly got out of there…casing the parking lot to make sure there were no signs of a the hand, spray-painted white , black-tinted windowed, mile-long station wagon…whew, the coast was clear! Several weeks later, the girls and I were outside enjoying a beautiful, spring afternoon. I kept seeing the same person riding his bike past my house in the neighborhood, and on this particular day, he stopped to say hello. I didn’t have much to go on for recognition purposes, so I just waited until he got closer…
Oh, no! Since a bike has no tinted windows, I had trouble at first. For a moment, I felt as if I were sitting in Applebee’s again. The conversation was okay. He didn’t ask me out, so that was good. He just said hello and asked about my family. Whew, I was relieved.The girls and I spent a lot of time outside that Spring, probably too much. The next visit was about a week later. This time, he was wearing his sneakers ! I was a little too relaxed since the precious visit had seemed to be so innocent. Here’s how the conversation went:
Bill: Hey, Leigh. Sure is a beautiful day.
Leigh: Yeah, the girls and I are enjoying it.
Bill: Wow, I noticed you aren’t wearing your wedding rings. (In other words, “My mom told me she saw you and that you are divorced.)
Leigh: Nope, no rings.
Bill: Well, I know being divorced is not easy, especially when you are a parent…(Then, all my worst thoughts came true.)
Bill: Well, if you ever want to go out and talk about it, I would love to just give you an ear so you can vent, etc.
Leigh: (Thinking about French Fries and how I wanted to run in the house and shut the garage door on him) Oh, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.The girls and I continued to enjoy the beautiful, Spring afternoons, but invited every neighbor over we could think of for the rest of the season. We would see him run by or ride by, but we kept one finger on the garage remote at all times.
Thank goodness the Piggly Wiggly went out of business!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Overalls
I posted this note last year on this day, my poppa's birthday. Because today would have been his birthday, I wanted to share it again. He was my best friend.
He must have been 10’ tall. It seemed I needed a ladder to climb up and get that pen out of his bib pocket. He made it easy for me, though. He would sit in his chair and let me sit in his lap. He wore a treasure chest…I could play for hours with his paper and pens, and when I got tired of that, I would grab his comb and stand behind him in his chair. I would comb his hair and laugh with him until no end. He was my best friend. Every Sunday afternoon, he came home from church, he would take off his Sunday hat and socks, take his red bone Case knife out of his pocket, change into his Sunday best overalls and get ready to eat lunch. After every meal he would sop Bob White Syrup up with the homemade biscuits that had been prepared for him. Then, he would take his empty coffee cup and run water in it…he would drink it and let out a BIG ahhhhhhhhhh!
We would get in his truck after lunch. Although we had a mission, he never failed to stop at the store and let me spend a whole dollar on candy and a coke. Then, we would drive around to check on his cattle at different locations. He would get out of the truck and walk around, and tell me to drive all over the field. He always drove a Ford, diesel truck and the floorboard was full of junk. His seats were covered with dust from the barn and from the hay that he had spent hours cutting and raking on the tractor.
He was a strong man who I could always count on to be there when I needed him. In 1991, he was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. I guess I thought that if anyone could make it, he would. He slept in the den for a couple of months…his face would light up when someone would walk into the room, and he listened to piano music with his headphones. It wasn’t just any piano music, it was his favorite…mine.
When he got sick, a caregiver encouraged me to record my music for him. So, with big tears rolling down my cheeks, I played several of his favorite hymns. He listened to them until the end. At the funeral, they played the recording…I know he was doing his funny little dance in Heaven…I’m sure his comb, and pen and paper to draw his crazy pictures were tucked perfectly in the pockets of his overalls.
He must have been 10’ tall. It seemed I needed a ladder to climb up and get that pen out of his bib pocket. He made it easy for me, though. He would sit in his chair and let me sit in his lap. He wore a treasure chest…I could play for hours with his paper and pens, and when I got tired of that, I would grab his comb and stand behind him in his chair. I would comb his hair and laugh with him until no end. He was my best friend. Every Sunday afternoon, he came home from church, he would take off his Sunday hat and socks, take his red bone Case knife out of his pocket, change into his Sunday best overalls and get ready to eat lunch. After every meal he would sop Bob White Syrup up with the homemade biscuits that had been prepared for him. Then, he would take his empty coffee cup and run water in it…he would drink it and let out a BIG ahhhhhhhhhh!
We would get in his truck after lunch. Although we had a mission, he never failed to stop at the store and let me spend a whole dollar on candy and a coke. Then, we would drive around to check on his cattle at different locations. He would get out of the truck and walk around, and tell me to drive all over the field. He always drove a Ford, diesel truck and the floorboard was full of junk. His seats were covered with dust from the barn and from the hay that he had spent hours cutting and raking on the tractor.
He was a strong man who I could always count on to be there when I needed him. In 1991, he was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. I guess I thought that if anyone could make it, he would. He slept in the den for a couple of months…his face would light up when someone would walk into the room, and he listened to piano music with his headphones. It wasn’t just any piano music, it was his favorite…mine.
When he got sick, a caregiver encouraged me to record my music for him. So, with big tears rolling down my cheeks, I played several of his favorite hymns. He listened to them until the end. At the funeral, they played the recording…I know he was doing his funny little dance in Heaven…I’m sure his comb, and pen and paper to draw his crazy pictures were tucked perfectly in the pockets of his overalls.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Broccoli
My friend, who I will call, Lyla, in order to protect the innocent, is one of the most faithful friends I have ever had. I can talk to her one day, and then, not again for 1 year, and we can pick right up from where we started. However, there was a time when she lived so close to me that we could hang out every day…Oh, the stories I could tell! There were many times when I would take Lyla to the grocery store, and it would hurt me so badly when we would get to the counter and she would have to put items back, because she didn’t have enough money. She was so careful with her spending and if she bought something, she used it!
I was on my way to her house to take her to run one day and while I was driving, I smelled a horrible stench in my car! When I got to her house, I told her, “Lyla, I’m really sorry, but there is a horrible smell in my car. We should probably ride with the windows down (even though it wasn’t warm enough to do so), because I think there MUST be a dead animal in my trunk! Lyla agreed with me! She had not smelled anything that badly in a long time! We drove to the park, with the windows down and our heads hanging out, and then, we stopped by my mom and dad’s on the way back home. Oh, my goodness…I told my dad, “Will you please open my trunk and see what has died in there? I don’t think I can handle it if there is some type of dead animal…” Lyla and I went in the house and talked with my mom. Shortly, my dad came to the door…he was clothed in a huge coat and had put on these great big gloves to check out the trunk. So, here stands this man at the door with these gloves, holding a “Kroger” plastic bag…Lyla exclaimed, “My broccoli.” We laughed and laughed until we cried.
We have shared many experiences together, but I never thought I would share one of the darkest experiences ever. I had been divorced for only a short amount of time when Lyla called me from Florida to tell me she didn’t know what to do. The man she had married many years before had gone one step too far and had threatened her son. She packed up all three of her children and moved back to her parents’ home. I didn’t really know what to say to her. My wounds were so fresh and I didn’t want to let my hurt and bad experience spill over into what I told her. I chose my words carefully.
“Lyla, there is never an excuse to abuse children. I know you have been abused verbally, physically and mentally for a long time, and I don’t believe your children should have to endure it. Only you know when enough is enough. God will sustain you. He will give you what you need. He will not turn His back on you. I will pray for you as you make this decision.”
Months went by, and Lyla decided to file for divorce. She has gone to school and is beginning to make a life for herself and her children. God is faithful. As much as life may stink, sometimes even worse than old broccoli, God’s love spills over a fragrance so fresh and unique.
I was on my way to her house to take her to run one day and while I was driving, I smelled a horrible stench in my car! When I got to her house, I told her, “Lyla, I’m really sorry, but there is a horrible smell in my car. We should probably ride with the windows down (even though it wasn’t warm enough to do so), because I think there MUST be a dead animal in my trunk! Lyla agreed with me! She had not smelled anything that badly in a long time! We drove to the park, with the windows down and our heads hanging out, and then, we stopped by my mom and dad’s on the way back home. Oh, my goodness…I told my dad, “Will you please open my trunk and see what has died in there? I don’t think I can handle it if there is some type of dead animal…” Lyla and I went in the house and talked with my mom. Shortly, my dad came to the door…he was clothed in a huge coat and had put on these great big gloves to check out the trunk. So, here stands this man at the door with these gloves, holding a “Kroger” plastic bag…Lyla exclaimed, “My broccoli.” We laughed and laughed until we cried.
We have shared many experiences together, but I never thought I would share one of the darkest experiences ever. I had been divorced for only a short amount of time when Lyla called me from Florida to tell me she didn’t know what to do. The man she had married many years before had gone one step too far and had threatened her son. She packed up all three of her children and moved back to her parents’ home. I didn’t really know what to say to her. My wounds were so fresh and I didn’t want to let my hurt and bad experience spill over into what I told her. I chose my words carefully.
“Lyla, there is never an excuse to abuse children. I know you have been abused verbally, physically and mentally for a long time, and I don’t believe your children should have to endure it. Only you know when enough is enough. God will sustain you. He will give you what you need. He will not turn His back on you. I will pray for you as you make this decision.”
Months went by, and Lyla decided to file for divorce. She has gone to school and is beginning to make a life for herself and her children. God is faithful. As much as life may stink, sometimes even worse than old broccoli, God’s love spills over a fragrance so fresh and unique.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
TIBIA
(In an effort to save myself from embarrassment, I wasn’t going to share this story. When I realized that I was embarrassed even without everyone knowing, I thought it was useless to keep it to myself. Besides, I think it might make one or two of you laugh…and isn’t laughter one of the best forms of therapy. Lori, I think you will love this one.)
“Take out a sheet of paper and number 1-10.” Oh, those are the probably the most dreaded words I can remember from high school. No matter how well I thought I knew the material we were covering, I always felt this overwhelming feeling of incompetence the minute the teacher would say those words.
My, how some things never change.
Last semester, I enrolled in an Anatomy and Physiology I class at a local community college. After 36 years of not knowing what I wanted to be when I grow up, I set out to complete pre-requisites in order to be eligible for Nursing School in the Fall of 2010. I’m not sure I had ever studied as hard in my life. We started with memorizing the bones of the body, then, proceeded with the muscles along with their origin and insertions. Anxiety never stopped building the whole semester.
By December I was trying to catch my breath after having filled every corner of my brain in just a few months. Studying for a final exam had never before been so stressful, especially since I had set a personal goal of making an A in the class. I have no idea what I was thinking. Hmmm, I am a single mother of two, very active children, work full-time, and I expected an A?
A week before the final exam, the professor announced that we would have a quiz for extra points to be added to our final exam grade. There would be a possibility of 10 points. Nothing would be counted against the final if answers were wrong. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, it would have sounded easier had the extra points not been 10 comprehensive questions that could cover bones, muscles, nerves, special senses, tissue or anything we had discussed all semester long.
The dreaded day of the quiz arrived. The professor walked into the room and said, “Take out a sheet of paper and number 1 through 10. I will call out the questions twice. Once we have completed the quiz, we will grade them. (Holding up the leg of a skeleton and pointing) What is the name of this bone.” I was absolutely relieved, because I knew the first answer.
(My professor kept a log of class participation in discussion and encouraged us to chime in during his lecture and gave an incentive of extra points for doing so. Because I had studied myself crazy for class, I made it a point to contribute in order to earn the participation points for the class.)
When the professor asked the final question, I was finally able to take a deep breath and somewhat relax. I had known the majority of the answers and would have several extra points to add to my final exam grade. Whew! I put my pencil down and was ready to grade the quiz. (Holding up the leg of the same skeleton and pointing) the professor asked us to identify the bone. Because I had so consistently participated in class to this point, I confidently answered, “TIBIA!” I was SO excited that I knew the answer!
When everyone’s head turned and looked at me, some giggling aloud, I realized that the professor was asking the quiz questions a second time for anyone who might need to hear them again. I had just blurted out, in Tourrette Syndrome fashion, the answer for everyone and the quiz wasn’t over. Immediately, I felt a rush of heat as my face turned some horrible color of red I was sure no one had ever seen before. I’m sure I had not been that embarrassed since the first grade in 1979 (another day, another story). I immediately thought I would probably have to spend the night in the classroom, because I didn’t want to walk out and hear what the other students, 18-20 years old, had to say about some crazy, 30-something year old woman, who couldn’t control herself. I was mortified. I still had another day of class with these students for the final and the thought of coming back into the classroom with them made me nauseous.
Somehow, I did it, though, and still managed to make an A in the class!
Classes began again last week. This semester, I’m taking A&P II. I expect to make an A in this class, as crazy as that sounds. Some of my classmates from last semester are in the class, and they seem to have either forgotten about my outburst or are laughing inside every time they see me.
My professor announced on the first day of class that we would have a quiz every week. The same anxiety from last semester crept into my head and I couldn’t breathe again. Monday, I walked into class prepared for those dreaded words, “Take out a piece of paper and number 1-10.” However, he never gave the quiz. I’m going back this afternoon, and I while I will be anxious and sitting on the edge of my seat, I WILL NOT participate when it comes time to answer the questions on the quiz.
“Take out a sheet of paper and number 1-10.” Oh, those are the probably the most dreaded words I can remember from high school. No matter how well I thought I knew the material we were covering, I always felt this overwhelming feeling of incompetence the minute the teacher would say those words.
My, how some things never change.
Last semester, I enrolled in an Anatomy and Physiology I class at a local community college. After 36 years of not knowing what I wanted to be when I grow up, I set out to complete pre-requisites in order to be eligible for Nursing School in the Fall of 2010. I’m not sure I had ever studied as hard in my life. We started with memorizing the bones of the body, then, proceeded with the muscles along with their origin and insertions. Anxiety never stopped building the whole semester.
By December I was trying to catch my breath after having filled every corner of my brain in just a few months. Studying for a final exam had never before been so stressful, especially since I had set a personal goal of making an A in the class. I have no idea what I was thinking. Hmmm, I am a single mother of two, very active children, work full-time, and I expected an A?
A week before the final exam, the professor announced that we would have a quiz for extra points to be added to our final exam grade. There would be a possibility of 10 points. Nothing would be counted against the final if answers were wrong. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, it would have sounded easier had the extra points not been 10 comprehensive questions that could cover bones, muscles, nerves, special senses, tissue or anything we had discussed all semester long.
The dreaded day of the quiz arrived. The professor walked into the room and said, “Take out a sheet of paper and number 1 through 10. I will call out the questions twice. Once we have completed the quiz, we will grade them. (Holding up the leg of a skeleton and pointing) What is the name of this bone.” I was absolutely relieved, because I knew the first answer.
(My professor kept a log of class participation in discussion and encouraged us to chime in during his lecture and gave an incentive of extra points for doing so. Because I had studied myself crazy for class, I made it a point to contribute in order to earn the participation points for the class.)
When the professor asked the final question, I was finally able to take a deep breath and somewhat relax. I had known the majority of the answers and would have several extra points to add to my final exam grade. Whew! I put my pencil down and was ready to grade the quiz. (Holding up the leg of the same skeleton and pointing) the professor asked us to identify the bone. Because I had so consistently participated in class to this point, I confidently answered, “TIBIA!” I was SO excited that I knew the answer!
When everyone’s head turned and looked at me, some giggling aloud, I realized that the professor was asking the quiz questions a second time for anyone who might need to hear them again. I had just blurted out, in Tourrette Syndrome fashion, the answer for everyone and the quiz wasn’t over. Immediately, I felt a rush of heat as my face turned some horrible color of red I was sure no one had ever seen before. I’m sure I had not been that embarrassed since the first grade in 1979 (another day, another story). I immediately thought I would probably have to spend the night in the classroom, because I didn’t want to walk out and hear what the other students, 18-20 years old, had to say about some crazy, 30-something year old woman, who couldn’t control herself. I was mortified. I still had another day of class with these students for the final and the thought of coming back into the classroom with them made me nauseous.
Somehow, I did it, though, and still managed to make an A in the class!
Classes began again last week. This semester, I’m taking A&P II. I expect to make an A in this class, as crazy as that sounds. Some of my classmates from last semester are in the class, and they seem to have either forgotten about my outburst or are laughing inside every time they see me.
My professor announced on the first day of class that we would have a quiz every week. The same anxiety from last semester crept into my head and I couldn’t breathe again. Monday, I walked into class prepared for those dreaded words, “Take out a piece of paper and number 1-10.” However, he never gave the quiz. I’m going back this afternoon, and I while I will be anxious and sitting on the edge of my seat, I WILL NOT participate when it comes time to answer the questions on the quiz.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Fences
Oh, the prospect of snow does conjure up so many wonderful memories!
Just below our house was my grandfather's farm, where my uncle could always be found. He milked cows in the Spring and popped wheelies on his motorcycle; milked cows in the Summer and ate half gallons of ice cream in one sitting; milked cows in the Fall and scared me to death on Halloween; milked cows in the Winter and LOVED the snow as much as any kid I ever knew. Basically, he milked cows and lived life to its fullest and fastest!
I can still see the fear in my brother's eyes as he talked about taking a trip to Franklin with Roger in the snow. Roger drove fast and fearless without the snow. In the snow, he still drove as if there weren't anything on the road. My brother talked about spinning and sliding in the truck as if he were on skis that he couldn't control. However scared he had been and relieved to make it home, he was ready to hop back in the truck, because it was more fun than anyone could ever imagine.
We've heard stories of Roger sledding on the roads at midnight, and I can close my eyes to this day and see him laughing so hard as he headed down a hill at breakneck speeds - his favorite way to ride.
When I was 8 years old, Roger came to our house to sled with me. My parents had bought the last green, metal disc slide at the hardware store and we had gotten a lot of snow. We would start out at the top of the hill next to my neighbors' house and sled to the bottom of the hill in our yard which was separated from my poppa's farm by a wire fence. We were sledding for a while, my uncle taking his turn with my brother and me, so the snow was packed down like a solid sheet of ice.
It was my turn. I got on my metal disc, held onto the white plastic handles and began what would be my last ride for the day. My uncle, Roger, was standing about halfway between to help me, "just in case." I'm pretty sure I knew my destiny when I passed him going 150 mph, because he told my mother, "Her eyes were this big around (making hand gestures as big as tires)." I was headed for the creek, trees, I think even a cow, and then, I came to an abrupt stop.
Remember that fence I mentioned earlier? You know, the wire one that separated our yard from the farm land. Let me try to paint you a mental picture...wire fences, the BARBED wire fences that are used for farming, typically have large squares...I was on the disc, I stuck my arms and legs out in front of me to stop, and I did stop...but each arm went through a square and each leg went through a square. My face and torso were stopped by the wire on the fence. I even have a scar in my eyebrow to show for it. I ran, bleeding, into the house and crying. My uncle followed trying to help me, and after seeing that I was okay, threw his head back and laughed that familiar laugh...the one that makes me wish I could go outside and sled down the hill, run into the fence, and hear all over again.
Oh, the prospect of snow...so, I went to buy a sled today. When I walked into the hardware store, I saw the familiar metal disc with the white plastic handles. As tempted as I was to buy one, I was drawn to a bigger sled...one that I can pile both girls in with me and race down the streets at breakneck speed. I'm not sure how we'll stop, because there aren't any fences...but I'm hoping in my mind there will be a familiar ringing of laughter from the daredevil I loved so much.
Just below our house was my grandfather's farm, where my uncle could always be found. He milked cows in the Spring and popped wheelies on his motorcycle; milked cows in the Summer and ate half gallons of ice cream in one sitting; milked cows in the Fall and scared me to death on Halloween; milked cows in the Winter and LOVED the snow as much as any kid I ever knew. Basically, he milked cows and lived life to its fullest and fastest!
I can still see the fear in my brother's eyes as he talked about taking a trip to Franklin with Roger in the snow. Roger drove fast and fearless without the snow. In the snow, he still drove as if there weren't anything on the road. My brother talked about spinning and sliding in the truck as if he were on skis that he couldn't control. However scared he had been and relieved to make it home, he was ready to hop back in the truck, because it was more fun than anyone could ever imagine.
We've heard stories of Roger sledding on the roads at midnight, and I can close my eyes to this day and see him laughing so hard as he headed down a hill at breakneck speeds - his favorite way to ride.
When I was 8 years old, Roger came to our house to sled with me. My parents had bought the last green, metal disc slide at the hardware store and we had gotten a lot of snow. We would start out at the top of the hill next to my neighbors' house and sled to the bottom of the hill in our yard which was separated from my poppa's farm by a wire fence. We were sledding for a while, my uncle taking his turn with my brother and me, so the snow was packed down like a solid sheet of ice.
It was my turn. I got on my metal disc, held onto the white plastic handles and began what would be my last ride for the day. My uncle, Roger, was standing about halfway between to help me, "just in case." I'm pretty sure I knew my destiny when I passed him going 150 mph, because he told my mother, "Her eyes were this big around (making hand gestures as big as tires)." I was headed for the creek, trees, I think even a cow, and then, I came to an abrupt stop.
Remember that fence I mentioned earlier? You know, the wire one that separated our yard from the farm land. Let me try to paint you a mental picture...wire fences, the BARBED wire fences that are used for farming, typically have large squares...I was on the disc, I stuck my arms and legs out in front of me to stop, and I did stop...but each arm went through a square and each leg went through a square. My face and torso were stopped by the wire on the fence. I even have a scar in my eyebrow to show for it. I ran, bleeding, into the house and crying. My uncle followed trying to help me, and after seeing that I was okay, threw his head back and laughed that familiar laugh...the one that makes me wish I could go outside and sled down the hill, run into the fence, and hear all over again.
Oh, the prospect of snow...so, I went to buy a sled today. When I walked into the hardware store, I saw the familiar metal disc with the white plastic handles. As tempted as I was to buy one, I was drawn to a bigger sled...one that I can pile both girls in with me and race down the streets at breakneck speed. I'm not sure how we'll stop, because there aren't any fences...but I'm hoping in my mind there will be a familiar ringing of laughter from the daredevil I loved so much.
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