R.I.P. Fluffy, Bear of Noble Mien

Moving across country is not for the softhearted.

One must be willing to part with unnecessary items. Purge the dross. Winnow possessions to the basic few.

It is no time for sentiment.

Therefore, it is with heavy heart that I must say farewell to thee, Fluffy Bear. Steadfast Teddy these past 45 years.

Give or take a year.

Fluffy

Ah, how well I remember when you entered my life.

I, a sorrowful lass who lost her previous bear due to an unfortunate intake of far too much candy, and his subsequent visit to the washing machine.

Alas, poor Herman. Loved so dearly, gone so soon.

Then one sunny day, you entered my life after the family collected enough proof of purchase labels from a certain brand of toilet paper.

Our lavatory supplies were covered for the remainder of the year.

Your label read, “made of 100% fluffy synthetic fiber.” Hence your name. Fluffy.

Our early years were carefree and bright. Remember the times you watched me standing on the seat of the backyard swing, singing at the top of my lungs?

I’M ON THE TOP OF THE WORLD LOOKIN’
DOWN ON CREATION!

You were so kind, never pointing out my sour notes.

Later you donned your dapper attire, looking oh-so-noble in my niece’s cast-off baby jacket.

Perhaps other bears would object to the wearing of pink, but not you. You were comfortable in your skin.

And later when your nose fell off? Or your tongue? Oh, how many times they fell off! But each time you withstood the needle with such stoic silence.

It was admirable.

Sadly, all things must come to an end. And so it is with you, dear Fluffy. It is time we bring this relationship to a close.

Goodbye to you, my trusted friend…

Fluffy trashed

Don’t look at me like that, Fluffy. It’s for your own good. Do you know how cold it gets in Minnesota? You’d hate it there.

And that hole in your back? It’s not getting any smaller, you know. Why, the move alone might do you in. Never mind the cold.

Fluffy, no! Turn those orange plastic eyes away from me!

Be reasonable, Fluffy! I’m 50… um… some-odd-years-old. A 50-some-odd-years-old woman doesn’t keep a teddy bear.

It just won’t do!

You never know. You might like the landfill. Think of all the other toys you’ll meet.

Discarded dolls… unwanted G.I. Joes… unloved teddy bears…

Gah! I’m sorry Fluffy, please forgive me!

*rescues from trash*
*hugs tightly*
*weeps softly*

Come to Minnesota! We’ll keep each other warm! I’m sorry I ever considered parting; what was I thinking?

You and me, Fluffy. From now until the end of time, that is my promise.

Here’s your travel bed — my dresser’s top drawer…

Fluffy in transit

*waves back*

See you in Minnesota, Fluffy. ❤️

A Pink Suit, Marching Band, and Soggy Cereal

At this moment I’m in Minnesota house-hunting.

Wish me luck.

In the meantime, to keep you all amused and this blog on a regular schedule, Husband gave me permission to share a few more pictures from his youth.

Whatta guy!

First up, the pink suit…

Husband in the 70s

There are a few things Husband wants you to know:

  1. The suit is not pink. He claims it’s maroon. (It looks pink to me)
  2. This was the trend, everyone wore suits like this. (Okaaay)
  3. This was conservative compared to his friend’s suit. (Now THAT I want to see)

When I asked him what his date wore, he said he wore this to the end of the year band banquet and he didn’t have a date.

That sounds about right.

Remember when I showed you his band uniform?

Husband in band uniform

Of course you do. How could you forget?

I’m not sure what I find more appealing. Is it the tall furry hat? The way the sunlight twinkles on the visor? Or maybe it’s the shirt itself, bringing to mind the Matterhorn workers at Disneyland.

In any case, Husband informs me that the ensemble was actually the updated uniform.

So what was the old uniform like? So glad you asked.

hsbandoldNow I don’t know about you, but I rather like this uniform and see no reason for it to be updated.

I like the color scheme (black and gold, his school colors), the enormous letter in case he forgot what school he went to (Maryvale High), and I especially love the hat!

But you know what I love best about this uniform?

It reminds me of Commodore Condello’s Salt River Navy Band!

Commodore Condello's Salt River Navy BandFor those of you who didn’t spend your childhood in Arizona during the 70s, you have my sympathy. Reason being, you missed this wonderful group performing for the Wallace and Ladmo show.

If you never heard of Wallace and Ladmo — again, my heart goes out to you — you missed something pretty dang special. They were the children’s show to beat all children shows, going over 35 years presenting cartoons, skits, musical sketches and lots of snarky humor to the children of Phoenix.

It was glorious.

One of their bits was this band, and I had one serious crush on Commodore Condello, let me tell you.

And now that I think about it, Husband looks remarkably like him in that band uniform. In fact, had Husband wore his band hat to the banquet? And I was just a wee bit older and actually knew him?

I totally would have been his date.

Just for fun, this was my favorite song from the show:

I don’t think there was a kid at my school who didn’t know every word to Soggy Cereal.

Sigh

I’m gonna miss this city.

Packing for the Move, Making Progress…

Until I hit the photo albums and, like a damned fool, I open one…

This is a picture of my dad with two Army buddies. Written on the back:

Swimming at Kamakura Beach
July, 1946

Swimming at Kamakua

My dad is the one on the left, but the other two? No idea.

As many stories as he told us about his childhood and family history, of his Army days he spoke very little.

Army photo

I should have posted these on Memorial Day.

Moving on, here’s a photo of me as a baby, making five generations of my mom’s family:

Five Generations

On the far left is my grandmother, next to her is her father, and seated is his mother, my great-great-grandmother, Kate Goodroad.

There are three things I want to point out about this photo:

  1. My mother’s dress. It’s lovely, don’t you think? She rarely wore dresses, so I’m thinking this was taken after church and given my age, we must have still been living in South Dakota.
  2. The photo on the wall behind my mom — doesn’t it look like two cats? Did my great-great-grandmother like cats? Did she have cats? (I think I would have liked her.)
  3. Look closely at the chair great-great-grandmother is sitting on. Specifically, the back and arm rests. See the dish towels? Every old person on my mom’s side of the family used dishtowels as chair protectors. It was the Goodroad/Jurgens way.

Several months after that photo was taken, my family moved to sunny Phoenix, Arizona, where we had a dog named Foxy.

Here’s a picture of Foxy in his doghouse:

Me by doghouse

I should point out that Foxy was black, so all you can see is his tongue.

Also in Phoenix, we had an above-ground pool:

Me with pool float

I sure seem happy, don’t I?

And look at my brother Dean, standing behind me. He kind of looks like he’s planning something.

I wonder what?

Me with Dean

What happened next, Dean?! Huh? WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?!

Oh, look! We have pictures from Husband’s childhood, too!

Here’s Husband with his trumpet, looking oh so cool and jazzy:

Husband and his trumpet

Do you think they planned this photo, or was it just happy coincidence the shadow landed as it did?

Also, I feel it should be pointed out, had Husband put more effort into his playing? Let’s say, practiced day and night? This would have made a mighty fine album cover.

Just sayin’.

Even so, I’m happy to report he played in his high school band.

Lucky for you, he gave me permission to post his band picture. His exact words: “Oh, I don’t care.”

Funny. Seems like he’d care.

Husband in band uniform

Cute guy.

Funny hat, but cute guy.

I’m going back to my packing now. Wish me luck.

I Never Got What I Wanted for Christmas

If that sounds like a whine, I don’t mean it as such. It’s true that as a child I never received anything I wanted for Christmas, despite the fact that I noted page numbers in catalogs, circled items, made note of color preferences and quantity, and any other helpful information my mother might need.

Nevertheless, it’s true. I never got a single thing I requested.

If you remember, a few weeks ago I also told you how Santa Claus never visited my house. That’s true too, but I’m not asking for your pity. In fact, if there was ever a child less deserving of pity than myself from days past, I’d like to meet them. For not only did I have a family who loved me, I had parents who knew what was best for me. And what was best for me was rarely what I wanted.

This is a picture of my brothers and me on Christmas Eve, before the evening’s festivities began.

Brothers and me

My two older sisters are missing, the oldest one married with a little girl of her own, the other sister… well, I’m not sure where she is. Maybe she was still getting dressed.

The sparkly dress I’m wearing was my “movie star dress.”  I wanted to wear it all the time.

“Mom, mom, can I wear my movie star dress? Pretty please? Pleeeease?”
“No dear, that’s too fancy. That’s for fancy events.”

Christmas Eve was our fancy event.

The entire family gathered for dinner, relatives came from out-of-town, everyone dressed in their Sunday best. It was a sit-down meal with Mom’s finest plates (Corelle®) and her only set of matching silverware. We may have used fabric napkins, I don’t remember.

After the meal, everyone helped clear the table and the adults washed the dishes. By hand. We had to wait until every dish was clean, dried, and put away.

Finally, after the last piece of silverware was put in the box (not used again until Easter), Mom wiped her hands, removed her apron, and announced it was time. Everyone took a seat by the tree, we children sat on the floor.

One gift at a time, that’s how it was done. Usually Mom, but sometimes Dad, would select a gift, hand it to the person it was intended for, and we’d watch as they unwrapped it.

If this sounds ponderously slow, I should point out that children received three gifts each and the adults, as I remember, received one. If that. Even so, when you’re six years old and the last of five kids…

This particular year, the year of the photo, I wanted a doll. But not just any doll. I wanted Dancerina Ballerina.

Dancerina Ballerina ad

Push a button on top of Dancerina’s head, her leg kicks out and… get this… she twirls! Just like a real ballerina!

I told my mom: That’s it. That’s all I want for Christmas. Dancerina Ballerina

My mom, I have to give her credit, she looked into it. She must have for a few days later she broke the news: It exceeded her price limit for dolls.

You see, my mom was a great believer in budgets and rules. She had many rules, most of them her own creation. Two of her long standing rules involved dolls.

Mom’s Doll Rule #1: Every little girl should have a doll at Christmas
Mom’s Doll Rule #2: No doll should cost more than $20.00

Dancerina Ballerina cost slightly more than $20.00.

It wasn’t a lot, maybe a dollar or two at the most. But it was a dollar or two over $20, and that broke Mom’s rule. Other parents would have thought, “Oh, it’s not that much. We can swing it.” But those parents weren’t my mom. Mom was a rule follower. 

Plus, Mom was German. Dancerina Ballerina didn’t have a chance.

Even so, I had hope. When Mom handed me the wrapped, doll-sized box that year, presented it with a comment along the lines of, “This is Christi’s special gift,” I was certain it was Dancerina.

But of course it wasn’t. If it was, I would have titled this post something other than, “I Never Got What I Wanted for Christmas.”

Here I am with the doll I did get, along with my two other gifts:

Giggles and me
The larger doll, the one with the shiny golden hair, that’s Giggles. When you held her hands and moved her arms, she giggled. As I recall she sounded a bit like a dolphin, but that was okay by me. I loved her.

The next morning, Christmas Day, my brothers and I headed outside to show off our new toys to friends, who were all outside for the same reason. It would be several years before I realized they probably opened their gifts that morning. At the time, I thought everyone celebrated on Christmas Eve. I had no reason to think otherwise.

That morning’s “look-what-I-got” exchange is an especially memorable one for me. Of all the girls my age who received dolls, I was the only one without a Dancerina Ballerina.

I realize how that sounds. You probably think I’m exaggerating for effect, but please believe me, I am not. I truly was the only one without a Dancerina.

Again, don’t pity me. For there’s a funny thing that happens when children see the same toy over and over, then finally see something different. The different toy becomes the most popular.

Giggles was the life of the party.

And why wouldn’t she be? Everything made her happy, nothing ever got her down. She was the friend who cheered you up, the playmate who laughed at all your jokes. She was a perfect delight.

As for me, I remember holding another girl’s Dancerina and feeling her stiff, awkward limbs, seeing the odd button on top of her head. Without a word, I handed her back to the girl and gave quiet thanks for my mom’s rules. She really did know best.

Many parents worry over whether their children will be disappointed on Christmas Day if they don’t get exactly what they want. Personally? I think it’s a needless worry.

Children are resilient. They can handle much more than we give them credit for, even a few strange rules and a strict budget. And the way I see it, no one would be more deserving of pity than a child who always got what they wanted and never heard the word ‘No’.

In the end, all that truly matters is whether or not they were loved.

reindeer

Merry Christmas, friends. I hope the day brings you every good thing, many happy memories, and lots and lots of love. ❤️

The Story of a Young Girl’s Faith in Santa, Her Ensuing Disgrace, and Her Rescue From Certain Despair

The year was 1970. I was in the first grade, and I was being punished for believing in Santa.

Rather, to be more clear, I was punished for defending Santa.

srikanta-h-u-51975

You see, an unbeliever in the ranks – a heathen – was casting doubt on his existence. Pointing out irregularities in the Santa Claus canon. Casting aspersions on his good name.

Several of my classmates were listening and their faith was shaken. You could see it in their eyes.

I’d had enough. I proclaimed in a voice for all to hear:

There is so a Santa Claus! He’s been to MY HOUSE!

Gasp!

Unfortunately we were in class at the time and our teacher was not fond of loud proclamations. Even those in defense of Santa.

It was the time-out table for me.

I must pause here, for I need you to understand the overall makeup of our teacher’s time-out table. Only then can you grasp the true horror of what was before me.

Miss September — okay, my teacher’s name wasn’t really Miss September. It was something similar to Miss September. Something like Miss Sembler… or maybe it was Stremble. Honestly, I don’t know.

The fact is, I was never very good with names, even as a child. For those I didn’t recognize or couldn’t pronounce, I’d come up with a close approximation and stick with it. No doubt Miss September corrected me plenty of times before giving up, figuring there were worse things to be called than the name of a centerfold.

In any case, it wasn’t enough for Miss September that a noisy child sat at the time-out table. The point had to be driven home, which was why there was a stack of index cards on the table. Whoever sat at the table had to do so while keeping an index card in their mouth. The entire time.

I had never, in the entire history of my academic career (now spanning kindergarten and a few months of first grade), been punished for speaking out of turn.

I can still hear Miss September’s voice, “Who said that?!” Adding, in disbelief, “Christi? Was that you?!”

Was there a moment of hesitation? A possibility of reprieve given my incredible track record? Was consideration given for the fact my outburst was a necessary one? The foundation of our faith was being challenged! A defender had to rise up!

I was that defender.

But no. Consistency in punishment, that was Miss September’s way. She pointed to the back table without saying a word. I made my way, my head cast low.

The truly frustrating thing was that I had no reason to stand up for Santa.

Santa had never brought me a present. There was no chimney in our house for him to come down, no stockings to fill. My parents never threatened us with “Santa won’t come if you don’t behave,” because we were always to behave. Santa had nothing to do with it. And Santa never came on Christmas morning, presumably, because we celebrated on Christmas Eve. It was our family’s tradition from ages past.

Clearly, Santa and my family had denominational differences.

But being the broadminded people they were, my parents were not Santa-deniers. They never spoke out in favor of him, nor against him. They simply never brought him up.

What I learned, you might say, I picked up on the streets.

My faith was a pure one. Not born out of fear or greed, but out of sincere philosophical musing and sound theology.

Plus, as I said, he’d been to my house.

Santa and me 2

Many years later, as my mom was showing family pictures to my husband, I asked her who the man was who showed up at our house one December day so long ago, dressed as Santa.

She laughed. It wasn’t a man. (Gasp!) It was the neighbor lady from across the street. The people who bred Boston terriers and decorated their house with blue Christmas lights. It was her.

Honestly, I had no idea.

Back to Miss September’s class: I approached the time-out table, sat down heavily, put the card in my mouth. The tears… oh my friends, the tears! Never has a child suffered so much, nor felt it so deeply as I. Shame and misery were mine.

But the story doesn’t end here, for there was another student at the time-out table. She was a frequent visitor, a regular felon in our classroom. In truth, she was our class clown, and though we weren’t close friends, she gave me a gift that day.

I’m very sorry I don’t remember her name. A better writer would make one up for you. Just name her Angie or Susan or Debbie. Invent a name and run with it. But just as it is with Miss September and my Santa lady with blue Christmas lights, I cannot lie. Her name is lost.

I have failed you. Mea culpa.

All I can remember are two things: her hand sliding across the table until she got my attention, and then, when I looked up… do you know what I saw? This little comic genius had taken the index card, folded it in half, put it in her mouth and was now impersonating a duck!

Soon my tears of sadness were tears of joy and I could hardly stay in my seat due to giggling. My misery forgotten, my day instantly brightened.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, what impact we can have on others? Whether we dress up as Santa (remember ladies, it’s an equal opportunity position), or we cheer up a tearful child with a goofy face. It’s the little moments of kindness that matter.

So as we make our way through this holiday season — indeed, as we approach a new year — let’s look at the ways we leave our mark on others. The memories we give them, the words we leave them.

Let’s make them count, yes?

brigitte-tohm-162814

And please, put in a good word for Santa. There are enough doubters in the world as it is.

First picture: srikanta H. U on Unsplash
Second picture: Author’s own, and ain’t I a cute one?
Third picture: Brigitte Tohm on Unsplash

My Glorious Summer of ’76

Note: Since I’m on vacation, I’m giving you a rerun. This first appeared on June 3, 2015, back when I was new to blogging and had about 10 followers. It relates a childhood memory of mine that involved murder and explosives, as all good memories do. Also, the post includes a recipe because when I first started blogging, that was supposed to be my schtick. Then I forgot my schtick.
That’s the trouble with schticks. They only work if you remember them.
Oh well. Enjoy.

Growing up in the 70s was great. I’m not even talking about the movies and music from that era, although we had some darn fine ones.

What I’m talking about is the total lack of parental involvement. Even if a parent stayed home, they pretty much left us to our own devices. It was great.Kids-jumping-and-playing-outside-940x600

Brother and I had it even better, as both Older Sisters and Older Brother were out of the house.

We’re talking complete lack of supervision, baby! Frankly, it’s a wonder we didn’t burn the whole place down.

Though we came close. Continue reading “My Glorious Summer of ’76”

Evel Knievel, Redux

Holy cow, guys, check this out!

Remember back in June when I visited Idaho and soared over Snake River Canyon (in my dreams) just like Evel Knievel tried to do in 1974? (I wrote about it here.)

Well, turns out someone is going to do it for real! Possibly TODAY! (weather permitting)

Hollywood stuntman, Eddie Braun, is going to attempt the jump in a replica of Knievel’s rocket cycle. According to CNN, they made improvements to the parachute system but other than that, the technology is the same.

eddie-braun

You can read the full article HERE.

Sounds like Eddie is getting a lot of criticism over it, but personally I think it’s cool.

It’s cool he’s not using the original launchpad, thereby keeping it intact. It’s cool he’s not using modern technology, instead trusting Knievel’s vision.

Plus, there’s this:

It’s not about doing something Evel Knievel couldn’t do. It’s about fulfilling his dream,” he said. “How many people get to fulfill the dream of their hero?” -Eddie Braun

They hope to have a livestream of the event. If so, I’ll be watching.

God speed, Eddie Braun. I hope you fly like the wind. 🏍

UPDATE!

He did it! 😀  Here’s the video: